Talk Nerdy to Me

by Tiffany Schmidt

  “Enough, Eliza,” interjected Curtis, and I winced.

  “I like you better when you’re picking on Curtis, not me.” Win rolled his eyes and stormed down the hallway.

  “Despite . . . that, he must actually like you, because Win’s at anger level nine and you’re not crying, so he didn’t give you a level-nine performance.”

  “I’m formidable.” The words were automatic, and my real question lurked behind them. “What did I say wrong?”

  “I’ll tell you on our run.”

  “Fine.” I toed off my loafers and took off my coat. “So this science competition where you think you’re going to beat—”

  “Shh.” Curtis swiveled to look down the hallway. “Don’t—”

  “I’m not asking you to tell me your secret project—”

  “Firebug, I swear, for once, shut it.” He pantomimed zipping his lips. “Just until we’re out of the house. Please.”

  “But—” He reached out and pressed a finger to my mouth. The sensation was so startling, I swallowed the rest of my question—But why do you call me “Firebug”?—and leaned into his touch.

  Curtis pulled his hand back, looking sheepish. “Sorry. Go get changed. Then I’ll tell you where we’re running today.”

  Instead of heading down his driveway, Curtis climbed in my car and directed me to a local park.

  Standing beside the park’s wooden map, I blinked at him as my sneakers both crunched on frozen mud and sank into less-frozen mud. “You want to run trails?”

  “Yup.” He blew on his gloved hands and bounced on his toes, making the ground squelch. “You said you wanted a challenging route. This hill kicks my butt at least once a week.”

  I gave him a dubious look as we headed into the woods. In only a few strides the path narrowed and the parking lot was no longer visible. “This looks like the setting for a crime show. The opening where someone stumbles over a body.”

  He laughed. “If we run into a trail-dwelling murderer, I promise to volunteer as tribute.”

  I scoffed. “I’m a blond virgin—do you really think they’ll kill you first? I’ve seen a horror movie.”

  “True, but I’m a Brown dude. My chances aren’t any better.”

  I ducked under the branch he was holding out of the way and used the opportunity to pass him. “Maybe we should just agree that those tropes are problematic and focus on not being killed.”

  “Or tripping,” added Curtis. “I’ve left a fair amount of skin and blood on these roots.”

  “Another reason I prefer treadmills.” It was a lie. The roots and rocks meant I had to pay attention to where I placed my feet. Rather than tuning out and getting the run over with, I was experiencing it.

  “The treadmill won’t give you my stellar company or these views.”

  “Fine, the view’s not awful.” But I wasn’t looking at mossy rocks and the layers of decomposing leaves that gave the air such an alive smell. He’d passed me, and for a moment I let him have the lead so I could admire the spread of his shoulders, the way they tapered to his waist, the spot of sweat at the small of his back that darkened the blue fabric of his running shirt.

  His foot landed with a squelch. I laughed and breezed by him as he extricated his sneaker, now invisible beneath a thick coat of mud. “You think that’s funny? Oh, you better run faster, Firebug.”

  The trail was serpentine—winding back on itself as it progressed uphill. Conversation became harder as the route steepened, but despite this, Curtis kept his promise and explained his brother’s attitude. “Basically, if Win can interpret something as an insult—he will.”

  “So me asking if he was a runner? And yoga?”

  “Yup. But it could’ve been anything. He’s in a mood. Last night’s meeting with his teacher didn’t go well.”

  “And the science fair?”

  Curtis paused to wipe his face—with the hem of his shirt! I was so thrown by the unexpected flash of skin and abdominal muscle that I almost ran into him. “Careful, there.” He dropped his shirt to steady me, but I dodged his hands.

  “I’m fine.” Of course I was. It was just skin. Just a stomach. I had one. So did every one of our classmates. I didn’t spend time thinking about any of theirs. But I also hadn’t expected his to be so—as Merri would say—“cut.”

  Not that muscles mattered; I was aware of culturally conditioned beauty standards. It was good that he was fit—apparently very fit—but that was the start and end of my interest in his abs. I was so busy telling myself this that I stumbled over a root and had to catch myself on a tree.

  “Still fine,” I called out. “Did you answer me about the science fair?”

  “Take the left path up ahead, it’s got fewer tripping hazards.” Curtis laughed, and I caught myself before I gritted my teeth. “According to Win, I’m only entering the Avery to make him look bad. Same reason I play sports and do quiz bowl and get good grades. The less he knows, the less it hurts him.”

  “Oh.” My pace faltered, because that was the missing variable in my Curtis equations: the why of him downplaying his intelligence and using humor to hide his insights. If I’d had a sibling, would I have been willing to make similar sacrifices? I doubted it.

  “We share a room. Before I started at Hero High, we were at the same school. Even at my stealthiest, he’s nosy. It’s hard to keep things from him.”

  I paused where the trail forked to face him. “I’m sorry you need to. No one should have to hide who they are to make someone else happy.” Curtis gave me such a wry look that I replayed my comments. “Shut up.”

  But in the silent—and steep—stretch that followed, I wondered why I had immediately mentally rejected sacrificing for imaginary siblings but was willing to do it for my parents. The longer I thought about this, the faster I ran. Curtis didn’t say a word but matched his strides to mine until we emerged, gasping, in a clearing at the top of the hill.

  “Oh,” I breathed out. “This is amazing.”

  “Told you the view was better than a treadmill.”

  I laughed, the sound bubbling up from deep in my stomach and echoing off the open space. I shoved him playfully, yelping when my gentle push seemed to send him careening. Only to realize he was doing it on purpose—arms out wide as he cut a path back and forth across the sloping field. His face was lit up in a grin when he turned back toward me. “C’mon, Firebug. Airplane with me.”

  My toes curled around the edge of a flat rock. “You sound like Merri.”

  “So? You like Merri. You like me. Maybe this means you should try it?”

  I swung my head left, my ponytail flipping over my right shoulder. But I couldn’t complete the headshake. My instinct was to contradict him. To state emphatically that I didn’t like him. But I did. He knew it. Whether or not I admitted it, I did too.

  His chest was still heaving from the run, but as my silence stretched, his shoulders slumped. His grin faltered. I’d disappointed him. I’d disappointed me. I was sick of letting everyone down.

  He shrugged and turned back around, throwing his arms out and whooping his glee as he ran. His happiness was independent of my decision not to participate. And, blast, why was that so attractive?

  I pushed off my toes, leaping upward and letting gravity snatch at my feet, pulling me back down from the feeling of flying. It took me a second to lift my own arms, but when I did, I laughed. The steepness of the decline made running in switch-backs necessary and exhilarating. My whoops harmonized with Curtis’s, and for the space of that hundred yards, I was as carefree as Anne. The scope of my imagination was as large as hers, my zest for living beating wildly within my chest, escaping in plumes of laughter and gasping breaths.

  Curtis turned at the bottom of the hill to watch me, his arms still out. Maybe it wasn’t an invitation for a hug, but I was done hesitating.

  It’s possible I underestimated the difference between our inertias. He had the mass, but I had momentum—my velocity overcoming the discrepancy between ou
r weights and causing him to stagger back two steps until we were braced against the papery bark of a birch tree.

  His smile glowed brighter than the sunset that was settling around us, filtering through tree branches like the segmented frame of a stained glass window. “You never stop surprising me.”

  “Then this is going to shock you—” I pulled off my gloves and dropped them to the ground, threaded my fingers around the back of his neck, pushed up on my toes, and brushed my lips against his.

  Curtis’s arms had folded around me mid-collision, but now they tightened. There was a difference between a hug and an embrace. This was the latter, and the difference should be quantifiable, but it required a language I didn’t yet know.

  My mouth was rather preoccupied learning something else at that moment—a brush turning into a graze. His lips moving against mine, sending shivers down my spine, forcing a choked growl from between his teeth.

  I lowered my feet, pulling back to check that I was accurately interpreting his reactions as positive. Curtis blew out a breath, his eyes slow to open and dazed once they did. He was still clenching the back of my sweatshirt in his fist. “That was either some beginner’s luck, or, like with most other things, you’re a prodigy at this.”

  My lips twitched, but I fought a smile—he didn’t need to know I’d worried. “Of course it’s the latter. ‘Prodigy’ is practically my middle name.”

  “Prove it,” he challenged.

  So I did.

  26

  I hadn’t quite forgiven Curtis for being the one to end our kissing session in the woods yesterday. Granted he’d sounded like it pained him to say, “We have to stop,” and he’d had valid reasons. “It’s almost dark, and we’re a half mile from the trail-head. Not only does the park close, but roots are much less fun when you can’t see them.”

  Still, I’d wanted him to be as lost in that moment as I’d been—location, weather, and time of day had ceased to exist while my lips had been exploring his. I’d gotten home and stared in the mirror at my swollen mouth and bright eyes. And for once I hadn’t been caught up in resenting my reflection.

  My lips weren’t puffy on Thursday, but I was still aware of them. I felt that awareness every time Curtis glanced in my direction, and also the moment Ms. Gregoire caught him doing so in English and raised her eyebrows. “Eliza, you’re looking happier today.”

  I jerked back in my seat, banging my elbow and scattering a stack of SAT flash cards. “What? I’m—I don’t—”

  Where were the words about defining my own self-satisfaction and not being dependent on others? But vaguer ones, so Merri wasn’t tipped off? She’d already narrowed her eyes and called me “unusually chipper” on the morning drive.

  “You look less tired,” Ms. Gregoire clarified. “I notice your iLive band is back. I assume you got some sleep?”

  I’d expected to be up all night reliving those moments on the hill, second-guessing and scrutinizing my actions until the memories were tarnished with doubt. Instead I’d fallen asleep quickly and woken in the same position nine hours later.

  I gave a polite nod. “Yes, thank you.”

  “Good!” She clasped her hands together. “You’ll need your wits about you—I hear from Dr. Badawi that today’s the showdown for spots at Saturday’s quiz bowl competition.”

  Even though I knew this, my stomach clenched. It stayed queasy through afternoon classes, and my face felt tight, like I’d left on one of those hardening masks Lilly loved. I’m not sure what my expression looked like as I said goodbye to Hannah and Lance after Convocation, but he paused and asked, “You okay? If your headache’s back, I can run to the nurse and get some Tylenol.”

  “No, I’m fine.” I forced my shoulders down and the corners of my mouth up. “But thanks.”

  Merri was flirting with Fielding—her hands tucked in his blazer pockets, her face lighting up when she pulled out a rosebud he must have strategically planted there for her to discover. I grinned and turned to give them privacy. She’d meet me at practice.

  “Gotta admit, that’s a pretty baller move.” Curtis was a step behind me, fractionally closer than two constantly bickering acquaintances might stand, but the difference was subtle enough that I doubted anyone would notice. “Fielding’s setting the bar pretty high.”

  “There is no bar.”

  He winced, and I wished I could take the words back. “Right, because we’re not-dating.”

  I hadn’t meant it that way. I’d meant I didn’t compare him to others or believe in some set standard for romance. That flower-pocket thing might be swoony for Merri, but I became breathless over muddy trail runs.

  “Fielding—” We’d reached the science building. I looked around to make sure we were alone, then grabbed Curtis’s hand and pulled him into the doorway of the next classroom. “Fielding has never made me laugh.”

  Curtis’s forehead creased. “At him?”

  “With him.” Knowing what I did about Curtis’s motives for clowning, this was such an important distinction. “And at myself—I’ve never done that before.”

  Curtis chuckled. “You can be unintentionally hilarious with your science talk and rules.”

  I scowled. “Don’t take it too far.”

  He squeezed the fingers we had linked. “You’re not nervous about practice, are you?”

  “A little.” Did he realize what a concession that was? The type of trust I was showing him? I didn’t get nervous. I wasn’t supposed to get nervous.

  “You’ve got this, Firebug.” He punctuated this statement by leaning in, then pausing, his eyes darting around the hallway to make sure we were still alone.

  Forget Fielding and all the flowers in the world; a guy who respected my need for privacy—that was romance. So I kissed him. And learned I didn’t need exercise endorphins to make my head spin. Yesterday hadn’t been a fluke, and this guy—this infuriating, insightful, intelligent guy—made me dream of impossibilities.

  The science building’s door banged open, and we sprang apart as Merri barreled in. “Gah, Eliza! Did you see what Fielding did?” She waved the flower and beamed.

  “I did.” I took another step away from Curtis. “You guys are the cutest.”

  She blinked, surprised by my endorsement, then bounced on her toes. “Thank you.”

  It was a calculated risk to use that word, but I wanted her to reclaim it. And it was true. Merri and Fielding were cute in a way that was accessible. Even if Curtis and I weren’t not-dating, “cute” wouldn’t be a category we’d compete in. I wasn’t threatened by that. I wouldn’t expect everyone to understand our dynamic. I didn’t need them to.

  Merri tilted her head. “What are you two doing out here?”

  Curtis cleared his throat. “Eliza was telling me how I might as well—what was it again? I want to get the exact phrasing right.”

  He turned to me with laughter in his eyes, and I fought the urge to stomp his foot. “Yes, um—he might as well . . . hand in his buzzer now!” I smiled triumphantly at having completed his Mad Libs with snark. “Because he’s not going to need it.”

  Merri rolled her eyes. “Should’ve known. Let me point out, there’s room for both of you on the team. Or none of us, if we miss practice.” She led the way, oblivious to the intense looks we exchanged above her head. Mine said, You’ll pay for that. And his was, I can’t wait.

  Curtis did in fact need his buzzer. It got quite the workout. Mine did too. Merri and André and—unfortunately—Bartlett also made the cutoff.

  Lynnie seemed happy to be the designated alternate, and Norman shrugged off his last-place finish. “Cool. Now I can sleep in. Good luck, guys.”

  Merri elbowed me; a warning not to say, “Luck’s not real,” but I hadn’t planned to correct him. I was too busy feeling smug. A few weeks ago Bartlett had told me I was “redundant,” and now I’d easily out-performed him. Take that, hours I’d spent studying old packets and stolen minutes I’d spent talking to Curtis on my burner phone whi
le his app asked us questions.

  “Don’t be late,” Bartlett was lecturing. “We’re not waiting—I don’t care if you thought you’d have time and the line at the Cool Beans drive-through was super slow.’” He shot a look at Lynnie. “Newbies, we’re representing Hero High, so we wear our uniforms. And press your tie this time, Cavendish.”

  Curtis saluted him, and Barty droned on. But not even his ego-driven condescension could curb the thrill of my victory. Nothing could.

  Nothing but the email from my parents that was waiting in my inbox. One I was glad I hadn’t read before today’s practice.

  Eliza,

  Thank you for the log-in information for your new iLive band. It seems to be functioning.

  A note: The Williamses—not the headmaster’s family; your father’s college roommate and his wife—will be at your academic bowl competition this weekend. Their daughter, Emma, is on one of the opposing teams. We look forward to boasting about your triumphs when you beat her.

  They’re rather insufferable with their constant iLive posts about their two children and three dogs. Pets should never outnumber offspring. Fair warning: Both Stacey and Brooke were always “social,” I bet their daughter is too . . .

  In a few lines they’d managed to make me regret qualifying and dread the upcoming competition. I wanted to be a person—their daughter—not ammunition in a ridiculous, one-sided feud that stemmed from Dad’s roommate daring to have a life beyond the labs or be publicly proud of his family.

  Their expectations were so . . . so cloying. Sticking to me like invisible wisps of a spider web I’d blundered through. But I wasn’t allowed to scream or flail. I had to silently permit them to tickle the skin beneath my shirt, wrap around my arms like itchy manacles.

  I typed up a short reply, then left the cursor blinking after the final word.

  I won’t let you down.

  It was such a blatant lie, I couldn’t press Send.

  Most of my friends had Friday-night dates, but my plans involved one of my favorite males, a lot of science—and recording equipment. This time in the Campbells’ kitchen. Toby was setting up the microphones and computer before he and Rory headed to an art show. While he opened the recording program, Mr. Campbell put the teakettle on, and Rory spoke test sentences into the mics.