A Catastrophe of Nerdish Proportions (15 page)

A
t lunchtime, the six of us met in the campus courtyard to sort out some last-minute details about the competition later that night. We gathered on the ThreePees' turf, right by the brick wall near the cement stairs. As nerds, Beanpole, Q, and I usually sat in the far end of the courtyard, away from everybody. As the pretty, popular, perfect petunias, the ThreePees sat in the middle of everything.

That was just the way life worked. The best-looking people with the best-polished fingernails got the best lunchtime real estate. Everyone else got the leftovers. No use complaining.

It was funny how joining the ThreePees at their table felt weird to me, as if I'd entered an area where I instinctively knew I didn't belong. It was strange, because no one really “owned” the lunch area; the school did. But the way kids always divided it up in the same way, year after year, it was practically a tradition, one that had probably been formed way back before I was even born. Kids just followed the same pattern: cool kids in the center, everyone else everywhere else.

The unspoken rules of life were so bizarre, when I really thought about them. I wondered, was I the only one who wasted brain waves thinking about this kind of stuff?

Q, Beanpole, and I sat down. People showed up for the giant end-of-the-year Graduation Groove Down or the Love Is in the Air Valentine's Day soirée. But no one on campus really gave two scoops of a poop about the Academic Septathlon. And for sure, not a soul at Grover Park planned on coming out to support us at the Civic Center. I didn't blame them, though. Heck, if I hadn't had to be there, I would have stayed home and twiddled my thumbs, too.

The talk of the town we were not.

“All right, let's draw numbers for the order we'll appear in,” Kiki said, taking out a pen and a sheet of paper. “I mean, it's ridiculous we haven't figured this out already,” she added, with a disapproving look at me.

“Ooh,” Sofes asked. “Can I pick first?”

“You can't pick at all,” Brattany said. “She's only writing down five numbers, not six.”

“Yeah, Sofes,” Kiki told her. “We already decided that you're going last, remember?”

“But I thought that was a joke,” Sofes said.

“The only joke is that you're even going to be onstage with us.” Kiki wrote down the numbers one through five down on a sheet of paper. “Hopefully, by going last, you'll get less questions than the rest of us. Every point could count.”

Beanpole, Q, and I didn't say anything on behalf of Sofes, as Kiki, having written down the numbers, began tearing the sheet of paper into five little strips to be folded over. Clearly, Sofes's feelings were hurt. Clearer still, though, was the fact that Kiki and Brattany really didn't give a hoot.

“All right,” Kiki said, mixing up the numbers. “Pick, dorks.”

She held out her cupped hands with the five pieces of paper that would determine our order of appearance. Once this was decided, it would be set, no changes. In a world of rules, rules, rules, everything in the Academic Septathlon was predetermined.

We picked. The order in which we would appear turned out to be:

1. Beanpole
   
2. Brattany
   
3. Me
   
4. Kiki
   
5. Q
   
6. Sofes
   

“There. Now for the captain,” Kiki said, giving me another look. “I guess we'll just have to flip a coin.”

“Or you could just let—” Q paused to cough. She looked even paler today. “You could just let Maureen be captain.”

“Is the Alien Answer Machine even going to live to see the end of this?” Brattany asked.

“Yeah,” Kiki said. “She looks like her home planet is calling.”

“You know, I think it'd be nice if we stopped calling one another names,” Beanpole interjected. “After all, we're teammates. We need to embrace our oneness.”

“All I'm saying is that I better not catch something from her,” Brattany replied. “My dad's a lawyer.”

“Just flip the coin,” I said, thanking the heavens this would end soon enough.

Brattany took a quarter out of her purse. Q inspected it to make sure that it actually had two sides and wasn't one of those rigged thingamajiggies that allowed the coin flipper to cheat. Knowing the ThreePees, I wouldn't have put it past them.

Satisfied that everything was legit, Q passed the coin back to Brattany, who got ready to make the toss.

“Call it in the air, Kiki.”

“Why does Kiki get to”—
Cough-cough
—“call it?” Q asked.

“It's okay,” I said, not really caring either way. “Let's just get this over with.” I didn't want to mention it, but I had to pee.

“Kiki…call it.” Brattany flipped. The coin sailed high in the air.

“Heads!” Kiki cried. We stared as the coin hit the ground.

“Tails. Maureen is”—
Cough-cough
—“captain.”

Kiki slammed her hand down on the table.

“Two out of three,” Brattany suddenly said.

“No way,” Q exclaimed. “That's such bunk.”

“It's always two out of three on planet Earth, allergy girl,” Brattany replied.

“Then you should have”—
Cough-cough
—“said that,” Q replied.

“Whatever,” I said to Q. “Just let's finish this, already. G'head, flip it again.”

Brattany smiled at Kiki with a kind of
Don't worry, I got your back
look in her eyes as she got ready to flip the coin a second time.

“Kiki, call it in the air.”

“Again, she gets to call it?” Q asked.

“Just flip it,” I said. I didn't even want to be captain. The only reason I was putting up a stink about it was that Kiki did want to be captain, and any wrench I could throw into her life seemed like a good wrench for me to throw.

Come to think of it, throwing a wrench at her head didn't seem like a bad idea, either.

“Come on, Keeks,” Sofes cheered. “You can do it.”

“I can do what?” Kiki asked.

“You can win it!” Sofes replied exuberantly.

Kiki flashed her a look of scorn. “You do realize that there is nothing I can actually do right now, don't you, Sofes? I mean, the coin gets tossed in the air and then we watch to see how it lands. There really is no
doing
.”

“Well,” Sofes replied. “If there was doing, you could do it.”

“Whut-ever,” Kiki said dismissively.

“Call it, Kiki.”

“This is such bunk,” Q grumbled. “It was never supposed to be two out of three.”

“Put a sock in it, nerd. Here we go.” Brattany flipped the coin. Kiki's eyes grew wide with hope.

“Tails!” she bellowed. The coin landed.

“Heads. Maureen's our captain,” Q announced.

Kiki slammed the table again.

“Unless you want to go three out of five. Or maybe five out of sev—” Q began to cough, unable to finish her sentence. She reached for a swirly-straw sip of her brown sludge, but not even that seemed to help.

“You sure you're not going to flurb out on us, freako?” Kiki snipped. “I mean, that would be such a nerdwad thing to do.”

Q, because of her coughing, couldn't respond.

Brattany shook her head as Q struggled to catch her breath. “I'm warning you,” Brattany said, pointing at Q. “My dad's a lawyer.”

“I'll”—
Wheeesh-whooosh. Wheeesh-whooosh
—“be there,” Q finally answered after a slurp on her inhaler. “Bet on it.”

“You know, we'd be a much better team if we actually supported one another in our oneness.”

“Just do us a favor and worry about yourself, Beanpole,” Kiki replied. “And be on time tonight. TV shows always start on time.”

“Yeah,” Brattany added. “Six o'clock on the boob tube, which means officially signing in by five thirty, or we're automatically disqualified.”

“Don't you think we should meet at least thirty minutes earlier than that, like by five?” Beanpole asked. “For the uniforms and stuff.”

“Fine,” Kiki replied. “But my advice,” she said, staring at Q, “is bring a stretcher for the creature. She looks like she's going to need an ambulance to get her to the stage.”

“Keep talking, witch, and I'll—” Alice stopped, coughing and wheezing harder.

“So dismal,” Kiki scoffed.

Our business in the prime real estate section done, Beanpole and I led Q back to our usual lunchtime spot.

“Are you okay?” I asked Q, when we finally got to our table.

“Fine,” she answered, pushing me away.

“But maybe you should—”

“I'm fine, Mom,” she replied sarcastically. Clearly, Q was sick and tired of the way people were always asking about her health. “Don't you gotta”—
Cough-cough
—“go pee or something?”

“Actually—”

“Then don't let me”—
Cough-cough
—“keep you.”

I turned to Beanpole for support. “You don't see any cause for concern here?”

Beanpole shrugged. “She's got a doctor. I mean, it probably just looks worse than it is.”

“Looks worse than it is. She looks like a zombie.” I turned to Q. “No offense, of course.”

She stuck her tongue out at me.

Q was chilled yet sweating, her hair damp, sticking to the sides of her neck. A part of me felt like I should call her mom right away, but another part of me knew that if I did, Q wouldn't speak to me for the next two hundred years.

If even then.

I shook my head, picked up my backpack, and got ready to head to the restroom.

“For the record, I think you should go to the school nurse,” I told her.

“And for the record, I think you should go to—” Her cough prevented her from finishing her thought, but I had a feeling I knew what she had been about to say.

I walked away.
Sheesh,
she is so hardheaded. I mean, being stubborn is one thing, but being an absolute—
oomff,
I bumped into somebody before I could finish my thought.

“Excuse me,” I said.

“Hey, Maureen.”

I looked up at the person I'd just crashed into. It was Logan Meyers, the blond-haired, blue-eyed Greek god of middle school.

“Oh hey, Logan. Sorry, I was just thinking about something.”

“Watchya doin'?” he asked.

“Um, going to the restroom,” I responded.

“Restrooms are stupid.”

“Uh, yeah…” I said, at a loss for words. “Excuse me.” I began to walk past him.

“I was gonna come tonight.”

I stopped.

“To the Civic Center?” I said.

“Yeah,” he answered. “I mean, Civic Centers are stupid, but I wanted to, you know, support you.”

“You did?”

“Actually, I'll probably fall asleep,” he confessed. “Unless they let me play video games on my phone. Video games are not stupid, you know.”

“Wait,” I said, uncertain. “Like, you bought a ticket?”

“Uh-huh.” He smiled, his blue eyes shimmering like the Pacific Ocean. “But I gotta say, fund-raisers are stupid.”

Suddenly, I heard a familiar voice from over my shoulder. “Well, well, well, if it isn't one of the proud members of our Grover Park Academic Septathlon team.” There was no need to turn and see who it was. The tone was too recognizable. “So, are we excited about tonight?” asked Mr. Piddles.

“Uh, yes, sir,” I said. What part of this whole experience hasn't been a unique and memorable joy? I thought.

“Funny,” Mr. Piddles commented, looking around. “I haven't seen much of your coach lately.”

“Really?” I said, as if this were the craziest comment I'd ever heard. “Oh, he's been working us so hard.”

“Has he, now?” Mr. Piddles asked, his teacher eyes lasering in on me. Those eyes, they were like truth beams, the kind that could read my soul. I got flustered and decided to hightail it out of there.

“If you'll excuse me, I have to use the restroom.”

“Of course, shirking one's professional duties would not be what I'd call very just, now, would it, Maureen?”

Gulp.
I knew I was about to get trapped into revealing something if I dared to open my yapper, so I lowered my head, pretended the comment didn't require any response, and got ready to make a beeline for the girls' bathroom.

But, of course, not talking was almost the same as talking, because it told Mr. Piddles I was hiding something. That was all he needed to confirm his suspicions.

“When you are done, Maureen, I'd like to see you in my classroom, please,” Mr. Piddles said. “And don't worry about attending your next class. I'll write you a pass once we are through with our discussion.”

Ah, jeez, I thought, I can't win for losing. I moped off to the bathroom.

“Like, see you tonight, Maureen!” Logan excitedly called out.

“See ya, Logan.”

“Perhaps one day you'll try out for an academic club, Mr. Meyers?” Mr. Piddles said to Logan as I walked off.