Into the Wild Nerd Yonder (5 page)

“I wonder when we’ll hook up again. It was so incredible. Not much room in the front seat. Maybe next time we can move to the back.” So glad I don’t even have to ask.

“You barely know the guy. No need to move to the backseat just yet. But before you do, you may want to disinfect.” I know I’m just being snarky out of jealousy. If Van had asked me to head to his backseat, I doubt if I’d be pulling out the disinfectant wipes. I’d like to disinfect Bizza’s annoying head right now.

“I know he’s been with a lot of girls. But he’s so hot. And he’s a drummer. I really want him to like me.”

Just like that, I feel a wee bit empathetic for Bizza. I have never heard her say anything like that. Either people like her or she couldn’t care less if they do. The good friend in me even
hopes for a second that Van genuinely likes her. I can almost forget the totally new and far-from-improved Bizza 3.0. “Let’s make kiddie cocktails,” she says. “I could use a stiff one.”

I know I should say something about Van and how he’s mine, even though he’s not mine. But I puss out.

“Coming right up,” I say, and like the good friend I am, I make her a drink. Like the friend she is, she lets me.

OUT OF CURIOSITY, I EAT MY LUNCH on the same bench as I did yesterday. I try to trick myself into believing that I am eating outside because a) it is so beautiful out, I might as well take advantage before winter freezes me back inside and b) I have no one else to eat with. Obviously, the actual reason is c) to see if Van invites me out to lunch again.

I almost manage to get involved in my audiobook when just like out of one of my many Van-tasies (but more probably out of auto shop) emerges Van. I think he’s wearing the same clothes as yesterday (old black jeans marked with fluorescent green duct tape and a Bad Brains T-shirt), but it doesn’t look gross. Which is weird, because I remember in fifth grade when I had this pair of sparkly leggings and a pink button-down to match (covered in sequined cowboys); I loved them so much I wore them every single day. Then some skag told me what a loser I was and how I totally reeked, which was a lie because I carefully washed them every night when I got home. I tried to tell her, but she had already moved on to making some other
pathetic tween’s life miserable. The moral of this story is: I don’t care what Van is wearing (he could even be wearing my leggings-and-cowboy ensemble), he’d still be fine. Admittedly, today he’s kind of a cloudy version of Van hot, thanks to the vision of Bizza attached to his face that keeps floating into my brain.

Van looks down at me on the bench and starts talking before I can turn down my audiobook (oblivious to the white cords hanging from my head). “Huh?” I ask him to repeat.

“What are you jamming to?” he asks.

I know he thinks I’m into his music because I use his drum kit, and I don’t want him to think I’m a loser because I wasn’t actually listening to music in the first place, so I make up, “Oh, some obscure Norwegian band.”

“Cool. Cool. So, you ready for lunch?” I love how he ignores my empty lunch bag and just assumes. If Van thinks it’s time for lunch, then it’s time for lunch.

The scene plays out like a rerun of yesterday—loud music, $2.00 Frosty, and cigarettes. With Van wearing the same outfit, the only difference is my adorable fruit medley skirt, complete with matching vintage fruit bead necklace. “Is that scratch and sniff?” Van points to my skirt after we park back at school. I picture him scratching and sniffing the thin fabric so close to my skin and I get googley.

It’s hard to stay mad at him (not that he had any inkling I was mad in the first place) when he’s being sort of charming.
“Sort of charming” for Van pretty much means he’s talking to me. “I think it’s just a normal skirt,” I manage to say. I turn my face toward his. He really is beautiful up close (if I ignore the stale cigarette smell). His crooked nose, relaxed gray-blue eyes, pillowy lips . . . This totally could have been our second date, and I could maybe have gathered up the nerve to kiss him or let him kiss me. (Why isn’t he kissing me, anyway? I wonder if Barrett threatened him. I’ll ask Barrett when I get home. And then I’ll kill him.) But it doesn’t matter because Bizza got there first. Like everything else in our lives, it’s all about Bizza. Like that time in eighth grade when our “beloved” English teacher, Mrs. Grossman, decided that Bizza and I should write clever introductions to all of the student council election speeches. (I say “beloved” in quotes because really she was Bizza’s beloved English teacher. Not that she wasn’t my teacher, but I always got the feeling that she couldn’t remember my name. Perhaps it was because she always called me “Jenny.”) Like, “You remember him from his crazy science fair project. Don’t get too close—he may still be electrified! Give it up for Bill Klein!” Lame, I know, but it was a prestigious gig. Each day after school, Bizza and I set up a video camera and improvised hilarious one-liners and cleverly disguised disses for the candidates. Then, during election week, I got strep and missed the final speeches. According to Polly from my English class, Mrs. Grossman announced in front of the entire school how, and I quote, “I am pleased and
proud to let everyone know that every single humorous candidate introduction was written by our very own Bizza Brickman. Stand up, Bizza.”

Grrrr
. Stand up, Bizza, and steal
my
jokes and
my
cleverness and
my
gorgeous crush. At this moment, blood boiling from the stealing memory, I almost dive into Van’s arms for some serious make-out revenge.

But then the bell rings and snaps me out of it. Plus, I could never do it. “I have to get to class,” I say, defeated.

“I guess I should, too.” Van smiles slyly. What is his deal? I pretend not to notice as he helps me with the sticky door handle. I attempt to coolly speed-walk through the parking lot until I know I’m out of Van’s sight, then I sprint to my locker.

Luckily, Mr. Bowles’s big stomach is up against the chalkboard as he scribbles equations, so he doesn’t notice as I slide into my seat late.

Mike Eastman loudly sniffs the air and leans toward me. “Were you smoking?” He asks so accusingly that I feel the need to lie.

“Yesss,” I hiss at him. I’m just so pissed, at myself for being a wuss and at Bizza for being a traitorous bitch. Eventually the logic of math calms me down, and I try to imagine what Bizza is actually thinking about this Van thing. Maybe she really, truly believes that it doesn’t matter because it’s been my forever crush and if something were to happen, it would have happened already. Or maybe she thinks it doesn’t matter because I have technically had more boyfriends than she has. Or
perhaps it’s that Bizza thinks I’m not even that interested because if I truly liked Van, I would have been at Denny’s every night pleading my case. So maybe it’s actually all my fault that Bizza hooked up with Van, and I have no reason to be mad.

Or maybe Bizza’s kind of a shitty friend.

STUDY HALL IS MUCH QUIETER ON the second day of school when everyone else has homework. It’s the time of the year when people still have hope that they can do a good job, keep up with their reading, make the parents proud. Next week a lot of them will already have given up, realizing it’s a lot easier if they just don’t do the work. But not me.

I pull out a short story for English called “Singing My Sister Down” by Margo Lanagan and try to concentrate, but I have read the same sentence about ten times, although if you ask me what the sentence says, I couldn’t repeat it. My head is in the Van clouds (which are more of a cigarette haze than a cloud).

“You’re in that place again. In your head with that guy, aren’t you?” The wise and intuitive Dottie brings me back to study hall.

“I need a better poker face, don’t I?”

“As long as you don’t start making out with your hand, you’re fine.”

“Oh god. If I ever even look like I
might
do that, please smack me.”

“With pleasure.” Dottie nods. She goes back to writing something.

“Are you writing in your language again?” I ask, hoping she’ll explain what it was she said to me yesterday. I didn’t exactly try to figure it out, but I’m still intrigued. It’s pretty crazy that someone actually took the time to create and memorize their own language. Although some would say it’s crazy that I take the time to make a skirt for every day of the school year.

“No,” Dottie answers. I may never learn the mystery of her cryptic good-bye. “I’m working on an adventure.”

“I didn’t know you wrote stories.”

“I don’t. It’s an adventure. For Dungeons and Dragons.”

I look at her blankly.

“Dungeons and Dragons. It’s a role-playing game. With dice.”

“Ooh—role-playing.” I wiggle my eyebrows with innuendo.

“Not that kind of role-playing, perv. It’s kind of like
The Lord of the Rings
, but you’re the characters.”

“So you climb mountains in search of a ring and live in a round house and have hairy feet?” I ask.

She sighs, annoyed. “It’s a game. I’m the Dungeon Master, which is like the storyteller, and we sit around a table—a
normal table in a normal house—and everyone is a made-up character. I tell a story that the characters are in, like ‘You are all in a town, and you’re having some mead in the Rusty Skupper Pub, when a frazzled gnome comes over and tells you—”

“A garden gnome? Is he plastic?” I ask dumbly.

“No, duh, like a tiny person. A gnome is one of the races in D&D. Like you’re not Caucasian or African-American, you’re gnome or elf or human, depending on what you choose. Anyway—the gnome’s family has been kidnapped by a band of orcs—”

“What kind of a band? Country? Hip-hop?” I’m pretty much joking just to annoy her at this point.

“Funny. A
group
of orcs. The gnome says he’ll pay you if you can get his family back. What do you want to do?”

There’s a long pause, and I realize that she’s not just explaining the game; she’s actually asking me what I would do. “Uh—run around screaming because there’s a gnome talking to me about orcs, and I don’t even know the guy. And what is mead, anyway?”

She sighs, obviously annoyed by my ignorance. “Forget it. You have to play to really understand. It’s totally fun. Takes you away from the real world for a while.” When she says that, the game almost sounds appealing. Almost.

“Sounds pretty complicated,” I say, not wanting to offend her. “Maybe you can teach me some other time.”

She shrugs and goes back to her writing.

I look at Dottie and think about how everyone’s got their
“thing.” Van and Barrett have the band, Bizza’s got her amazing confidence and pseudo-punk thing going on, Char’s got her beauty (that’s a thing, right?), and even Dottie Bell has a thing—albeit her own language and leading around gnomes. Then there’s me. I guess sewing could be my thing, but no one thinks it’s very cool. I wish I didn’t care.

I try to concentrate on my English reading, and manage to almost finish the story by the time the bell rings. It’s so good and frightening, I debate finishing and arriving late to history. I don’t, though, because I can finish it
during
history.

Barrett meets me at my locker after school. “No band practice today. Pete’s tutoring some fifth grader for extra money. Do you need a ride, or are you hanging with Buzza?” “Buzza” is Barrett’s new name for Bizza. I secretly love that he’s making fun of her but hate that he put in the effort to give her a nickname.

“I don’t really know.” I hesitate. Did Barrett know about Van? Bizza and Van? Me and Van? (Not that there’s really a me and Van.) I kind of want to talk to Barrett about it, get the guy perspective, but that would mean having to delve back into the humiliation of liking my big brother’s friend. Not to mention the insult of Van choosing Bizza over me. Never mind. “Let me get my books and we can go. Bizza didn’t say anything about hanging out today.” I try to be subtle. “She may be busy.” My eyebrows try to get Barrett to understand
my hidden meaning. If I don’t have to bring up Bizza and Van directly, then that means I’m not really thinking about it.

“Your eyebrows are acting weird again. What gives?” So much for the act of brotherly mind reading. I try the less subtle approach.

“Do you know where Bizza is?”

“Nope. And I can’t say I care.”

Not helpful. “I just thought you might know since Bizza made Van late to practice yesterday, and I thought he might have mentioned something.”

“Van was late to practice because his shitmobile broke down again. Bizza just happened to be his carpool buddy. Are you going somewhere else with this?” Barrett jingles his car keys and looks out the hall windows impatiently, oblivious to my trauma.

Brothers can be such morons. “Nah. I guess I just thought you might know where she is, seeing as she’s so tight with your posse.”

At that moment Char runs quickly past us in the hall, skids to a stop, and backs up. “Hey, Jess, Barrett.” Char looks effortlessly beautiful with her striped hair piled on top of her head in a perfectly messy mound. Her armful of bracelets jangle as she speaks. “I have to get home to watch the demonic twins. Van’s giving me a ride. See ya!” She jangles away.

Barrett cracks a grin. “Van’s giving her a ride, eh? Looks like he’s riding with all your friends, Jessie.”

“Yeah, Barrett, and not just in the literal sense.” I pause expectantly.

“Meaning?” He shakes his head, disgusted. “Your friends are too young to be hooking up with my friends.”

“Barrett, wake up. Bizza and Van were late yesterday because they were screwing around. And don’t tell me you haven’t thought about Char . . .”

“I only had that dream about her once. I should not have told you.” He shuffles his feet, then abruptly goes back to my deal. “Are you sure about Bizza and Van?”

“Pretty sure,” I say, sounding more dejected than I’d like.

“He knows you like him. I razz him about it all the time. What a dick.” Barrett’s face looks pissed, grossed out, and cringy uncomfortable at the same time. “Maybe he needs his ass kicked.”