Into the Wild Nerd Yonder (15 page)

I assume people in the realm of Dungeons and Dragons do not have normal names like Amy or Beth. “Well, what’s your name?”

“You must call me Dungeon Master.” She puffs up and gives me a regal nod. “But when I’m a player, I am called Sofa.”

“Like a couch?”

“Yeah. I thought it sounded mysterious.”

“A couch sounded mysterious?”

“Shut up and pick a name.”

I think for a moment before I decide. “Imalthia. Like in
The Last Unicorn,
” one of my favorite books
and
movies.

“Oooh—good one.” I do feel kind of proud.

The bell rings. “Well, Imalthia, prepare to kick ass. Or to get your ass kicked, depending on how I’m feeling tonight.”

“Later, Sofa. I mean,
Dungeon Master
.” I bow to Dottie. Then I remember what I have to do before my Dungeons and Dragons extravaganza begins. Bizza, a clinic, a doctor—if only it were Imalthia going on the gonorrhea adventure and not me.

I TAKE MY SWEET TIME DIALING THE combination into my locker, slowly placing books back in, slowly taking different ones out, checking, double-checking I have everything in my backpack. When my locker section clears out, I know I’ve procrastinated long enough. I just know Bizza will be at her locker, and I’ll not only have to endure the torture of going to the doctor with her to find out if her fling with Van gave her gonorrhea but I’ll have to look at her back-stabbing face or her gonorrhea-y mouth. Eeeww. Unless divine intervention actually works and Bizza magically turns into a loaf of bread or a Twix bar (I’m kind of hungry. . . . ).

I half expect to find Bizza and Van making out against the lockers, just because that’s kind of how things seem to work lately, but when I turn the corner into Bizza’s locker section, I find a solo Bizza sitting on the hard tile floor, knees curled up to her face. She looks up when she hears my approaching feet, and I panic with an obligation to say something. What do you say when your oldest, ex-best friend betrays you by going down on the guy you had a crush on forever and now she
needs you to go to the doctor with her because maybe she has
his
sexually transmitted disease? Does Hallmark make a card for that?

“Hey,” I say, half solemnly, half pissed. She looks like crap—crappier than when she had her wisdom teeth taken out and her face swelled up like a Red Delicious apple. Her hair is a little fluffy, growing out from last week’s buzz, and she has dark circles under her eyes. Instead of some elaborate punk ensemble, she’s got on a pair of black Lucky sweatpants I remember her buying on sale (I bought the same pair in gray, even though I really wanted that black pair she’s wearing now). Her sweatshirt is a completely unpunk Greenville High hoodie, which we also bought at the same time the summer before we started high school. Back when we thought it was cool to show school spirit.

Bizza speaks slowly. “Sorry to ask you to do this. I would’ve made Char come, but her brothers . . .” It’s amazing how I can now analyze every word coming out of Bizza’s mouth as selfish and bitchy. Why is her only apology that I have to come with her to the doctor? And how obnoxious that she thinks—and she’s probably right—she can just
make
Char go with her. It’s like the whole anti-drunk driving campaign: Friends don’t let friends drive drunk, but tweak it to: Friends don’t
make
friends do anything. God, what am I doing here?

Bizza acts the drama queen by crawling to her hands and knees on her way to standing up. The fighter in me wants to
kick her while she’s down, but that seems a tad violent. Plus, if she does have gonorrhea, then I guess I could say Van burned her already. Not that that makes up for anything. And where is Van anyway?

“Why didn’t Van take you?” This is probably one of those questions I’m not supposed to ask, but I’m asking anyway.

She doesn’t look at me, but slings her bag over her shoulder as she starts walking. “He won’t talk to me. Not since . . . his party. I tried calling him. Left a note in his locker. He won’t even look at me.”

I am so glad I didn’t hook up with Van. Even if it wasn’t really my choice, I’m still glad. How can he treat her this way? Even though she completely sucks?

I assume Bizza wants some sort of sympathetic response, but just because I’m thinking it doesn’t mean I have to say anything. All I do say is, “How are we getting to the clinic?”

“Bus. I can pay if you want.” Oh really, Bizza, how freakin’ generous of you! Seeing as how I wouldn’t even be taking this bus if you didn’t require my services. My blood is boiling, and I’m trying to remember why I’m doing this in the first place. We were once good friends, so that should count for something, I guess. If I were in this situation, I would want a friend with me, too. But probably not Bizza. And would I even get myself into this situation? I try to turn my brain on low thinking so I don’t have to argue with myself the entire trip to the clinic. Just because we were once best friends, does that mean we always have to be?

It’s strange taking the bus in the suburbs. I’ve only done it one other time in my life, when my mom’s car was in the shop and my dad was out of town. I thought it was fun back then—putting the money into the slot, hanging on to the pole so I didn’t fall when the bus driver overaccelerated, and pulling the cord to make the bus stop. It could have been just as fun today, except for the crappy company and our final destination.

I find a two-seater while Bizza drops coins into the money machine. The windows help me avoid any possible small talk with Bizza, and I watch the familiar strip malls and car dealerships swish by. About ten minutes pass when Bizza says, “We’re the next stop.” She looks down at directions printed off the computer.
Ding!
I pull the cord with an inner smile of delight. I wonder if that stops being fun if you take the bus every day. I don’t think it could.

The clinic is packed, and I consider if Bizza even has an appointment. There’s no way I’m waiting around for the next available doctor and missing my prep time for Dungeons and Dragons at Henry’s house tonight. Bizza stands just inside the doors, looking around in a panic at the various lines, signs, and waiting areas. I follow her gaze to a sign that says
WOMEN’S CLINIC
. She doesn’t bother to say anything, just assumes I’ll follow her, and I’m about to say something pissy when I see the fear on her face.

We wait in a short line leading up to a window. I watch the circus of screaming babies and children in the vast waiting room. They should bring us here on a field trip as a form of
birth control. How could anyone get pregnant after watching this chaotic freak show?

Bizza is handed a clipboard of forms to fill out, and we take a seat next to the divider that separates the women’s clinic from the pediatric clinic. It doesn’t stop the sounds of howling babies from the “room” next door. I don’t know why Bizza needs me here—she isn’t looking at me or talking to me or asking me important medical questions that I can’t answer. I pull out my worn copy of
Angus, Thongs, and Full-Frontal Snogging
and start reading from the beginning. I’m actually on page sixty-six as of the last read-through, but who knows how long I’ll be waiting here. I might as well make maximum use of the book. There are magazines spilling all over the place, but I hate to touch magazines in doctor’s offices. Just in case.

I’m half reading, half watching Bizza as she hands her clipboard and fat doctor’s office pen to the woman behind the counter. I can’t hear what the woman says, but I hear Bizza loud and clear when she asks, “Can my friend come with me?” She looks back in my direction with pleading eyes. I can see the woman behind the glass form the word “no,” along with some other words that I have no chance of lip-reading. Bizza stares at me like a doll whose eyes have been left in the extremely awake position. I feel for her and mouth, “You’ll be okay.” She mouths exaggeratedly, “What?” And I mouth again, “You’ll be okay.” And she shrugs her hands and shoulders up, like she still can’t hear me. Before I can try again, a nurse appears beside her to take her back into the great medical
unknown. The only supportive gesture I can think of that she can understand in such a short amount of time is to give her a thumbs-up. It’s not exactly appropriate, but it seems to help a little as she produces the tiniest of thankful smiles. I hunker down in my plastic seat and prepare for the long wait, but Bizza appears ten minutes later, looking way relieved.

“They think I’m right about the gonorrhea, but it was so nothing. There were no needles. It was like a swab, sort of like a strep test. And the nurse said I’ll probably only have to go on antibiotics, so no shot or anything. I have to wait to see a doctor still, but isn’t that great?”

Shocked pause.

Deep breath.

Explosion.

“Great? What the frick is so great about this? You sucked a guy off—a guy
I
liked—who won’t even talk to you anymore. He gave you a sexually transmitted disease because you were too friggin’ ‘in the moment’ to use a condom, not to mention the fact that the
only
thing you got out of your bedroom visit with Van was gonorrhea! Was it good for you, Bizza? Was it worth trading your best friend for an asshole and some antibiotics?”

Stammering, Bizza tries to speak. “I only meant—”

“You only meant that this is great for
you
. ’Cause all that ever matters is what’s great for you.”

“I thought we were cool, Jess. I thought that’s why you came with me.”

“No.
We
are not cool. I came with you because part of me hated being mad at you. But you know what? I could give two and a half shits whether or not we’re cool or if you think I’m cool, period. I’m done with this whole cool thing. You can keep on shaving your head and giving assholes blow jobs and then basking in the glow of antibiotic glee you seem to be enjoying, but I have better places to be. Maybe even dragons to slay.” I dramatically stomp away, welcoming the glances of curious waiting room spectators.

I don’t know if what I said will even sink a tiny bit into her inflated head, but I’m happy I had the chance to say it. Maybe deep down I knew that was the real reason I agreed to go with Bizza to the clinic.
I
needed to be cured of something, too.

I CALL BARRETT FROM MY CELL AFTER walking a good six blocks away from the clinic. I doubt that Bizza would follow me, partly because I think she’s too self-absorbed to chase after anyone (except Van, and look at the nice parting gift she received), but mostly because she’s still waiting to see a doctor. Luckily Barrett isn’t working today, and he arrives fifteen minutes later with Chloe Romano riding shotgun.

When I called Barrett, all I told him was that I needed a ride and I would explain when he picked me up. Now I’m in his car, and I can’t decide what to tell him. His questions are driving me nuts. “Are you okay? Did something happen? You’re not prostituting yourself on street corners, are you?” He sounds almost serious, and I don’t want him to worry (or keep asking me creepy questions).

“I was at the clinic,” I start.

“The clinic?!” He freaks. “Were you having an abortion?”

I know it’s not funny, but he is so out of control with panic that I bust out laughing. “God—no! Barrett, I wasn’t there for me. . . .” Chloe strokes the back of Barrett’s shaved head to
calm him, and my heart jumps a little to see how much she really likes him.

“Shit—you scared me, Jess. You better not be having sex.”

“You’re such the role model of virginity, Barrett. And even if I was, it would be none of your business.”

“Like hell it wouldn’t.”

He sounds like Dad. “Okay, I’ll be sure to call you the next time I even get close.”

“So why were you at the clinic, if you don’t mind my nosiness?” Chloe interrupts, and I’m happy to get out of the brotherly sex talk.

“Well, let’s just say an ex-friend of mine got a little present from an ex-friend of Barrett’s.” I don’t know why I just don’t tell them straight out. I guess I feel like it’s not my story to tell.

“Bizza?” Barrett guesses. I nod at his eyes in the rearview mirror. “Van?” Barrett says Van’s name through his teeth, and I kind of wish that we could pull over, or at least hit a stoplight so Barrett doesn’t take this out on his driving. I nod again.

“So it’s true,” Chloe says. “I heard it from Jenna Grouse in the locker room, who said a friend of hers from Hillcrest used to go out with Van and thought that’s where she got it, but he wouldn’t talk to her, and—”

Barrett interrupts, “Got what? What the hell are you talking about?”

“Don’t talk to me like that,” Chloe snaps at Barrett. “Ask me nicely, and maybe I’ll tell you.” Chloe winks back at me, and I make a feeble attempt to wink back (I really have to practice my winks in a mirror). Barrett takes a deep breath, taps his fingers on the steering wheel, and comes up with, “Dearest Chloe, please, do tell, what the hell Van gave to this girl?”

“Why, Dear Barrett, I believe he gave her gonorrhea,” she says in a noble voice. But that doesn’t take the sting out of the air.

“And he gave it to Bizza,” he demands an answer from me.

“I’m pretty sure. I didn’t stay around long enough for the lab results.” Barrett slams his hand on the horn, and both Chloe and I jump. A guy in the car in front of us gives us the finger out his window.

“Bare, chill out. You act like he did this to Jessie.” She resumes her calming neck stroke.

“It could have been,” he says quietly. “She liked him.” Even if he is looking back at me in the rearview, I can’t look at him. Maybe I would have been just as stupid as Bizza if I’d had the chance. Although hopefully the thought of Krispy Kremes would have stopped me.

“What we need to do now is make sure that Van doesn’t do this to anyone else. You’re going to have to talk to him, Barrett.” Chloe sounds so grown-up when she says this, I don’t see how Barrett can argue.

We’re stopped at a stop sign, and Barrett leans his head forward into the steering wheel. “Shit,” he says.

We sit at the stop sign for several minutes. Chloe continues with her neck stroking. They both seem pretty calm when Barrett starts to drive again. I, on the other hand, am building up some serious anger. Why is it that Van is allowed to do this to so many people and get away with it? Barrett may get him to go to the doctor or tell the million and a half girls he infected, but that’s not enough for me. He may have hurt Bizza, but he hurt me, too. How many years of my life did I waste crushing on a total dick? What would Imalthia the fighter do?