Into the Wild Nerd Yonder (20 page)

THE WEEKEND IS A BLUR OF FABric and thread. By Sunday night, I’m almost finished with the skirts (I made them before I made the guys’ things so I can perfect my corseted self before next weekend). That leaves me with five tunics to sew by Friday. The panic sets in, but I have to put aside the sewing for a bit of homework. This is a particularly brutal week for quizzes and tests. (Why do teachers do that? Is it some teacherly conspiracy to put students over the edge? Are they sitting in the teachers’ lounge evilly laughing about it right now?) I’m in the middle of (what else?) precalc homework, when Barrett busts into my bedroom.

“Read this.” He shoves a sloppy stack of papers on top of my precalc book.

“What is it?”

“It’s my NYU early admission essay. I have to send it in by November first, so I want to make sure it’s perfect. Will you read it?”

His electric excitement almost eclipses the reality of him going away to college. I look down at the papers. “Is it okay if
I read them later? I kind of put off my homework for the weekend until now.” He deflates and tries to take the papers off my desk. “Leave them,” I say. “Maybe I’ll have a little time after my math homework.” He perks up a bit and kisses the top of my head before he leaves my room. It’s very rare that Barrett kisses me, and for a second I almost think he may feel a little sad about leaving.

Doubtful.

By 11:30, I have completed all of tomorrow’s assignments and outlined my English short essay for Friday. Barrett’s application sits tauntingly on the corner of my desk, and I think about leaving it there until he asks me about it again but know that he’ll for sure ask again first thing in the morning. Might as well read it now.

I snuggle down in my bed with my trusty lightweight book light flopping over the loose pages of Barrett’s application. Several of the pages are short essay or fill-in-the-blank Social Security number type questions, and I decide I’ll leave those until later. The part everyone always freaks about is the essay, and it seems like it would make much more interesting reading than a list of Barrett’s accomplishments and grade point average. Barrett’s essay choice is A, to write about a person, place, or event that has meaning and why it is important. My mind races for a minute, thinking about how I might answer the question, but my droopy eyelids convince me to read Barrett’s essay before I fall asleep. I wouldn’t want to have to
wake myself even earlier in the morning in order to read his essay (I never know what kind of dream I may be interrupting).

Barrett’s essay begins:

As someone who has always considered himself a leader, I have a major distaste for followers. Followers are particularly obvious in what is known to many as the “popular” or “in-crowd.” Some people spend their entire school careers trying to be liked and to fit in with a group that doesn’t even want them. But the popular clique isn’t the only group with followers; many of the fringe groups have them as well. For the last four years I have been immersed in the local punk scene. I have definitely seen my share of followers, poseurs, and wannabes. Sometimes it’s hard to weed out the genuinely interesting people from those who just desperately want to be liked. I’m not immune to the guile of the try-hards, but there is one person in my life who has consistently reminded me how unimportant it is to do what everyone expects you to do—my sister, Jessie.

Did I just read what I think I read? I scan the page and see my name peppered throughout. I reread the opening paragraph and confirm that he’s talking about me, then skim the rest of the page, too tired to read it thoroughly. I catch snippets:

. . . such a natural talent, learning the drums and adopting an unfamiliar style of music . . .

. . . her distinctive fashion sense; Jessie designs and sews her own skirts.

But the line I’m most drawn to is

I admire how she fearlessly dumped her user friends for a new group of oddballs.

I put the essay down. I don’t know whether to feel flattered or offended. Of course, it’s way flattering that my brother, whom I have always looked up to and adored, would make the focus of his precious college essay about me. But his basic thesis is that I made friends with a bunch of dorks. It’s all well and good that he “admires” me for that, but he’s the one who went from freaky to preppy in the span of a month. Sure, it’s “cool” in theory to be friendly to nerds, but it’s another thing entirely to be seen as one of them. And that’s how Barrett sees me.

I angrily toss my book light on the floor and then worry that I busted it. More fun is tossing Barrett’s college application, which makes a pleasantly violent sound as it cracks through the air and lands scattered around my floor.

My alarm wakes me Monday morning from a bizarre dream: I’m in my bedroom, only it’s not quite my bedroom. The
closet is in a different place, and my pictures of Rupert Grint are gone. As I walk through the room, it sounds like I’m stepping on autumn leaves, but when I look down I see the floor is covered with papers with the word “Jessie” in big black letters and the word “REJECTED” stamped across everything in red. I go to my wrongly placed closet door (Why are rooms in dreams never exactly the way they are in real life? Is this where my subconscious wants my closet door to be?), open it, and a million gray bats fly out at me, each with a tiny Lord of the Rings symbol glowing on their stomachs.

That’s when I woke up. I prefer the Henry dreams, even if I’m not sure if I want them.

I get out of bed and step directly onto a piece of paper—Barrett’s application. Oh yeah. The essay. It’s amazing how a dream about Lord of the Rings bats can make you forget.

I get ready for school in a huff, locking the bathroom door to prevent any unexpected Barrett intrusions. I don’t know what to say to him. Did he really think I could just read the essay objectively to let him know if I think it’ll get him into NYU? Or was he expecting me to get all weepy at his generosity of including me in such an important piece of his life?

I avoid breakfast by yelling down to the fam that I’m finishing a skirt. I consider making up some other excuse to get out of driving to school with Barrett, but he sabotages my thoughts by barging into my room. My floor is covered with his essay, and I panic a little that he’ll be mad at me for not being more careful. Then I remember I’m the one who should be
mad, and besides that, a few papers on my floor could never compare to the piles of crap in his room. He doesn’t even notice, just bounds over to me as I sit on my bed and asks, “Did you read it? What did you think?” His pathetically eager expression softens me a bit. I wish I didn’t have to be angry.

“What did you want me to think?” I ask him, a little too snottily.

“I thought you’d like it.” He hesitates. “You didn’t?”

“Oh yeah, everyone loves being called a dork, Barrett. Not that you’d know.”

He looks really confused, and I have the urge to slap the look off his perfect face. “I didn’t call you a dork. I mean, I did, but it wasn’t in a bad way.”

“You said I dumped my friends for a bunch of outcasts and nerds!” I yell.

“That’s not what I said, Jess. Not exactly. Did you read the whole essay?”

“Nooo,” I say, afraid this is about to turn into some cheesy sitcom situation where one person thinks they hear someone say something but really they said something else, then absurd situations occur and laughter ensues.

“Where is it? I’ll show you.” My hand directs him, game-show-hostess style, across my bedroom floor. “Nice, Jess,” he says as he picks up the crumpled sheets and shuffles through them. “Here, read the last line.”

I dramatically grab the page from him and scan down to the end of the essay. I read,
Jessie is my inspiration, and I hope I
am fortunate enough to find friends just as fun, unique, and creative as Jessie has, without caring about what others think, should I be accepted at New York University.

Wait. Did that just say I’m Barrett’s inspiration? That he wishes he could find friends like mine? That I don’t care what other people think? If he only knew.

“I was saying good things about you, Jess. Great, in fact. I think it’s really cool how you found a new group of people to hang out with.”

“Just the other day you called them nerds.”

“No I didn’t!”

“You totally did. You said to mom and dad that I’d be okay going to Fudwhalla because I’d be safe with, and I quote, my ‘nerd herd.’ I know you used the word ‘nerds.’ ”

“I don’t know. Force of habit, I guess. But nerd doesn’t have to be a bad word. Can’t it just be a social scene, like punk or goth? Like, ‘Hey, I’m part of the nerd scene at Greenville High.’ ”

Barrett is trying to charm me, but it’s just annoying.

“If you think being a nerd is so cool, why are you going out with Chloe Romano?”

“Jess, I can’t change the fact that I like someone. Who can? I promise when I go off to college I’ll try and date someone geekier. Like a math major or—”

“Watch it. I might be a math major someday. And what happened to marrying Chloe?” Even though it goes against my whole nerd pride speech, it’s pretty hard not to approve of Chloe.

“She wants to take it slow. She says it’s only October, and she wants to go to school in California.” He flicks a loose thread on my comforter.

“It didn’t look like she wanted to take it slow on the couch the other night.”

“Slow in the serious relationship sense. Not the couch sense. I’m still hoping to bring her around, though.” He looks up. “So you get it, Jess? That essay is about how much you amaze me. My little sister, who I always wanted to look up to
me
, has me looking up to her.” He touches the tip of his finger to my nose and just keeps it there. I whack it off.

“I guess it’s okay, then,” I say.

“What’s okay?”

“Your essay. I mean, it’s good. Very moving. Hopefully a nerd will be reading it in the admissions office. Then you’ll definitely be in.”

“Yessss. So you give it the nerd stamp of approval?” He pauses and looks mortified that he just said that, and my insides cringe. But after his essay and everything that has happened in the last few weeks, I decide it’s time to admit something.

I raise my fist and pound it on top of his application like a stamp. “Approved,” I declare.

I LEAVE FOR SCHOOL FEELING GREAT on Monday morning, and the glow continues all week. I ace exams all over the place (thanks to some lunchtime study sessions with Henry), work on the Fudwhalla costumes at night, and even squeeze in a little audiobook time in my afternoon walks home.

Char has left three messages and six texts on my cell, just to say hi and see what’s up. I send a neutral text reply,
BAU
[Business as usual].
Skool keeping me bzy. TTYLR.
And I think I will talk to her later. Just not yet. And Bizza, I’m not so sure.

My skirts reflect my good mood, and I have worn a different skirt each day from what I call my “circus collection,” which includes a variety of clown, animal, and snack prints. Friday I put on a red skirt covered in popcorn boxes, kernels, and the word “pop!” (This skirt can be cross-referenced with my “movie collection.”)

In English, I’m about to plug into my iPod to listen to
Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone
(audiobook comfort food) when Polly passes me a note.

Polly: Where’ve you been at lunch? We miss you. Chip keeps insisting that you’re off having some lunchtime affair with that student teacher from the drama department.

Me: Gross. And anyway, I heard he was having an affair with Mr. Zapata from shop. I’ve just been studying in the library. Sorry to disappoint.

Polly: Please come back. Chip’s stories get more and more graphic. You don’t actually own any leopard-print lingerie, do you?

Me: If I did, would I tell Chip?

Polly: True. You’ll be there today?

Me: Have plans. But definitely Monday.

Polly: Doing anything this weekend?

I’d actually really like to tell Polly all about Fudwhalla, but it’s way too complicated to pass in a note. I can tell her all about it next week at lunch after the fact.

Me: Yeah—camping with friends. A little role-playing action.

Polly: Ooh—like sexy role-playing? Or hack and slash role-playing?

Me: The 2nd. But if you want to tell Chip otherwise, be my guest.

Polly: Maybe we shouldn’t feed his masturbatory fantasies.

Polly and I laugh, and Ms. Norton gives us the international symbol for shush.

I put in my earbuds and press
PLAY
, but my mind wanders to this weekend. It’s going to be crazy—costumes and camping and Henry. . . . I feel like the Dungeon Master of my life has just told me to Roll for Initiative. I think something big is going to happen.

I run into Henry in the hall before gym, and we plan to meet at my locker at lunch. His turn to pay. When lunch rolls around, I’m practically skipping to get to my locker. But when I get there, the person standing in front of it isn’t Henry. It’s Bizza.

When she sees me, she gives a hesitant wave. I’m not really mad anymore. There’s too much good stuff happening to me to keep all of that anger inside. Plus, I’ve been so busy with my new friends and sewing and school that I haven’t really had time to think about her.

She’s wearing a pair of black-and-white striped kneesocks over a pair of red tights and under a pair of cutoff army pants. Her T-shirt has a store-distressed logo of some punk band I remember Barrett talking about in his previous life. Her hair is freshly buzzed, her eyes heavily blackened. When I think about it, she looks pretty goofy.

I don’t feel like wasting time waiting for whatever she’s come here for, so I say, “Hi. Did you need something?” After
I say it, I realize how cold it sounded, like the only reason she’s come to talk to me was to get something from me. I guess that’s how it’s pretty much been, though, whether it was my brother’s table at Denny’s or an escort to the STD factory or—