Into the Wild Nerd Yonder (17 page)

“Non-player characters,” Kent tells me, which still makes no sense.

Henry explains, “NPCs are like the extras on a movie set. The Dungeon Master controls them, and we fight them or talk to them or steal from them, etc.”

“Got it.” I love the way Henry and Kent are helping me learn the game. It feels like they’re protecting me from something. Kind of romantic. Except only from Henry. Not from Kent. At least I hope not.

Any romance I was feeling for all of two seconds has now turned to sheer violence. We’re in a battle with a group of orcs that overheard us talking in the pub and didn’t like us eating all of their kumquat pie. Everyone has their turn (initiative) to tell the DM what they want to do. We have to say which weapon we plan to use (if any), who we want to hit, and how we want to do it. Luckily I don’t have to go first, and I listen to Philip’s and Doug’s turns. When Dottie gets to me, I’m pumped. Finally a fight!

“I take out my sword,” I say, “and I go after orc number two.” After that, I roll the twenty to see if I hit him. According
to Dottie, my sixteen is high enough that I do, and then I get to roll. . . . I do, and then I get to roll another die to see how much damage I do to him. Everyone in the game has a certain number of hit points, which are like life points. When someone does damage to you, you lose hit points. If you lose enough of them, you can die.

We go around the table and take turns until all of the orcs are dead (except for one who runs away like a wuss). Most of us escaped unharmed, except for Eddie (who, Dottie informs me, my character accidentally hit with my sword when I rolled a one, the crappiest roll you can get).

“That was so fun,” I can’t help but announce to the table. “I am definitely playing again next week.”

Everyone looks at me like I’m a freak. “We just got into a bar fight. We don’t even know why we’re in this town yet,” Eddie snorts.

“No need to be a scrote, Eddie,” Dottie comes to my defense. “She’s never played before. She doesn’t know.”

“Yeah, you’re just pissed ’cause she jacked you up.” Philip laughs.

“Whatever. So what’re we doing now?”

While Dottie continues her storytelling, Henry leans over and whispers, “You did great. Nice wielding of the sword.” He bumps my shoulder with his. It was just a quick bump, so it probably didn’t mean anything. Did I want it to?

I am completely immersed in the game, in my character,
Imalthia, when my cell phone goes off. It’s Barrett, calling to say he’s coming to pick me up now so he can go to bed because he has work tomorrow. I look at my cell phone and see it’s 11:45. “I can’t believe it’s this late,” I say.

“Yeah. I guess we should leave off here. Everyone’s getting picked up at midnight, anyway,” Henry says as he starts cleaning up half-empty cups and pizza boxes.

“Not me,” Eddie sings.

“That’s because you live next door, Eddie,” Dottie deadpans.

I help stack books, return dice to their proper pouches, and carry the used plates and napkins into the kitchen. Dottie and Henry follow with the rest of the garbage. My cell phone rings, and I know that Barrett is outside waiting for me. “That’s my brother,” I tell the room. “I better go. Thanks so much for inviting me.” I look at Dottie and then at Henry.

“No prob, girlfriend.” Dottie sticks her hand out in a gesture to receive a five, and I smack her hand. “All right. So I’ll see you in study hall, and we can discuss the possibility of costumes?”

My phone starts buzzing again, and I hurriedly leave the kitchen to shut it off. I call back to the kitchen, “See you guys at school! Thanks again,” and to Philip, Eddie, and Kent, “See you guys. That was fun,” and they mumble their good-byes as I step into the silent night air.

Barrett must have dropped Chloe off before he came to get
me because the front seat is empty. I slide in and buckle my seat belt. “Thanks for driving.”

“No worries, mate,” Barrett says. “Did you have a good time doing . . . whatever you were doing?” He eyes me suspiciously.

I think for a moment about the dice rolling, name calling, pizza eating, and the complete and total out-there-ness of the night. “Yeah,” I finally declare, “I really did.”

I SPEND SATURDAY WITH MOM, going over pattern-making, just in case. I still haven’t decided whether I want to make the costumes for Fudwhalla, partly because I’m afraid I’m not a good enough seamstress, but mostly because of the fact that if I make those guys clothes, I am definitely in. And I don’t mean “in” in the way that “in” is supposed to mean, which is what scares me. This is definitely NOT the in-crowd or the A-List, but it might be a crowd I want to be in. Not sure.

Mom teaches me to make a more elaborate style of skirt, complete with pleats, longer, and lined. It takes us all day to chalk the patterns onto the fabric (a dramatic purple velvet), cut them out, and sew. When it’s finished, the skirt looks semi-professional, although the dark, brooding fabric may help hide flaws. (Note to self
if
I sew the medieval costumes: Use dark fabrics.)

My dad pops into my room while we sew. “So—sew?—So how did it go last night? Slay any dragons? A beholder, perhaps? Come across any nymphs?” Dad gives me a cheesy, knowing smile.

“Noooo,” I elongate the word to keep him in suspense. Plus, I don’t quite know what he’s talking about (except for the dragon, duh). “Just some orcs. And I kind of chopped a member of our party.” It almost feels like I’m bragging. Am I?

“Nice!” Dad drifts off into the fairyland in his head. “You’re not looking for a middle-aged dwarven cleric, are you? I’ve got some great healing powers. . . .”

“Dad, it was just my first time with these guys. I think it’s a bit premature for me to be inviting guests. Especially one of your advanced age.”

“Ouch,” Mom laughs. “I don’t think I like the idea of you playing Dungeons and Dragons with a bunch of teenagers. Isn’t that a bit icky?”

“Okay, okay. Maybe I’ll just have to find a group of adventurers my own age.” He playfully huffs out of the room.

“I really hope he’s not serious,” Mom says through clenched teeth where she holds two pins. She takes the pins carefully out of her mouth and stabs them into the pincushion tomato. “Better go start dinner. Chinese or Thai?”

Chinese food is always faster and the order is never wrong, but the Thai restaurant’s food is better. “Thai,” I say. “Cashew with tofu, please.

“Before you go, Mom, can I show you something?” She nods, and I pull open one of our ancient encyclopedias to a page I marked for costume ideas. “Do you think this would be hard to make?” The picture shows a man in tight pants and a
flouncy shirt covered with some sort of vesty thing, and a woman in a corseted top worn over more flouncy sleeves and a very full, long skirt.

“Hmmm.” Mom takes the book onto her lap and studies the picture. “The guy’s outfit’s easy. We could find a shirt like that, I’m sure, use a woman’s if we have to. Buy some tights, and just sew a top to fit over the shirt. The woman’s is harder, but now you know how to make a full skirt. We’d have to fudge the corset—I haven’t really worked with underwire. Maybe we can try something with shoelaces?” She seriously considers our options, which is a little too committed for me.

“I was just wondering if it was possible. It’s nothing.” I think for a second that if I agree to make the costumes, I only have two weeks and now would be a great time to get started, but, “It’s just something I’m thinking about.”

“Well, let me know. I always love a good trip to the fabric shop.” She kisses me on the head and says, “I’m very proud of you, honey. Your skirt is beautiful. They all are. A chip off the old mom.” She beams, and leaves to “make” dinner.

Sunday morning, Barrett wakes me with a knock on my door. “Jess? You awake?” He pushes open my door with a composition notebook in his hands, and I dig the crust out of the corner of my eyes. Barrett drops onto my bed and bumps me upright. “Van’s coming by today to pick up his drum kit.”

“And I care why?” I ask, genuinely disgusted. I’m proud of myself for finally having that as my natural reaction to his name.

“I thought you might want one last jam session before they’re gone?” I look at my clock. It’s 8:15
A.M
. I look back at Barrett and give a “What’s the deal?” shrug. “Dickhead came to the movie theater yesterday with some unsuspecting chick on his arm. I’ve been putting off telling him about,
you know,
but I couldn’t stand seeing him with another girl he might be diseasing. There was a line behind him, but he was picking his butt trying to decide between the five-dollar medium Coke or the $5.15 large, you know, being a cocky bastard. His girl, who looked way too young to be with him, was staring like a lovesick puppy at his smug face. I lost it.”

“Did you hit him?” I ask excitedly. I picture Barrett leaping over the counter, punching the crap out of Van’s too-gorgeous face.

“No. I didn’t want to get fired. Not because of that chode. He took his sweet time, and I took the opportunity to introduce myself to the girl. Her name was Maddie, and she goes to Westgate High, and blah, blah—she went on and on with her bubbly crap. I finally interrupted and said, ‘So, Maddie, did you know your boyfriend here has gonorrhea?’ The kid looks confused, but Van, he’s pissed and says, ‘What the hell are you talking about?’ And I say, real calm, so my manager doesn’t suspect anything’s up, ‘Why don’t you ask Bizza how her trip to the clinic went yesterday? And then have a visit yourself,
after
, of course, you call every other poor girl you’ve screwed over.’ Van says, ‘Bullshit. Bizza’s just saying that ’cause I dumped her skinny ass and she’s all boo-hoo about it.’ I say, ‘Sure, Van. Bizza’s pretending to have gonorrhea to win you back. Such a turn-on, don’t you agree, Maddie?’ And Maddie just shakes her head in a disgusted no. Then Van tries to grab Maddie’s arm, but she shakes him off and says something I don’t hear. He’s all huffy and walks off, so I yell after him, ‘If you don’t tell them, I will!’ And he yells, ‘Piss off,’ and that he’ll come get his drums today. So, yeah . . .” Barrett looks dreamily off into the distance with a satisfied smile.

“Do you think he’s actually going to get himself checked out? And call those girls?” I can’t imagine that if a guy is such a jerk that he won’t even talk to a girl after she goes up to his bedroom, he’s actually going to call a bunch of girls about giving them an STD.

“He’ll go to a doctor for sure. He may be a selfish bastard, but his love for his johnson knows no bounds. Do I think he’s going to call the girls? Probably not. But check this out.” Barrett holds up the notebook. “Van’s lyric book. He left it in the basement.”

“What, did he write a song about every girl he screwed or something?” At this point I wouldn’t put it past him.

“That shit-for-brains couldn’t write a song to save his life. But he was quite thorough about other things.” Barrett flips to a page toward the back of the book. Neatly numbered, starting with one and continuing all the way onto the next
page, is a list of girls’ names. “He kept track of every girl he ever hooked up with. I asked him once if he was having some sort of competition or something, but he said he did it so he didn’t accidentally hook up with the same girl twice. He thought that would be wasteful.”

“Yuck.” I crinkle my nose.

“You said it. Anyway, we can definitely use this book if he isn’t willing to do it himself.” Barrett sounds unenthusiastic, hoping that calling Van’s exes is something he won’t have to do. “So—the basement in five minutes?” I nod and throw back the covers to get myself up. While I jump into my pajama pants, I think how I am so happy to be plain, straight-brown-haired girl and not buzzed, Van-attracting girl. It pisses me off that Van has such power over females, yet he’s such a complete sleazoid creep. Not to mention I won’t have any more drums to play.

Barrett tunes his guitar in the basement. I sit down behind Van’s drum kit, the kit I learned to play on when me, Bizza, and Char started our band. Now Bizza’s out of my life, Van’s out of my head, and the drums will be no more. I kick the bass pedal hard. “Wait—are Mom and Dad up yet?”

“They’ve been up for hours. They’re out to breakfast or on a hike or something. They left us donuts.”

That is the invitation I need. Not the donuts, but the absence of anyone to annoy. I pound the bass pedal again, as
hard as I can, so hard that the pedal buckles a bit under my foot.

“Hey, careful. You don’t want to break the skin.” He looks at me. I look back, eyebrows raised. “Or maybe you do?”

I’m barefoot in my pajamas, and run to get a pair of shoes. I scan the front hall closet and decide against canvas Chucks and leather flats. Instead, I choose the largest and heaviest pair of shoes I own: my winter boots. I slide them on over my pant legs as someone else takes over my brain. I’m Imalthia the fighter, and we’re on a quest to defeat the evil scum of Van and stop his torment of women. I clomp down the basement steps. Barrett sees me and laughs. “You look a little remedial,” he says. Imalthia growls at him, and he puts his hands up in surrender.

“Ready to jam?” Imalthia asks, a violent gleam in her eyes.

“Ready, Boots,” Barrett answers. I tack my sticks together. One. Two. One-two-three-four, but instead of slapping the heads with my sticks, Imalthia jams the sticks directly down and through the drum pad. I pause and look up at Barrett, who holds his breath. Crash! I slam a cymbal then pummel another drum until I plunge the stick through. And then I do it again, and again, all very rhythmically, of course, until I get to the grand finale, the pièce de résistance, and I stand up and plow my winter-boot-covered foot through the bass drum.

I’m breathing heavily, and I realize my song has no guitar accompaniment. Barrett looks at me, a mix of shock and
admiration. Then he declares, “You effed those drums up! Right on, sister!” And just like that, Imalthia is gone, and I’m standing in the basement in front of a destroyed drum kit, wearing my pajamas and winter boots. My mouth is a perfect
O
of disbelief.

“Mother of turds,” I say. “He’s gonna be pissed.”