Geekhood (4 page)

IM:
Of course not. It’s your age.

I type a reply that errs on the side of bland. Yes, I’m disappointed that I’m not seeing him “
2mrw
”, but it’s balanced out by the realization that I won’t have to force a laugh out in the face of one of Jane’s room-clearing jokes or build another house out of plastic bricks. My fingers skip lightly across the keyboard.

I hit Return.

I don’t know why he asks. Probably as some sort of pantomime attempt to show me that grown-ups can behave like adults.

The “
lol
” makes the hairs on the back of my neck yearn for freedom. Having a parent who lols is like finding out that that song you liked on the radio was by some ’tard off
X Factor.
It’s so, so wrong. Best to head it off with a question.

With a weighty sigh, I shut down the laptop and take
my gargoyle over to my painting desk. Already I’ve got a vivid picture in my head as to how this one’s going to look. I open the window in the sloping ceiling above my desk and reach for a can of undercoat.

Time to make everything all white…

Once the undercoat is done, I switch the radio on and listen to some music while it dries. I need a distraction; I’ve already broken one of the Golden Rules of Geekdom and I don’t want to go there again: never entertain thoughts about girls who are out of your league. That way madness lies. However, the radio has other ideas and it seems every song that plays has some hidden reference to Beautiful Goth. However tenuous:

Radio:
“You’re beautiful, you’re beautiful…”

IM:
*Sighs*

Radio:
“You’re beautiful, it’s true…”

IM:
*Attempts harmonies* “So true…”

Radio:
“I saw your face, in a crowded place…”

IM:
Was this guy watching? How does he know? It’s like it was written about me!

Radio:
“And I don’t know what to do…”

IM/Radio:
“’Cause I’ll never be … with … you …”

IM:
AAARRRGGGHH!

As a final effort to try and put Beautiful Goth out of my head I kill the radio, unpack a few more models and locate my paint set. It nearly works.

There’s a tentative knock at my bedroom door and I know it’s Mum; my Tosser Tracker
^TM
would have detected Tony lumbering up the stairs, hoiking himself up on the banister just in case his smoke-blistered lungs decided to pack in on him. Mum’s brought me a ham sandwich and a cup of tea.

“Will this do for tea, love? I’ll get to the shops tomorrow and we’ll have a roast.”

“Thanks, Mum.”

“We’re going to watch a DVD in aminute, once Tony’s got the player wired up. Want to join us?”

“No, thanks. I’m going to try and sort out my room a bit more.”

“OK. If you’re sure.”

I can tell by her look that she wants me to come and watch the film, but I just can’t face it. For starters, the idea of watching Tony cursing at wires and SCART plugs for half an hour doesn’t appeal. And actually trying to watch a film with him is virtually impossible; he has this habit of talking at the screen, and it drives me nuts. It’s usually at moments of high tension, major plot points or killer lines. Like, if it’s a sci-fi, and the lead guy is
looking for an alien and we can see it behind him, Tony’ll start saying things like “Uh-ohhh!” or “Heeerree it comes!”. Or if the heroine goes into the wrong room (as they inevitably do in most films), you’ll hear “You didn’t want to do
thaaat
!” in this mindless, sing-songy kind of voice. Or when the hero comes out with some killer riposte, Tony’ll chuckle and repeat it two or three times, almost as if he’s storing it away so that he can use it. Like he’s ever going to have the opportunity to tell a damned dirty ape to take its paws off him. Unless his business goes belly up, and he can only find a job as a zoo keeper and gets involved in a horrific set-to with a gorilla. One can only hope.

“No, thanks. I’m just going to hang out in my room.”

“OK. You know where we are if you change your mind.” And she’s gone.

Absolved of my duties for the evening, I dig out my books from their box and start arranging them on the shelves above my painting desk. As you might’ve guessed, it’s all escapist stuff:
The Lord of the Rings,
Terry Pratchett, the
Bartimaeus
books, fantasy art – that sort of thing. My gaming rule books have to go on horizontally as the shelves don’t have the height for them. It’s funny, when you unpack things, you end up paying more attention to stuff, almost as if its new environment might
show up something you hadn’t seen before. Without realizing it, I kill a couple of hours just flipping through books, dipping in and out. It’s only the muffled thunder of Tony’s feet on the stairs that make me notice that it’s getting late and I’m tired. Mum calls through the door.

“Night, love!”

“Night, Mum.”

I wait until I hear the click of their bedroom door before I get undressed and into bed. My favourite rule book has made it in with me and I hit my bedside lamp and start reading.

As I look at the pictures and reread rules that I virtually know off by heart, I can feel sleep tugging at my eyelids. Dread makes me fluff the pillows and sit a little straighter. I don’t want to sleep. I’ll fight it for as long as I can.

I don’t want the Dream to come. Please can I dream about Beautiful Goth instead?

THREE

It begins, as it always does, with me asleep in my bed, in the same position I was in before I drifted off. With that weirdness that only happens in dreams, I can see myself on the bed, asleep, although I also feel like I’m in bed at the same time. It’s like there’s a camera filming me and a camera in my head, and they’re both on playback at the same time. I can see both sets of footage simultaneously; no split screen, no tricks – just two sets of information relayed at once.

My duvet starts to peel back without me helping it. As I start to realize that I’m frightened beyond reason, I can feel a sense of menace emanating from something unseen at the end of my bed. The menace is intense and directed straight at me. If it had a colour it would be utterly and impenetrably black. The duvet suddenly shoots off and dumps itself on the floor. I can feel and see myself trying to move my leaden limbs and back up to the wall behind me, but I’m too slow, too heavy.

And then I wake up. I heave myself up and groan, running my hands through my hair. At least I didn’t end up throwing myself out of bed this time. I’ve been having this dream, off and on, for a few months now.
Sometimes it goes quiet and leaves me alone for a while; sometimes it does a full cinema-release in my head, playing twice nightly for a week at a time. I hope this isn’t the beginning of one of those. It makes me hate going to sleep and means that at weekends I end up sleeping in until late, and during a school week, I practically have to be winched out of bed. Luckily, Mum thinks it’s because my body clock is set to “Teenage Time”.

My bedside clock tells me it’s six thirty-six on Sunday morning. I feel like I’ve been plugged into the mains, so there’s no chance of me getting back to sleep. With a begrudging sigh, I pull open the skylight in the roof. It’s all quiet outside, save for a few perky chirps from the trees in the street. I hope that the peace will somehow calm the noise in my head.

Later, with Tony sent off to do the shopping for lunch, the Emergency Sunday Morning Hunter-Gatherer Duties inevitably fall on my shoulders. I walk up to our new local shop for a pint of milk and a paper for Mum; it’ll be a while before Tony returns and if she doesn’t get a cup of tea soon, the universe may implode. The shop comes into view and, with an inward groan, I register a Pack of Grunts on the pavement outside.
They’re a huddle of pale skin, dark eyes, hooded tops and crew cuts and I know exactly who they are: Paul Green, Lewis Mills and Jason Humphries. If you went to my school, so would you.

IM:
Shields up!

Despite the fact that they’re all in my year, I remind myself that they don’t really know who I am. I tend to fly under their radar most of the time, but they’ll have seen me around with Beggsy, Matt and Ravi, and somewhere behind those muscular brows they’ll have me marked down as a nerd. Which shouldn’t bother me, but right now I’m the only nerd in the street.

Trouble is, if I cross the road and walk in another direction, not only will I have to arrive home empty-handed, but somehow, in some way I don’t understand, my seemingly innocent actions will mark me out as a target. I’ll have flagged myself up as the injured gazelle, the bleeding fish – the Lone Geek. So, there’s no choice but to go through them and into the shop. The trick is to avoid eye contact, but not look like I’m avoiding eye contact. At the same time, I’ve got to keep watching them for any telltale signs that I’ve figured on their all-too bleak horizons.

The cigarettes are coming out and being passed round, like apes with bananas. Suddenly I’m conscious of my natural desire to curve my shoulders and blend
into the surroundings. Can’t do that – any display of submission means they’ve won the right to make my life difficult anytime and anywhere they like. Trouble is that walking too tall could be interpreted as a challenge.

If I had a mobile, I could fake a conversation. Instead, I opt for the old hands-in-the-pockets routine and an expression that says I’m really thinking hard about something.

I get closer and, like an automatic response, one of them looks up in my direction. I catch my breath, but I know it’s too late and so does he. A dull recognition dawns in the shadowed eyes of Paul Green. There’s the rumour of a dark smile on his lips. I’m committed, so I’ve got no choice. But then suddenly one of the Pack who’s got his back to me – Jason – slaps Paul on the chest and jerks his head in the direction of the shop. Paul and Lewis follow his lead.

What happens next is a bit like any scene from
Star Trek: The Next Generation
where Worf has to register surprise. It’s the sort of facial pantomime that only a true brain-donor can master. The three hoodies have it down to a T.

I briefly wonder what they’re looking at, but to tell the truth, mostly I’m just relieved that something else has got their attention. And then I find myself having a similar moment, as Beautiful Goth steps out of the shop
and walks towards me. Smiling.

IM:
Two to beam up.

I’d love to report that at this moment the hoodies fade into the background as Goth Girl practically floats over in slow motion, eclipsing everything around her. The reality is that her presence – glorious though it is – only serves to make the Pack of Grunts more aware of us both. One of them, Jason, barks something, leering over his shoulder. His mates seem to rock back, as though they’re hinged at the pelvis, laughing and crossing their arms. But their dead, dark eyes work her up and down like the coils of three boa constrictors.

In one world, I am a Level 5 Mage, capable of summoning an undead army to do my bidding. In this one, I’m a nerd who stands about as much chance of facing off these jerks as a fart in a hurricane.

Thankfully, Goth Girl is made of sterner stuff. With a flick of her alabaster head, she snaps back with a retort that is packed with more swear words than you’d have thought possible. She throws “the finger” in for good measure and then, I could be wrong, but I’m sure that her walk morphs into a strut that accentuates the swing of her hips. She stops in front of me and fixes me with her ice-blue eyes.

IM:
………………………………………
Eep.

“You were in that funny shop yesterday, weren’t you?”

I silently damn my nerdishness and nod like I’ve been possessed by the spirit of a woodpecker.

“The Hovel, yeah.”

“Can we talk for a minute?”

IM:
God and Baby Jesus
.

“Yeah, sure.”

With that, she quickly links arms with me and walks me away fromthe shop. I’mashamed, but not too proud to admit, that this is themost contact I’ve ever had with a girl in my whole life. It’s as if I’ve suddenly inherited Peter Parker’s spider-sense; every patch of my skin (that is in contact withmy sweatshirt that is in contact with her tight black top that is in contact with her skin) is suddenly suffering from heightened awareness. Not to mention the faint blooming in my nether regions.

We keep walking away from the shop, my mother’s milk becoming a distant memory.

IM:
Dear Sigmund Freud
…

“So … uh … what do you want to talk about?”

IM:
Just shut up for a minute. Let her do the talking. Mouth closed; ears open
.

Beautiful Goth stops suddenly and swings me round in front of her.

“Have they gone?”

For a moment, I haven’t got a clue what she’s on about and then it clicks. I peer past her and look at the
Pack of Grunts. Even from here, I can see their foreheads rippling. All three of them are looking at us now, and the muscular nodding that is taking place can only spell bad news. Then, to my relief, they pull their bikes round in a motion that reminds me of cowboys on horseback, and vanish in the other direction, leaving cigarette smoke in their wake.

“They’ve gone.” It’s only two words, but I try and inject them with as much Han Solo as I can.

Beautiful Goth seems to put all her weight on one leg and lets half her body slump. I’ve never seen anyone slump so elegantly.

IM:
Come on! She’s stressed! You might be able to get your arm round her!

I silence the newly awakened predator that seems to have moved into my body and search my extensive database of films for the appropriate thing to say.

“Were they bothering you?”

Goth Girl unslumps and looks me dead in the eye with a smile that would make Clark Kent order a kryptonite sandwich.

“Why? You a ninja or something?”

IM:
She knows you’re a nerd! Abort! Abort!

This causes my EM to react with an all-systems shutdown. Without a film quote or a terminal one-liner to fall back on, all I can do is blink excessively, stutter a
bit and blush. Goth Girl’s expression changes to one of concern.

IM:
Pity’ll do…

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it! I’ve just got a bit of a funny sense of humour. Look – let’s start again. Hello. I’m Sarah and thanks for helping me out with that bunch of losers.”

Out comes a hand. I think I’m supposed to shake it. My EM comes back online and manages a lopsided smile.

“Archie.”

My hand goes up and meets hers, spider-sense tingling in anticipation. But I don’t anticipate her next move: when our hands meet, she pauses for a second and then suddenly grips it tighter. At the same time, there’s a barely audible gasp and a look of alarm crosses her face.

“Oh my God…”

She’s looking really concerned now, and for a second I have this awful image of my flies being undone. In a panic, I pull my hand from hers.

“What is it? What?”

“You’re really…” the alarm on her face deepens to a sort of sadness “…angry. Aren’t you?
Hurt
.”

I wasn’t expecting that. I’ve had a few odd encounters in my life – the worst one to date was walking in on Tony in the bath – but we now have a new reigning champion.
In all the IM/EM chaos that’s going on, something in her pure, pure voice calls to a fragment of my soul that I’ve kept hidden for a Long Time. But I’m not about to spill my guts to a beautiful girl I’ve only just met.

“Isn’t everyone?”

IM:
Good work. Sounds worldly-wise and is neither a confirmation nor a denial. A career in politics beckons
.

Sarah looks at me with a squint, as though trying to probe deeper, and then suddenly starts acting as though nothing has happened.

“Why were you in that shop yesterday?”

“I like the games.”

“They’re all about magic and stuff, aren’t they?”

“Well … yeah.”

“So, do you believe in magic?”

“They’re role-playing games. You sort of pretend with rules.” I want to die.

“But do you believe in magic?”

Whether I believe in magic or not doesn’t really matter to me right now. What does matter is that Sarah is still walking with me even after my response, which was:

“I’ll get back to you on that. I need to buy some milk.”

Hardly a show-stopper, I know. But then, to cement my position in the world as an idiot, I add:

“But I have read
Harry Potter
.”

Sarah’s reply consists of a bewildered smile and a series of blinks, which only reinforces my suspicion that I am as stupid as I look.

We retrace our steps in deafening silence, and she waits outside the shop, while I damn myself until the milk-buying is over.

IM:
WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU? WHY NOT JUST SHOUT “EXPELLIARMUS” AND ASK HER FOR A GAME OF QUIDDITCH?

I think the last time I was asked if I believed in magic was when I was in the audience of a pantomime as a kid. Back then, it was just a given – of course magic was real, of course there was a Father Christmas and it was an indelible fact that something unspeakable lurked under my bed at night. However, as time passed and hairs grew, the idea of magic simply hadn’t occurred to me; not as a reality, anyway.

We start walking and talking – two things I do most days, but now they seem almost impossible to do simultaneously. It takes me a moment to realize that we’re walking in the direction of my old house, back towards town, and that we will soon have to go our separate ways.