Summer of the Geek (3 page)

“She’s, like, only one of the most famous models ever. She was one of the original supermodels,” Hannah said.

“Oh,” I said, nodding. Even I had heard of supermodels.

“Anyway, Linda Evangelista once said that she wouldn’t get out of bed for less than ten thousand dollars a day,” Hannah said. She flipped her blond hair back over her shoulders. “I bet she didn’t have to get up at dawn for photo shoots. They probably waited for her. That’s the kind of model I want to be.”

“You mean rich, phenomenally successful, and discourteous?” I asked.

“Exactly,” Hannah said. She stood suddenly. “I think I’d better pack a few more outfits. Just in case.”

“Just in case what?” Peyton asked, appearing at the back door.

Peyton was very pale and thin, and had very short, spiky blond hair. Her personality was so chilly, I could swear that whenever she walked into a room, the temperature would dip by fifteen degrees.

Hannah and I both looked up, startled. Neither one of us had heard the sliding glass door open. I wondered how much of our conversation she’d overheard. I glanced quickly at Hannah and could tell from her uneasy expression that she was wondering the same thing.

“I thought you were finished with your packing,” Peyton continued.

“Mostly,” Hannah said. “But I think I want to bring my Tocca dress. And maybe my high-heeled Mary Janes. Oh! And my white jeans.” She stood. Madonna fell to the ground, hissing with displeasure, and stalked back into the house, fluffy white tail twitching. “Maybe I should just bring another suitcase.”

Hannah hurried off to deal with her packing crisis. This, unfortunately, left Peyton and me alone. I tried very hard never to be alone with my stepmother. When she stared at me with her cold gray eyes, nostrils flaring and lips pressed into a thin line, it gave me the heebie-jeebies.

“Miranda,” Peyton said. She extended one arm, pointing an accusatory finger in Willow’s direction. “Your
dog
.”

“What about her?” I asked, bracing myself for another anti-Willow tirade. Peyton hated Willow even more than she hated me. She was constantly making nasty comments about how Willow smelled—which she didn’t at all—or how loudly she breathed. But then I glanced over at Willow and saw that she was busily wolfing down the rest of the pizza straight from the cardboard box. I yelped and lunged for her. “Willow! Don’t eat that! Dairy always upsets your stomach.”

Willow managed to suck down a few last bites of pizza before I could grab it away from her.

“If that dog can’t behave itself, it can’t be in the house,” Peyton hissed.

Peyton had been on a one-woman mission to have Willow banned from the beach house ever since we moved in the previous year. So far, my dad had overruled her attempts. But the more Peyton and my dad fought, the more time he spent at his office. He hadn’t been home in time for dinner in over a week. So without him around to run interference, I worried that it would only be a matter of time before Peyton succeeded in banishing Willow to the garage.

“She’s not in the house,” I pointed out. “We’re on the back deck.”

Peyton stared malevolently at me for a long moment, before turning on one four-inch stiletto heel and marching back into the house.

“Richard!” I heard her screech. “Where are you? Please come here right this instant, and do something about that animal.”

I sighed and rubbed Willow’s head. Every moment spent in Peyton’s presence made the prospect of moving to London even more attractive.

U
ntil I passed my driving test, my ten-speed was the only form of independent transportation I had, so the next morning I biked over to the Fishers’ house. They lived about two miles away, in a quiet neighborhood full of modest-sized homes set back from the road with well-tended lawns and flower beds. The Fishers’ house, the third on the right, was yellow with white shutters and a glossy black door. Someone inside was playing the piano, a methodical recitation of scales. I rang the doorbell, feeling a flutter of nerves. This was it—my first day of work at my first real job.

The door opened almost immediately, and a woman smiled down at me. She was thin with dark curly hair cut in an angled bob. Black-framed glasses were perched on her nose, and she wore a long orange silk tunic with a mandarin collar over matching wide-legged pants.

“Hi, Miranda?”

I smiled back at her and nodded, feeling suddenly shy.

“I’m Elise Fisher. Please come in.”

I stepped into the front foyer of the Fishers’ house, and as I did, the sound of the piano scales grew louder. Through a pair of closed French doors just to the left of the hallway, I could see a girl with long dark hair seated at a black grand piano, her back to me. She sat erect on the bench, her posture perfect, and her hands traveled gracefully up and down the ivory keyboard. I could tell from the set of her shoulders that she was concentrating deeply.

“Why don’t we go sit down and talk, and then I’ll introduce you to Amelia?” Mrs. Fisher suggested.

I followed Mrs. Fisher back to the kitchen, which had gray walls and a slate gray countertop. It felt like I’d stepped into a rain cloud. Only the light blond wood of the cupboards and kitchen table broke up the gloomy darkness of the room.

“Go ahead and sit down,” Mrs. Fisher said, gesturing toward the rectangular table. “Can I get you something to drink?”

“No, thank you,” I said, sitting in one of the high-backed chairs. The sound of the scales continued to drone on in the background.

Mrs. Fisher poured herself a cup of coffee from the carafe on the countertop, and then sat across the table from me. She smiled warmly.

“You came highly recommended. Headmaster Hughes said that you are an excellent student and a valued member of the Notting Hill Independent School community.”

I managed to suppress a snort of indignation. The previous school year, Headmaster Hughes had basically blackmailed me into organizing the annual Snowflake Gala. Then he coerced me into staying on the Mu Alpha Theta math competition team.

Mrs. Fisher continued. “I think this will be an excellent opportunity for Amelia. She’s very gifted—not only does she have a genius-level IQ, but she’s well on her way to becoming one of the top pianists of her generation. Spending time with you—someone who’s grown up gifted and knows what it’s like, what challenges gifted children face—will be enormously helpful for Amelia.”

“You know I don’t play the piano, right?” I said worriedly. “I’m not at all musical.”

Mrs. Fisher smiled. “That’s fine. Amelia already has a music teacher. She just needs to be exposed to what it’s like to be a normal kid. Well. A normal
gifted
kid. You don’t have to do anything special. Just spend some time with Amelia. Talk to her. Tell her about your experiences.”

My experiences? I felt a twinge of apprehension. I wasn’t sure what Mrs. Fisher wanted me to talk to Amelia about. Being gifted had caused me some problems, especially while I was still enrolled in a normal school. I learned the hard way that most teachers don’t appreciate being corrected in front of the class, even when they’re dead wrong. In fact, they tend to put you in detention for it.

But since Amelia was already attending Geek Middle, she would never have to face that particular problem. All of the faculty at Notting Hill was specially trained in how to teach high-IQ kids.

The same thing went for making friends. Genius kids tend to stand out at normal schools. And usually not in a good way. But when all of your classmates are just as geeky as you are, it’s a lot easier to fit in.

The scales suddenly stopped.

“Amelia!” Mrs. Fisher called out. “Come here and meet Miranda.”

Either Amelia didn’t hear her mother, or she simply chose to ignore her, because a moment later, the music started up again. At least Amelia had moved on from the scales and was now playing something classical and complicated.

Mrs. Fisher didn’t seem angry. She took another sip of her coffee.

“Amelia’s a very dedicated musician. She practices for hours every day.” She hesitated, setting her coffee mug on the table. “In fact, I should warn you: Amelia’s not very pleased that I’ve hired you.”

“She probably thinks she’s too old for a babysitter,” I said sympathetically. I remembered feeling the same way when I was her age.

“No, that’s not it. I think she’s more concerned that this arrangement will interfere with her practice time,” Mrs. Fisher said. “I’ve assured her that you won’t bother her while she’s playing.”

“Oh.” I was momentarily taken aback. “When does she practice?”

“During the school year, she practices for an hour before school, an hour during school, and then two hours after. In the summer, she plays a bit more—usually for a few hours in the morning, and then a longer session in the afternoon.”

I was stunned. Amelia was only ten years old. How could she be so dedicated at so young an age? And what could Mrs. Fisher possibly expect me to teach her? Sure, I could solve math theorems in my head, but that wasn’t something I worked at. I’d never spent hours at a time studying math.

“I thought you could plan on coming every weekday from around nine to three or so. You can hang out while Amelia practices—feel free to bring a book or your laptop or whatever—and then the two of you can have lunch and spend some time together,” Mrs. Fisher said. “I work nearby—I’m an interior designer, and my office is on Shoreline Avenue—so I’ll be close if you need me.”

The idea of spending all day, every day, just sitting at the Fishers’ house and listening to Amelia play the piano didn’t sound like much fun. On the other hand, Mrs. Fisher had already agreed to pay me ten dollars an hour. And sitting around reading while Amelia practiced certainly sounded a lot easier than a summer job bagging groceries.

And, on the bright side, I’d have plenty of time to write. I was currently working on a short story about a girl who no one ever notices, until one day she actually becomes invisible. I’d brought my notebook with me to the Fishers’ house, tucked away in my backpack, just in case I had some time to work on it.

“Sounds great,” I said. “What does Amelia like to do? Other than playing the piano, I mean.”

My question seemed to confuse Mrs. Fisher. “What does she like to do?” she repeated. She shrugged. “I suppose what any other gifted ten-year-old likes to do. What did you do at her age?”

I tried to remember. “I liked arts and crafts. Biking. Going to the playground. The beach.”

“Not the beach,” Mrs. Fisher said. “Amelia doesn’t swim.”

“She doesn’t?” I asked, surprised.

While my mother, Sadie, had never exactly been a role model of maternal responsibility, she had enrolled me in swimming lessons before I could walk. After all, we lived in Florida, and were never far away from the water. Besides the beach, there were swimming pools and rivers. When I was Amelia’s age, I’d practically lived in the water. How could Amelia live here and never have learned how to swim?

Mrs. Fox stood and headed for the living room. “I’ll go get Amelia,” she called back over her shoulder to me. “It’s time for her break anyway.”

From the other room, I could hear the piano stop abruptly and then the sound of muffled voices. It sounded like they were arguing, although I couldn’t hear what the source of the conflict was. Maybe Amelia didn’t want to stop practicing. Or maybe she just didn’t want to meet me.

Mrs. Fisher returned to the kitchen, this time trailed by a sullen young girl. Amelia was small for her age, with fine bones and angular features. She had long, straight, dark brown hair, a thin face that ended with a stubborn chin, and a snub nose that turned up at the end. Her brown eyes were round and large for her face.

“Hi,” I said in my friendliest voice. “I’m Miranda.”

Amelia stared at me, her gaze coolly appraising. It would have been unnerving to be looked at that way by anyone, but coming from such a small girl, it was even more disturbing. I stopped smiling and ran a tongue over my teeth, trying to see if there was something stuck there.

“Amelia, say hello to Miranda,” Mrs. Fisher prompted.

“Hello,” Amelia said with no enthusiasm.

Convinced that my teeth were clean, I smiled again. “We’re going to hang out together this summer. I’m sure we’ll have lots of fun,” I said, sounding overly enthusiastic.

Amelia crossed her arms over her thin chest and gave me the hairy eyeball. “Thanks, but I’m not interested in having fun.”

“Okay. Then I’ll do my best to bore you,” I joked. “I’ll come up with math problems for you to solve.”

Amelia didn’t laugh. I looked to Mrs. Fisher for help.

“Amelia, we’ve talked about this,” Mrs. Fisher said. “You’re too young to stay here by yourself while I’m at work.”

“Then why can’t Maria stay with me?” Amelia asked.

“Because she has a new job with another family,” Mrs. Fisher said. She turned to me. “Maria was Amelia’s nanny. Amelia’s been having a bit of separation anxiety.”

“I am not,” Amelia said, giving her mother a withering look. “Maria spent all day talking to her sister on her cell phone and pretty much ignored me. But at least she left me alone when I practiced.”

“I’ve already talked to Miranda about your practice time,” Mrs. Fisher said soothingly. “Now, I’m going to go to work for a few hours. You girls will have a chance to get to know each other.” Mrs. Fisher began to gather up her car keys, sunglasses, and handbag, preparing to leave. She smiled encouragingly at me. “All of our contact numbers are posted on the bulletin board next to the phone and there’s tuna salad in the fridge for lunch.” She leaned over to kiss Amelia’s scowling face, and then she turned and headed out, calling back over her shoulder, “Have fun, you two!”

When the door closed, leaving us alone, I smiled at Amelia. “What do you want to do?” I asked. “I brought my bike. We could ride down to that playground at the end of the street.”