Geek Charming (6 page)

“Hi, honey!” Daddy said through a mouthful of knish. Other than the fact that Daddy was about twenty-five pounds overweight and a few inches taller, he was a dead ringer for the actor Dustin Hoffman.

“Hi,” I said. I tried not to look at the black-and-white cookies, with their thick, creamy icing. Personally, I think that in addition to the PSA announcements on television about the dangers of drugs, they should also do some about black-and-whites because they’re way more addictive than any drug could ever be. “Um, would someone like to tell me what’s going on here?” I asked as I plopped down on a matching suede club chair and held my breath so I couldn’t smell the cookies and risk triggering a snackcident.

“I was just telling Josh about Neil’s concert at the Greek back in ’78 while we had a little nosh,” Daddy replied.

A little? There was enough food on the stone coffee table for a small bar mitzvah.

As I exhaled, the sweet smell of sugar entered my nose. I quickly reached into my purse and shoved three pieces of gum in my mouth. “I can see that,” I said. “But what is he
doing
here?”

“Well, from what I understand, apparently you two had come to an agreement about letting him film you for his documentary and now you’re trying to renege,” Daddy said in his scary I’m-the-Real-Estate-King-of-L.A. voice.

I looked over at Geek Boy, who was innocently biting into a pickle, and gave him my dirtiest look, the one usually reserved for Amy Loubalu.

“I wasn’t
trying
to renege,” I said. “I
did
renege. I mean, what if he tries to portray me as all spoiled and mean and stuff? We all know that’s so not who I am, but let’s face it—that’s what sells. Just look at reality television.”

“I told you,” said Geek Boy as he took out that stupid inhaler he always carried around. “That’s not my intention at all. Excuse me just a second.” He squirted it in his mouth. “Asthma,” he explained.

“My brother is asthmatic!” exclaimed Daddy, as if somehow this made them soul mates.

“Really? That’s so cool. I mean, not that he suffers from asthma, of course, but just that . . . never mind. Anyway, as I was saying.” He reached into his pocket and took out a wrinkled piece of paper and began to read from it. “‘I just thought it would be interesting to view popularity from a sociological perspective. An anthropological look at the social hierarchy of modern-day high schools. If you go back through the history of film, you’ll see that over the decades—’”

“Okay, seeing that I haven’t had my afternoon Red Bull, my head’s a little fuzzy, so I’m not even going to pretend to understand what you’re saying,” I replied, turning toward Daddy, who was now chomping away on his triple-decker-corned-beef /chopped-liver sandwich. “Daddy, you know what it’s like to have people write and say mean things about you. Don’t you think I’m doing the right thing?”

He took a swig of Dr. Brown’s Cream Soda. “No. I don’t,” he said. “Especially since all this kid’s ever wanted was to go to USC film school. Do you know that he works twenty hours a week to help his mother pay the tuition at that school of yours?”

“What, you want me to go get a
job
?” I shot back. What was next? Spending the summer volunteering in Africa?

“That’s not what I’m saying. I’m just saying that Josh here knows the value of a dollar. You know, when I was you kids’ age—”

“I know, I know,” I cut in. “You and Grandma and Grandpa and Uncle Marvin lived in a two-bedroom apartment in Queens—”

“Marvin’s the one with asthma,” Daddy explained to Geek Boy.

“—and not only did you have a paper route in the morning, but you worked in a shoe store after school,” I continued. “
And
you also had to walk a mile in the snow to get there.
And
you paid your own way through City College.”

“Exactly. That’s the kind of thing that would give you Beverly Hills kids an ulcer.”

“Actually, Mr. Schoenfield, I live in Hollywood,” said Geek Boy, who had now moved on to one of the black-and-whites, eating it just the way I used to back in the day—first a bite of the chocolate side, then the vanilla, then the chocolate, and so on. As my stomach started to rumble, I took out another piece of gum and shoved it in my mouth.

“You
do
?” I asked. The only time my friends and I went to Hollywood was for the Billion Dollar Babes sample sale. In my book, anything east of La Cienega Boulevard was considered sketchy. Except, of course, for the stretch of Third Street from Orlando to Fairfax with all the cute boutiques.

“Yeah,” he said. “In Beachwood Canyon. Right down the street from the Hollywood sign.” He fiddled with the inhaler. “I find it very inspirational for my craft, especially since it’s the area where Doug Liman shot the Vince Vaughn and John Favreau movie
Swingers
in 1996, which is such a terrific example of independent filmmaking on so many levels—”

Why he thought I would care less about something like that was beyond my comprehension, even if Vince Vaughn was a total hottie. “How nice for you,” I replied. I looked at my watch—it was already six and I was supposed to meet Hannah and Lola at Olympic Spa for body scrubs (run by Koreans—yet
more
well-roundedness!) at seven. “Listen, I hate to break up this party, but it’s Friday night and I have plans. It was nice seeing you again . . .”

“Josh.”

“Josh,” I said, giving him the biggest smile I could muster. “I’m sure I’ll see you around at school. I’ll even say hi to you from now on.” Maybe going the nice route would make him leave me alone. “Have a great weekend,” I said as I started to walk out of the room, stopping to smooth out the Navajo rug that Daddy had bought when we went skiing in New Mexico last year. Frankly, I wasn’t a fan of Southwestern decor, which was how Daddy had had the family room remodeled after a psychic he met on a ski lift that same trip told him he had been a Native American in a past life. But since, as previously mentioned, I
didn’t
work, I had no say in the matter, according to Daddy.

“Dylan,” I heard Daddy growl. The growl was never a good sign.

I turned around and gave
him
a smile as well. “Yeah?”

He didn’t smile back. “Get back here, please.”

I turned around and walked over to the couch, putting my arms around his neck. “Yes, Daddy?” I said as sweetly as I could, trying not to glare at Josh, who was examining a piece of parsley as if he had never seen one before.

“Here’s what Josh and I think would be fair: for the next month, Josh will get to film you and your friends one day a week at school during lunch, one afternoon a week after school, and one Friday or Saturday night. And while you won’t have final cut, you will retain the right to give notes on the rough cut of the film so that you’re not unfairly or unflatteringly portrayed.”

I let go of his neck and stood up. “You’re
serious
?!” I squeaked.

I could see Josh cringe as he started munching away on the parsley. I couldn’t believe it—my father, the man who loved me more than anything, the man who ate small real estate developers for breakfast—had totally sold me down the river just because Geek Boy reminded him of what it was like to grow up poor and listen to some jumpsuitwearing singer.

“As a heart attack,” he replied.

“You know I hate when you joke about that,” I said.

“I know, I know. I’m sorry. But, yes, I’m serious,” he said as he hoisted himself out of his seat. “So serious that if I find out that you don’t cooperate, you’re not going to that dance you’ve been talking about.”

“What?! But I
have
to go—I’m the Leaf Queen!”

Josh was halfway through a snort when I whipped my head toward him.

“Is something funny?” I asked in an icy tone.

The snort changed into a coughing fit.

“I guess not,” he said when he was done. “It just, you know . . . sounds funny. Like something you’d buy at Home Depot or somewhere like that.”

I glared at him.

“Or not,” he added.

“The Leaf Queen is a very important tradition at Castle Heights,” I explained. “Nine out of the last ten Leaf Queens have gone on to be prom queens. Everyone except for Adriana Castelli and that’s because she happened to be in rehab at the time. And just today I saw the greatest dress. It’s pale pink with—”

“Well, the only place you’re going to be wearing that dress is here in the house if you don’t let Josh make his documentary,” said Daddy. “So I’ll leave you kids to figure out the details.” He stopped in front of Josh and put out his hand. “Nice meeting you, Josh. Good luck with your project. I’m very impressed with your drive.”

“Thanks, Mr. Schoenfield,” Geek Boy said as he shook it. “I really appreciate your offer to sponsor it and, you know, pay for the film and stuff like that.”

“Daddy, you’re
paying
for this?!”

He shrugged. “Why not? It’s a tax write-off. See you kids later.”

As soon as he left the room, I flopped down on the other end of the couch, which made Geek Boy move even farther into his corner, as if he were afraid of getting cooties.

I was so mad I wanted to scream. “I can’t believe you came over to tell on me,” I said. “What are you, seven?”

“I came over here to try and talk things out with you,” he said defensively, “but you weren’t here, and so we started talking, and before I knew it, the Nate ’n Al’s guy was here.”

I shook my head. “I can’t
stand
parent kids.”

“Huh?”

“Parent kids—kids who suck up to parents.”

He shrugged. “I don’t suck up to them—they just always seem to really like me. In fact, back in third grade, when I was best friends with Toby Wasserman—”

I put up my hand to stop him. “Okay, halt. Listen, while I’d really like to play
This Is Your Life
with you, I don’t have the time right now. So three days a week for one month—” I started counting on my fingers. “That’s—”

“Twelve days,” he said. “No, wait—actually, because October is a long month, it’ll actually be fourteen days, because it’s a month with five weeks rather than—”

I put up my hand once more
.
“Okay, halt again. If we’re going to be working together, which it looks like we
are
, you’re going to have to stop with the Wikipedia stuff.”

“Fine,” he mumbled, reaching for a piece of white of a black-and-white.

“Although I’m impressed,” I said.

“You are?” he asked, surprised, as he chewed away.

I got up and went to my purse for another piece of gum. “I mean, pretending to love Neil Diamond just to bond with my dad? That’s pretty genius. How’d you find out about that anyway?”

“Huh?”

“How’d you know he’s a Neil lover?” I asked as I shoved another two pieces in my mouth.

“I didn’t. When I rang the doorbell your dad answered and he saw my bumper sticker.”

“Yeah, but how’d you know to put the bumper sticker on?” Holding my nose, I picked up the rest of the black-and-white with a napkin and threw it in the bag of garbage. It was bad enough I was going to have to do this stupid thing—I certainly wasn’t going to risk gaining weight as well. I sat back down on the couch.

“What are you talking about?”

“I mean you don’t actually
like
Neil Diamond.”

He was quiet.

“Omigod—you
do
like Neil Diamond. By any chance, are you aware of the fact that you’re the only one under fifty who would ever admit that?”

He shrugged. “If you take the time to listen, his lyrics are pretty amazing. Almost on par with Bob Dylan or Neil Young. ‘I Am . . . I Said’? That’s as deep as it gets.”

“Excuse me,” I said, “but ‘
I am, I said/To no one there/ And no one heard at all/Not even the chair’
? How is a chair supposed to hear? It’s a chair!”

“Oh. So you’re familiar with Neil’s lyrics?” he asked, surprised.

“Of course I’m familiar with them,” I replied. “It’s all my parents played in the car when we used to go on road trips when I was little.” After Mom died, Daddy stopped listening to Neil because he said it reminded him too much of her, but unfortunately the damage had been done—all the lyrics to songs like “Cracklin’ Rosie,” “Song Sung Blue,” and “Sweet Caroline” were permanently etched in my brain. I’m sure when I go into therapy in my twenties I’d be spending a few sessions on how it had traumatized me.

“Cool. I haven’t thought too much about the score yet, and obviously with our limited budget, we wouldn’t be able to license one of his songs,” he said, “but my friend Steven’s older brother Jason knows the cousin of one the guys in Super Diamond, and maybe we’d be able to get them to give us one of their songs cheap.”

I gave him a look.

“Or not,” he added. “Look, Dylan, I know you don’t want to do this, but I think I’ve come up with a way to make it worth your while.”

I gave him a doubtful look. “How?”

“Well, I’ve been thinking about it, and if you want to submit the documentary with
your
college applications, I wouldn’t have a problem with that. As long as I get proper credit.”

At this news, my ears perked up. “Huh. Do you think they’d let me submit that instead of writing an essay?”

“They might.”

The one thing that had been keeping me up nights—other than what I was going to wear to Fall Fling and why Asher preferred to spend his Saturday nights watching grown men beat up on each other at Ultimate Fighting championships rather than with me—were my college essays. I may have been a lot of things—not least of all super popular, charming, and the fashion icon of Castle Heights—but “good student” wasn’t in the top ten answers to “Who Is Dylan Schoenfield?” While Hannah was on the any-college-as-long-as-it’s-Ivy track and Lola was set on going to one of those artsy colleges back east where you couldn’t tell the difference between the boys and the girls, I had accepted that I would go somewhere local like UC Santa Cruz or Santa Barbara, where Asher would spend most of his time surfing and I’d major in art history because then I’d have something to talk about at cocktail parties when I got older. But even though they weren’t that difficult (all you needed was to maintain a GPA of 2.5 and a tan), you
did
need to write an essay, which wasn’t on my list of fun things to do.