A Catastrophe of Nerdish Proportions (14 page)

But this Aardvark was growling.

And muscle-bound.

And had a look of fiery determination in its eyes. It was the most ferocious Aardvark I'd ever seen. Instantly, I loved it.

Two minutes later, Kiki was in the bathroom changing her clothes. When she walked out, I couldn't help saying, “Wow.” I mean, if there had been a contest for best body in the school, Kiki would have won hands down.

“Talk about form-fitting,” I said.

Kiki looked at herself in the full-length mirror, checking herself out from every angle.

“When you've got the form, it doesn't just fit, Nerd Girl,” she said, making no attempt to hide how impressed she was with herself. “It
purrrrs
.”

Brattany and Kiki smiled at one another. Their arrogance was unreal. But the outfit looked so good on Kiki, she decided to keep it on. Especially because any little help she could get to beat, or at least intimidate, Wynston Haimes and the snoots from Saint Dianne's was something she was going to seize.

“And now for these.” Department Store Mom held up the pants she'd made to go with the top. They had a streak of fire running down the leg.

“Amazing, Mommy!” Beanpole said as she held the clothing up to her body.

“I didn't even think it was possible to make an Aardvark outfit look cool,” I commented as Department Store Mom passed us our uniforms.

We took turns dashing into different rooms—the other bedrooms, the bathrooms—to get changed. The plan was that once we were in our uniforms we'd meet back in Beanpole's room so that Department Store Mom could inspect each of our outfits to figure out what slight adjustments were needed to get everything to look perfectly tailor-made.

Q disappeared into the master bathroom. When she came out, she looked transformed.

“Entirely nerdvarkian,” she said through a cough.

“Fits great,” I confirmed as I looked at myself in the mirror. This was a huge statement for me, because hating my body and hating the way I looked was pretty much how I always felt whenever I put on new clothes. After all, round is a tough shape to love. It was like there was a recording that always played in my head:
I would look so much better if only I lost a few more pounds.

Literally, every time I looked in a mirror, the same tape played over and over.

I would look so much better if I lost a few pounds.

I would look so much better if I lost a few pounds.

I would BE so much of a better person if only I lost a few pounds.

The idea had been practically etched into my brain.

However, as Department Store Mom had taught me a couple of months back, dark tones slenderized, and the way she had put this whole outfit together, well…at least I didn't look like someone from Planet Fat Girl.

But still, I would have looked so much better if only I had lost a couple of pounds. (Like I said, permanent.)

Beanpole, having quickly changed, hustled back out. The clothes fit her like a glove.

“Hmm,” Department Store Mom said. “I just got an idea about accessorizing. Back in a minute.” She dashed off.

Her perk-o-meter screaming off the charts when she saw the six of us dressed in matching, awesome Aardvark uniforms, Beanpole started bobbing her head and began to chant.

“We're the Aardvarks,

The mighty, mighty Aardvarks!

We're the Aardvarks,

The mighty, mighty Aardvarks!”

“Don't get all nutso over there,” Kiki said to Beanpole, still looking at herself in the mirror. “I'm only in it for the purse.”

“The purse?”

“Yeah,” Brattany replied. “Some old-timers' club is sponsoring a cash prize of $3,500 dollars to the winning team. Almost six hundred buck-a-roos to each of the contestants.”

“They are?” I said.

“Turns out some geezers participated in Septathlon back in the nineteen hundreds or something and want to give back to education.” Brattany checked out her butt in the mirror. Let's just say that Mother Nature had blessed her quite bountifully, too. “They're sponsors or something like that.”

“Sponsors? More like suckers, if you ask me,” Kiki said. “But if they are going to give me the cash to score a François Fumeil, I am gonna take the money and run.” She smoothed out the sides of her pants. “I mean, why else do you think we're trying as hard as we are?

“I mean, come on,” she continued, with a laugh. “You think we're in this for the school spirit?”

Kiki and Brattany giggled at the idea of it. However, just as they chuckled, they saw the smile fade from Beanpole's face.

“Oh, my gawd,” Kiki said, shaking her head once she realized that school spirit was the exact reason Beanpole was so hypermotivated by this whole thing. “What a nerd.”

“Yeah,” Brattany chimed in. “Like Daddy always says, it's all about the cash, baybee.”

Kiki and Brattany high-fived. “Double-double nice-nice,” they said in unison.

Q's coughing spell began anew.

“Listen, you dorkwads, better show up big-time for the competition tomorrow,” Kiki warned as she headed for the door. “And you better have your game faces on.”

“Yeah,” Brattany added. “If we are going to score some François Fumeil purses, your side of the ship has to step up.”

“And that means we're counting on the alien,” Kiki said, pointing at Q, “as well as praying for Einstein over here.” She pointed to Sofes. “To hit a streak of luck.”

Sofes looked down, embarrassed.

“Oh, I'll be there,” Q fired back. “I'll be there in full—”
Cough-cough
. She couldn't even finish her thought.

“Don't strain yourself, weirdo,” Kiki responded. “Come on, girls, we are outee.”

“But what about the accessories?” Beanpole asked. “My mom will be back in a minute.”

“You handle it,” Kiki said. “For minor crud like this, Beanpole, we trust ya.”

“We'll let ourselves out,” Brattany said, and a moment later, the three of them were gone.

Beanpole, Q, and I sat quietly in the room for a moment, staring at one another.

“Have I mentioned how much I hate them?”

A
s if having to deal with the ThreePees on a Sunday weren't bad enough, when I walked up to my house, the rain still drizzling, I noticed a silver BMW with black leather seats parked in the driveway.

Oh, great, time for more hole-filling.

I approached the front door. Why couldn't doughnuts be a diet food, I wondered as I put my key in the lock. I mean, really, we'd have so many more healthy people on this planet if they were.

I entered. Mom, Dad, and Ashley were sitting at the dining room table, looking through a bunch of flyers about gymnastics camps to send my sister to the following summer. Expensive, out-of-state stuff. I raised my hand before anyone could say a word.

“Hold on. Gotta pee.”

I set my backpack down in its usual spot by the couch and headed for the bathroom. Come TV time tomorrow, I wouldn't be thin, but I certainly would have tried. It had been a bunch of days since I'd had a carb, a piece of chocolate, or a sugary soft drink, but after the show, someone would have to send a text message to every cupcake in town, letting them know that a maniac was on the loose.

I washed my hands, took a breath, and headed out to
face the fam
.

“Verdict,” Ashley said as I approached the table. “Dad rocks.” She moved aside some papers and showed me a brand-new tablet computer. “Wicked, huh? Top of the line.”

“Where's Marty?”

“Spending the night at a friend's,” Mom answered.

“Convenient.”

“Don't start, Boo.” A buzzer went off in the kitchen. “Hey, brownies are ready. Ashley, will you please come help me take them out?”

“Mom, you don't need me to help you take out the brownies. I want to show Maureen my new computer.” Ashley turned to me. “And there's an app that gives me an allowance to buy other apps, so I can even load it up with—”

“Ash-leee,” my mom said with an
I'm not fooling around here
tone in her voice. “I asked you to please come help me with the brownies. We need to cut them.”

“But you don't cut brownies until they cool,” Ashley replied, still not taking the hint.

“We'll fan them with place mats,” Mom said. “One section of the pan at a time. Come.”

I looked at my mother. “Subtle, Mom. Real subtle.”

“I don't know what on earth you are talking about, Boo,” she said, smoothing her blouse. “Ashley, put that down and go grab a spatula. Now.”

A minute later, I was alone with my father, just as Mom had wanted. Was I even supposed to call him Dad? This was just weird.

“Nice computer, huh?” he said, to get some sort of conversation rolling.

“I guess,” I replied. “I mean, I'm not the biggest tech dork ever.”

“Nope, just a regular dork,” Ashley said, popping her head in from the kitchen. “No need to leave this with you.” She picked up her new tablet from the table. However, unable to resist temptation, she showed me the screen and started tapping away. “Check it out. There's also this new app where you can—”

“Ash-leee,” Mom called from the kitchen.

“Coming, Ma-hmm,” Ashley yelled. “I'll show you later,” she said to me. She disappeared.

Once my sister was gone, there was an awkward silence.

“So, what kind of stuff do you like?”

Oh great, time for bonding.
Uncomfortable
.

“I dunno,” I said, without much energy. All I really wanted was to eat an apple, take a bath, and get into bed. Tomorrow was a big day.

Of course, Dad kept pressing, though.

“You know, if you wanted a new computer, I could get you one, too,” he offered.

“Marty says you're trying to buy our love.”

“He said that?” my father asked, looking somewhat hurt.

“Is that what you're doing? Are you trying to buy our love?”

“You ask a lot of direct questions, don't you, dimps?”

Yup, he was trying to buy our love. I mean, if that was his answer, he definitely was trying to buy our love, right?

“No, I'm not trying to ‘buy your love,' as Marty puts it.” He ran his fingers through his hair. “I'm offering to buy you a computer. Not exactly the same thing.” He played with his watchband for a moment, unbuckling the black leather strap, then refastening it. “Well, maybe I am trying to win you over a bit. Can you cut a guy some slack?”

I didn't answer.

“So, are you going to continue to avoid me?” he asked.

I want to.

Well, I didn't say that, but that's what I was thinking. I mean, it certainly seemed to be Marty's plan.

I had tried to talk to Marty about this whole situation. Three times. Once, he told me he was doing a project involving data structures for his AP science class and couldn't chat right then. The second time was the previous Saturday morning, when he told me we'd have to speak later, 'cause he was up until three a.m. and wanted to sleep in. The third time went something like this.

MARTY
: Okay, I promise to meet you at Starbucks after school.

ME
: You promise?

MARTY
: I do. I really, really promise.

And then he didn't show up.

It stinks getting stood up by your own brother. It especially stank since he and I are kind of close. I mean, sure, he's tortured me my whole life, playing pranks and whatnot, but he's also been there for me and protected me. I thought this might be a time when I could maybe be there for him, like, return the favor. But he'd shut me out. Shut us all out, like some kind of angry snapping turtle that had bitterly retreated into its shell. Poke your finger too far inside and it might get bitten off. I'd never seen Marty so enraged.

I was scared for him.

I changed the subject. The whole conversation was getting way too deep for me.

“What do you even do?” I asked, wondering how he made a living. I mean, I knew nothing about his job, where he lived, what his favorite movies were. He was a total stranger to me, a complete foreigner who was now just randomly popping into my life from totally out of nowhere.

And just because he popped, did that mean I had to let him?
Sheesh
, if smoking weren't such a revolting, terrible, gives-you-cancer habit, I think I wouldda needed a cigarette.

“I make chips,” he answered.

“Like potato chips?”

“No.” He smiled. “Computer chips. For smartphones, mobile media devices, tablets. I tinker for a living.”

“Are you rich?”

“I do okay,” he said. “The business changes very fast, though.”

“I need to go to bed now. Got some big stuff tomorrow.”

“Yeah, your mom told me. Academic something or other,” he said. “Mind if I come?”

Huh?

“You know, to root you on?”

'Cause, like, that's what dads do, right? They root their kids on.

Pah-thetic.

“Whaddya think?” he asked. “I'd like to sit in the audience and support you, if that's okay.”

No, it wasn't okay. I didn't want him to come. But then again, I didn't want to be a bad person for not wanting him to come, either. I mean, when I think of Q, I know she'd chop off her left leg to have her dad sitting in the audience to “root her on,” but she would never have that opportunity again.

Wow, I must be a real jerk. However, I also didn't have any fun pictures of me and my father wearing matching Mickey Mouse ears, either. And I hadn't even gotten a stupid birthday card from him for the past eight years. But now he wanted to sit in the audience while I answered questions meant for Harvard brainiacs, as if we were some sort of warm, fuzzy, lovey-dovey TV family like you'd see in a baby-shampoo commercial?

Urrggh
, why did all of this have to be so confusing? And so stressful? Couldn't he just disappear again?

No. I do not want you to come.

“Whatever,” I said. “It's a free country.”

Note to self: gotta work on saying what I'm really thinking before I reach adulthood.

“Actually, tickets cost fifteen dollars,” he told me. “Some kind of community fund-raiser.”

“You already bought one?” I asked. He didn't answer. Big on assumptions, wasn't he?

“Just determined to fill some holes, dimps. Just trying to fill some holes.”

Far as I was concerned, that was enough hole-filling for one night, so I rose from my chair and headed for my bedroom. Forget the apple. Not eating it would only mean I might lose another two ounces before I hit the stage tomorrow, and if TV cameras really did add ten pounds, that meant they would really only be adding 9 pounds 14 ounces, because there are 16 ounces in a pound, and when you convert to the metric system you have to remember that there are 2.2 kilometers to every mile, but a meter is somewhat close to a yard.

My head was spinning with Septathlon information. Goodness, I needed rest.

“Okay, so, I guess I'll, umm, see you tomorrow?” he said. “And good night?”

I wasn't sure if he expected a hug or something, but whatever; he wasn't getting one from me.

“Yeah. G'night.”

I grabbed my backpack and headed for my room. However, on the way there, I heard Mom step out into the dining room to ask my dad a question, so, like any good kid, I ducked behind a wall and eavesdropped.

“How'd it go?”

“Slow,” he responded. “Very slow.”

“You expected different?”

“I'd hoped.”

“Well, you did all this to yourself,” Mom said in a stern tone.

“I know,” he answered softly. “I know.”

My mom, her sixth sense of motherliness apparently tingling, must have suspected something, and a moment later she craned her neck to look around the corner.

Busted!

Thump, thump, thump
. I darted to my bathroom, turned on the tub, and quickly started getting undressed. A few moments later, there was a tap at the door.

“Knock, knock, Boo…Can I come in?”

I put on my bathrobe. After all, I was far too ashamed of my body to let even my mother see me undressed these days. Kiki Masters I was not.

I unlocked the door. “Come on in.”

Mom entered and smiled warmly. Her brown hair swayed to the left as she sat on the edge of the tub and gently checked the temperature of the bath.

“How you doing, honey?” she asked.

“'Kay,” I said.

She paused, waiting for more. Mom knew me too well, better than anyone, probably.

“Boo, come on. What's up?”

“I'm worried, Mom. Worried about you. This whole thing's weird. He's weird.”

“He's not weird.”

“Okay, he's not weird,” I conceded. “I mean, it's not like he has three nostrils or anything, but still, it's weird, ya know? I mean, you're, like, dating Dad.”

“Yeah,” she said. “I am.”

I had a feeling he might have been right outside the door, trying to listen in on our conversation, but the tub was still filling with water, and hearing our voices over the noise was probably impossible.

Still, I talked low.

“What's this about, Mom?”

“About?”

“Yeah, like, what are you doing? What do you want?”

“Want?” She didn't really seem prepared for the question.

“Yeah,” I said. “Like, what do you want?”

She ran her hand back through the rising bathwater.

“I'm not sure,” she said. “Actually, I know what I want,” she added, as if suddenly realizing she'd known the answer all along. “I want what's best for my kids.”

“Not what's best for you?” I asked.

“Aw, Boo, when you're a mom, you don't really think like that.”

“But you should,” I told her. “You should think about you, Mom. You need to do what's right for you, not just me.”

She stared at me, her eyes getting watery.

“Thanks, Boo. You're the best.”

She took a bottle of rosemary-mint bubble bath down from the shelf and poured some into the water. A cloud of freshness filled the room.

“Your tub's ready,” she said, moving her hand gently through the foam. “You want me to…you know, wash your hair?”

“Aw, Mom,” I said as she turned off the water. “I wash my own hair these days.”

She smiled, and a tear fell from her eye. “I know you do, Boo. I know you do.” She stood and kissed me on the forehead. “Get some rest tonight, honey. I'm proud of you.”

“Proud of me?” I said. “For what? I haven't done anything.”

“Boo, you do more for other people than I think you'll ever know.”

She wiped the tears from her eyes and walked out. I reached over, locked the door again, and got in the tub. The warm water felt soothing, nice. I dunked my head, put a washcloth over my eyes, and tried to let all the stress melt away.

Sometimes, there's nothing better than a warm bath with yummy smells.