Into the Wild Nerd Yonder (16 page)

I TRY MY BEST TO SHAKE THE cruddy, confused feeling I have about Van and Bizza. It’s 5:30, and I only have a little over an hour to figure out how it is one dresses for her very first Dungeons and Dragons adventure at the house of my dream nerd. I know, I know, enough with the nerd label already. It’s just—if I take away the label, does that make me officially one of them? If I hadn’t been in such denial over the past week, I could have found some fabric covered in knights or dragons (or dungeons, I suppose, but I don’t know if that would translate well onto fabric). My closet is filled with crazy skirts and plain tops, but nothing looks right for the occasion. I want to just look like the normal me—not too dressed up, not trying too hard. Maybe just to show what a non-big deal it is, I’ll wear something totally casual. It’s Friday night, but it’s just Friday night at someone’s house. So it’s not technically going-out where I have to wear going out clothes. Am I overthinking this?

I opt for my Lucky sweatpants so I don’t waste any of my school skirts (yes, the same sweatpants I mentioned earlier that Bizza and I bought), and one of my soft Lucky T-shirts,
red with a giant coy fish on it. It’s obviously one of the least fancy outfits I could have chosen, but I do look good in red. And besides, who am I trying to impress? (Brain, don’t answer Henry.)

I walk downstairs and realize I don’t have a plan for getting to Henry’s house. I just assumed that Mom or Dad would drive me, but they left a note on the kitchen table that they’ve gone out to dinner with some friends. That leaves Barrett. And that means I kind of have to tell him where I’m going.

Barrett has always been the one person in my life who taught me it’s okay not to try and be like everyone else, but it always kind of felt like BS coming from someone so good-looking and smart, who just automatically knew how and where he fit in. I watch him from the kitchen doorway, sitting on the couch with Chloe Romano, one of the most popular girls in school, if not the free world, her legs draped over his lap. It was so easy for him to go from the King of the Punks to the Homecoming King (metaphorically, at this point, but it could happen) in a matter of weeks. But one thing he’s never going to be is a geek. How will he feel about his kid sister turning into one?

I prepare for the worst, arm myself with defensiveness, and head over to the couch. Barrett and Chloe are nibbling on each other’s various upper body parts, and I have to interrupt with an “ahem.”

“Hey, Jess, I hope you don’t mind if Chloe and I take over the TV. We rented some movies. You’re welcome to watch, of
course,” which means I’m welcome to say that I’m happy spending the rest of the night in my bedroom trying to avoid seeing whatever Chloe and Barrett are doing to each other on the couch.

“Actually, I’m going out tonight. Well, going to someone’s house. I didn’t realize Mom and Dad weren’t going to be home. Do you think you can give me a ride?” I hope that their interest in each other eclipses any interest they might have in what I’m doing tonight, but no such luck.

“Whose house? Not Bizza’s, I hope.” It’s amazing how my family is so openly Bizza bashing these days.

“No. Just some guy from school. Name’s Henry.”

“A guy? Is this a date? Should I be giving you a lecture right now, young lady?” Barrett is overtly trying to impress Chloe with his protective-big-brother performance.

“Leave her alone, Barrett. Jessie’s old enough to handle these things.” I like that Chloe sticks up for me (and that I no longer think of her as Chloe
Romano
), but she’s got the wrong idea.

“No, it’s not like that. I’m going to his house, but there will be other people there.”

“Is this a party? Should I give the alcohol lecture?” This is getting annoying.

“It’s not a party!” I yell, frustrated.

“An orgy, then? Please say it’s not an orgy.”

“Barrett, the fact that you’re even thinking about me going to an orgy tells me we’re done talking about this. Can you
please just drive me? The sooner we leave, the sooner you and Chloe can defile the couch.”

“True.” Barrett pauses, then lifts Chloe’s legs off his and onto the floor. “Are you ready to go?”

“Yep.”

“And that’s what you’re wearing?” Barrett eyes my sloppy ensemble.

“Yes, it is,” I say indignantly.

He leans over to Chloe and says in a fake whisper, “Definitely not an orgy.” Chloe shoves his shoulder, and we head off for the car.

Barrett blasts some late-eighties punk on the stereo, and I’m happy to see Chloe bobbing her head along next to him. It’s good to see that he hasn’t dropped everything from his old identity, and it’s also nice how Chloe seems to embrace it. I tap Barrett’s shoulder and yell into his ear every time he needs to turn, and eventually we end up in front of Henry’s house just a little harder of hearing than we were before we left.

With the music this loud and Barrett and Chloe making googley eyes at each other, I’m almost free when who should come strolling up the driveway but Dottie Bell, hunched under her enormous backpack. The weight of the pack gives her a particularly slow and awkward walk, and I cringe that she had to look so nerdy when my brother and Chloe are watching. I bolt out of the car and yell, “I’ll call you when I want to come home!” but I don’t know if they hear it over the music. They for sure don’t read my lips, because all eyes are on Dottie.

I don’t want to look back for fear of seeing Barrett and Chloe peeing themselves with laughter, but my curiosity and optimism make me do it. It’s so dark, though, that I’m not sure what it is I’m seeing. They’re definitely not doubled over in hysterics, but I swear I can see incredulous, openmouthed stares. Or is that just a reflection? Before I can figure it out, the car starts to move.

Dottie turns at the sound of Barrett’s car driving off, and she looks at me with an intrigued smile. “Jessie,” she says in her relaxed way, “all right. Help me with this, would you?” Dottie carefully lowers her backpack to the ground and unzips to reveal two two-liters of pop, a stack of hardcover books, and a purple velvet pouch. I pick up the two-liters because I’m afraid that if I touch the books I’ll be breaking some Dungeons and Dragons code about handling the Dungeon Master’s things. Even though Dottie has on the same cutesy clothes she did at school today (green corduroy overalls, a T-shirt, and red cowboy boots), she has a look on her face that says not to mess with her. Truthfully, it’s a little scary, and I try to prepare myself for what lies behind Henry’s front door.

Amazingly enough, what lies behind Henry’s front door is Henry, looking kind of adorable with his curls hanging over his Slurpee blue eyes, a plain black T-shirt, and . . . jeans that reach his shoes? He catches my gaze at his longer pants and says into my ear as Dottie and I walk in, “I went shopping after school
without
my mom. It was a little traumatic, I’d like you to know. Inseam measuring should be illegal.”

“Was it worth it?” I ask.

Dottie leaves the foyer to greet her friends in the dining room with a resounding, “Cower before me, bitches! The DM has arrived!”

Henry looks at me with impenetrable eye contact and says, “You tell me.” I catch my breath a little and break his gaze. His new jeans cover a good portion of his big white gym shoes, and I have an argument with my brain about how the way he looks shouldn’t even matter, but he looks surprisingly good, sans the shoes, and I should stop being so judgmental, and . . .

“Let the pwnage begin!” Dottie yells from the other room. Henry grabs the two-liters from my arms and nods for me to go into the dining room ahead of him.

The dining room is crammed with a giant dark wood table and matching high-backed chairs covered in a regal, rich burgundy fabric stitched with golden thread. The walls are filled with bizarrely realistic, six-inch ceramic heads, all with frighteningly defined teeth. I scan the collection of fisherman, pirates, Beefeaters, and Middle Eastern stereotypes. Henry watches me and says, “They’re called Bossons. My grandfather collected them and passed the collection on to my dad. He scours eBay every day to find the rare ones. You know, someday this collection will all be mine.” He waggles his eyebrows at me, and I shudder exaggeratedly.

“You must be so proud,” I say.

“Aren’t you going to introduce the n00b?” someone yells from the table. I am the n00b, and I get introduced (and reintroduced) to the other four guys sitting around the table: Doug Emberly (Dottie’s boyfriend), Kent Holt (the funny guy from my bio class), Philip Shen (lanky with smoky, metal-framed glasses), and Eddie Cotes (whose greasy brown hair looks like it got caught in a blender).

“Welcome, n00b, fear for your life,” drips Eddie in a whiny voice, and I can’t tell if he’s joking until Dottie smacks him on his greasy head and says, “Don’t scare her away yet, Ed.”

“Yeah, Eddie,” pipes in Philip. “Jessie’s gonna help us make costumes for Fudwhalla. You better be nice to her, or she’ll make you wear tights. Right, Jessie?”

Philip is so open and friendly, I don’t want to say that I’m not sure yet if I can—or want to—make the costumes. Dottie sees my unsure look and asserts her Dungeon Master authority. “No more bullshit. We need to make some important decisions. What do you guys want on your pizzas?” The debate over the pizzas takes a half hour, and I try to be as easygoing as possible. (I never met people so passionate about pizza toppings.) Three pizzas are decided upon (half pineapple and ham, half pepperoni; half green pepper, half black olive, all onion; and half garlic and sausage, half plain cheese), and then another fifteen minutes are spent phoning it in, dividing up the money, and calculating the tip.

“What’s the total?” I ask.

“$33.60.”

“Okay,” I figure out, “we each owe $5.60 for the pizza, and that should be another six or seven dollars added for the tip. Let’s make it six, since that’s just another extra dollar each. Everyone put in $6.60. Unless the delivery guy is really fast, then we can each round up to seven dollars for a nice tip.”

You can hear the TV playing in the house next door, everyone is so quiet. They’re all staring at me. “What?” I demand.

“Now you see why I’ll never take a math test without Jessie again,” Henry offers to the table. “I got an A, by the way.” He tips an imaginary hat at me in thanks.

By the time eight o’clock rolls around, it’s finally time to start playing Dungeons and Dragons. I pull out the character sheet I made with Dottie in study hall, and Kent Holt, who I’m sitting next to on one side (Henry somehow ended up on my other), pushes a
Player’s Handbook
my way. “You’ll probably need this. Or you can just ask me if you have questions. I have the book memorized.” I flip through the golden-covered book in front of me and marvel at how someone could (and would) memorize the complicated text.

“So do I,” Philip says, trying to sound impressive.

“Oh yeah? Then what script does the gnome language use?”

“Dwarven, duh.”

Dottie interrupts, “Can you put away your geek dicks for a second so we can start playing?”

Philip grumbles, but Kent mouths to me, “I so know more than he does.”

Dottie starts the adventure like a storyteller sharing a tale. “Your party wanders into a town square, elaborately decorated for what looks to be a celebration or festival.”

“Is there a pub?” Eddie interrupts.

“Of course,” Dottie answers. “A sign for the Leaky Bucket is visible from where you stand.”

“To the Leaky Bucket!” Eddie cries.

“The Leaky Bucket!” repeats everyone else (me not included).

“Very well. You enter the Leaky Bucket.”

“I order an ale,” Eddie interrupts again.

“If you insist on interrupting the DM, you may soon find yourself struck blind by purple lightning.” Eddie zips his lips with his finger.

The adventure continues like this for a good twenty minutes, with everyone eating and drinking at the pub, then having to choose a slice of pie from cherry, peach, or kumquat. Naturally I choose kumquat because the name’s so great, as do Kent and Henry. Philip and Eddie choose cherry, and Doug peach. Dottie, who hides her head behind some strategically opened books standing upright on the table, picks up some dice and starts rolling. I look at Henry, but he just shrugs like he doesn’t know what Dottie’s doing. Then Dottie peeks her head over her blockade with a wicked grin. “Roll for initiative.”

I whisper to my guru, Kent, “What does she mean ‘roll for initiative’?”

“You’re just rolling a twenty to see what order we go in.”

“Order for what?”

“Something big. Whenever the DM says ‘Roll for initiative,’ you know something big is going to happen.” Kent hands me a blue frosted, twenty-sided die (a “twenty”) and tells me to roll.

“Fifteen,” I say. “Is that good?”

Kent tries to explain that it’s not good or bad necessarily, depending on when you want to go and where you want to be in the fight. I have no idea what he’s talking about, but I nod so I don’t look like an idiot. (I feel weird that
I’m
the idiot in this situation, being at a fake pub and all.) He complicates it even further by telling me to add my modifiers, but I figure out that if I just pause for second, he’ll do it for me.

We go around the table and tell Dottie our initiative numbers. I’m embarrassed to say that my heart is beating heavily in my chest with anticipation. Will Imalthia have to fight? Could she get hurt? Could she hurt someone else? My excitement momentum is broken by the doorbell.

“Pizza!” cries Doug, and he stumbles out of his giant chair with the money in hand.

I call after him, “It’s right on time, so you can give the guy all of it!”

“Are you like this in restaurants?’ Henry asks me. “Timing the waiters and docking their tips if they don’t show up fast enough?”

“Depends on how hungry I am.”

Doug drops a stack of pizza boxes on the table. There’s a mad dash for the pizza, but no one needs to worry since we ordered three extra larges. We pour our drinks, and when we’re about settled, Dottie asks, “Are you ready to get hurt?”

“Ask your NPCs!” Philip cackles, and everyone (except me) laughs.