Talk Nerdy to Me

by Tiffany Schmidt

  “You changed your name because you’re lazy.” I clutched this fact. It fit my existing schema. This afternoon had been like a carnival’s fun house—full of mirrors that stretched and distorted everything I’d known to be true. I’d felt foolish at quiz bowl practice. Ignorant in a way that occurred only while talking with my parents. And every idea I’d compiled about this boy was warping.

  “Also, neither of the twins could say it. Though I’m doing a book by a Montgomery for Gregoire’s project.”

  “You’re ridiculous.”

  “You’ve told me that before. Recycling your insults? You’re slipping, Eliza.”

  “No, I told Curtis he was ridiculous. This time I’m telling Montgomery.” My cheeks heated as soon as the words were out. I’d aimed for snarky but landed on something that sounded like a bad attempt at flirting. Blast! He even had a nickname for himself. Win, Wink, Short Stack, May, Sir Lance, Bookworm, Tiny Dancer . . . Everyone in our social circle had one. Everyone but me. And, yes, he’d called me “Legally Blonde” that one time, but that hardly counted. I crossed my arms and glowered at him.

  “You guys are so cute.” Wink sighed as she propped her chin on her hand. She’d joined Win at the kitchen counter, both of them eating slices of some sort of dessert loaf.

  “We’re not,” I answered. “I should go.”

  “But this is better than LiveFlix.” Win took an enormous bite and washed it down with gulps of milk. He wiped his milk mustache on the back of his hand. “Especially since Mom and Dad changed the password and I’m locked out.”

  “Stay,” begged Curtis. “Win, I need your help.” He’d taken off his Hero High blazer while fetching Wink, but now he reached for the buttons of his white shirt too.

  I averted my face. “What are you doing?”

  “Chill. I’m not stripping in my kitchen; I’ve got a T-shirt on underneath. But I’m spillprone and my mom said I’m responsible for my drycleaning bill. So, the shirt comes off before the cranberry juice comes out. Want some? And date bread?”

  I dared to glance back over. He hadn’t been lying; he did have a T-shirt on. It was a white V-neck, slightly frayed on the edge of one sleeve. I guess it had to be slim-cut to fit under his dress shirt, but it skimmed his body in ways I wasn’t prepared for. I followed the smooth lines of his arm muscles down to his hand, and my mouth felt dry. I had to swallow before asking, “What’s on your wrist?”

  The silver disk tied to two black cords. A flash of red glowed out from the metal.

  “Medical-alert bracelet. I’m allergic to peanuts.”

  “How do I not know this?” My voice was shrill. “That’s information you need to disclose to your lunch table. If I’m going to kill you, I want it to be on purpose, not because I packed veggie pad thai.”

  Win snorted. “I like this girl. I was going to say no, but, yeah, I’m down. What do you need help with?”

  I ignored him. “What else don’t I know about you, Montgomery?”

  “A lot? You and I don’t have many actual conversations.” Curtis rubbed the back of his neck, and the bracelet slid along his wrist. “Mostly we fight and you tell me why I’m wrong.”

  “That’s not—”

  “Are you really going to tell me I’m wrong about you telling me I’m wrong?” He laughed.

  Yes. “No.” But I was still going to glower.

  “Good. Win, set up the Switch. I’m thinking Mario Kart.”

  “I want to play,” said Wink, and both of her brothers replied, “No.”

  “She’s a shark,” clarified Curtis as Win opened a cabinet and pulled out remotes.

  “It’s true,” Wink admitted. “Fine, but none of you are allowed to be Peach.”

  “You brought me here to play video games?” My lip curled.

  “We’re going to get you past your buzzer phobia.”

  My parents would tell me this was a waste of time. They had invectives against screen time and violent games and—

  “We need to get you familiar with remotes, work on your reaction times and dexterity and fine motor skills. It’s a myth, you know, that games will make you addicted or violent. But they have been proven to enhance cognitive functioning.”

  “How so?” I demanded.

  “Attention span, spatial processing, decision-making, memory, perception, and perseverance.” He rattled these off.

  Wink nodded. “It’s true. We had to write up a rationale with sources before my parents would buy the Switch.”

  I couldn’t include this in my daily log, but I shrugged off my blazer. “Fine. It can’t hurt.” I sat beside Win on the couch. “I’m warning you, I’m going to be bad at this. Pass me a remote.”

  I spent the next hour losing races. Sometimes losing while my dinosaur was driving backward and with Wink screaming suggestions. But at least I was losing by less now, and staying on the racetrack more. The remote wasn’t as awkward in my hands. I didn’t fumble as much or have to look down to locate the buttons.

  “Mom and Dad are going to be home soon. You staying for dinner?” Wink was sitting on her hands to stop herself from grabbing our remotes.

  “You should,” Win added as he launched himself off a ramp. “Thursday’s pizza night.”

  Curtis froze in surprise before he echoed his formerly prickly brother. “You should.”

  “I can’t. I need to go after this race.” I didn’t do parents—at least not besides Merri’s. And speaking of parents, mine had made several demands on the hours remaining before bed. There was a journal article to read and summarize; a workout; dinner to prep, eat, and record. Nancy would be expecting me . . . My dino’s speed dropped from zoom to putter.

  I was barely over the finish line when Wink stood and grabbed Win’s arm. “We’ll, uh . . . get out of here. So you have privacy or whatever.”

  Win said, “Come back and get your butt kicked again sometime,” and Wink called over her shoulder, “Next time I’m playing too.”

  I jumped up. “I should go.”

  “I’ll walk you to your car.” Curtis’s eyebrows were raised, presumably in preparation for whatever retort I’d launch. My jaw tightened, like now that the sibling and video-game buffers were gone, I needed to sharpen insults between my teeth.

  It was such a contrast to three minutes earlier when his arm had reached around my back to steal his brother’s remote, and the feel of his warm, bare skin through my shirt had also stolen my breath, causing me to steer off the rainbow road. Or the time five minutes before that, when I’d come in not-last and his hand had connected with mine in a high five so enthusiastic I’d dropped the controller. I needed to do some research and find an explanation for why my hand had tingled even after he removed his.

  I shoved the memories out of my mind and my arms into my coat sleeves. “Thanks.” While I wasn’t one for chivalry, I was a fan of personal safety, so regardless of the fluke reactions I’d had to his touch, I let him walk me back to campus.

  The sun had set, and outdoor lights illuminated the remnants of snowbanks. I was so conscious of the space between our dangling hands as we crunched down salted sidewalks. I wanted to thank him or apologize or explain. But where to start? The first time we met on campus, or the first time I saw him as a person? September? Or just a few hours ago?

  I opened my mouth and got as far as “I—” before Curtis’s words tumbled in, cutting mine off. “Do you think that—Oh, sorry. You were going to say something.”

  “It’s nothing.” I licked my lips. They tasted like mint balm. His probably were flavored with date bread or cranberry juice. “It’s just—you have nicknames for everyone. Why not me?”

  “I have one for you.” He glanced sideways at me, and I felt my lips pull thin.

  “Don’t you dare say ‘Legally Blonde.’”

  “Ha.” He laughed once, then turned serious. “No. That was clearly a nonstarter. What was the one you hated from your old school?”

  My stomach churned—that ancient physiological signal
that the body is in stress. So much stress that it stops the digestion process, and the pain is a signal to move, flee, get away from the stressor. Only I wasn’t facing a saber-toothed cat or a mastodon. My body didn’t need to switch from parasympathetic to sympathetic response. Running from Curtis’s question wouldn’t make me feel better. Sometimes evolution was slow to catch up.

  I exhaled a deep breath and kept my feet planted. I’d learned a lot about him tonight. Merri was always on me about keeping people at arm’s length—You need to build gates, not fences. Maybe it was time to follow her advice.

  “The less-bad one was ‘Ice Queen’—Elsa and Eliza are unfortunately close.” I patted my hair self-consciously. I hadn’t worn a braid since Frozen released. “But the one I really hated was ‘Brainiac Barbie.’”

  He whistled. “Why do people suck sometimes?”

  “I don’t know.” His question was rhetorical, but my answer was earnest. My parents considered psychology to be an imprecise science, but that didn’t stop me from wanting a road map of others’ motivations and reactions. I took a deep breath and turned to Curtis. “What’s my nickname, and why don’t you call me it?”

  His head dipped almost in line with his shoulders. Shoulders I shouldn’t notice had gotten wider since the first day of school. Or, wait—why shouldn’t I notice? That was biology. I should be making observations, especially about biological factors. Besides, noticing his shoulders and wanting to touch them or lean my head against them—those were totally different things.

  “If you’re not going to tell me, just say so.”

  Curtis met my eyes briefly. “Firebug.”

  I took a step backward. “Firebug? Like, Pyrrhocoris apterus? Why?”

  Curtis’s forehead creased. “No. Like Lampyridae. But I didn’t like firefly or lightning bug—so I made a mash-up.”

  “A mash-up? Of course you did.” Because why bother using the correct science terms or most common names when nicknaming someone after a beetle. A beetle!

  He’d been watching my reaction, curiosity and concern warring on his face, but he ducked his head when he added, “‘Firebug’ just sounds cuter.”

  I blinked. “I’m not . . .” How to say this in a way that wasn’t obnoxious? “I know I’m . . . attractive. But I’m not—Merri is, Hannah is, Rory’s friend Clara is . . . but I’m not cute.”

  “Cute” was for smiles and freckles and gigglers and impulsive huggers and whisperers. People who didn’t skip-count or list prime numbers to keep their expression blank. “Ice Queen” and “cute” were not compatible.

  Curtis grinned. He took a step forward but then stopped and shoved his hands in his back pockets. “I think you’re freaking adorable.”

  “What?” I felt dizzy, like my feelings had been spun in a centrifuge. Adorable? It hadn’t been said in any infantilizing or insulting way, but who said things like that? And why did I want to smile, blush, and demand an explanation? But . . . No. He couldn’t be serious, and I wasn’t sticking around for the punch line. Maybe my long-ago ancestors were onto something. I speed-walked to my car, pretending not to hear his footsteps behind me.

  Before I pressed the Unlock button, I spun around. The space between us felt alive, like the air was comprised entirely of charged ions. “Why are you even helping me?” I wasn’t his concern. I wasn’t anyone’s. I was independent and self-reliant. And not cute.

  He quirked an eyebrow. “Why did you let me, if you dislike me so much?”

  “I don’t dislike you,” I snapped. “Our friends are friends. I don’t have that luxury.”

  Curtis reached around me to open my car door. “Good luck maintaining that distance, Firebug.”

  9

  Except for when I needed a guardian’s signature on something, Nancy and I basically coexisted. Her predecessors—other female doctoral students who had been vetted by my parents as responsible and sufficiently brilliant—had been chattier. Or had at least attempted to be until they’d realized I was small talk intolerant.

  So I was surprised when Nancy practically ran to meet me in the kitchen when I came in.

  “Are you excited?” she asked.

  “About?” She clearly was. Her eyes glowed, and her pixie cut stuck out like she’d been playing with a Van de Graaff generator.

  “Your parents!” Ah. That made more sense. She’d turned the guest room into a shrine to their accomplishments. They must’ve added another publication or award or honorary doctorate. Nancy’s hands wrung the neck of her water bottle. “I can’t believe they agreed to judge. I would’ve been incoherent if I’d gotten to meet them as a teen. I want to drive to Delaware and see if my parents have any of my old projects.”

  “Judge what?” I mean, they were full of judgment, so whatever it was, they’d excel. But something about Nancy’s uncharacteristic ramble tightened my throat.

  “The Avery Science Competition! Your entrance forms and info packet are on the counter.” Nancy paused for my reaction. When I didn’t give her one, she provided her own. “You have to do something impressive. You can’t embarrass them.”

  I shook my head. “You’re mistaken. I’m not allowed to enter science fairs.”

  There’d been an incident in fourth grade. A parent had objected to my win, protesting loudly and publicly, “There’s no way a child did that project. She cheated. Clearly her parents did it for her.”

  My parents had been on another continent, but their reaction had been definitive: Science fairs were off-limits and beneath me. They’d instructed me to return my prize—and then I’d come home to a house adorned with all of theirs.

  I glanced at the plaques and trophies on the mantel as Nancy flipped open the folder. “Look.” The bold star on the cover proclaimed, JUDGING PANEL INCLUDES NOBEL PRIZE–WINNING SCIENTISTS DRS. VIOLET GORDON AND WARNER FERGUS.

  My eyes widened in shock, then narrowed in hurt. The competition was being held at Princeton—just an hour away—six weeks from now, right before spring break.

  Finally, I found my voice. “They’re coming home?”

  Tonight’s workout was supposed to be yoga. Instead I tied my sneakers. I’d explain why I’d ditched the mat for the tread-mill when they explained why they hadn’t told me they were coming home.

  For a science competition. Not for me. And when they’d compiled their list of people to tell, I’d been left off. Dr. Badawi’s comments at the start of today’s practice made sense now. She would get to meet them. I lurched, almost tripping over. What if she told them how unimpressive my quiz bowl performance was?

  I steadied myself with both hands on the treadmill’s arms. I couldn’t think about it, or about Nancy saying “You can’t embarrass them.” Or the fact that they’d be under this roof and able to see my unauthorized runs. How would they react to catching me playing an hour of video games?

  I looked down at the iLive band I’d forgotten to take off; they’d know I’d disobeyed. Despite my fierce I’ll explain myself when they do vows, I hadn’t meant to get caught.

  I didn’t care. I nudged the speed up and opened my book. I was staying on here until I felt calmer; if that took the rest of Mary Shelley’s saga, so be it. At least then I wouldn’t have to live in Victor Frankenstein’s morose head anymore.

  A few pages later I put the book down in disgust. Victor’s inner monologues felt like my parents reaching through the pages. They’d love for me to lift my chin and announce, “So much has been done . . . more, far more, will I achieve . . . I will pioneer a new way, explore unknown powers, and unfold to the world the deepest mysteries of creation.” Instead I was left with the memory of being ten years old and trying not to cry as I turned in my first-prize ribbon. My chest felt tight in ways unrelated to the speed of my feet. Was I really allowed to enter? Did I want to? I had zero ideas and only six weeks.

  I picked the book back up. Maybe if I couldn’t find my own genius, I could borrow some of Victor’s. He was the sort of child my parents should have had. They’d admire th
e way he dove into an obsessive study and isolated himself for months at a time with a singular purpose. They might have a slight pause about his actual purpose—building a body with stolen corpse pieces he intended to reanimate—but they’d praise his work ethic and ambition.

  The chapter in which he succeeded was where I stopped reading and running. Because nothing about the scene felt celebratory. As his piecemeal body breathed and moved, he said, “the beauty of my dream vanished, and breathless horror and disgust filled my heart.”

  Victor’s vocabulary changed: His “creation” became a “creature,” a “wretch,” a “monster.” He ran shrieking into his bedroom and shut the door, then fled the apartment and stayed away all day—like that was going to magically undo what he’d done.

  The monster wasn’t a swarm of bees. It wasn’t a skunk that got in your car, so you leave the doors open and hope he’ll find his way back out. He may have been wretched, but he was Victor’s responsibility. And Victor’s relief when he returns to his apartment and finds his creation gone infuriated me.

  People didn’t get to do that—create something and then abandon it to raise itself. Be super obsessed with science to the point of losing touch with the side effects of their experiments. Victor owed the monster so much more than that. He was its parent and—blast!

  I was sure Ms. Gregoire would’ve had thoughts about how much I was projecting and blaming a book for my own mother and father. She might have applauded my personal connection to what I was reading . . . but more likely she’d have smiled sympathetically and reminded me of her warning: Frankenstein was not an emotionally healthy book for me.

  10

  Merri was having dinner at the headmaster’s house on Saturday. It wasn’t the first time Fielding’s dad had invited her to dine with them, but apparently the menu was “spaghetti.” We spent Friday’s drive home brainstorming apparel. “Would black or red hide the inevitable twirl-spatter better?”