A Catastrophe of Nerdish Proportions (13 page)

“Your father.”

“I just said it's the father, Beanpole. But name the species of bird.”

“No, your father, Mo.” She pointed toward the front. “He just walked into the library.”

I turned. “OMG.”

“That's your dad?” Kiki said. “I would have thought he'd be heavier.”

I rolled my eyes but didn't have time to launch a verbal missile in Kiki's direction, because once my father located me, he started walking over, and I knew I had to intercept him right away. I mean, the last thing I wanted was for him to actually meet anyone.

“Excuse me,” I said, rushing up to him. “Like, what are you doing here?”

“Well…” he said as I pulled him toward the nonfiction section, “can I just say that it sort of feels like you're avoiding me?”

“And can I just say that it feels like you keep popping up out of nowhere?” I backed up so that we were between the stacks. “Like, literally Out. Of. Nowhere.” I made no attempt to hide my irritation.

“Um, okay…communication,” he replied. “This is good.”

I didn't respond. We stood there for a long, tense moment.

“Um, okay…no communication,” he said. “Not so good.”

I poked my head around the bookshelves and glanced over at the Septathlon team, feeling embarrassed. After all, what could be more hideous than your long-lost, wanna-fill-some-holes father showing up at school just because he wanted to, like, get to know you?

So lame.

Kiki and Brattany tapped their wrists as if they were wearing watches, to let me know I should hurry. Sofes ran her fingers through her hair, checking the strands for split ends. Q and Beanpole, however, gazed at me with concern written all over their faces.

“Why are you here?” I asked, turning around to face my father.

“I wanted to see your school,” he answered. “I've never been here before. It's, uh…nice.”

He surveyed the library. I noticed he was wearing one of those stupid school name tags on his green shirt. The front office secretary must have made him stick it on after he showed some ID. His badge said,
GROVER PARK MIDDLE SCHOOL VISITOR: MICHAEL ANDREW SAUNDERS
.

That's when I realized that his initials were M.A.S. My initials are M.A.S., too, my middle name being Alexandra. I wasn't sure if I'd ever known that before.

“I gotta go,” I said, shaking my head.
We shared the same initials?
This was just way too much.

“Wait,” he replied, grabbing my arm. I lowered my eyes to the spot where his hand held on to me. He let go. “Can I ask you a question?”

“What?”

“Do we, you know…have a chance?”

Why did he have to do this now? I stared at my shoes, avoiding eye contact. It was a long time before I answered.

“I dunno.”

He waited for more. There was no more, that was it.

“But that's not a no, is it?” he asked hopefully.

“It's not a yes, either,” I said as I began to walk away.

“Wait,” he said, grabbing my arm again.

I sighed. “What?”

“Will you see me?”

He let go.

“Huh?”

“A specific time. A specific place. Can you make a definite commitment to that, like a date?”

A date?
I felt my jaw clench.
What to do, what to do?

I guess it was inevitable that it would one day come to this, even though I had really hoped it wouldn't. I had grown up with a mom, not a dad. I loved my mom. Of course. But did I hate my dad? Not really. I'd just never really thought about him all that much. I'd never thought much about the fact that our family didn't own a pet parakeet, either. I mean, when you don't really have something in your life, you don't really miss it; but when you get what you never had, are you supposed to be happy about it? Or sad that you are just now getting what you should have had all along?

This whole hole-filling thing of his confused me. And I didn't want to find out if it would eventually make any sense, either.

“Okay,” I replied.

He smiled.

Well, what was I supposed to do? He's my father.

“When?” he asked.

“Three weeks after my twenty-fifth birthday, I have an opening for lunch. But just a sandwich, not like a full sit-down meal.”

His smile grew. “You always were the funniest in the family, dimps.”

Well, maybe I didn't want to be funny. Maybe I wanted to be alluring or talented or exotic or glamorous. Screw funny. But, of course, how would he even know that, considering he'd been out of my life for, oh, like practically all of it?

My shoulder muscles got tighter and tighter.

“Maybe there's a question you want to ask me?” he asked.

A question?

“G'head,” he said. “I can take it.”

“Here? Now?”

I peeked back at the girls. The ThreePees
harrumphed
, getting more and more annoyed that I was wasting their time. Q and Beanpole, however, looked more and more concerned for me.

“Really, I can take it, dimps,” he said. “You know, holes to fill.”

For the record, I officially hated how he called me dimps. I mean, what kind of stupid nickname was that to give a person, anyway? And why did he feel he was even allowed to give me a nickname? Maybe he could have started with giving me something a bit more practical, like bike-riding lessons or help with my math homework or…

I stopped, my entire body rigid. The anger in me was growing, and I hated when I felt like that. Being angry angered me, if that makes any sense, and the only thing I knew was that I didn't want to think about or talk about or deal with any of this stuff anymore.

Especially with him.
Why did he even have to come back?

“Okay, I have a question,” I said, an obvious edge in my voice. “Are you going to hurt Mom?” I glared. “Again?” I added.

Whoa. I could tell he hadn't been expecting that one. He ran his fingers through his hair and took a moment before answering.

“I'm going to try not to,” he said.

I waited for more. There was no more. That was it. A moment later, I shook my head and started walking back to the table.

“Hey,” he called. “Where are you going?”

“Date's off.” Hopefully he had brains enough to figure out why. Trying not to hurt Mom wasn't good enough. He
had
to not hurt Mom.

I walked over to the study table without looking back, but I could feel my father's eyes following me. After I sat down in my chair, I stole a small glance in his direction.

But he was gone.

I scanned the room. Nothing.

I looked toward the front entrance. A blur of his green shirt caught my eye as the door closed behind him.

Yep, he was gone. Maybe forever. Maybe not. What did I know?

“Can we please get back to what we were doing?” Kiki yipped, as if she had about a thousand different places she'd rather be.

Beanpole stared at me compassionately. “You okay?” she asked, rubbing my back.

“I need chocolate,” I said. “Large amounts.”

“Trust me,” Kiki answered. “No, you don't.”

W
e'd barely survived two weeks of intense studying with the ThreePees.

“I hate them. I seriously hate them,” I said as we sat in Beanpole's bedroom on the Sunday before the Septathlon. “It's only twenty-four hours, but I don't know if I am going to make it. In fact, I don't even know how I made it this far.”

“We should invite them over and pull out their toenails,” Q said, sitting in the corner like a mouse.

“I already did,” Beanpole answered.

“What?” I exclaimed.

Beanpole flipped through the mountaineering section of her closet, seeking out a lightweight polyurethane jacket suitable for modest precipitation. “I invited them over,” she repeated, like it was no big deal.

“You invited them here?” I asked. “When?”

“Any minute.”

“Excellent,” Q said. “It's toenail time.”

“Stop that, Alice,” Beanpole said. “It's not nice to be not nice. We're a team, remember?”

I rolled my eyes. Uh-oh, here we go, I thought. Time for another cheer.

“We're the Aardvarks,

The mighty, mighty Aardvarks!

We're the
—”

“Enough. We get it, Beanpole,” I said, cutting her off. “And they agreed to this?” Something smelled fishy.

“Well…not exactly,” Beanpole answered. “But Sofes has a plan.”

“Did you say
Sofes
has a plan?”

The doorbell rang.

“That's them.”

“Can't wait,” I said. “Maybe we'll celebrate with hemlock.”

“Or at least make them drink it,” Q added. “I bet you…” She stopped to cough. “I betya I could sneak some into their energy drinks.”

She reached for her scuba tank to absorb some inhibitors.
Wheeesh-whooosh. Wheeesh-whooosh.

“Be nice, you two,” Beanpole said. “They're our guests, remember.”

“That's what the people at the Last Supper said about one of their guests, too,” I remarked.

Beanpole pretended not to hear and disappeared downstairs. Q lowered her inhaler but still coughed.

“You okay?” I asked as she struggled to catch her breath. She'd been carrying this barking camel in her throat for more than a week now.

“I'm fine,” she replied, taking a swirly-straw sip of her thingamajiggy juice to clear her windpipe.

“You don't look fine,” I told her. “In fact, you look kind of haunted-housey.”

“Just the rain,” she said. “When the wetness mixes with the cold, I—” She coughed.

And coughed and coughed. She could barely catch her breath.

“Are you sure you're okay?” I asked. “Maybe I should call your mom so—”

“I'm fine!” she snapped. But clearly she was not fine. I grew more concerned.

“You know she'd want me to,” I said. Ever since I had become tight with Q, I felt that I owed it to her mother to let her know when her daughter wasn't doing well. With all we'd been through already this past year, I just felt like it was kind of expected of me to look out for her.

But of course, Q's whole goal was to reduce her dependence on her mother, not increase it, and even the suggestion that I might get her mom on the phone caused her to shoot daggers in my direction.

“Just zip your”—
Wheeesh-whooosh. Wheeesh-whooosh
…Q struggled to take a slurp off her scuba tank—“lips,” she finally said. I watched as she wrapped her scarf more tightly around her neck. “I'll be fine.”

“I'm calling,” I said. “You look like you're about to faint.” I reached for my cellie.

“Don't!” she ordered. We heard the rustle of the girls coming up the stairs. “And don't say anything in front of the”—
Wheeesh-whooosh. Wheeesh-whooosh
—“witches, either.”

I stared at her, phone in hand.

“Got”—
Cough-cough
—“me?”

Reluctantly, just as the footsteps were getting ever so close, I put my phone away. “Yeah, I got you, Miss Stubborn.”

“Look who's talking,” Q replied.

Is there anything more frustrating than wanting to strangle your NFF? Beanpole entered first.

“Come in, come in, there's plenty of room for everybody,” she said with a bounce. Clearly, having this many people over to her house was the thrill of a lifetime for Beanpole.

The ThreePees entered slowly, cautiously. Kiki and Brattany gazed around, uncertain looks on their faces as they took in the wholesome pictures of sunflowers and the fluffy mint green pillows that complemented the room. Sofes, however, sported a pleasant, warm smile.

Kiki caught sight of Q. “She gonna yak?”

“Yeah,” Brattany said, turning her shoulder away as if she didn't want to breathe in the same air. “Freako looks ready to go all projectile on us.”

“She's fine,” I said, dismissing their concerns. Why I was standing up for her instead of getting her home, or even to a doctor, was beyond me. I mean, where was the line between being a friend and, well…being a friend? “All right, let's get to it, already,” I said, changing the subject. The ThreePees had only been in the room for thirty seconds, and already I was looking forward to the moment that they would leave.

“Yes, let's,” Brattany said, reaching into her purse. Beanpole closed the door as Brattany raised her cell phone camera.

Raised her cell phone camera?
Was she preparing to film something?

“Okay…” Kiki said, looking at me, waiting.

“Okay what?” I said.

“Okay…forfeit,” she said.

“Forfeit? What are you talking about?” I said. “We're not forfeiting.”

“Of course you are,” Brattany said from behind her camera. “Why else would we be here other than to hear you say you quit so we don't get into trouble with Mr. Moron?”

“I wouldn't quit if you”—
Wheeesh-whooosh. Wheeesh-whooosh
—“set my hair on fire,” Q declared through a cough.

“Give me some matches and I'd be glad to do the honor.”

“You want a match, Brattany? My butt and your face,” I said.

“Oh, yeah?” Kiki said. “Well, let me tell you something, skinny-chubby. I've had just about enough of…” Suddenly Kiki stopped talking and spun around to face Sofes. Her eyes blazed. “You said they were quitting,” she said.

“
Welllll
…”

“Well what, Sofes?”

“Yeah, like why are we here?” Brattany asked, lowering her camera.

“For uniforms?” Sofes answered. “I thought we should, you know, wear uniforms for solidarnity.”

“She means solidarity,” Beanpole said. “You know, so we can be a team. I mean, did you see how great Saint Dianne's looked? We need to be able to match up with them on every front.”

“You mean you knew about this?” Kiki said to Sofes.

Sofes averted her eyes and quietly nodded. She and Beanpole had conspired to try to bring the groups together. She had gotten Kiki and Brattany here by telling them the Nerds had decided to forfeit.

“Has the last brain cell in your mental boat finally abandoned ship? I mean, you know how I feel about—”

Suddenly, there was a voice from outside the door.

“Who's ready for a snacky-wacky?”

Department Store Mom, her timing perfect as usual, entered carrying a tray filled with homemade raspberry tarts. “They're scrumalumptious.”

Kiki's jaw practically dropped when she saw Beanpole's mom. A red-checked apron. A matching red-checked hair band. A smile that looked as if she were ready to sell home appliances in a 1950s magazine. The expression on Kiki's face said it all:

You can't be serious.

Oh no, I thought, shaking my head. Here we go.

“I made
treeeee
-eats,” Department Store Mom said in a bubbly voice.

“Yay! Friendship tarts,” Beanpole exclaimed, taking the tray of goodies from her mother.

“And I'll be back in a flash with the other stuff,” Beanpole's mom said as she exited the room. “Jeepers, I'm practically tingling.”

“Thanks, Mommy.” Beanpole, smiling from ear to ear, began explaining the theme of today's treats as she held out the silver serving tray for all of us to see. “Six girls, twelve hands, all joined together and cherishing the oneness of Aardvarkness.”

“The oneness of Aardvarkness?” Kiki asked.

No, I thought. No.

“Did you really just say ‘oneness of Aardvarkness'?” Kiki inquired.

“Yep,” Beanpole replied, with extra perk on top. “It's today's motif.”

“Hey, Keeks…” Brattany said, picking up a tart.

“Hold on,” Kiki responded as she stared in disbelief at Beanpole.

“No, Keeks, really,” Brattany said. “You gotta see this.”

“One sec, Brit,” Kiki told her. “I'm still dealing with this whole ‘oneness of Aardvarkness' thing.”

“You mean theme,” Beanpole said, correcting Kiki. “Putting themes in the food is a way of making sure all our efforts have a centralized pattern. I eat motifs all the time.”

“Um, Kiki…I think this pastry is supposed to look like you.”

“Huh?” Kiki turned and picked up a tart.

It did look like her. Matter of fact, for a baked-food item, it was a pretty good replica.

“You can't be serious,” Kiki said, mortified by the pastry in her hand.

I lowered my eyes. See, in life, there are some swimming pools you have to enter from the shallow end, because jumping right away into the deep water might be overwhelming. That's how it was with Beanpole's house. Kiki needed to have started with something like a sip of iced oolong tea, or maybe taken a trip to the bathroom, where the toilet paper was folded into elegant, symmetrical triangles. But to dive right away into oneness-of-Aardvarkness-themed pastries that looked like her? Well, I could see why she was struggling.

“And they're made with one hundred percent organic ingredients, too,” Beanpole added. “The berries are from our garden.”

Kiki set down the tart. “Why are we here?” she said to Sofes.

“For the uniforms,” Sofes answered. “You said yourself that at the talent show a few months ago the Nerd Girls looked pretty stylish. Barbara's mom made them.”

“That doesn't mean I want to join the doofwad parade,” Kiki snapped.

Brattany couldn't take her eyes off the tart that had been fashioned in her image. “She made a piece of food that looks like me. That's, like, creepy.”

“I think it's nice,” Sofes said. “I mean, your mom gives us snacks when we go to your house, Brit.”

“Yeah, but she does what normal moms do; she buys them from the store. This is what stalkers who plan to eat their victims do,” Brattany replied.

“Knockitty-knock.” Department Store Mom reentered, carrying a box. “Oh, you girls are going to love what I have done with the uniforms. Trust me,” she said, looking at Brattany. “You're going to look dee-licious.”

Brattany edged backward, the look on her face saying it all:

Don't eat me.

“Now, I guesstimated your blouse sizes based on your yearbook pictures, but I want to make sure that they fit properly, because first impressions always count.” I could tell by the mile-wide grin on her face that Department Store Mom's perk-o-meter was cranked to full throttle. If ever I wondered where Beanpole had gotten her bubbles from, this was proof that they were woven into her DNA.

Kiki and Brattany hesitated, unsure of how to respond. However, Department Store Mom had plenty of experience in dealing with reluctant, snooty customers from back in the days when she worked in a retail store, so she handled the snobbery and standoffishness like a first-class pro.

“This will up your chances of winning a lot,” Department Store Mom informed them. “Look good, feel good, project confidence, be confident, that sort of thing. Plus, you girls are so pretty,” she said, speaking especially to Kiki and Brattany, “I'm sure you're just going to wow the entire television audience once you hit the stage.”

Mentioning TV and appealing to their sense of vanity was smart. I could tell by the way the snobs were listening that the strategy was working.

“What do you say?” Beanpole's mom continued addressing Kiki specifically. “I mean, for a clothing designer, creating an outfit for someone with, how should I say this…with your athletic form…Well, I bet you could wear a tablecloth and make it look good.”

Department Store Mom reached into a box and held up a long-sleeved black top that looked unlike any other piece of middle-school clothing I'd ever seen. Blazed across the front was our mascot, the Aardvark. Of course, normally, our mascot was the most pathetic creature ever invented. I mean, how many kids in this world are jealous of schools that have mules or earthworms for mascots? That's how bad it was for us at Grover Park. Our Aardvark was the saddest of the sad in a world filled with sad and bad.