Into the Wild Nerd Yonder (21 page)

“I just wanted to talk to you for a minute,” she says, semi-defensive.

“Don’t you have bio now?”

“So? This is important. I need to say it.”

I brace myself for some self-absorbed Bizza bullshit, but out comes something unexpected.

“I’m sorry, Jessie. Sorry I used you. Sorry I hurt you. Sorry for being a shitty friend.” I move my mouth to say something, but nothing comes out. Bizza continues, “You were my best friend. I mean, you are the best friend I’ve ever had. Better than I deserved.” I can’t disagree, so I say nothing. “I don’t know if you’ll ever forgive me, but I just needed to say it. And thanks for coming with me to the clinic. I don’t think I would’ve gone without you.”

“How’s
that
situation?” I ask, waving my hand in the general direction of her mouth.

“Better. Gone. And so is Van, too, by the way. I’m not going near that asshole again.” She says it like it’s not such a big deal, but I can tell that it is from years of her pretending things don’t get to Bizza Brickman.

I want to say something snarky about how she shouldn’t
have gotten so near that asshole in the first place, but I can’t be bothered. Just then Henry walks into the locker section, looking adorable with his curls in his eyes and his giant white shoes. “Hey, Jess,” he says, “ready for some grub?”

I look at Bizza to see if she’s finished, and she says, “I should get to class, I guess.”

Henry smiles at me and says, “I just have to get my jacket. I’ll be right back.”

After he leaves, Bizza shoulders her backpack and says, “Who’s that?”

“A friend,” I say. “Definitely a
non
-asshole.” She smiles, and I smile back. Part of me is desperate to hug her, like a final, good-bye type of hug, to let her know that I forgive her enough not to hate her anymore.

“Maybe we can hang out sometime,” she says.

“Maybe,” I say thoughtfully. “I’m pretty busy these days.”

She looks slightly hurt, but her Bizza pride is definitely still in tact. “Yeah, me, too, I guess. But maybe when you’re not too busy.” I nod, and Henry returns. He sticks out a friendly hand to Bizza and says, “Hi, I’m Henry.”

Bizza reluctantly shakes it. I watch the two of them. It’s as if Bizza shaking hands with Henry is the official transference of my old life to my new one.

“S’later,” she says to me, and walks quickly away.

“Ready, m’lady?” Henry bows to me, hand outstretched.

“Yes, m’man,” I say, taking his hand.

As we walk, holding hands, he asks, “M’man?”

“You know—m’lady, m’man. Would you have preferred something else?”

“Actually, it was a lot more than I hoped for,” and I can see his cheeks turn red underneath his unruly locks of hair.

“DON’T LOOK ANY ROYALTY IN THE eye. You can only speak when spoken to, unless it’s someone of your station.”

“Henry, how am I supposed to know who’s royalty and who’s ‘of my station’?” I use finger quotes because I can’t get myself to say it like it’s part of a normal conversation.

“We’ll know. You just walk behind Dottie, and she’ll tell you what to do. And believe me, she’ll revel in that.”

“Great,” I say, although I’m not really worried about that part. I’d rather someone tell me what to do at this thing than get put in the stocks for doing something wrong. “Is everyone going to be really into their characters? Like saying
yay
and
nay
and
thou art
and stuff?”

“Some of them will. Usually it’s the guys with ponytails. Don’t worry. You’re not being graded on this.”

If only that were my problem. Henry sees the constipated look on my face. “What? Did you eat a green french fry? I hate that.”

“No. It’s just—” I decide to be honest with him. “Do you ever feel like a dork doing this? Walking around in a costume
with other people walking around in costumes, holding fake swords, interacting with guys and ponytails and—”

“Jessie, chill,” Henry interrupts me. “It’s perfectly normal to feel like a dork at Fudwhalla because there’s nothing perfectly normal about it. Normally, your average tabletop role-playing geek wouldn’t set foot in a live role-playing adventure, but last year Philip told us his cousin was doing it, and we thought it sounded hilarious. It’s not often nerds get to make fun of nerds even lower on the nerd food chain.”

I clear my throat and look surprised. “You’re not a nerd, Henry.”

“Nice of you to say, Jess, but I’m not deaf. I’ve heard people talking crap about me since we morphed into social groups in elementary school. It only sucks when there’s no one else around to soften the blow. Of course it bothers me sometimes that I’m not cool. Why do you think I bought new pants?”

We both blush, but probably for different reasons. I feel guilty, like I bullied him into it. “You kind of needed them,” I say.

“True, but the only reason I actually went out and bought them was to reduce the nerd factor in your eyes. It worked, I hope?”

“It worked.” I smile. “Not that I thought you were a nerd, of course, but you do look better when your pants fit.” A
lot
better.

We spend the rest of the meal going over more Fudwhalla
details. I am happy to hear that my new friends thought the whole thing was weird, too. Even though Henry just full-on pronounced his nerd status, the fact that he could and was completely confident about it made me like him even more. I totally respect him. I wonder if I’ll ever get to that point myself.

I WAKE EARLY ON THE MORNING OF Fudwhalla. Dottie suggested I eat a big breakfast, since it’s always unknown when the first meal will actually get served (and how edible it may be). I’m too nervous for a big breakfast, so I opt for a piece of toast and some scrambled eggs. Dottie came over last night to pick up her skirt. Both of us were impressed at how perfectly the skirts looked and fit. I hope the guys won’t be disappointed with their tunics, which we all decided would be fine to hand out when we met up in the morning. Dottie showed me how to wear the corset over my peasant blouse. I felt awkward because you can’t really wear a bra under a corset, and therefore, Dottie and I were in my room together topless for the shortest moment while we changed. Not that I looked. The peasant blouse that Dottie lent me is off-white and gathered at the sleeves and around the plunging neckline. It is, as they say, dangerously low-cut, so with the addition of the corset, my cleavage is nicely peeking over the top of the blouse. I felt rather scandalous when I saw myself for the first time, but Dottie swore that’s how all the Fudwhalla ladies dress. “I’m telling ya,” she said as she
changed back into her street clothes, “some bitches get implants just to look hot at Fudwhalla.”

“So there will be other females there?” I asked. I had this fear that Dottie and I would be the only girls, and groups of sword-wielding freaks would chase us through a dark forest at night, capture us, and drag us back to their lairs by our hair.

“Oh yeah. I mean, there’s the queen, of course, and there’s the witches, other royals, their dedicated servants . . .” She darkly smiled at me.

Making breakfast this morning, I feel a little silly with my boobs hanging out, and I pray that no one in my family feels like waking up early to see me off.

I double-check my stuff: sleeping bag, pillow, change of clothes for the ride back. I wanted to bring a flashlight, but Dottie told me there would be torches and lanterns for us to use. More authentic, I guess.

My boobs are dangerously close to a full-on pop-out as I close up my bag, and I barely manage to adjust when I hear Doug’s car pull into the driveway. I quickly open the front door so he doesn’t have to honk, waking my family into a random boob sighting, which would possibly make them question the innocence of the weekend.

Dottie meets me at the door, and we laughingly acknowledge our ample, jiggling chests. Everyone is already in the car, a minivan that Doug borrowed from his mom. Dottie grabs the tunics, and I lug my bag to the back of the van. Doug pops open the trunk, and I throw my bag inside.

Henry slides open the van’s side door from the inside, and when he crouches to avoid hitting his head on the ceiling his eyes are directly in line with my chest. “Um,” he stammers, “welcome, m’lady.” He quickly averts his gaze, and I manage to slide into the first row of seats. Dottie passes back the tunics, and I hear “Wow” and “Awesome” and “Am I really this fat?”

Kent puts his hand on my shoulder from the backseat and says, “Jessie, thanks for making these. They look fantastic. Really.” I beam at a job well done, and then we’re off into the wild nerd yonder.

Henry, Doug, and Kent fight over radio stations the whole ride, while Eddie and Philip play various car games, like Slugbug and I Spy. Dottie helps me with my hair. Hers is in several braids, which she has somehow twisted together into an elaborately regal hairstyle. “Yours should be more plain,” she tells me, “seeing as you are just the help. Do you know how to French braid?” she asks.

I do. French braiding other people’s hair was one of my favorite things to do during fifth-grade recess. Dottie instructed me to part my hair down the middle and give myself two French braids down the back, sort of Ren Fair-y without the flowers. I work on it and notice Henry watching me, although he could just be staring at my boobs. Either way, I’m happy.

When we finally arrive at Fudwhalla, I’m immediately shocked by two things. Number one: There are a lot of people in weird
costumes here. And number two: We’re in the middle of nowhere. We pulled off the highway, made a bunch of random turns, and ended up at the edge of a huge field with a few buildings scattered around. It’s as though we’ve pulled into the town from
Children of the Corn,
except with more trees, less corn, and, well, no children. I grab my bag in a daze and follow the others between what appear to be two of the four buildings in this “town.” Each building is well-labeled with a painted wooden sign:
THE INN, THE CASTLE
(which pretty much looks the same as The Inn),
TOWN HALL
, and
PRIVIES
. I relax a little when I see the last sign, as it means I won’t have to poop in the woods after all (if I have to poop, I mean).

People of all shapes and sizes in elaborate costumes of chain mail and velvet mill about. I see several men in tunics, and note how much more original the ones I made look. We head to the town hall to register. Henry walks up beside me, and the first thing I notice (since I didn’t really get a good look in the car) is the absence of white shoes (maybe it’s the lack of the frightening glow that usually emanates from his feet). Instead, he has some sort of black Doc-esque shoes (thank god he’s not wearing some fringy suede boots) tucked under the legs of his black pants. Unlike the many ponytailers (Philip included), Henry’s curls hang dashingly around his face. His white shirt, even with the puffy-sleeve factor, is thin enough that it shows off his lean, defined arms. The tunic fits him perfectly, and he really does look kind of dashing. Quite manly, actually, but not in a hairy-chest, mustachey way. Just in a really
good
way.

Registration entails signing in, noting how many guests will be staying in our “house,” and receiving a stack of golden coins, which Dottie takes from me and places inside a felt pouch. She then hands the pouch to me and instructs me to tie the bag to the waist of my skirt. I peek inside and notice that the coins all have the word
FUDWHALLA
printed on them. “Fudwhalla has its own currency?”

“Yeah,” Kent answers. “Nigel mints them in his house all year. I can’t decide if it’s overkill or really cool.” I’m voting for overkill, but it is kind of fun. Like traveling to another country inhabited by guys in tights and ponytails.

We walk and we walk, past rainbow-colored tents of other Fudwhalla-goers and various stalls of random medieval ware, until we come to where we’ll be parking ourselves for the night. It’s a field filled with what appear to be wooden skeletons of one-room houses. Each house is completely bare, only defined by sporadically placed boards around the outside and a sparse formation of boards on top that give the illusion of a roof. They look like someone started a project and neglected to finish it. Maybe the Children of the Corn got to them first. Throughout the field are Fudwhalla-ites, throwing tarps, sheets, and fabrics over the house skeletons. I get an ug feeling in my gut that this may be closer to camping than I thought. “Where are we going, Dottie?” I call to her, since she is now about twenty feet ahead of me and dragging her long skirt farther and farther into the field.

“That’s Baroness Radcliffe,” she calls back to remind me. “And we’re heading toward our home.” Noooo.

We pass more tents and more skeleton houses and more sheets and bizarre, medieval-type costumes and strange goatees until we end up on the very edge of the very large field. The skeleton house that Dottie tosses her bag into is butted up against the beginnings of a forest. I turn around to gauge the distance from our house to the very beginning of the field. With the zigzagging through tents and houses, it’s at least a good five-minute walk. Plus another five minutes to my most cherished destination—the privies.

“I thought you said we’d be near a bathroom,” I kind of whine.

“We are.” Eddie laughs, and showcases the entirety of our friendly neighborhood forest.

“For you, maybe, but I don’t have the point-and-shoot capabilities of a penis.”

“Don’t worry about it,” the Baroness reassures me. “I’ll teach you how to pee in the woods in a really long skirt.”

I don’t feel the least bit reassured, but things get worse: Our house doesn’t have a floor. “Wait—I thought you said we weren’t just camping on the ground.” I’m really whining now.

“Well, we’re sleeping on the ground, but at least we have the house around us,” Philip says, pulling flowery bedsheets out of his bag. The guys get to work, covering the ceiling with the sheets to give the appearance of a ceiling and walls. If a
roof and walls happened to be covered in hideous orange flowers and did little to protect us from the elements (i.e., frightening forest creatures and knife-wielding children). I sit down inside the house as the sheets go up around me. The sunlight shines through the floral fabric on one of the sides and reminds me of laundry hanging out to dry. Not that I’ve ever been around laundry hanging outside, because that’s a pretty impractical concept in the Midwest, but I imagine this is what it would be like. More pleasant than expected. I lie back and look through our nonexistent roof at the cloud wisps. All of a sudden Henry pops into my sight, ethereal with the sun shining through his curls. He’s on a ladder, tossing sheets over the top to create the roof. He waves at me, and I grin back before the flowers float over my view.