Going Geek (11 page)

“I
thought you quit,” Whitney says when I show up at the next Calendar meeting.

“My dorm needed a rep, and I agreed to step up,” I say.

“For once,” she mutters.

“Uh, okay,” Lila says, stifling a laugh. I ignore her.

“We've been waiting on your paperwork forever. What's the holdup?” Whitney asks. She thrusts her hand out, and I give her our application with a sweet smile.

Lila grabs the proposal from her and peruses it with a scowl. She reads the important parts out loud.

“So you're actually going to close down the Study?” Elizabeth asks.

“Obviously anyone can come in, and instead of making them pay for food, we'll provide it.” Now that I think about it, there is an aspect of this that's genius. There's built-in attendance from those people who'd go there after class on Fridays anyway.

“But it's going to be themed?” Olivia asks.

I nod. “Traditional English tea. Everyone will still get their caffeine and sweets but also be able to try some other stuff.”

“Okay, fine, approved,” Whitney says, waving her hand. That's easily the fastest that any Abbot event has been green-lit.

“So you're no longer in a leadership position with the Social Calendar,” Ms. Randall says when I'm back in her office.

“I am, just in a
different
leadership position.” I try to keep the defensive tone out of my voice.

“A
lesser
leadership position,” she says, glaring at me. “How did this happen?”

“It's a long story. But honestly, Abbot needs me. No one there knows how to navigate this part of campus life. I feel like I'm leading them out of the social dark ages.” As I say this I realize that it's true. Abbot does need me. I know better than most that the Calendar's ways aren't always the most straightforward. I actually feel like I'm doing a good deed.

Ms. Randall, however, is unmoved by my new charitable streak. “That was the one noteworthy item on your applications.”

You don't have to tell me.

She looks over the list of colleges where I'm thinking of applying. “You were supposed to do some soul searching and narrow this down. This is still a rather scattershot list. Going by this, I can't tell if you want a large or small school, urban or rural setting, what types of programs you might be interested in.” She looks at me, the disappointment written plainly on her face.

“I—I actually worked very hard on this. I don't know the answers to some of those questions, so I thought I'd apply broadly in hopes that I would figure it out by the time acceptances come in.” After hearing how flaky (and maybe optimistic) that sounds, I gulp and hope that she lets it go.

Ms. Randall sighs. “Another thing colleges look for is desire. If you can't even show or explain why you want them, they're unlikely to want you.”

I nod, frantically, nonsensically. I can't handle another session of character pummeling at the hands of this woman. Just can't. Might literally die if I have to. She looks at me for a long moment. “When I said ‘confront,' I meant that you need to confront the reality of your situation. You've made certain choices over your time here, and only you know why you made them. All of that, all of those decisions, have led you to where you are now. That's what
confront
means. That's not something I can help you with.”

“I am trying. To figure it out.”

She sighs again. “That's a start. While you're figuring it out, we need to work on this list. You have to make some more choices. Just basic ones, like where you might want to live for the next four years. Nothing dramatic. Can you deal with that?”

I nod again, less crazily this time.

“And how is your SAT prep going?” She glances at her monitor. “Okay, given your math and science grades, you're not a likely candidate for the ACT. SATs it is. Well?”

“I've been studying,” I say. If cracking open the practice book counts as studying.

“Fine. Then your word for this time is
creativity.
As in, we're going to need some for your applications.” Ms. Randall smirks. She just can't help herself.

When I get back to Abbot that night, I want to scream as soon as I hear the sounds of heavy bass reverberating through the floors. It's Club Raks night. Bettina's heading out the door.

“Studio?” she asks. I've sought refuge there a couple times. For some reason, her silent presence makes getting work done easier. Plus the bright lights of the studio force me to stay awake. And since I'm still tossing and turning most nights, I need all the help I can get. But tonight I'm too tired to walk all the way back to campus.

“Next time for sure,” I say.

Bettina gives a wry half smile. “Declan's going to be disappointed.”

I roll my eyes at her attempt at humor. Declan's been at the studio every time I've gone there with Bettina, and one time he sat next to me in Images of Women, but otherwise he barely acknowledges me.

My internal organs rearrange themselves with every thump of the music. Everyone caters to Raksmey's need to hold a dance party for one each week, but I'm hoping I can get her to turn it down just a little. When I open the door to the basement, the spike in volume is an assault. I venture down with my hands over my ears.

Since my last foray down here, Raksmey has hung multiple strands of fairy lights from the ceiling so that they crisscross and arc down into the space. She beams when she sees me, then grabs my wrists and drags me down the final few steps. I stand there, horrified, while she hangs on to me and continues to jump and wriggle around. But then a song I actually recognize comes on. Jordana and I danced to it back in middle school, but it's been remixed, with samples and a much more aggressive beat. It sounds so good that I start bobbing my head.

“Yeah! I can't believe it!” Raksmey shouts. “All it took was some old-school music!”

For the next forty-five minutes, I whirl around the darkened basement with an insane junior. When it's almost time for lights-out, I'm drenched, my heart's pounding, and my limbs feel gangly from all the flailing.

“Welcome to Club Raks,” she says when she turns off the music. “Never would've pegged you for a dubstep fan.”

“Oh my god, that was ridiculously fun,” I say. “Am I the first person to come down here?”

“Yep. In two and a half years, no one has been brave enough. Maybe I have to get some ecstasy.”

I laugh and hope she's joking.

We unplug the lights and walk up the steps. Raksmey hip-checks me as a way of saying good night, and I stumble into my room, only to be confronted by a giant greenish-gray cricket on the floor. Seriously, the thing is as long as one of my fingers. I barely notice when Opal walks into the room, toweling off her freshly washed hair. “What are you looking at?” she asks, coming up behind me.

“Possibly the ugliest thing I've ever laid eyes on.”

She peers at the cricket. “Oh please. Clearly you've never been to India. I've seen cockroaches twice as big as that guy…” She continues to prattle on while I work up the courage to stomp on the cricket. If I miss and it flies or hops away somewhere where I can't reach it, I will lose it. I raise my foot so that it hovers over it. “Wait! You can't kill it!” Opal shrieks, hurrying back over.

“You have a better idea?” I ask.

“Set him free! Practice ahimsa, which means ‘Do no harm.' ”

“I am not touching that thing.”

But I don't have to worry, because Opal scoops it up in her bare hands, as if it's a delicate flower or an injured butterfly. Actually I probably wouldn't touch that either. She sweeps out of the room in her bathrobe, thunks down the stairs, and opens the front door. “Be free, little guy!” she calls.

Yeah. Not sure how long she'll be able to keep the charade of normalcy going with her new club members. But if letting her weird out makes her happy, who am I to stop her?

T
he Canteen's kitchen is like a medieval torture chamber, all clanking metal, suffocating steam, and shattering glass. Everyone has after-dinner kitchen duty two weeks per year, and this is one of my lucky weeks. It's not hard so much as gross.

The key is to show up early so you have a choice of either feeding the giant industrial dishwasher, which involves scraping plates and putting silverware that has been in people's mouths onto a conveyor belt, or working on the other side to remove washed items, where there's a real possibility of getting scalded. Given my choice, I'm all for risking a little third-degree burn. The sight of all that mangled, commingled food makes me gag.

But of course, I'm five minutes late. I walk into the kitchen at the exact same time as a boy I only vaguely know as one of a handful of students from mainland China. He smirks at me and says, “Race ya!” Even though I roll my eyes at his childishness, I pick up my pace. He reaches the dishwasher ahead of me and exclaims, “Dag! That's cold!”

Apparently both drying spots are already taken. I look at the bin of dirty dishes in front of me. It was a mashed potato night. Extra disgusting. I take a deep breath, prepare to hold it for the next hour, and slip on an apron.

The boy has disappeared to the drying side, whining at someone I can't see. “Come on! You owe me!”

If he thinks I'm doing this by myself while he negotiates, he's sadly mistaken. I round the corner, ready to drag him back by the ear if necessary, but stop when I'm confronted with Lila's cool stare. My first instinct is to turn right back around, but I force myself to stand my ground. “Someone is coming to load with me.”

Lila snorts. “I know you don't think it's going to be me.”

“Skylar, you can come over here. C.J. and I will load,” someone else says.

I turn to see Declan handing off a rack of clean glasses to one of the uniformed kitchen staff.

“What? Don't volunteer me for shit. If you're giving up your spot, I'm taking it,” says the boy, who I'm guessing is C.J.

“Don't be a jerk,” Declan says. “Let her dry.”

“Sure! Maybe Skylar can entertain me with some tales about the movie biz,” Lila says, twirling her hair. She hasn't lifted a finger since I've been standing here.

“Get to work!” Martin, the head chef, snaps his meaty fingers at us. “I'm not above keeping you late, and I'm sure you all have study groups to get to.”

“Some other time,” I mutter at Lila before returning to the other side.

Declan joins me a moment later. He watches me jam my hands into rubber gloves and start haphazardly throwing plates onto the conveyor belt. “You know, I was offering to be polite, not to ruin your life,” he says.

“I know that,” I say through gritted teeth.

He stands there, observing me as I continue doing a barely passable job. “Ah. That explains why you're in such a rage.”

“I'm not— Look, it's not you. Sorry. She just gets under my skin.” I slow down and try to summon some rationality. “But thank you. For trying to be nice.”

“You're welcome.”

We settle into a routine, with Declan doing most of the scraping and me dumping out the drinks and organizing items for the machine. But what starts off as comfortable becomes monotonous.

Someone on the other side pushes the emergency stop button, which holds us up for a few minutes. How hard is it to unload a dishwasher? My money's on Lila being the button pusher, although, to be fair, C.J. didn't seem too well acquainted with menial labor either.

Declan and I just stand there, gloved hands raised, waiting.

“So. How's the drawing coming?” I finally ask.

Declan snorts. “It's up and down. Thanks.”

I guess he doesn't want to talk art with me. Fair enough. “What did you think of
Grease
?”

“Basically unwatchable, but I'm not sure movies have gotten that much better.”

“Seriously? You know it's a classic, right?” The machine starts up again, followed immediately by a shriek. Declan and I both shake our heads.

“I am aware,” he says.

“What didn't you like about it?”

“Um, that the girl had to change everything about herself to get the boy.”

Okay, that was not the answer I was expecting. We still haven't discussed it in class, but after the screening a few of the other boys cited corniness as their number one objection to the movie.

“Well, he changed for her too. He went out for all those sports. What did you think about that?”

Declan smirks. “Right. And as we all know, cute girls have a thing for jocks.”

I doubt he's referring to me but feel myself reddening anyway. I fumble for a subject change. “So where do you live?” I ask. The dishwasher grinds to a halt again.

“Come on! Are you serious over there?” Declan yells. He turns back to me. “Thatcher.”

“Really?” I scrunch my nose, trying to picture it. He's not exactly what I imagine when I think of Thatcher Hall guys. Not that I ever think about them much. He's quirky and fairly thin, so, I would guess, falls on the less athletic end of the spectrum, but he doesn't fit the awkward/spastic profile that the dorm is known for.

When the conveyor belt doesn't start moving, Declan stalks over to the other side. “It's not that hard, you guys,” I hear him say. “We send the dishes through, you pick them up and stack them.”

Lila utters some indignant-sounding reply. C.J. just laughs.

The motor whirs, and with a jerk the dishes resume their journey. Declan comes back. “She's a treat,” he grumbles. “So, yeah. You were expecting something more…what?”

“Huh?”

“Thatcher.”

“Oh, I don't know. Nothing, I guess.”

He smirks. “You seem to have a lot of questions for me all of a sudden.” He glances at the clock on the wall. “Unfortunately, I have to go. Maybe we can pick this inquisition up at the studio next time.”

He holds out his hand for my apron, which I slip off and hand to him.

I'm still standing there, doing I don't know what, when Lila and C.J. pass by on their way out. C.J. flashes me a peace sign, but Lila stops, her hair frizzed up and mascara running. This is the most unattractive I've ever seen her look. Being swindled out of drying continues to yield pleasant surprises. Still, I wish I'd had the good sense to get out of here quicker.

“I am going to kill Whitney,” she says. Before I can even think of a question to ask, she forges on. “She never even mentioned that I'd have to work at this god-awful place. When people first talked about Canteen duty, I assumed it was voluntary.”

This girl takes diva to a new level. “It's only for two weeks a year—”

“Two weeks?”
Lila's mouth hangs open in horror. “You mean I'm not done after this? And dorm duty on top of that? Who does this to
children
? It's as if they don't realize that we pay tuition to go here.” Her eyes travel over me, and somehow, even without her saying it, I know she's thinking that some of us don't actually pay tuition. I suppose the dots wouldn't have been that hard to connect. “This would never fly at my old private school.”

I give a small shrug. “What do you want me to say? Sorry.”
Not sorry.

“And this Calendar thing. I mean, sure, it's kind of amusing, but there's no way it's worth me spending a year out of the city for it. And there's practically no datable boys in the entire school!”

I have no idea who or what I have to thank for this massive overshare. “Have you talked to Whit?” I ask, more out of morbid curiosity than genuine concern.

Lila sniffs. “She keeps trying to convince me that it's better than I think and that the best stuff is yet to come. I have never seen someone who has so completely drunk the Kool-Aid.”

“I think she genuinely does love it here.” For some reason I feel tears pressing behind my eyes as I say this. Thankfully Lila's too self-absorbed to notice anything that subtle.

I get another one of those looks. “Well. Obviously Whit doesn't always have the soundest judgment.”

She strides out before I can think of a retort. Or smack her upside the head.