Summer of the Geek (5 page)

But now, seeing Charlie’s expression—her brow furrowed, her lips pressed into a tight, white line—I thought that the feelings might still be there, at least on Charlie’s side. But I knew better than to ask her. She’d just deny it, and worse, would get into a snit with me. And since Charlie and I had just made up from our last fight, which had lasted several months, I didn’t want to stir the waters again so soon.

Charlie stopped abruptly in the parking lot, kicking a stone aside.

“I don’t even think she’s that pretty, do you?” Charlie asked me. “And I’m pretty sure her hair color isn’t natural.”

I decided not to point out the obvious—that Charlie’s own hair hadn’t been a natural shade since she bought her first box of hair coloring at the age of eleven—deciding that this observation would just irritate her further. So instead I shrugged and said, “I thought she was cute.”

“I don’t. Her nose is too thin,” Charlie said. “And her nostrils are too large.”

“Really? I didn’t notice that,” I said.

“How could you not notice? They’re freakishly large. I’ve seen horses with smaller nostrils,” Charlie said. She kicked another stone out of her way. “They’re so big, you could park a car in there.”

“Hmm,” I said noncommittally. I didn’t think that Phoebe had abnormally large nostrils. She was actually quite pretty. But I had a feeling Charlie wouldn’t want to hear that just now.

“Do you need a ride home?” Charlie asked. Unlike me, Charlie already had her driver’s license and an ancient Jeep, which she’d inherited from one of her older sisters.

“I biked over,” I said, gesturing toward my silver ten-speed, which I’d chained to the bike stand outside the bowling alley.

“That’s okay. We can throw your bike in the back of the Jeep.”

On the drive back to the beach house, Charlie was silent. I didn’t mind. I was turning the Amelia problem over in my head. I wondered if Charlie was right—maybe I did have a moral obligation to help Amelia. I had no intention of turning her into my minion, of course . . . but maybe, just maybe, I could teach her that it was possible to have an extraordinary talent and still live an ordinary life. Amelia could have friends, and be silly, and have interests outside of her music.

Yes, I decided, I should help her. Besides, I’d already accepted the job. I couldn’t quit after one day. I’d go back tomorrow, and I’d figure out a way to get Amelia to open up to me.

The only question was, how exactly was I supposed to go about doing that?

Dex called me on my cell phone that night after dinner. I was in my room, stretched out on my bed, rereading
How to Get Noticed
and wondering if I should expand on the story, maybe even turn it into a short novel. I’d never taken on such a big project before, but the idea was exciting.

“Hey, you,” Dex said. His voice was soft and warm in my ear, and I felt the familiar zing shoot through me. “How was your day?”

“Let me put it this way—it was so bad, I found myself hoping Amelia would ask me to play ‘pirates’ with her,” I said.

Dex laughed. “It was worse than being tied to a tree?” “Almost. Do you know anything about classical music?”

“Mozart. Beethoven. Bach.”

“Can you teach me about them?” I asked eagerly.

“No. All I know is their names.”

“Oh,” I said, deflating. “That’s not going to help much. I was hoping to bond with Amelia over music.”

“I can teach you how to pull a quarter out of her ear,” Dex suggested.

“Thanks, but I don’t think she’s the kind of kid who will be impressed by magic tricks. Any other ideas?”

Dex thought for a few moments. “I make excellent paper airplanes. Would she like that?”

“Doubtful.”

“Other than surfing and playing lacrosse, that pretty much exhausts my list of talents,” Dex said.

“Thanks anyway. I’ll figure something out. How was your first day of work?”

“Excellent. No one drowned, which is always a big plus when you’re a lifeguard.”

“Did you get to save anyone?”

“No. I did break up a cutthroat game of Marco Polo,” Dex said.

“How can Marco Polo be cutthroat?”

“Let’s just say it involved DP-ing,” Dex said ominously.

“What’s that?”

“It stands for Down Pants-ing.”

“Oh,” I said. “Yeah. That doesn’t sound good.”

“Let’s just say that I saw more of Jacob Maddigan and Robby Rios than I ever wanted to see.”

I laughed. Right now, talking to Dex, was the happiest I’d felt all day.

“Are we still on for tomorrow night?” Dex asked.

“Absolutely,” I said.

“H
i, Miranda,” Mrs. Fisher said as she opened the front door to me on my second day of work. “How are you this morning?”

“Hi, Mrs. Fisher. I’m fine, thanks,” I said. I shouldered my knapsack. Along with my writing notebook, it contained everything I could think of to bring that would interest a ten-year-old girl: art supplies, including construction paper, craft felt, glue, glitter and feathers, board games, and a selection of makeup pinched from Hannah’s bathroom drawer. She’d left for her trip to New York the day before, and so wouldn’t notice the missing candy-hued lip glosses and sparkly eye shadows.

“Amelia’s practicing,” Mrs. Fisher said, stepping aside to let me in.

I’d already figured this out, as I could hear the repetitive rise and fall of piano scales coming from the living room.

“She said that you two got along well yesterday,” Mrs. Fisher said, striding away down the hall.

“She did?” I asked, trailing behind her.

If Mrs. Fisher heard the surprise in my voice, she didn’t comment on it. She seemed to be in a hurry this morning, simultaneously sorting through the mail, drinking coffee, and fastening a chunky beaded bracelet onto her wrist.

“I’m sorry to rush off on you, but I have a client meeting I have to get to. I didn’t get a chance to make you girls lunch, but there’s some leftover pasta in the fridge. You can reheat that in the microwave,” Mrs. Fisher said, gathering up her belongings.

“Sure, no problem,” I said in a tone that I hoped inspired confidence.

“Bye, Miranda. Have a good day.”

“Bye,” I said.

“Good-bye, Amelia,” Mrs. Fisher called out, raising her voice to be heard over the droning scales.

Amelia didn’t answer her, but Mrs. Fisher didn’t seem to notice. Her cell phone rang, and she clicked it on and lifted it to her ear.

“Hello,” she said, leaving the house in a cloud of perfume, click-clacking heels, and animated conversation directed into the small, silver phone. When the door closed behind her, cutting her off midlaugh, the house suddenly seemed very still and quiet, save for the sound of Amelia’s piano.

“Here goes nothing,” I muttered to myself. I turned and headed toward the living room.

The Fishers’ living room was large, but still cozy and full of comfortable furniture—chairs, two couches, tables, bookshelves, and, of course, Amelia’s large piano.

Amelia sat at the piano, her back perfectly straight, and her small hands gliding easily over the keys. Her long dark hair was fastened back in a ponytail.

“Hi, Amelia,” I said as I walked up behind her.

She ignored me. I had expected this, and had already planned my line of attack. I was going to annoy Amelia into talking to me. Finn had inspired the idea by example.

I leaned on her piano and watched her play. I could tell from the slight stiffening in her back and the tight line of her lips that my presence was already having an effect.

“What are you playing?” I asked. “Are those scales?”

Amelia didn’t answer, but she immediately stopped playing the scales and instead began to play something quick and jaunty. I thought it sounded vaguely familiar.

“Wasn’t that on a commercial or something?” I hummed it.

“I’m pretty sure it was, although I can’t remember what for. Was it for an airline? Or maybe it was a cat food commercial?”

Amelia immediately stopped playing and glared up at me.

“It’s a sonata written by Joseph Haydn, if you must know,” she said, her voice round with contempt.

I kept my expression pleasantly neutral. “Was he a famous composer?”

Amelia’s lip curled. “You don’t know who Haydn was?” she asked.

I shook my head. “Nope.”

“Haydn was an illustrious eighteenth-century Austrian composer. He was a contemporary of Mozart and he taught Beethoven.” Amelia tossed her hair and sneered at me. “I can’t believe you’ve never heard of him. I thought you were supposed to be a genius.”

What sort of a ten-year-old used the word
illustrious
? I wondered. And why did people keep saying
I thought you were supposed to be a genius
to me? First Dex, now Amelia. But I couldn’t lose my temper now.

“Just in math. I don’t know anything about music. Maybe you could teach me,” I suggested cheerfully.

Amelia folded her arms across her chest and looked at me as though I were a cockroach skittering across the floor. “And why would I want to that?” she asked.

I felt my patience slipping away. “Look,” I said. “Your mom hired me to hang out with you, and I fully intend to do my job. So I’ll make you a deal—once a day, you do some sort of extracurricular activity with me. It doesn’t have to be anything big. We could just go for a walk, or go bike riding, or just sit and color. If you do that, I’ll let you practice in peace.”

“And if I don’t?” Amelia asked.

“I’ll bug you,” I said promptly. “Every time you sit down to practice, I’ll stand right here and do everything in my power to annoy you.”

“You can’t do that!” Amelia said, outraged.

I shrugged. “Sure I can. So there’s really no point in fighting me. Do you like arts and crafts? I brought glitter glue with me. And I brought Monopoly, too, if you’d rather play a game.”

Amelia’s eyes narrowed to angry slits. She turned abruptly away, lifted her hands, and began to play again.

“Ignoring me isn’t going to work,” I cautioned her.

Amelia continued to play. I sighed. She wasn’t giving me any choice. I cleared my throat and began to sing.

“Baa, baa, black sheep, have you any wool?”
I sang enthusiastically, but off-key. I never could carry a tune.
“Yes, sir, yes, sir, three bags full
.
”

Amelia thumped her hands down on the piano keys in a crash of frustration. “Stop that!” she cried. “I can’t concentrate!”

“One for my master, one for my dame, and one for the little boy who lives down the lane,”
I continued.

“What do I have to do to make you stop?” Amelia asked.

I stopped singing. “Play Monopoly with me,” I said.

“Just one game?”

“One game,” I agreed.

“And if I do, then you’ll let me practice?”

“Yes,” I said, adding, “At least for today.”

“Fine,” Amelia said, spitting the word out. “I’ll play one stupid game of stupid Monopoly with you.”

“Good,” I said sweetly. “I’ll set the board up on the kitchen table.”