Summer of the Geek (7 page)

“No, thanks. I’m good,” I said.

“Are you sure?” he asked, jostling the bag to tempt me. “I’ve never known you to turn down popcorn. Especially greasy movie theater popcorn with the fake butter flavoring on it. Your favorite.”

“I’m sure,” I said dully. My stomach felt so pinched and sour, the last thing I wanted was food.

“More for me,” Dex said. He leaned back in his seat, but he reached over and took my hand in his, entwining our fingers together. My heart lightened a bit. If Dex still liked Wendy, he’d be sitting with
her
, holding
her
hand, I reminded myself. There was no reason to be so paranoid.

“I think I will have some popcorn after all,” I said, reaching for the bag with my free hand.

An older woman with short frosted-blond hair who was sitting directly in front of us twisted around in her seat and shot me a dirty look.

“Shh!” she said. “The movie is starting.”

I could feel a hot flush blooming on my face. “Sorry,” I said, even though I thought she was being a bit sensitive. The movie hadn’t even started yet; they were just at the part of the previews where they ask everyone to turn off their cell phones.

The woman turned back around, and I cringed down in my seat. A moment later, I felt an elbow pushing softly against me. I turned to find Dex grinning at me.

“You’re in trouble now,” he said softly in my ear.

I couldn’t help giggling, but I put my hand over my mouth to muffle the sound.

Dex nodded at the woman sitting in front of me, and lifted one finger to his lips. “Shhhh!” he said.

I opened my eyes wide and mouthed, “Stop it!”

Dex grinned at me. I felt the familiar zing. The movie began, and all worries of Wendy Erikson faded away.

A
melia and I sat quietly at our table, dabbing paint on white ceramic. She was painting pink and purple flowers on a giant coffee mug, while I was doing a poor job of adding polka dots to a rectangular platter. I’d had a vague idea of sending it to Sadie as a birthday present when I began the project, but it was turning out to look like something a three-year-old would paint.

Amelia hadn’t said much since we biked over to the ceramic studio. Even so, I had the definite feeling that there had been a significant decrease in her hostility level. Was this the result of my having expressed an interest in her music? I wondered. Or was something else going on?

“Have you done this before?” I asked Amelia.

“No,” she said. “I mean, I’ve painted before. In art class at school.”

“I’m not much of an artist, either. Obviously.” I scrutinized my platter. I’d painted too many polka dots on one half of the platter, and then overcorrected by not painting nearly enough on the other side. I sighed and dipped my paintbrush into the paint pot. Maybe I should just forget the polka dots and paint the whole thing purple instead. “What do you like to do? Other than playing the piano, I mean.”

Amelia shrugged. “Nothing really.”

“Come on. There must be something.”

Amelia shook her head.

“Do you like reading?”

“You mean for school? I guess.”

“No, I mean for fun,” I said. “I was about your age when I discovered all of my favorites.
Secret Garden
.
The Little Princess
. Oh, and
Anne of Green Gables
. That’s my absolute favorite book of all time.”

“I’ve never heard of it,” Amelia said.

“I’ll loan you my copy, if you want,” I said.

She shrugged—clearly, reading was not a passion—but I pushed on.

“Do you play any sports?” I asked.

“No,” Amelia said, this time more definite. “I’m not allowed to. I could injure my hands.”

“Really?” I asked. I wasn’t the most athletic girl in the world, but even so, that sounded over-the-top. Shouldn’t a ten-year-old be allowed to dribble a basketball or swing a tennis racquet without worrying about career-ending injuries? “How about soccer? That’s a hands-free game.”

“My mom said I could still get hurt.”

“Track and field?” I pressed on.

Amelia shook her head. “I don’t like to run.”

“Do you like movies? Or music? Pop music, I mean. You must like doing something other than just playing the piano,” I persisted. “No matter how good you are or how much you love it. No one does just one thing.”

“You do stuff other than math?” Amelia asked.

“Absolutely!” I said. I swirled my paintbrush over the platter. “To be honest, I don’t even really do that much math. Pretty much only what I have to do for school. And for some reason, adults at parties love asking me to multiply numbers. I have no idea why. I could give them any response at all, and they wouldn’t know the difference.”

“You don’t like math?” Amelia looked up from her coffee mug—which was looking far better than my platter—and stared at me, her mouth gaping open. “But I thought you were supposed to be gifted.”

“I am. But that doesn’t mean I want to spend all of my free time solving math theorems.”

“My mom says that if you’re given a great gift, you have a responsibility to develop it,” Amelia said. She said this in a rather flat, mechanical way that made me suspect she’d heard it more than once.

“Hmm,” I said. “I get what she means. But at the same time, what if you don’t enjoy what you’re gifted at? I think a person should be able to decide what she wants to do with her life, and not have a random talent decide it for her. It’s free will.”

I could tell Amelia was absorbing this. Her brow furrowed, and she chewed on her lower lip. I wondered if it had ever occurred to her that she could have a life beyond the piano. But, not wanting to stress her out, I decided to change the subject.

“Have you ever been bowling?” I asked.

Amelia shook her head. “No. Never.”

“I know what we’re doing tomorrow, then,” I said, pulling a pot of pink paint closer. I decided to scrap the idea of polka dots altogether and try stripes instead. “And don’t worry—you can’t hurt your hands bowling.”

As I biked back to the beach house in the late afternoon, I thought back on the day and decided it had been a definite improvement. After our outing to the ceramic painting studio, Amelia had spent most of the rest of the day practicing. I thought that for the first time, I’d managed to draw her out, at least for the hour or so that we painted. That was progress. And it seemed as though Amelia had a pretty good time. She’d been excited about giving the mug she painted to her mom.

As always, I could taste the salt from the sea breeze as soon as I turned onto our street. The beach house was a large, modern building designed by my architect father and paid for by my millionaire stepmother. It had seemed even larger—and lonelier—since Hannah had left for New York City. When I first moved into the beach house, I hadn’t liked Hannah very much. But I’d gained an appreciation for my stepsister over the past year. True, she was selfish and spoiled, but under her glossy, excessively groomed exterior, she had a good heart.

I rode into the driveway, hopped off my bike, and wheeled it into the garage. Peyton’s enormous SUV and my dad’s silver sedan were both parked there, along with the shiny new Lexus Hannah had received for her sweet sixteen-birthday present.

I sighed. Great. If Dad and Peyton were both home, I was probably about to walk in on yet another fight.

I let myself in through the garage door, which opened onto a small hallway just off the kitchen. I waited there for a beat, listening for the sound of raised voices or crashing plates—sometimes Peyton liked to throw things when she was in a temper—but it was amazingly silent. I walked through the silent kitchen to the front foyer, and then made a right, heading toward my room. Or, as Peyton still liked to call it, the guest room.

Willow was asleep on her plush, round bed. She lifted her head, yawned hugely, and wagged her long, thin tail.

“Hi, Willow,” I greeted her. “Do you want to go for a walk?”

She did, although it took her a few long minutes of stretching and arching her back like a cat before she’d allow me to slip on her red martingale leash and lead her out the sliding glass doors off the kitchen. My dad was sitting on the back deck, his back to me and his feet propped up on the railing, as he gazed out at the ocean.

“Hey,” I said. “I was wondering where everyone was.”

He twisted around in his seat, turning to see me. “Hi, sweetheart. I didn’t hear you come in.”

“It’s windy out here,” I said as my wavy brown hair whipped into my face, momentarily blinding me. “You probably can’t hear much of anything.”

But my father wasn’t listening. He’d turned back to stare broodingly out at the ocean. His shoulders were hunched and his hands were braced against his legs.

“Is everything okay?” I asked, raising my voice a fraction to be heard over the surf and gusting wind.

“Fine, fine,” Dad said, waving his hand. “Things are just . . .” He trailed off and glanced at me. “I’m sure you’ve noticed some tension around the house lately.”

“Yeah,” I said. “Maybe a little.” I glanced around. “Where’s Peyton?”

“She’s lying down. She said she has a migraine,” Dad said. From his tone, I got the distinct impression that Peyton wasn’t suffering from a headache, but retreating after yet another of their frequent fights.

“It’s my fault, isn’t it?” I said, wrapping Willow’s leash around my hand.

Dad looked up, surprised. “That Peyton has a migraine?”

“No. That you two are fighting so much. It’s because I’m living here.”

“Of course not! Why would you think that, honey?”

“Come on, Dad,” I said. “Peyton’s been furious ever since I moved in. I know it’s true. I’m not blind. Or deaf, for that matter.”

My father’s face tightened. “You’re my daughter. You’ll always be welcome where I live. No one should ever make you feel otherwise.”

I probably should have felt gratified that my dad was sticking up for me. For the first few years after he and my mom divorced—during which time he met and married Peyton—my dad hadn’t had a lot of time for me. And then, when I first moved into the beach house the year before, he’d seemed oblivious of how Peyton treated me. He preferred to pretend that we were all one happy family, despite all evidence to the contrary. But over time, Dad slowly caught on that Peyton truly didn’t want me there. And that’s when the fights began.

But instead of being glad my dad was finally taking my side, knowing that I was the cause of their fights made me incredibly uncomfortable. I didn’t want to be the source of so much strife.

“Every married couple has problems they work through. Peyton and I just need to improve our communication skills. That has nothing to do with you,” Dad continued.

It was a nice thing to say, I thought. Even if it was a lie.

“I guess I should tell you—Sadie has asked me to move to London to live with her there,” I said carefully.

My dad looked at me sharply. “Is that what you want to do?”

I shrugged. “I have mixed feelings,” I said. “I keep pro-conning it. You know: coming up with all the reasons why I should go, and all the reasons why I shouldn’t.”

“You’d have to leave your friends. And Willow,” Dad said.

“No, I can bring Willow with me. Although she’d have to travel in the cargo hold on the plane, which would probably freak her out,” I said. “But yeah, there are my friends. And my school.”

“You’d go to school there,” Dad pointed out.

“I know. But I’m going to be writing for Geek High’s literary magazine next year. That’s something I’ve wanted to do for a long time,” I said.

Dad nodded. “It sounds like you have a lot of thinking to do.”

“Yes,” I said. Willow whined and looked longingly out at the beach. “I’d better take her for her walk.”

“Okay,” Dad said. He hesitated. “Honey?”

“Yeah?”

“I’ll understand if you decide to go to London. It would be a great experience and I know you miss your mom. But please don’t go because you think you’re not wanted here,” Dad said earnestly. “I’ve loved having you live with us.”

I smiled at him. “Thanks, Dad.”

“And Peyton . . . well, I know she hasn’t been entirely welcoming to you.”

That was the understatement of the year, I thought. Peyton’s nostrils flared with dislike every time she saw me.

“But it’s not personal. I know that might not make sense to you, but it’s really not about you. It has more to do with her relationship with me. I don’t think she ever envisioned sharing her house with a stepchild,” Dad continued. “She has a hard time adjusting to new situations.”

I nodded. “I understand,” I said, although I really didn’t. Peyton had everything in the world—money, status, a beautiful house, a nice husband, a gorgeous daughter. She spent her days getting facials and having lunch with her friends. What did she have to be bitter about? But I appreciated that for once my dad hadn’t lied to me by insisting that Peyton loved having me live with them.