Geekhood (9 page)

“Friday,” he says and then pistons away, like a hungry lion.

The colour drains from my face and I turn to Matt, looking for some weighty words of wisdom and support.

“It’s your house.” He shrugs.

EIGHT

Getting home and painting the gargoyle gives me release – a respite from the catalogue of problems that my life seems to be throwing at me. I’m not thinking about Jason Humphries or Dad or Matt, I’m just thinking about paint and colours. And Sarah.

I’ve decided that this gargoyle will be the Greater Demon that her PC can summon. When she decides to cast the spell (probably at the moment when the PCs meet the Earth Elemental I’ve hidden in one of the crypts), it will appear, silent and brooding, ready to do her bidding. However, with Greater Demons, there’s always a price to pay for using them; I’ve yet to decide what that is. Some would argue that playing Dungeons & Dragons with four Geeks might be price enough.

I’ve also decided that her PC name will be Nox Noctis; it’s the Latin for “Night”. Those online Latin Translators have to be good for something.

I’ve already applied the base colours to Nox Noctis. The main colour of her costume – such as it is – will be an elegant purple, suggesting the mysterious shades of twilight. When it comes to the embellishment, I’ve got a pot of Elven Silver, to suggest moonlight and starshine.

IM:
*Tosses cookies in disgust*

I must confess that, although I’m now trying to assume a little more maturity in my approach to girls, I did get a schoolboy thrill when applying the flesh tones to the area of skin between the bottom of Nox’s tunic and the top of her thigh-length boots. Not to mention the cleavage bit. I wonder if those surges ever leave you? Or are all males doomed to spend the rest of their lives for ever waiting on the potential of a flash of flesh? Only time will tell.

I turn my attentions to my gargoyle, which glowers at me from its base, almost resenting me for bringing it to life. I’m going to give it a drybrushing. Drybrushing is a fantastic little trick; you create your highlight colour and dip in your brush, as per usual. But then you wipe off the majority from the bristles, using a piece of kitchen roll or toilet paper. I always have a roll of toilet paper in my room, purely for this purpose.

IM:
Yeah, yeah … tell it to the judge…

Once your brush is almost free of pigment, you then flick the bristles lightly back and forth just over the surface of your model. The remaining paint will attach itself lightly to the most raised parts of the figure, but in a faded, patchy, scratchy way that gives an aged and worn look. It’s a great way to paint armour, swords and shields.

The gargoyle smoulders back at me, now looking rugged and old, as if it has seen civilizations rise and fall.

There’s a knock at the door and I know it’s Mum; only she could knock in a way that apologizes for disturbing you.

“Come in!”

She pops her head round the door, briefly scanning the room and her son for, I assume, any signs of me shedding my Geekhood and joining the human race.

“You all right? What’re you doing?”

“Just painting.”

She smiles. Although it’s a solitary pursuit, her son being a Geek does have its upsides – at least I’m not out on the streets, annoying the neighbours or pursuing a career as a costumed vigilante.

IM:
Note to self: must get bitten by radioactive arachnid.

“There’s a film on the telly tonight – one of those ones you like.”

“Oh, yeah? Which one?”

Mum’s face blanks for a moment; she’s not that hot on films at the best of times.

“You know, that one with all the dwarves running around in the woods…”

IM:
What?

It takes me a moment, but I finally work it out and can’t help laughing as I tell her the name of probably one of the greatest films ever made.

“Lord of the Rings!”

Mum’s laughing too at this point, as though she’s somehow surprised herself with her inability to retain even the most basic information – and I love her for it.

“That’s it,” she manages between giggles. “The one with all the dwarves running around in the woods!”

We’re both laughing now and it’s beautiful in its simplicity. But it’s short-lived; my shields kick into action as I resort to asking a question without actually asking it.

“You and Tony digging in, are you?”

I think I see a touch of sadness pull at Mum’s eyes; she knows what I’m asking.

“No. It’s only me. Tony’s gone out on a business dinner.”

I relax. I can see from Mum’s face that she’d like nothing better than to sit with her son through a film about dwarves running around in the woods. And right now, I’d like nothing better than to watch it with her. I roll my brush round the inside of my water jar and wipe it clean.

“Go on, then; put the kettle on.”

It’s Wednesday morning and I awake, refreshed, from a dreamless sleep. Days like this are a rarity; you wake up
and everything seems to make sense. Problems are there to be overcome, to test your resourcefulness and strength of character, rather than the impenetrable obstacles that they usually appear to be. I don’t know whether it’s the good night’s sleep or sorting things with Matt or even watching the film with Mum, but I’m feeling sharp and confident; I’m ready for anything.

Even Tony’s post-bacon-buttie cigarette doesn’t blister my lungs with its usual ferocity, and the walk to school fills me with a sense of buzzing anticipation; what will happen today? What will me and Sarah talk about?

IM:
How much you wuv each uvver…

Can
I be in love? Aren’t there supposed to be two people involved in the equation? I hardly know Sarah, but I
do
feel a connection – a strong one. I think back to that day when we met outside the shop and she touched my hand. What was it she said? Something about me being hurt or angry.

How could she know?

Everything seems to make sense today and it seems completely obvious that me and Sarah are destined for something: she understands me without me even having to speak to her, like there’s some invisible thread that joins us together.

A thrill runs through me as I wonder whether I should ask her out properly. I know she’s coming round
to my house, but it’s not an actual date or anything; she’s coming round to see how the Game works. But it’s a sign, isn’t it? The way she is with me at school, the way she talks to my friends and the fact that she’s interested in my Geeky little life…

IM:
She likes you…

And I like her. “Like” is such an insufficient word for what I actually feel, just like “fancy”; you
like
a song or you
fancy
a slice of cake. Maybe “love” is too big a word, but it feels more on track than anything else. A smile seems to etch itself on to my mouth and I can’t shake it. Even Ravi, possibly one of the least aware people I know, picks up on it.

“What’ve you been up to, then?” he asks.

“Nothing. Just feeling good, I guess.”

I mustn’t rush this love thing; I’ve got to create my chance. The best thing I can do at the moment is plough my energies into the Game and see how things go. If it all goes well, then I might make it official and ask her out.

IM:
How exactly do you do that?

A good question and the search for a good answer occupies me for the entire morning. I barely hear what’s being parlayed in French, and Maths is just a blur. How
do
you ask a girl out? This is something I’ve never seriously considered before. Sure, I’ve had daydreams about smooching with Kirsty Ford, but those fantasies
have always skipped over the asking-out bit; I’ve already been going out with her or just been the object of her wanton desire. There’s never been any asking-out going on.

The thought follows me to the toilet at lunchtime. Thankfully they’re empty. Toilets hold a modicum of fear for Geeks. I know this to be true after dark confessions with Matt, Beggsy and Ravi. We’ve all admitted to suffering from a condition that we’ve christened PPS: Public Piss Syndrome.

PPS manifests itself when you are stood at the urinal, ready to relieve yourself. All systems are go and you’re just about to strangle the ferret (one of Beggsy’s more graphic euphemisms) when somebody walks in and stands beside you.

And the entire system shuts down.

You could have drunk a bucket of ice-cold water four hours ago and have run round the games pitch ten times, but nothing on God’s earth will force even the merest drop on to the porcelain below. Your bladder could be on the verge of serious rupture, but the presence of Another in your vicinity is like putting a cork in a bottle – nothing,
rien
, zilch.

Which gives rise to another problem…

You cannot risk losing face. Under no circumstances can you communicate the fact that you have suffered a no-show from the bladder department. If it’s uncovered,
you risk public ridicule beyond your wildest dreams – although Matt, Beggsy, Ravi and I have also confessed that we know of no such cases in our school history. Nonetheless, who’d want to risk being the first?

In order to keep your private shame private, you’ve then got to mime a successful delivery. You’ve got to go through the whole thing: the sigh of relief, the little shake, the zipping up and then, dreading the possibility that you’ve been unmasked as a widdle-shy freak, you’ve got to go through the whole rigmarole of washing your hands while, at the same time, trying to buy yourself the opportunity for another run, without looking conspicuous. God, it’s complicated. And if someone
else
comes in, you might as well forget it and resign yourself to walking like a duck for the rest of the day.

However, not today. Today, I can relieve myself at my leisure, unhurried and safe in my solitude. In celebration, I walk backwards to the sinks and spin round, a bit like that thing James Bond does in the opening titles of the early Bond films.

And then my perfect day crumbles, for looking back at me in the mirror is not the suave, sophisticated ladykiller that I’ve been feeling like all morning. All I can see is an awkward, badly-put-together nerd. Everything’s wrong: my hair’s lank, my eyes are too close together, my nose is too big and the hairs sprouting out
of my chin make me look like Shaggy.

IM:
Zoinks.

Zoinks, indeed. The cloud that forms over my head proceeds to follow me around for the rest of the day. When I came in this morning, I was excited and looking forward to maybe bumping into Sarah, maybe getting to know her a bit better and kidding myself that maybe I had a chance with her. Now, the thought of her even seeing me from a distance fills me with dread.

There’s nothing attractive about me at all. I have been “beaten with the ugly stick”. There is no hope.

IM:
That’s the spirit! Sell yourself!

To add insult to injury, as we’re queuing in the dinner hall, I see Sarah up ahead, paying at the till. Matt’s in front of me so I use his height to try and mask my hideous form, ducking down so that my head is hidden by his shoulders.Unfortunately, my sudden stoop sends an elbow into Ravi, who is standing right behind me. With a resounding “Hey!”, he launches his tray, complete with Ocean Pie and Peas, up into the air. Prawns, fish and peas land with an unexpected grace on my head, left shoulder and down my left arm, with a warm, wet, sloppy splat.

IM:
Not your day, is it?

A cheer goes up from the rest of the diners and those around me and Ravi quickly split, making us the centre of attention.

IM:
As if they’ve never seen anyone wearing fish pie before. As if.

“Archie! What – what are you doing?” In the midst of all the cheering and peas, I can’t help but admire Ravi’s Geek-Savvy: distance yourself from any involvement by naming the culprit as soon as possible. Then Beggsy lends his oh-so-welcome wit to the situation.

“Dude!” he hollers from the sidelines. “D’you want ketchup with that?” Cue laughter from anyone within earshot. I wish I didn’t exist.

As if things couldn’t get any worse, I’m then overpowered by a team of dinner monitors who proceed to squirt me with squirters and scrub me with scrubbers, taking my jacket off so that they can really get it clean.