Going Geek (9 page)

W
ednesday is the first all-school meeting of the year. The entire student body and all of the faculty gather to hear announcements and speeches. We stand shoulder to shoulder, moving inches at a time as we try to squeeze our way into the chapel. There's no room to maneuver, so I have no choice but to file into a pew with my dorm mates.

After more people get seated, Whitney and the others breeze right by without noticing me. My dorm mates all turn toward me to gauge my reaction. I give none. Maybe they were expecting me to hurtle over people to join the Lincoln girls.

Ms. Allen gives the usual welcoming address, wishing us a successful year with new discoveries and challenges. I think I have the challenge part covered.

Then comes the part I've been dreading. Ms. Allen invites all fall varsity team members to join her and start the school spirit portion of the meeting. Players from the various sports leave the pews to take their places in front of the school. While the rest of the school stamp their feet, clap, and hoot, my eyes automatically search out Leo.

He's front and center. His hands are shoved into his pockets in a reserved stance, but his smile is wide and sincere. I watch him get elbowed and patted by his teammates and think that he looks happy. Complete. Unlike me, who's walking around with a huge, gaping hole, not just in my heart but in my entire self.

The frenzy around me reaches fever pitch, but it's like I'm seeing it through a tunnel. People jump and wave their arms, but their movements feel draggy, slow motion. The sound fades out too. I can't rip my eyes away from Leo. Eventually, his gaze lands on me, and I want, more than anything, to not be staring at him. His smile falters, and I recognize the look on his face as sorrow.

Someone nudges me in the side. Jess is mouthing words that I can't make out, but then she gestures toward the aisle. She looks frantic, swiveling her head between me and our other dorm mates, her red ponytail swinging from side to side.

When I don't move, she yanks me by the elbow, then steers me out of the chapel and over to a secluded, grassy area on the side. She lowers me to the ground, where I'm focusing on her ever-present running shoes, when a pair of nonleather Birkenstocks joins us. I stand up, but the sound in my world is still muted, so I see their lips moving but don't hear them until my hearing returns in a sudden rush.

“What?” I yell, then slap a hand over my mouth. “Why are we out here?” I ask at a normal volume.

“Because I can recognize a panic attack about to happen,” Jess says. “You locked in on Leo and then basically stopped breathing.”

I bury my face in my hands. “Oh god, did it look weird?”

“It was only obvious because everyone else was going nuts,” Opal says. I can still hear everyone cheering inside the chapel.

“Well, thanks, but dragging me out here wasn't exactly subtle. Now everyone probably thinks I'm having a nervous breakdown.” I replay the scene in my head just to confirm that, yes, I did indeed look like a head case.

“I thought you could use some air,” Jess says, eyes narrowed.

“What I could use is to project an image of having some semblance of control over my life! You just made a scene in front of the entire school. If people thought I was sad before, they probably think I'm suicidal now.” I can't help it, I a little bit want to kill these two.

“Because hyperventilating in the middle of an all-school meeting would've been a good look,” Jess snaps. “Why do you care so much about appearances, anyway?”

“I just do! I may not have a grip, but at least I can look like I'm keeping it together. The last thing I need, from you or anyone else, is pity!” I'm aware that I sound shrill and ungrateful, but fighting for my space right now feels like a matter of life and death.

Opal's face is blank. “Understood. We'll leave you alone. Come on, Jess.” They head in the direction of the Canteen without a backward glance. I sit on the grass until the chapel doors open and everyone floods out, all in a hurry to get somewhere. I watch as they pass me by.

That afternoon I sit through the Calendar meeting in Porter Hall, the history and social sciences building, but I'm there in body only. All ten Executive Committee members, plus Lila, are assembled around a long oval table.

“Second to last thing on the agenda is coverage. Everyone here knows which events they're going to this weekend, yes?” Whit asks. Nods all around. She smiles. “So let's go over the events from last weekend.” Uh-oh. “Guthrie, how was the Fantasy Club thing?”

“Good.” Guthrie, another senior, is a tall, reed-thin boy with wavy, out-of-control blond hair. “They hosted a Harry Potter–themed lunch. A couple English teachers and some other staff came, but it was mostly students. People had capes and wands. It was dope.”

“Thank you for the summary, but was it well attended? Did people seem into it?” Whitney looks at Guthrie expectantly. It's only her first month as president, but she's taking on the job with a zeal that none of her predecessors possessed. Can't say I'm surprised.

“Um, yeah. Maybe like ten people showed—”

“Ten people?”

Guthrie watches in dismay as Whitney scribbles in her notebook. “Or maybe more like fifteen. I'm telling you, it was cool. They had decorations. We should let them keep doing their thing,” he says. Whitney continues to make violent scratching motions with her pen. Judging from Guthrie's forlorn expression, he knows he's been overruled. “They're not hurting anyone,” he finishes lamely.

Whitney smiles. “Next! Skylar, how was Classic Movie Night?”

Time to improvise. “Fine! Have to give it to the Film Club, they're consistent and reliable.”

She makes a harrumphing sound. “Was it packed?”

“Mmm, same as usual, I would guess.” I'm dying for her to move on to the next person.

Lila flits her eyes in my direction. “Actually, I wanted to raise an issue with this event. I know I'm new here, but I found it strange that they were selling concessions when it doesn't mention that anywhere in their application for this year.”

“They were?” Whitney whips around to face me. “We specifically turned down that part of their application because there was always so much litter all over the Field the next morning.”

“Right, I know,” I begin, hoping that some amazing excuse will occur to me. “I guess I just didn't notice.”

Lila arches an eyebrow. “Really? All their members were roving around with bags of popcorn and drink bottles on trays. Everyone was eating.”

“Well, no one complained about the Field the next day, right? So on the positive side, they must've gotten the message and done a better job cleaning up,” I say. “Plus, I know it's expensive to get those old movie imprints, and they're not allowed to charge admission. Can't blame them for trying to recoup their costs.”

Everyone's doodling or shuffling papers, restless and wanting to keep the meeting going. But Whit's lips draw into a thin, tight, stubborn line. “Were you even there, Skylar?”

I sigh. Busted. Yet again. There seems to be no end to my downward spiral. “I'm sorry, no.” There's no way I'm going into detail about the depression that had me sleep most of the weekend away. It's a miracle that I've managed to show up for classes this week.

“It's okay. I was there. I can give you the rundown.” Wonderful. Lila swoops in to save the day.

“Thank you, Lila. It's nice to see that our newest member is on the ball.”

Lila proceeds to give an excessively detailed report about Classic Movie Night, even describing the audience's reaction to
Ghostbusters.
When she's done, even I have to admit that I've been effectively outplayed.

So when Friday night comes, there's no messing around, no depression-fueled excuses to hide in my room. I go straight to my coverage event, which is a play in the black box theater. The black box is a small room that is painted pitch-black from floor to ceiling. The stage and the small set of risers are also painted black. It's meant for intimate, more experimental shows, and though I don't attend many, I can safely say that this show is more experimental than most.

Two boys sit cross-legged on the stage, talking about the most mundane aspects of their lives. They face each other and acknowledge that they can see each other, yet they're both talking on old-timey rotary-dial phones, the kind with the curly cords. Oh, the irony. I get that it's a commentary on how silly our modern attachment to technology is, but still—yawn.

I type notes into my phone as I watch, determined to give Whit the type of granular reporting she seems to crave. We're supposed to minimize our critique of the work itself, so I skip over how it's a total snooze fest. There are exactly six audience members, including myself. The Calendar will not approve.

A guy a few seats away leans over the empty chairs between us to tap my knee. He wears all black and is trying really hard to grow a goatee. “Do you mind?” he whispers, gesturing at my phone. Apparently the glow from the screen is ruining the moody atmosphere we're going for. I put it away and try to commit the rest of my notes to memory.

The play runs almost two hours, and by the middle I'm getting antsy. One of my legs has fallen asleep, and I have to keep jiggling it, much to the annoyance of Mr. Goatee. This is yet another faction of the Winthrop population I don't understand. Who finds this stuff interesting? It's nonsensical pretension at best.

Then I see one of my dorm mates lurking at the side of the stage. The goth one, of course, whose name is Samantha, if I remember correctly. She's tall and big-boned and offsets her all-black wardrobe, clunky boots, and multiple silver ear piercings with femme fatale crimson lipstick. She must be some sort of stage manager/production person, because she watches the show intently, like something might actually happen. It doesn't.

By the end, I'm fascinated about how it is that the two actors have remained cross-legged for this long without losing it. It's a testament to the will to create bad art.

Since it's such a small space, there's no real end to the play. Eventually the actors just stand up and take an awkward bow. We clap, some in a more heartfelt manner than others.

Samantha climbs the risers to where I'm sitting. “What a surprise to see you here,” she says.

“I'm here from the Calendar,” I say.

“Figures.”

I roll my eyes. “Sorry I can't pretend to like bad plays.”

She climbs back down without saying anything else. Everyone seems to be staying for some sort of sad cast party, so I make my way to the door and grab a program on my way out. I peruse it quickly to see if I want to make notes on anything and notice that Samantha is actually the playwright. Sigh. My streak of stepping in it continues.

That night everyone in the dorm ignores me. Word about my little outburst after the all-school meeting had already gotten around, and I'm sure Samantha wasted no time bad-mouthing me. Even nice-girl Yasmin has a pinched look when she encounters me in the bathroom. Whatever. If this is what has to happen in order for me to get a little breathing room, I'm not sorry.

W
hit sprints up to me on my way into the Canteen the next morning. “I was coming to find you,” I say.

She looks radiant rather than sweaty in her running clothes. She puts a hand on my shoulder and doubles over, trying to catch her breath. “Lila wants to be VP. We're going to have a vote,” she blurts out.

I snort. “Yeah? Why have a vote? Why don't we just give it to her?” I start walking into the building but notice that Whit's not following. “You're joking, right?”

She exhales in a huff. “You kind of forced my hand by not doing your coverage. Lila found some random stipulation in the bylaws about officials being required to do as much coverage as every other member.”

“Give me a break. I missed one event—one that has pretty much run itself for years. And you're the one who told me to lie low!”

“I didn't say disappear and become a slacker!” Whitney says. I can't tell if her face is red from running or if she's really angry with me.

“I've been part of the Calendar just as long as you have. I
should
be VP.”

“Lila's pretty eager right now, and you're very distracted, which is me putting it nicely. Maybe it's for the best. You can finish dealing with all your stuff.”

“No, you don't understand. I need this. Ms. Randall's on my case about my college applications, and this is all I have to put on them.” I'm practically begging, but I don't see another option.

“It's up to the rest of the committee. I can't stop the process.” Whitney shakes her head—in apology or disgust, I'm not sure which—and walks ahead of me. “You coming?”

“Hell, no.” Forcing myself to sit through a meal of superficial pleasantries was already going to be painful. With this new information hanging over my head and knowing that everyone knew about it before me, there's no way I can fake it.

I turn, exit the campus, and walk down Main Street into town, where I head straight for my favorite coffee shop, Perk Up. After hesitating only a moment before buying myself a five-dollar latte, I settle in for what turns out to be a very long session of staring out the window. If anyone from school comes in, I'm too catatonic to notice.

I already know what the outcome of the vote will be. My friends already think I got the VP position strictly because I'm Whit's best friend. Or was. Everyone wants our senior year to be epic, and Lila's already proven that she's willing to be super agro and un-fun about the events. If I'm not power hungry and controlling enough for them, then Lila can have at it.

Senior year should be special, but these events have been done a thousand times. We're confined to the same campus spaces; we still have to rely on the clubs and dorms to bring good ideas. Everyone here is busy, and I personally think Whitney's expectations are unrealistic. Not every event is going to be the best ever.

What it comes down to for me is not having the title for my college apps. It'll definitely affirm Ms. Randall's belief that I'm just taking up space at Winthrop. Also, I won't be able to pretend my friends aren't throwing me under a bus for a newcomer. If I still lived in Lincoln, they'd have to be comfortable with backstabbing me to my face, but since I don't, they don't have to deal with the fact that they're traitors.

As furious as I am with my friends, I'd still rather be with them than with my new dorm mates.

Yasmin spends all her time either crying in front of some horrible romantic drama or in Groton Music Hall practicing her cello in one of the studios, which are the size of a walk-in closet. No wonder she's a little off.

Jess is attached to her computer and always spouting off about various conspiracy theories. I endured a lengthy conversation between her and Opal about how the government is trying to poison us through the food supply.

Bettina, who might be mute, favors peasant blouses and denim skirts or else overalls, and pins her hair up into high topknots, disappears for long periods of time, and comes back covered in all kinds of gross and colorful substances.

Raksmey bops around in giant headphones, dancing to music no one can hear (or stand) but her.

And Samantha shoots me hate glares whenever she sees me, then wanders off with a notebook and pen in hand, probably to go write another horrific play.

Definitely not a lot to get excited about around here.

But what starts off as welcome solitude quickly turns into feeling like I'm being systematically frozen out. I try not to care, but so soon after Leo's rejection and my old friends' indifference, it feels surprisingly personal.

“We all tried to be nice, but you weren't receptive to it, so we're just honoring the wishes you made so clear,” Opal says when I try talking to her.

“Oh my god, can I live? Am I supposed to feel guilty because I'm in a bad place?” I ask.

“Why are you upset because we're giving you what you want?” Opal asks.

“Because. You're doing it with such attitude,” I say.

Opal tilts her head and gives me a flat look. “Really? If I tell everyone they need to tone down the attitude, you really think that's going to make you more popular?”

Ugh, she so didn't get it. “I don't want to be popular here. I like being left alone but just not so aggressively.”

She shakes her head and leaves the room.

The next Social Calendar meeting is a full meeting, meaning that all fifty members are present. There's a representative from each dorm, plus the Executive Committee. Samantha's here from Abbot, bored out of her mind, still giving me death looks. There is a vote for VP, just as Whitney had warned me. At least she has the decency to avoid eye contact with me as she reads out the results. Three out of four people have voted for Lila.

I am completely embarrassed, but before I slink off, I confront Whit. “I have no reason to be part of the Calendar if I'm not going to be on the Executive Committee,” I say.

She sighs. “You're determined to self-destruct. Don't expect me to stop you.”

Okay, this was not the response I was expecting.
Why not?
I want to ask. Why isn't she fighting me on this and trying to convince me to stay? “Just so you know, if you're so worried about Lila taking over, letting her snake VP from me probably wasn't smart.”

“If she brings hard work and good ideas to the committee, it'll make us all look good,” Whitney says.

“She knows nothing about this school or the people in it. Besides, it's my position. She already has my room, what's next?” I don't add that she's already taken my best friend. “Why did she stop at VP? Why didn't she just go for president?”

Whitney glares at me. “You brought this on yourself, Skylar. If you'd just done what I told you to do, this wouldn't have happened.”

When I get back to my room, I'm so distraught that I'm about to do something I've been so determined not to do. I reach for my phone, pull up Leo's number, and stare at it for a long minute. “What are you doing?” Jess asks. She's in the room studying with Opal on the floor. Seems she's bought into the whole “chairs are bad for you” notion.

“Nothing,” I say, still staring at my phone.

“Yes,” she says, standing up. “You're about to send Leo a regrettable text.”

“No, I'm not.” I put the phone down and glare at her.

“I know that look. Don't do it,” Jess says.

“If she wants to do something stupid, let her,” Opal says.

Ugh. I'm so over fighting with everyone. “Exactly. You do you and I'll do me. Just because we're living together does not mean we're insta-friends. Especially since I didn't even choose to move here.”

Opal and Jess both look at me dispassionately. “What some people perceive as butting in, other people think of as caring,” Opal finally says. “But take all the time you need.”

“I don't get it,” I say. “Why
would
you care? I'm here for a year. We would've graduated without ever having said a word to each other if I hadn't been assigned to this dorm.”

“True,” Jess says. “But you're here now.”

I'm tempted to scream into my pillow. I look at my phone, which now sits at the end of my bed. But I don't let myself pick it up.