Geek High (8 page)

“I'm not!” I said quickly.

Headmaster Hughes raised one furry eyebrow at me. It was a pretty cool trick. If I could raise one eyebrow at a time, maybe I'd shave off all of my hair, too.

“I am aware that you and Felicity Glen had a conflict this morning,” he said.

A conflict? Was that what he called her attempt to humiliate me in front of Emmett Dutch? But I couldn't exactly tell him that, could I? Not without admitting that I was infatuated with Emmett, and that he'd developed a crush on my evil stepsister, with whom I was currently being forced to cohabit because my mother—who, according to Headmaster Hughes, was
extraordinary
—had deserted me so that she could live it up in London.

So instead I just shrugged and nodded.

“And just a few hours later, a derogatory piece about Miss Glen appeared on the Geek High blog. That's quite a coincidence, don't you think?” Headmaster Hughes asked.

I shook my head vehemently, so that my ponytail slapped me in the face. “I didn't write it,” I insisted.

This prompted more skull-penetrating stares. I had to admit it was an effective interrogation technique. I almost confessed to everything, just to get out of there and away from his creepy unblinking stare. But I held fast, and stared right back at him. Only I couldn't help blinking. In fact, the more I tried not to blink, the more I blinked.

“I think you're aware that we have an honor code in place here at Notting Hill,” Headmaster Hughes said slowly.

“Yes, sir, I am,” I said.

“And that all of our students have pledged that they will remain truthful in all matters,” he continued.

I nodded and tried not to tap my foot nervously, worried that it might make me look guilty.

“So I have to accept your word that you didn't write the blog,” Headmaster Hughes concluded.

At this I perked up, hope swelling like a balloon in my chest. “Really?” I said too quickly. “I mean…thanks.”

“However”—another stern stare—“I have reason to believe that if you are not the party responsible for this blog, you know who is.”

The hope quickly deflated. I looked away. The thing was…we did have an honor code at Geek High. So technically I
couldn't
say I didn't know who wrote the blog.

“Do you know?” he prompted.

I swallowed, and, after a painfully long moment, I nodded.

“Who is it?” he asked.

“I can't tell you,” I said in a small voice. Honor code or not, I wasn't going to turn Finn in. He'd be expelled for sure.

“Are you telling me that you're refusing to answer the question I have directed to you?”

I hesitated, and then nodded. “I'm sorry, sir, but I can't tell you.”

Headmaster Hughes sighed and leaned back in his chair.

“That,” he said, “is very unfortunate.”

Oh, no.
He was going to suspend me. And I was going to be forced to go to Orange Cove High School with Hannah and her Barbie posse, who would shun me for not knowing what Hilary Duff's favorite lip gloss was.

The long silence, during which time Headmaster Hughes seemed to be deliberating my fate, stretched on forever. At least he'd stopped staring at me, instead fixing his unblinking gaze on some point behind me.

“The Snowflake Gala,” he finally said.

Whatever I'd been expecting him to say, that wasn't it.

“It's been waning in popularity over the past few years,” he continued, rather cryptically. “Do you know why that is?”

This was such an odd turn in the conversation that I hesitated. I did have a fairly good idea why the Snowflake Gala was waning in popularity. Although I actually doubted the
waning
part, since the event was so incredibly lame, it couldn't possibly ever have been popular in the first place.

Every year the school put on the Snowflake Gala the weekend after fall exams, and just before winter break. Geek High students were all forced to dress up and come to school on a Saturday night, eat a gelatinous chicken dinner, and listen to speakers talk about the importance of accelerated education programs. And then the tables would be pushed aside to make room for a dance floor, and Mr. Sanchez, the foreign languages teacher, would act as deejay, while everyone sat around and watched the teachers embarrass themselves dancing.

But Headmaster Hughes didn't wait for my input on the Snowflake Gala, and instead continued to speak as though he hadn't just asked me a question.

“I think that part of the problem is the lack of student involvement in the event. If a student were in charge of planning the Snowflake Gala, enthusiasm would naturally filter through the rest of the student body.”

Actually, it wasn't such a bad idea. And maybe whoever they put in charge could hire a decent deejay. And cancel the speakers. And get the teachers to stay home…or at least not strike John Travolta–style disco moves while on the dance floor.

“I think that's a really good idea, sir,” I said supportively.

“Excellent. I'm glad you agree.”

We smiled at each other. And then suddenly I realized that there was something going on….

“Wait. Why are you glad I agree?” I asked cautiously.

“Because I'm putting you in charge of planning the Snowflake Gala,” Headmaster Hughes said.

“No!” I yelped.

He stopped smiling and frowned at me.

“I mean…I can't…I couldn't possibly…” I gibbered.

“I think it's just the sort of direction you need, Miranda,” Headmaster Hughes said with finality. “Unless, of course, you tell me who is behind the Geek High blog.”

So that was it: He was blackmailing me. I sighed.

“Which will it be, Miranda? Truth or consequence?” Headmaster Hughes asked.

I decided I really didn't like Headmaster Hughes. You'd think a guy who shaves his head would be somewhat cool. It was disappointing to learn otherwise.

“I'll take the Snowflake,” I muttered.

“As you wish,” Headmaster Hughes said gravely, inclining his head. “Why don't you start brainstorming ideas for the gala and get a committee together, and we'll meet…shall we say”—he paused while he flipped through his old-fashioned desktop calendar—“on October third to discuss your ideas?”

I nodded dejectedly.

“Have a nice rest of your day,” Headmaster Hughes said. I stood and was about to slink out of the office when he continued. “Oh, and Miranda? Try to stay out of trouble. I'd hate to have to tell your mother that you're not living up to the high standards we set for our students here at the Notting Hill Independent School for Gifted Children.”

“S
o I'll just go to Hughes and tell him it was me. You'll be off the hook,” Finn said later that afternoon.

Finn, Charlie, and I were hanging out at Grounded, a coffee shop located just around the corner from school. The space used to belong to a pizzeria, and there was still a hand-painted mural of Venice along one wall. But the booths with the red vinyl benches that had been there during the pizzeria days were long gone, replaced with sleek round aluminum tables and café chairs. The counter doubled as a display case for the pastries for sale, and behind it there was an enormous hissing espresso machine.

Charlie and I were sipping iced lattes, and Finn was drinking black coffee. He leaned back in his chair, long legs crossed in front of him, trying to pretend he wasn't thrilled with the opportunity to get kicked out of school once and for all.

“No,” I said, shaking my head. “Absolutely not. You're still on probation for the loudspeaker stunt last year.”

On the last day of school before summer break, Finn had uploaded a computer program onto the Geek High mainframe that caused Alice Cooper's “School's Out” to play at the end of every period instead of the regular bell.

Finn smiled happily at the memory.

“Good times,” he said. “But they couldn't prove it was me.”

“Which is why you didn't get expelled,” Charlie said. “But remember what the headmaster said—you're one prank away from being kicked out.”

“That's the whole point,” Finn said. “I
want
to be kicked out, remember?”

“You can't drop out of school,” Charlie said.

“And why not?” Finn demanded.

“Because you have to graduate from high school,” she said severely. Charlie may look like she's alternative, what with the pink hair and the free-to-be-you-and-me parents and all, but she's surprisingly rigid and narrow-minded when it comes to issues like school and recycling.

“No, I don't,” Finn said.

“Yes,” Charlie said, “you do!”

Finn shrugged. “I can always take one of those equivalency test thingies to get my degree.”

“It's not the same. If you drop out of school, you'll spend the rest of your life regretting it and feeling like you missed out on something important,” Charlie said. “It's out of the question.”

Finn sighed heavily. He obviously didn't agree with Charlie's assessment of the situation, but had learned from prior experience—as had I—that arguing with Charlie is a lost cause.

“Forget it. I'm already stuck organizing the Snowflake,” I said with a wave of my hand. “And it won't be that big a deal. Really.”

“Finn will help you,” Charlie said.

“No, I won't,” Finn said.

“Yes, you will.” Charlie frowned at him.

“Are you crazy? I'm not going to be involved with the Snowflake in any way, shape, or form. I still hope to lose my virginity someday,” Finn said.

Charlie rolled her eyes. “Lovely,” she said.

“You think it's really that bad?” I asked tremulously.

Finn nodded, his face uncharacteristically solemn. “Everyone hates the Snowflake. You know that. If people think you're the one responsible for making them come to school on a Saturday night to be bored half to death by speakers, well…” He trailed off ominously and shrugged. “I wouldn't want to be in your shoes.”

“Ummm,” I said. I'd thought that organizing the Snowflake would just be a huge pain in the butt, but now I was starting to feel a bit panicky. I really didn't want to alienate large portions of the Geek High student body.

“Finn, you idiot,” Charlie said furiously, “it's your fault that she's stuck with this thankless job in the first place. Do
not
make it worse than it already is!”

“Hey, I'm just keeping it real,” Finn said, raising his hands in mock protest. “Don't shoot the messenger.”

Charlie began to mutter dark threats about just what she'd do to the messenger if there weren't laws in place to prevent it. Plus, she wanted to get into the Rhode Island School of Design, and I suspected they'd frown on admitting students with criminal records.

“What if he's right?” I asked, mournfully slurping at my iced latte through a red-and-white-striped straw. “The Snowflake probably is going to suck. It always does. And I really, really don't want everyone to hate me.”

I thought, but didn't add, that I was feeling unpopular enough, considering how unwanted I was at my new home. Geek High was my last safe haven, the only place where I felt I truly belonged. I didn't want to lose that sense of security.

“Don't worry,” Charlie said bracingly. “Finn and I will help you with the Snowflake. We'll think of something. It will be the least lame Snowflake ever. I promise.”

I smiled gratefully at her.

“Hey, I've got an idea,” Finn said.

“What's that?” I asked.

“One word,” Finn said.
“Karaoke.”

Charlie and I looked at him blankly.

“Karaoke,” Finn said again.

“We heard you,” Charlie replied. “We just don't know what you're talking about.”

“That's how to spice up the Snowflake. Rent a karaoke machine, and then sit back and watch as the whole school rocks out,” Finn said, looking pleased with himself.

“Karaoke,” I repeated. “That's what you come up with?
Karaoke?
”

“That's the worst idea I've ever heard,” Charlie said with a derisive sniff.

“No, it's not. It's an amazing idea,” Finn said, affronted. “In fact, it's so amazing, you're just jealous you didn't think of it yourself.”

“Yeah, that's it,” Charlie said, rolling her eyes. “And just when are people supposed to sing karaoke? In between the speakers?”

“Why not? And if any of the speakers decide to sing in lieu of giving their talk, well, all the better,” Finn enthused. “Trust me: It's a
brilliant
idea.”

“No,” Charlie said, “it's not.”

“And why not?” Finn demanded.

“If you don't automatically know the answer to that question, there's nothing I can do to help you,” Charlie said sadly.

Finn flicked his plastic coffee stirrer at her, and Charlie began to tell him off for splattering coffee on her favorite shirt. And I just slumped back in my chair, and, between sips of iced latte, tried to convince myself that things would get better. Eventually.

They had to, right?