Going Geek (18 page)

“I
know what you're doing.”

I'm just about to get on an elliptical machine in the gym when I turn and startle to see Whitney right up in my face. “Using Marshall to overrule me? You have some nerve, I'll give you that,” she says.

Honestly, I've been preparing myself for this moment. Whitney has ears everywhere, especially where Marshall's concerned. “This has nothing to do with you and Marshall.”

Whitney snorts. “I don't know why you're bothering. Everyone is coming to the Cotillion.”

“Great. Then why do you care?” I put my hand on the elliptical rail to deter some guy from getting on it. But Whitney's not done talking.

“I'm not sure what you think you're accomplishing with this stunt, but you're not going to make me look bad. You're just leading your geek friends down a path of humiliation and defeat.”

The guy waiting for the machine keeps shooting me irritated glances. I've waited more than twenty minutes to work out, and I'm not about to give up my place in line, so I get on and program the machine. “Again, this isn't about you,” I say to Whitney. “I'm sure that's hard for you to believe, but there are good reasons for doing this, and it's too bad you can't see them. I mean, what are you so worried about? Won't you be thrilled if all the people you deem losers stay away from the Cotillion? Aren't we helping you, in a way?”

“Well, not the way you went about it!” Whitney shrieks.

“You left me no choice!”

“Do you know this is the first time in fifteen years that the Calendar's been challenged?” She glares at me like it's solely my fault that this is happening on her watch, instead of acknowledging her role in the whole matter.

“Don't worry. I'm sure that won't be your only legacy.”

Jaw clenched, neck stiff, she says, “Don't mess with us, Skylar. It will
obliterate
what little social status you have left.”

I smile sweetly. “Because you've been such a bitch to me all year and managed to turn all our friends against me, threatening my social status really doesn't pose quite the threat that it once might have.”

“Who are you kidding? You still care. You don't want to graduate without your oldest friends.”

“I'll find a way to carry on. And since when does what I want matter? Did you ever take that into consideration when you were systematically freezing me out?”

Whitney sighs. “You needed time in the doghouse. If you stop this nonsense now, it wouldn't be too late for you to come back and finish the year with us.”

I can't believe she's trying to dangle our relationship in front of me like it's a carrot and I'm a donkey. “I'll take that under advisement. Thanks.”

She tries one last tactic. “We both know that all I have to do is pick up the phone. One night with Marshall is all it would take to turn this completely around.”

Gross. I can't believe I was ever best friends with someone so opportunistic and cruel. “If you're comfortable using your…
influence
like that, and your ex-boyfriend's dumb enough to let you, then you deserve each other.”

I slip my headphones on, increase the resistance to ten, and give her a sarcastically friendly wave. Thankfully she takes the hint.

I know he said he'd get back to me by the end of the week, but when I get back to my room, I'm still so agitated that I fire off an email to Marshall. After listening to Whit and her utter conviction that she controls everything, including me, I'm more determined than ever to show her that Club Raks can be a success.

Marshall,

I think you'd be surprised by how much having something like Club Raks matters to some of our fellow students. A lot of people at Winthrop are engaged academically but not socially, and given that networking has traditionally been one of the great selling points of attending an institution like ours, we are missing a huge opportunity to make Winthrop a more integrated place. They may be geeks, but one day they'll be running the world. And yes, I know it's ironic that I of all people am speaking up for the masses.

Peace out,

Skylar

It takes less than ten minutes for Marshall to reply.

You have my support. Come by my office tomorrow.

Officious to the end, but I'll take it.

Once Club Raks is an official event, it's no small feat to get it off the ground. We've decided to make it invitation-only. Because it's a school dance, we can't
technically
make it invitation-only, but we don't advertise it at all. Instead, we put the first invites in the hands of club leaders who almost definitely never considered attending a Rally Weekend event, and then rely on word of mouth. Just like in certain exclusive clubs, potential guests will need a password. And because it's going to be in the black box theater, we're making it a “blackout party,” so everyone has to wear all black to enter.

I'm there when Jess hands out the envelopes at the end of her screening of a documentary on how killer whales are mistreated when used for entertainment. I notice that the three other members of the Vegan Club are in attendance.

On the front of the black envelope, we've printed
NO TICKETS, NO DATE, NO WORRIES
in silver ink.

“What is this?” “I don't dance.” “Rally Weekend sucks.” This is just a sampling of the many protests we hear. It's as if we're inviting people to a voluntary waterboarding party.

“Trust me, it won't be like other dances. We want you to come and be yourself. There's no formality, and hopefully no attitude. Just a good time had by all. Spread the word.”

The response is skeptical at best.

“I invited Remy,” Opal announces in the common room one night.

We all look at her. I knew they were becoming a thing, but everyone else seems thrown for a loop. “Remy's cool, you guys. Out of everyone I used to hang out with, he's the most mellow,” I say.

“I agree with Skylar,” Yasmin says. “We shouldn't write him off just because he's popular and athletic. And handsome.”

“Are you sure you don't want to invite Remy?” I ask. She laughs and sticks her tongue out at me.

“And he won't tell anyone we don't want to come,” Opal says. At first I think she's saying this for everyone else's comfort, but she glances at me. Ah. Leo. I'm sure he and Miranda will make a dashing couple at the Cotillion.

“The problem with this strategy is that we have no idea how many people will show,” Raksmey says. Of course she's the most nervous; she's put so much into this.

“I know it feels risky and that it'd be more reassuring to have a traditional RSVP system, but keeping it on the DL both adds to the mystery and takes the pressure off. People will come around. If we want to prove that we're offering something different, we have to commit to doing things in a different way.”

Honestly I had no idea that rallying the troops took this much cheerleading and handholding. I feel like a general, because I'm the only one who isn't allowed a second of doubt or insecurity. In the moments when I do feel those things, I have to fake confidence. Everyone else is free to be their neurotic selves, but not me.

And the rumors. There's absolutely nothing I can do to stem the rumors. “Lila and Whitney have been telling everyone that they put us on the schedule as a farce.” Opal brings this news via Remy.

“So?” I ask. “They obviously consider us a threat. Take it as a compliment and ignore it.”

“But people will believe them. Everyone always does,” Yasmin says.

I can't argue. I'm living proof of that.

“Look, we have to try, no matter what,” Opal says, smoothing down her caftan. “We have karma on our side.”

“Not to mention righteousness,” Jess adds.

“Even without all that, I'm not worried,” I say. “Raks has worked really hard on making this an amazing night for everyone, and I think it will be. If people are going to fall for Lila and Whitney's crap, they were never coming anyway.”

They seem satisfied with this for now.

Remy catches me on the way into Images of Women. “Word is that Lila's putting a lot of pressure on Whitney. She wants Whit to use all methods at her disposal to get Marshall to withdraw his support.”

I snort. “I doubt it'll take much to convince Whit to go there. How do you know this?”

Remy shrugs. “I hear things. Right place, right time sort of thing. Besides, Lila's not exactly quiet.” He grimaces. “Anyway, Whitney let Lila take the reins on the Cotillion, and Lila's pulled out all the stops. She said she wanted to make it a real party, not like these podunk country boarding school affairs we've been having. But now she's supposedly way over budget, and they're using money from Lincoln's dorm fund.”

“Isn't that, like, embezzlement?” I ask. “Why doesn't Whit reel her in?”

“Nobody knows,” he says. “It's like the Whit we knew no longer exists. Ever since Lila got here, she's let herself be run into the ground.”

“Glad I'm not the only one who's noticed,” I say.

“I don't totally get it, but you know how it is with people from your past. Sometimes you regress into old roles.” Remy lingers outside the building even though the first bell has rung. “Lila asked me to the Cotillion.” He kicks at the ground, looking so upset that I start laughing. Remy rolls his eyes. “Glad I can be here to amuse you.” He scowls and brushes past me into the building. I almost feel guilty for being such an unsupportive friend, but not really.

On a purely selfish level, I hope I'm there when Lila learns who Remy's dating.

‘T
he night finally arrives, and we're ready to go. Except there's about fifteen whole minutes where it's just the seven of us, sitting in silence, staring at one another and occasionally at C.J.'s strobe light, which flashes sadly on the stage. Club Raks is officially open for business.

We don't say anything. Even Raksmey sits completely still for once. None of us wants to be the first to call it, like we're ER doctors and our underground club is the patient we're trying not to pronounce dead. I know they won't pack it in until I give the word.

So I stand up. “Okay, let's get this thing going,” I say.

“Nothing's happening,” Bettina points out.

I jump off the stage as Raksmey starts the music. “So what?”

Everybody's up, dancing and singing. We're so loud that I can't imagine we're not being heard halfway across campus.

At some point I spin around and notice Remy. He's standing and waving his arms, but not like he's dancing, like he's trying to get our attention. I'm not about to disrupt things, so I pull him backstage. “What? And, oh yeah, thanks for coming.” I'm just being polite. One guest feels even more pathetic than none. Like now there's an outsider here to witness our spectacular failure.

“There's a line of people outside!” he shouts into my ear.

“Shut up!” I scream back, smacking him on the arm.

“You have to let them in! They know the password and everything!”

At the last minute I'd second-guessed the whole password gimmick for this very reason, but it seemed too late to do anything about it. I rush to the entrance of the theater. Sure enough, there are seven people lined up. Okay, so the fire department won't be shutting us down anytime soon, but it's a start.

“Password?” I say breathlessly to the first person in line. I recognize him as one of Yasmin's Thatcher buddies. He doesn't look like he came to the right place, because he's wearing a black turtleneck with black corduroys, but who am I to judge? I'm sure I look totally charming with sweat plastering my hair to my face. He gives me a hesitant smile. “Uh, ‘global warming'?” I shouldn't have let Jess choose the password.

I open the door wide and hand him a glow necklace, and our first guest steps in. I note with amusement that his glasses fog up the moment he comes in from the frigid air.

The rest of the line mutters the password before I let them in. Over the shoulder of the last person in line, I see others coming toward the black box and I shut the door quickly.

When I get back inside, I'm elated to see that the dancing hasn't stopped. There are now fifteen of us in all, which still feels pretty empty. Especially when some of us are just standing still. But with some on the floor and some up on the stage, at least the space feels like it's being used. I take out my camera, trying to find angles from which the room actually looks full.

Raksmey was dead on about the lighting and even the glow necklaces she insisted on. The strobe bounces around the room, catching everyone in midflail, so that any one of us could be an amazing dancer. It also casts silhouettes onto the walls, so that there appears to be more movement than there actually is.

Remy nudges me. “You better check the door.”

“I want to let the line build a little,” I say.

He gives me a look. “Don't push your luck.”

So I go back outside. To my utter shock, there are ten more people waiting. “This is so cool,” one of the girls says, bouncing on her toes to keep warm. She and her friend wear retro punk chic, complete with tights, black denim shorts, and black vests over black T-shirts.

“Sorry to keep you waiting. How's the rest of Rally Weekend going?” I ask, giving them necklaces.

“Don't know and don't really care,” the first girl says. Her friend laughs and nods.

“Well, hope you have a good time at Club Raks,” I say.

I personally welcome everyone coming in. Every single person thanks us for going out on a limb and giving them something different to do this weekend.

As the room fills and it begins to feel like we're actually pulling this off, my stress level drops. Raksmey makes a few adjustments to the set list, which I only know because I watched her go through it about seven hundred times. Her tweaks are seamless, because she worked out every possible outcome ahead of time, using something called decision trees. I think she's going with the scenario she named High Voltage. Believe it or not, she still has a level above that one, “for when people go completely bat-shit crazy.”

More people join every minute, until we legitimately have to make people wait. Even people dressed in formal Cotillion clothes come by, seemingly willing to wait outside and watch their breath fog in the bitter cold. I feel so encouraged that I even let the all-black-clothing requirement slide.

I'd have to say the biggest surprise of the night goes to the Thatcher guys. For a bunch known more for their Minecraft abilities than their gross motor skills, some of them are serious dance enthusiasts. I wouldn't say they're good, exactly, but I've long believed that, with dancing, spirit matters more than actual coordination.

I spot Opal and Remy making out on the stage steps and immediately wish I could unsee it.

Declan walks toward me and slides a hand around my waist, pulling me toward him. He must have just gotten here. My gaze automatically flits about the room, looking for Bettina, because I know she wouldn't approve. Luckily, she's not nearby. Declan's a good dancer; he keeps our bodies close but not obscenely so. At some point I stop trying to understand what's going on and hand my camera to Yasmin so I can relax and enjoy the night.

Suddenly all the spots and overhead lights turn on, glowing a hot, searing white for just a brief moment. But a second later they fade to yellow, like we're having a brownout in the middle of a California heat wave. Then everything shuts off, and Club Raks goes completely still in stunned, dark silence.

“What the hell?” someone finally asks. That sets off a low rumble of muttering, nervous laughter, and feet shuffling toward the exit. There are squeals and raised voices as the push to get out grows more urgent. I don't smell anything burning and don't hear any alarms, so I'm reasonably sure there's no cause for panic. Still, my heartbeat picks up and my breaths shorten.

A hand grasps mine and holds me back. “Let's wait,” Declan murmurs. “Let a bunch of people go out first. We don't want anyone to get hurt.”

So I hang with him, leaning against the wall so we don't get jostled in the evacuation.

When we make it outside, a few people have started to walk off, going in the direction of the Cotillion or their dorms, but most stick around, waiting to see if the power comes back. Samantha huddles with a couple theater kids. I hear snippets like “backup generator” and “makes no sense.” From what I can piece together, the black box's extra power generator has gone missing.

I look down and realize that I'm still clutching Declan's hand. I let go and shove my hands in my pockets, trying not to notice his questioning look.

Raksmey positions a small wireless speaker on the steps, and with a few taps on her keyboard the music blares on. She's switched playlists to one that's more mellow. It still creates a nice vibe, though, and surprisingly the dancing starts up again. Not quite in full force—it's more like talking while moving and feeling the music. Maybe it's just too cold to sit or stand still.

We stay out there, getting so close to curfew that people heading home from the Cotillion begin to pass by. In the distance I notice Whitney and Lila speed-walking to Lincoln, their dates nowhere in sight. They don't so much as glance this way.

On a hunch I sprint toward them and cut them off. “Where's the generator?”

They both jump, startled. “What are you talking about?” Whitney asks. Strands of hair have slipped out of her topknot, and her lipstick is half worn off. Neither of them looks particularly happy, definitely not like they've been socializing and dancing the night away.

“We maxed out the electrical in the black box. There was a power surge or something, and the backup generator was mysteriously missing.”

Whitney bursts out laughing, but Lila crosses her arms in a smug, satisfied gesture. I stare at Lila, momentarily blinded by her enormous diamond earrings. Does she not realize that, as rarefied as Winthrop is, it's still high school?

“What?” she asks. “And when exactly do you think we'd have time to steal a generator? Maybe you haven't noticed, but we've been busy organizing the social event of the year.”

“Seriously. Besides, where would we supposedly hide it?” Whitney's nose wrinkles with scorn.

I don't believe them for a second. They'll never admit to doing this, no matter how ingenious or effective, because it shows how truly desperate they are. But I know it was them. “If you're so positive that the Cotillion is what everyone wants, why stoop to sabotage?”

Lila puts a hand on Whitney's arm. “You can't prove anything,” Lila says. Whitney shoots a quick sideways glance at her before turning back to me with a frown.

“It would've been huge,” I say.

“I'm sure it would have,” Whitney says condescendingly as she looks toward the black box, where no doubt our crowd has dwindled to just a few stragglers. “I mean, glow necklaces. How could you lose?”

I stalk away to the sounds of them dissolving into hysterical laughter.