Going Geek (10 page)

I
nsomnia takes over my life and makes me even less functional than when I was just sad. Although I spend hours sitting at my desk with my books open, my work slides, making my promise of getting all B's seem like a fading possibility.

I'm dragging to get ready for aerobics while Opal changes out of her salwar kameez (I've been imperiously informed that this is the correct name for her caftans and matching pants) and into spandex Lululemon workout clothes. I can hardly believe what I'm seeing.

“Why do you look like that?” I sputter, waving at her perfectly toned, amazing body.

“Like what?” Opal glances down at her six-pack abs and muscular ballerina legs. Even her arms, while rail thin, are defined and strong.

“Oh, you know, like a freaking swimsuit model?”

Opal smiles shyly. “Yoga and a vegan diet. It works.”

“If you have all that”—I can't stop pointing and staring—“why in the world would you hide it under those baggy clothes? I mean, do you know what would happen to your social life if you showed it off even a little?” I have so many questions.

“I'm totally happy with my social life the way it is,” she says.

“Have you ever even been on a date?” I ask.

She frowns at me. “Do you want to come or not?”

I finish getting dressed and walk with her to the gym. I may be depressed, but I'm not an idiot.

By the time we're done, I'm sweating like mad. Somehow, even though my arms and legs feel like overcooked noodles and I never realized before how unbendy I am, I feel fantastic. Kind of light and clear, like I've been running a really high fever and it's just broken. Aerobics never made me feel this way.

“Next time I'm going to have to bring a towel,” I say on our way back to Abbot.

“Next time? You mean you're going to grace us with your presence again?” Opal sounds snippy, but she's smiling. “I told you, it's better than Zoloft.”

“You know, you're going about it all wrong. If you want to start a club, I can probably help you,” I say.

“Really? Student Council said I need at least ten members for a charter. I've tried a million different things—”

“Leave it to me.” What people don't realize is that the most obvious solutions are usually the best ones.

Parents' Weekend sneaks up on me this year. None of my friends' parents came last year, so I'd assumed it would be just another regular weekend for most of us seniors. But it turns out a lot of people are feeling nostalgic and want a chance to visit campus one more time before their little darlings graduate high school.

All my dorm mates disappear with their families for things like the Head of School's Coffee, a performance by the a cappella group the Of Notes, or meals at expensive restaurants in Boston. Everywhere I go I'm surrounded by grinning parents dressed in sports coats and loafers, wrap dresses and slingbacks.

This is one of the few weekends when the library is guaranteed to be empty. Since the silence of my dorm is driving me a little batty and the risk of running into Leo is low, I pack up my laptop and walk over there.

When I turn onto the path that runs between the Field and Main Street, I spot Whitney getting into a town car with her parents and sister. And Lila. She never mentioned that her family was coming. I don't realize I'm staring until Whitney happens to glance in my direction. We make eye contact, and she gives me a small wave.

Every other year, she would've insisted I go with them. The Lamberts always invited me to tag along when they came for a visit. One time my parents even gave permission for me to spend a weekend in Boston with them. We went to a Celtics game and had dinner at a fancy French restaurant called L'Espalier.

I wonder if any of them has asked about me or is curious about where I am. But they don't notice me. I struggle to keep my face neutral as I wave back and watch them drive away.

“How'd it go?” I ask Opal when she gets back from her first Yoga Connection class. She's glowing, grinning from ear to ear.

“It was great! The roster's almost full. A lot of boys came.”

“Really? Like who?” I ask, although I'm really not surprised. After a lot of cajoling, I finally got Opal to pose for the club photo in her Lululemon gear. But she still balked when I showed her the flyer with a picture of her sick body and the headline that read
SAY HELLO TO YOUR FUTURE.

“Believe it or not, it seemed like a lot of jocks,” she says, tilting her head. “They were all pretty coordinated and in good shape. Not flexible, though. Maybe you should switch to the morning.”

Her meaning doesn't slip by unnoticed, but I ignore it. “No way. Then I'd still have to do aerobics. But I'll come sometimes.” No part of me even wants to think about another boy, let alone put myself in a situation where I'd potentially have to hang out with one. That's the problem with having a perfect boyfriend: everyone else pales in comparison.

“Why did we cap membership at twenty-five? I can teach way more people than that.”

“Exclusivity is very enticing. When people are knocking down our doors, we can open up to new members.” I'm actually getting excited about this. This is how I imagine it feels to start a new dance club or the latest exercise trend in Hollywood.

Opal gives me an appraising look. “Thank you. I've been trying to start this thing for the last three years. It never occurred to me that I should try a more basic route.”

“Like I said, sex sells.” She rolls her eyes. “The key is to get them in the door. Then you'll have a captive audience for all your nonsense.”

“How long do you think until I can spring chanting and veganism on them?” she asks, all excited.

Um, never?
“At least a couple of months, probably,” I say. No need to burst her bubble while she's enjoying this victory.

“Marshall couldn't believe this came together so fast,” she says, referring to the school president, which is Winthrop's version of student body president. “I've put in the application so many times before, he was sure it was going to be another vain attempt.”

“Well, you showed him,” I say. Marshall's well liked by everyone, but in my personal opinion he can be a teensy bit affected.

Opal heads off to take a shower, humming along the way. I finish getting dressed and realize that, for the first time in weeks, I feel almost okay. Maybe Opal's right about yoga.

I
realize too late that it's Club Raks night. As I stand in the dorm foyer, trying to figure out a plan B, Bettina comes downstairs wearing a grimace and carrying a giant tote bag. Of all my dorm mates, she's the one I've had the least interaction with. She's not all in my face like the others; she kind of just fades in and out, like a cartoon ghost.

“Hi, Bettina,” I say. “Cute overalls.”

Usually she blows off my comments, responding only with a smile or a perplexed look. “If you need an escape, you can come work in the art studio with me,” she says. “It's quiet.”

I'm trying to figure out why she's suddenly inviting me somewhere when she says, “What you did for Opal made her so happy.” We don't say another word as we walk to Albright.

I haven't set foot in the art building since first year, when I took Visual Studies, the art survey requirement. It has a famous art gallery attached to it that I've never visited. The head of school uses it to host lavish fund-raising parties, so it's closed a lot of the time. Leo tried to take me there early in our dating life, before he realized that when it comes to art, my taste runs more toward pop than fine.

Bettina leads the way to the studio, a brightly lit room with white walls and large white tables with high stools around them. There are colorful splatters of dried paint on the floor and tabletops, and drying racks along the wall.

There's a boy here, wearing headphones and drawing. He looks up when we come in and gives Bettina a warm smile, but his gaze only skims over me before it returns to his paper. I don't know why I feel so offended that this angsty art boy, with his band T-shirt, hoodie, and black Vans, basically dismissed me. Because if he's who I think he is, he was involved in a big drinking scandal sophomore year and therefore probably has issues.

I shake my head and take out my laptop.
Focus. I will now attempt to write a paper on Frankenstein.

“Film class,” he says.

“Excuse me?”

“We're in Dr. Fan's film class together. That's how we know each other,” he says, still not looking up.

For some reason this irritates me. Maybe he assumes that getting busted makes him interesting, but my curiosity is mild at best. And besides, I'm positive that it took place in the privacy of my own head. “Oh. Nice to meet you,” I say from under the table as I plug in my laptop.

Fortunately, the grating small talk ends there. The next time I look up, I actually have a decent outline for my paper written.

Bettina's been busy too. A dozen white plastic grocery bags have been stretched flat on the table in front of her. She's bending plastic drinking straws into loops and securing them with clear tape. “What are you making?” I ask.

She blinks, as if she's just coming out of some kind of trance. “Hot-air balloons.”

“Really? That's so cool! What are you going to do with them?” I catch art boy smiling at his paper, his headphones now slung around his neck. “Is something funny?” I ask.

He shakes his head. “Just happy that Bettina has another fan.” He flashes me a mocking grin, pushing his wavy brown hair off his forehead.

“I'm planning an installation where I launch them all at the same time,” Bettina says. I must look confused, because she adds, “And record it.”

“But how will you get them back?” I lean over the table to look at the bags. She's painted little skulls adorned with floral vines. They're cool but creepy looking.

“I might not be able to,” she admits.

“So all this time and effort and it'll just be gone in an hour? What's the point?” Seems like a waste if you ask me.

“It'll be beautiful,” Bettina says, like a short burst of beauty could be the point of what appears to be a ton of work. “What are you working on, D?”

“I'm having a show later this term,” the boy says.

“That's huge,” Bettina says.

“It'll look good on my art school apps.” He turns his attention to me. “What about you?”

“Me?” I ask.

He looks around. There's no one else in the studio. “Yeah. What's your story?”

“Uh, I'm not an artist, if that's what you're asking. I just have a paper due tomorrow and needed a quiet space,” I say.

After studying me for a minute, he says, “Well, if Bettina brought you here, you must be all right.” Bettina shoots him a wry smile.

Are arty people usually this standoffish? My lack of experience in this arena throws me a bit.

We resume working. A couple hours later Bettina and I walk back to the dorm. “That was Declan,” she says, like it matters.

“Yeah? He seems quite fond of you.”

She raises her eyebrows. “But not like that.”

“Is he the kid who got busted sophomore year?”

“Yes.” But she doesn't offer any other information.

Now that I don't have to go to Social Calendar meetings, I feel unexpectedly free. Sure, there's kind of a phantom limb–type pain, but it's offset by the fact that I won't have to cover any boring events on the weekends.

Everyone is already seated in the common room by the time I get to the dorm meeting. Dr. Murdoch goes over house rules and the schedule for dorm duty, which consists of cleaning chores. My first assignment is vacuuming, which isn't as bad as, say, cleaning the bathrooms.

“Now that we've covered that, we need to come up with ideas for our first Social Calendar event,” Dr. Murdoch says. “Abbot House is on the schedule for the week of October fifth.”

Well, nothing like waiting until the last minute to plan. Looking around the room, I can tell that no one really wants to deal with this. Abbot is notoriously lame with its events, and erasing this stigma would require divine intervention. This ought to be a raging success.

“How about afternoon tea?” Yasmin eventually volunteers. “You know, a traditional English one, with scones and finger sandwiches?”

“Okay, we don't live in a Jane Austen novel,” Samantha says. I'm just glad someone else said it. “Why don't we start a book club where everyone reads books written by faculty members? Then we don't have to reinvent the wheel every time it's our turn to do something.”

“Um, 'cause we don't want to bore everyone to death?” I say. “No offense, Dr. Murdoch.”

“None taken,” she whispers. “Although I do have a book on ancient Greece coming out next month.”

We all let that pass without comment.

“How about a weekend-long Ultimate Frisbee tournament?” Jess says.

An hour later the suggestions have gone so far downhill that Yasmin's English tea idea actually starts to sound good. The plan is to take over the Study on Friday afternoon and offer everyone refreshments and a chance to socialize. Whatever, it's their funeral. I don't plan to attend, much less help out with it.

Opal clears her throat. “One more item on the subject of the Social Calendar.” For some reason everyone's looking at me. “As you know, each dorm has to send a representative to present the dorm's proposed events. For the past couple years it's been Samantha, but this year we'd like to make a change. I hereby nominate Skylar to be the Abbot House rep. All in favor, raise your hands.”

All six hands go up. Samantha looks elated, and I realize too late that I've been ambushed. How did I not see this coming? “I don't think this is such a smart idea. I'm not on great terms with the Calendar at the moment, and I don't think my presence will increase support for our events. In fact, my association might even have a negative impact,” I say.

Opal and Jess look at each other. “Nice try,” Jess says. “Whenever we have to come up with something or turn in a proposal, we're a disaster. You're obviously the most familiar with that world, so it will save us all a lot of time and agonizing if you could just shortcut it for us.”

“Look, the Calendar doesn't rely on our events to be big draws,” Opal says. “We just want to get through it unscathed. Getting any kind of turnout is hard, and we know that no one thinks Abbot is a hottie dorm or anything.” Seriously? A hottie dorm?

I look around the room and recognize that I really am the only candidate for this job. They're all blinking at me, just so incredibly lost. Maybe I can at least facilitate the process. It seems like expectations are realistically low enough. “Fine,” I mutter.

Everyone jumps off the couches, ecstatic. Even Dr. Murdoch. For me, there actually is an upside, which is knowing how much this will get under Whitney's skin. She might be able to turn all our friends against me, but she's not rid of me yet.