Into the Wild Nerd Yonder (6 page)

“While I appreciate the sweet gesture of brotherly violence, don’t bother. He obviously likes Bizza and not me.”

“Those two chodes deserve each other. I hope the STDs flow.”

“Um, ick? I’d rather not have to think about anything flowing between Bizza and Van, thank you very much.”

We both hang our tongues out at the thought.

“Do you think he’s really just giving Char a ride?” I ask.

“Let’s hope so, Atreyu. Let’s hope so.” He quotes our fave kids’ movie,
The Neverending Story
, and I’m so grateful he’s my brother. And so sad that he’ll be gone next year.

TO AVOID ALL CAR GROPING OR ANY other confusing Bizza interactions, I stay after school to finish my homework in the library. This also cuts down on backbreaking textbook hauling. I adopt a “don’t ask” policy about Bizza and Van, and since I don’t get to hang (or not hang, as the case may be) with Bizza after school, avoid her phone calls, and refuse to turn on my IM when I get home, I’m pretty much Bizza-and Van-free.

By Friday I’ve managed maximum avoidance. In English class, Ms. Norton gives us silent reading time. I have the Fridays, that antsy, can’t-wait-to-be-anywhere-but-this-tiny-desk feeling, and so does Polly. She scribbles notes to me in the corner of her book.

Polly: I’m so stoked. Jake is coming to visit for the weekend.

Me: Is he staying with you?

Polly: In the guest room. My parents are going to a party in Wisconsin on Sunday, so they’ll be gone for hours!

Me: Sounds fun.

I try not to picture the fun in my head as I’m reminded of what Jake looks like by the photo collage on Polly’s binder. Not that I ever really try and picture my friends hooking up, but it’s somehow easier when both parties are of the easy-on-the-eyes variety. Crap. Now I actually get why all movie stars have to be unobtainably and unnaturally gorgeous, or no one would want to watch them.

Polly: You?

Me: Not much. Sew some skirts. Listen to book. Homework.

I don’t mention that I will be praying that I am somehow magically transported back in time, and I can somehow manage to change the course of history so that Bizza and Char do not, I repeat DO NOT, turn into overnight punks. Maybe I can convince them to join the chess club. Then no one could ever possibly think they’re cooler than me. Or at least someone might notice me standing behind them.

In study hall I sit down next to Dottie and smile. “Hey,” I greet her.

“You’re here,” she says. “Not
there
.” She wiggles her fingers dreamily.

“
There
isn’t the best place for me to be. Actually, I don’t know if I ever really was there.” I shrug and change the
subject. “That’s cool. What is it?” I point at a funky wire-and-bead necklace Dottie’s wearing.

“It’s a twenty-sided die. You know, for role-playing,” and I realize that the colorful stone surrounded by wire is actually a die covered in swirling pastels.

“That’s really pretty.”

“Doug gave it to me after our first date.”

“Really? That’s sweet. What did you do for your first date?”

“Well, we played D&D at his friend’s house. Not very romantic.”

“I guess it is if you’re into that sort of thing.”

“No. It really isn’t. He thought it made him look cool in front of his posse, bringing a chick to D&D, seeing as there are never any girls there. Hey—you know what would be rad?” I know what my answer to that question is, but I highly doubt Dottie is thinking the same thing. “If you would come play D&D with us. I would love it if there were another girl there. You interested? We’ve got a game going tonight.”

I know I have the frozen panic look on my face, but I try to shake it off and act casual. “Sorry, I have plans,” I lie.

“Maybe another time. We always have room for another player.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” I say. I pretend to read from my history textbook, but for some reason I’m totally freaked. Talking with Dottie in study hall isn’t bad, or saying hi to her in the halls, but hanging out with her on the weekend? That’s
crossing over into a territory I am not prepared to go. I can’t imagine what Bizza would say if she asked what I was doing this weekend (no doubt so she could use me and my brotherly connections for some guaranteed Van time) and I was all, “Oh, you know, fighting some dwarves with Dottie Bell.” Nope. Definitely not ready for that.

On my way back from tenth period I catch Barrett and Van talking near my locker. Van looks particularly amazing today, which makes no sense since he’s still wearing the same outfit. I think it’s the way his hair covers his face just enough to make him look sensitive, but his crooked nose still gives him a little danger. That, and as I watch his lips move while he talks to Barrett I keep fantasizing about him throwing me up against a locker and kissing me (as long as I can keep the image of he and Bizza out of the way). Of all the days for me to wear my Pikachu skirt, which I thought was funny at the time I made it but now think it just looks goofy and babyish.

“Hey, Jess.” Barrett catches my arm. He hasn’t been keeping up with his Mohawk, and the sides are getting fuzzy, the orange streaky and pale. “Do you mind hitching a ride with Van today? I kind of have an elsewhere to be.”

After our previous Van driving conversations, I’m surprised that Barrett will allow me near Van and his car. “Where?” I ask.

“I’m thinking of getting a job at the movie theater. You
know, extra money toward college? Chloe Romano said she could probably get me a job.” He mumbles the name, but I hear it clearly.

“Chloe Romano the prom princess?” I laugh.

“That’s her,” he says, trying to sound dismissive, but definitely trying too hard. I had no idea my brother even knew the prom princess. Maybe they have some classes together or something.

“Okay. Sure. I can go with Van. Good luck with the job thing.” Barrett squeezes my arm and does some dorky hand thing with Van that the Crudhoppers made up.

Van watches Barrett walk off, and I watch Van. I fight hard and lose against his bad-boy syndrome.

Van saunters over to me and pinches the hem of my skirt. “Cute,” he says, and looks up at my face. Does he have to be such a flirt? If this were any other guy, touching my skirt, smiling his sexy smile at me, it would be so obvious what he wants. But Van—I don’t get him. I am so flustered by his attention that I just bust out, “So what’s up with you and Bizza?” He lets go of my skirt.

“Nothing really. She’s okay. A little young.” Strike one for me. “She sure likes me, huh?” And he smacks my shoulder like all of a sudden we’re buddies who get stoned every day together outside shop class. He seriously wants me to answer that?

“Yeah, I guess,” I try to say with disinterest. Even though I started this convo in the first place.

He leans forward again to finger the hem of my skirt, his thumb rubbing a tiny Pikachu face. “Careful. They bite,” I snap, totally disturbed by his simultaneous acts of flirting, bragging, and buddy smacking.

“Oh,” he drawls, and my skirt slowly drops from his fingers. Is he stoned? Is that it? Is he so totally high that he thinks it’s okay to blow off my too-young friend—even though, technically, she shouldn’t like him anyway because he was my crush first—and then touch my Pokèmon skirt? Twice?

“Can you take me home now?” My demanding impatience might make me seem like the Uptight Math Lover (which I kind of am), but the sleaze has hit the fan and I want out.

Van grabs for my hand (what?), and for a second I let him hold it. Haven’t I dreamt about moments exactly like this (and beyond) for years? But I’m just way too confused, and I let go with a juvenile giggle. Was he just holding my hand because I’m young and he wants to protect me? Or was he holding my hand to lead me into his den of backseat infestation?

My head spins with questions, and I’m grateful for the lack of AC in his car. Windows down, music blasting, I lean my head out of the window. Curiously, I still see the girl with the straight brown hair in the side-view mirror. How can I look so much the same when everything is happening around me?

When we get to my house, I jam the Gremlin’s sticky door open and quickly jump out. As I speed-walk to my front door, Van calls out the passenger window, “Tell Barrett the party’s on at my house Sunday. Nine o’clock. You should come, too.”
I turn around to catch him wink at me before his car sluggishly pulls away. I have no response because I have no clue what to think or say anymore when it comes to Van.

Inside our house, my dad is in the kitchen washing dishes. “Hi, Jess. How was your official first week back?” he asks.

“Same ol’,” I say, just making conversation.

“Bizza called. She told me to tell you she just left you some messages on your cell phone.”

I pull my phone out of my backpack. Six missed calls and three messages. I must not have heard it ring over the din in Van’s car. Reluctantly, I hit the
PLAY MESSAGES
button. The first message is from Bizza.

“Hey, Jess, I was thinking we should totally have a good old-fashioned sleepover with Char tomorrow night. Wouldn’t that be fun? Kiddie cocktails and sappy movies and shit? We can do each other’s hair—just kidding. But yeah, let me know when we should come over to your house. It’ll be fun. Later.” It’s nothing new for Bizza to invite herself to my house on a weekend (she hates when her parents are around), but it’s been forever since we had a sleepover. I love the idea, though, and hope it can be like old times. As long as the conversation doesn’t turn to Van. Or hair. Or Van’s hair.

Char’s message is a semi-repeat of Bizza’s, but with the added politeness of what snacks should she bring.

The third message is Bizza again. “Heeyyy—there’s this party at Van’s that we should totally go to on Sunday. I think
he’d be cool if you came. Maybe you could ask Barrett to drive us? Cool. Later.” Bizza
would
think this was her invite and I’m just tagging along. Um, he asked me, thank you very much. With a wink, no less. But of course my brother will drive us. How frigging annoying, yet so Bizza. Then I remember how Van said
she
liked
him
and not the other way around, and I feel a little better. But also a little bitchy.

I return to the kitchen for a snack, and Barrett walks in with a big grin. “You are looking at the newest member of the Greenville Cinema concession stand butter pumpers. I start next week.”

“Congrats,” I say as I yank on a stalk of celery with my teeth. “Free popcorn for family, right?” I hint.

“I think I can manage to sneak you some day old, if you’re good,” Barrett teases, grabbing a can of cream soda from the fridge.

“Oh, then I’ll be sure to be on my best behavior,” I say dryly. “By the way, Van told me to tell you that the party is on Sunday at nine at his house.”

“A party? On a Sunday?” Dad cracks eggs into a bowl to make omelets for dinner.

“It’s Labor Day, Dad,” I tell him.

“How could I forget? America’s reward for the poor teachers who had to go back to work.” Dad looks out the kitchen window dreamily.

“Can I go?” I ask.

“I don’t see why not, as long as you don’t stay out too late,” Dad answers.

“I was kind of talking to Barrett.”

“Ouch.” Dad staggers, pretending I stabbed him in the heart. “My little girl doesn’t need me anymore.”

“Daaaad.” I love it when he calls me his little girl. I know it’s the type of thing that annoys most people, but for me it means that it’s okay if I don’t change too much. Definitely dorky.

“Sure you can come. And you’ll be bringing the poseurettes, I assume?”

“You assume correctly. In fact, according to Bizza, she’s bringing us. With you as chauffeur, of course.”

“Good old Buzza,” Barrett muses as he helps Dad chop vegetables.

After avoiding Van and Bizza and all of their whatever all week, I get to spend a three-day weekend completely consumed in their whatever. Can’t wait.

I’M UP EARLY SATURDAY MORNING, working on a new skirt. After every holiday the fabric store has a mega sale on the appropriate fabrics, so I stock up. I’m working on a series of valentine skirts, and I have enough different sale fabrics from last year to last almost the entire month of February (a nice short month). This particular skirt is filled with goofy Dalmatians and hearts on a red background. So random.

I called Bizza and Char last night and okayed the sleepover. My parents are always happy to host, and since they are both teachers all day, they’ve seen enough children during the week and usually stay out of our way.

As I sew, I listen to an audiobook. This one is called
Life as We Knew It
, about a teenage girl trying to survive with her family after a meteor hits the moon, pushing it closer to Earth. Because the moon affects the tides, there are tsunamis and earthquakes everywhere. The possibility of this actually happening is scaring the crap out of me. Way more than the Stephen King.

I’m almost finished with the skirt when Barrett groggily
walks by my open bedroom door. “Morning, Sunshine.” He yawns.

I hold up my skirt, and he gives it a logy thumbs-up as he makes his way to the bathroom. I go on sewing, freaking as I listen to the world possibly coming to an end. The shortage of food is making me really hungry.

Barrett, Mom, and I eat a breakfast of Dunkin’ Donuts, our Saturday morning ritual. Dad stopped participating a couple of years ago after the doctor told him his cholesterol was high. He can’t even be in the kitchen with the donuts because, as he put it, “That smell haunts me.” Right now he’s in the garden as we gluttonize.

I pick up one of my two donuts, a strawberry frosted. It is so perfect and smooth, I almost hate to eat it. That feeling lasts for only a second as I bite into the flaky goodness.

“Did you know”—Mom says between bites of a (gross) jelly-filled—“that Dunkin’ Donuts used to package their dozens in a different box than this? It was more like a shoe box, six donuts per side. They always stuck together, so even if you just wanted a strawberry glaze you’d end up with a little chocolate on the back or some powered sugar.”