Read Going Geek Online

Authors: Charlotte Huang

Going Geek

ALSO BY CHARLOTTE HUANG

For the Record

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Text copyright © 2016 by Charlotte Huang

Cover front photograph copyright © 2016 by Shutterstock

All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Delacorte Press, an imprint of Random House Children's Books, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.

Delacorte Press is a registered trademark and the colophon is a trademark of Penguin Random House LLC.

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Educators and librarians, for a variety of teaching tools, visit us at
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Names: Huang, Charlotte, author.

Title: Going Geek / Charlotte Huang.

Description: First edition. | New York : Delacorte Press, [2016]

Summary: “Skylar Hoffman's senior year at her preppy East Coast boarding school should have been perfect: amazing boyfriend, the coolest friends, the most desirable dorm. But it's far from it.”— Provided by publisher.

Identifiers: LCCN 2015034406 | ISBN 978-0-553-53943-1 (hc) | ISBN 978-0-553-53945-5 (ebook)

Subjects: | CYAC: Social Issues—Peer Pressure. | Social Issues—Self-Esteem & Self-Reliance—Fiction. | Social Issues—New Experience —Fiction.

Classification: LCC PZ7.1.H74 Go 2016 | DDC [Fic]—dc23

Ebook ISBN 9780553539455

Random House Children's Books supports the First Amendment and celebrates the right to read.

v4.1

ep

For Jackson and Elliott

First!

M
ost people probably don't spend a perfect California beach day dreaming about going back to school, but that's exactly what I'm doing as I tilt my face toward the late-afternoon sun. I inhale salty ocean air and dig my toes into the sand, giving them a massage.

My bliss lasts for exactly thirty seconds before Doug, my boss at the exclusive Hayward Beach Club, busts me. “Excuse me, Skylar? The Pattersons need drink refills.” He grimaces at my bare feet before disappearing into the kitchen. I slip back into my wedge flip-flops (cute, but a poor choice for serving food in the sand all day) and walk back to the wait station.

“I got it,” my coworker Elijah mutters. He grabs a pitcher of soda and heads to the Pattersons' chaises.

“Is that diet?” One of the very blond Patterson girls (Stacy? Macy?) frowns at Elijah. He peers into the pitcher like he might be able to tell by looking hard enough. Though she's probably all of twelve years old, the girl dismisses him with a haughty wave. “Just get a fresh one.”

When he returns, humiliation rises off him like steam. I take the pitcher out of his hand and walk back to the Pattersons with it. “Diet?” I ask.

The girl offers a curt nod, which I take as my permission to pour. Elijah watches me with a smirk.

I sashay back behind the counter. “See, E? You just have to sell it.”

A cooling breeze blows in off the ocean, causing the ruffled edges of the oversized red umbrellas to flutter.

Elijah grins. “Yeah? How do you know so much about rich people?”

I shrug. “Just observant, I guess. Anyway, Miss Patterson will thank me someday. Too many chemicals in diet.”

“Don't let Doug catch you doing that,” he says, laughing. But I know Doug wouldn't say a thing to me, for the same reason he hired me when I had absolutely no experience waiting tables: until last summer I was a member here.

—

I wave a cheery goodbye to the valet attendants in the parking lot and peel out onto the PCH before they can catch me. Elijah grips his door handle. “Rafael didn't even see us,” he says, referring to the lot manager.

“I told you. I've been sneaking in every day.” It helps that my mom's white Mercedes blends in with the member cars. And maybe Rafael looks the other way.

Since my mom barely goes to her office anymore, I've been able to use her car all summer. This is a serious perk, because it makes my excruciating daily commute much cushier. She had to cancel satellite radio a few months ago, but I just connect my phone, crank my favorite playlist, and hardly notice the bumper-to-bumper traffic.

Elijah hops out at the public lot where most of the employees park. “Thanks for saving me the trek!” he yells as I maneuver back onto the freeway.

As always, I'm desperate for a shower by the time I get home. I rush in, not bothering to raise the knocked-over
FOR SALE
sign that's been posted on our lawn since the beginning of summer. Nobody came to the open house last weekend, and my parents probably don't need the constant reminder.

My mom sits on the couch in our great room reading scripts, like she does every night. Her consistency only adds to the air of futility around here. “Where's Dad?” I ask.

“In his office,” she says. In other words, the spare bedroom where he conducts his graphic design business.

“Jordana's coming over to help me pack, so I can't eat too late.”

“Glad you finally made plans with her,” my mom says.

I swing through the kitchen to grab an apple from a wooden bowl on the counter. “Kind of hard to have a social life when I've been taking any shift Doug will give me.”

It's mean, but I know that'll keep her off my back. She stares at me, then picks up another script.

After my shower I return to the kitchen to help get dinner together, which means I unwrap the store-bought rotisserie chicken while my mom arranges premade grilled veggies on a ceramic platter. No one in the house actually cooks, so this is our routine.

“We're a house full of working stiffs, yet we can't afford delivery,” my dad says.

“Ha ha,” I say. My mom just glares at him. He ducks his head and takes his plate to the banquette, narrowly avoiding yet another fight. It actually makes me miss the nauseating googly eyes they used to make at each other.

I don't care about having to work. Tuition at Winthrop Academy, my boarding school outside Boston, isn't cheap, and I'd do anything short of selling my organs on the black market to make sure I get to go back. As far as I'm concerned, senior year can't start soon enough.

“I talked to Ama today,” my mom says. “She said she'd try to go up for Parents' Weekend.”

I stifle a groan. As much as I adore my grandmother, I imagine her visit would entail the following: yelling at my teachers about why my grades aren't better, repeatedly reminding me how much this “fancy private school” costs my parents, insisting I take her to the only Chinese restaurant in Winthrop, then pronouncing the food inedible. At least, that's what happened the last time she visited. “Don't make Ama come. She's too old to do all that walking. Besides, Parents' Weekend is really for first-years.”

My parents glance at each other. My dad clears his throat. “We just feel—”

“I know. You feel bad you can't afford to fly out. But seriously, it's okay. It's my last year, I know the drill.”

The list of things my parents feel guilty about is never-ending. They're going to give themselves ulcers. It covers everything from our not visiting enough colleges over the summer to their not being able to give me money for new school clothes—even though I told them it hardly matters, with my talent for scouting sample sales. They mean well, but making up things to worry about has added significantly to their stress level.

I'm not done eating when the doorbell rings, so my mother answers it while I fix an extra plate. I love Jordana, and I'm excited to see her, but even though she's my oldest friend, the sad fact is we have less in common every year. Hanging out with her just makes me more homesick for Winthrop.

“JoJo! So glad you're joining us for dinner.” My mom thinks Jordana's still nine.

“Thanks, but I just ate.” Nonetheless, Jordana sits and nibbles at some food. She knows that while my mom may not be big on cooking, she's big on feeding people. “So. What's the latest?”

We don't even have to ask what she's referring to.

“No news,” my mom says. Jordana's face legitimately falls; she's not even trying to brownnose. They start talking about the trials and tribulations of Hollywood, and I automatically tune out.

My mother produced
Over It,
which is the highest-grossing teen movie of the last decade. Everyone my age is obsessed with it. When the sequel kept falling through because the studio “didn't get” the screenwriter and director's vision, my mom left to form her own company in order to finish the job. That was four years ago. Still no sequel. That doesn't stop her from being consumed by it, though, and predictably, my friends are an attentive audience.

She looks for other projects, but her heart is never in them the way it is with
Over It.
So right now we're living off
Over It
residuals, which get smaller every day, and my dad's graphic design work, which was never that busy to begin with. And now my Hayward Club paycheck, I guess. Since it's a private club, I don't even get tips, which is a total bummer.

Jordana and I go upstairs, and she sprawls out on my bed. We go months without seeing each other, but since she practically grew up in this house, formalities don't exist. “I didn't think I'd get to see you before you left,” she says, taking a long look around. I'm sure everything's familiar; my bedroom's a shrine to my eighth-grade self. Pictures of us with our middle school friends are still pinned to the bulletin board, my bookshelves are stuffed with novels that are way below my current reading level, and my dresser is lined with shiny gold soccer trophies. I've tried to throw the trophies away many times. They're all feel-goods—tokens for participation, not evidence of any ability or even a winning team—but my dad always rescues them from the trash anyway.

I toss a pile of clean laundry onto the bed, and we both start folding. This is our ritual. The only difference is that we don't sob through it like we did the first few times I left.

“Everyone asked about you all summer,” Jordana says.

I raise my eyebrows. Sadly, I don't know many of Jordana's friends anymore. I still remember names, but I stopped trying to keep in touch with everyone after winter break my first year. Telling stories about people they didn't know got old on both sides.

“Don't worry. I didn't say anything,” Jordana says. “Although, can I ask, why's waitressing such a big secret?”

“It's not. I just don't want to deal with the onslaught of questions about the movie that would definitely follow.” This is what complicates the issue. Being open about waitressing also means addressing my mom's ongoing failure, which is not something either of us is prepared to do. I move the stack of folded T-shirts onto the floor.

Jordana picks up a framed photo of me with my friends from my dorm. “Wow, look at Whitney. She's changed so much since freshman year.”

We call it “first year,” but I don't correct her. Hearing Jordana talk about my best friend at school is weird, since they've never met, but Jordana has been seeing pictures of her on Instagram forever.

I take the photo out of her hand, barely able to remember what Whit looked like back then. She was always beautiful and had the same take-charge swagger, tastefully packaged in prim Bergdorf Goodman outfits. She befriended me right away and later admitted it was because my LA style set me apart at Winthrop. Then, when everyone found out that Lisa Chen, producer of
Over It,
was my mother, well, that sealed the deal. We've been inseparable ever since.

“Tell me about your summer,” I say. “Did you love teaching?” Jordana interned at our former preschool because she's thinking about studying child psychology in college.

“Not exactly. Nora's senile,” she says, referring to the principal.

“Well, then, did you go out a lot, at least?”

She props herself up against my pillows. “Every night. But I've been hanging out with the same people for twelve years. I wouldn't be opposed to some kind of massive shake-up.”

I laugh. “Any kind in particular?”

“Hmm. Maybe some gorgeous stranger could transfer in. Or aliens could abduct me and turbo-boost my brain so that I skip senior year and go straight to college.”

“Just one more year,” I say.

“Easy for you to say.” She throws a balled-up pair of socks at my head. “You love school. And you have Leo. Tell me there's
something
wrong with that boy.”

I think about it. “Not a thing,” I admit. Jordana looks even more deflated than before. “But just like your ‘meh' year, my great year will have an end. Nothing lasts forever.”

“Not even you and Leo?” she asks with a grin.

“Well, maybe me and Leo.”

On cue, my phone chimes, and I pick it up, excited to read some sappy-but-adorable text from my boyfriend. Instead, it's an email from the Winthrop Housing Administration.

I tap on it immediately. “If they think they're giving me a roommate, they're insane.” Getting a single your senior year is practically a god-given right.

Dear Miss Hoffman:

Due to an error in the housing office, some students have been reassigned to different dormitories. We regret the inconvenience this may cause. Your faculty advisor will have your new placement when you arrive on campus. Please come prepared to remove your belongings from your previous dormitory and transfer them to your new home.

Sincerely,

Winthrop Housing Administration

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