Geek Charming (15 page)

She smiled the same smile that, for more nights than I could remember, had been the last image in my brain before I fell asleep. Not wide, but rather just enough of a hint of her straight white teeth to make you want to really make her laugh so you could hopefully see more. “I guess you’re right.” She chuckled. “So who are you here with?”

“Ah, I’m here with Steven and Ari and . . . some other people. You?”

“I came with Whitney,” she said, pointing to Whitney Lewin, who was in the process of making out with a very short guy wearing a dress. “She’s dating one of the pledges.” Whitney also went to Castle Heights but I didn’t really know her very well. Not because she was popular, but because she refused to speak to any guy who wasn’t at least a year older than we were, which meant that now that we were seniors, she didn’t talk to anyone but Amy. “Do you smell something weird?” She sniffed.

I moved back a few inches. “That would be my shoes. One of my, uh, friends had a little accident.”

Again with that smile. “Got it. Oh, hey, I heard about your film. I’d love to see it when it’s done—I love documentaries.”

Not only was Amy Loubalu the most beautiful girl in the world—she was also
smart.
What more could a guy want?

“Sure,” I said. “That would be great.” Out of the corner of my eye I saw Dylan wobbling toward us. “But, uh, I should go find my friends because it’s kind of late and we were just leaving—”

“There you are!” said Dylan, who, in trying to clean herself up, looked like she had taken a shower with her clothes on. Her cardigan sweater was buttoned wrong and her skirt was all wrinkled. She was still tipsy, but not so tipsy that she didn’t realize who was standing in front of her. “Oh. Look who’s here,” she sniffed.

“Hi, Dylan,” Amy said.

A group of pledges in a conga line came in between us and Amy. Dylan turned to me. “So now you’re talking to my archenemy?”

Archenemy?
Amy Loubalou
was Dylan’s archenemy? But she was so . . . perfect.

Amy smiled at both of us. Not many girls would be able to manage a smile that looked that genuine to their archenemy. Amy wasn’t just beautiful and smart—she was
classy
to boot.

“I was right,” Dylan said, “you totally
are Single White Female
-ing me!”

“What are you talking about?” Amy asked.

“First Michael Rosenberg and now him,” she said, pointing at me.

I was just as confused as Amy.

“Not that I’m dating him or anything—our relationship is strictly business, seeing that I’m the star of his movie. But don’t think I haven’t seen you throwing yourself at Asher.”

Throwing up in the middle of the room at a frat party may not have been any big deal, but judging from the way a few of the partygoers were now staring at us, a potential catfight between two girls
was
.

Dylan grabbed Amy’s sleeve and yanked her off to the side. I couldn’t hear what was being said, but from the way Dylan was swaying back and forth and jabbing her finger in the air, she was obviously going off on Amy. Amy, to her credit, just stood there, patiently listening without interrupting. In fact, she even reached out and steadied Dylan a few times so she wouldn’t fall over. It was in heightened moments of drama like this where one’s true character really came out, and it was comforting to see that Amy was as classy as I had always imagined.

“Dude, this is
awesome
,” Steven said. “Are you getting this?” he asked, pointing at the camera.

I held the camera protectively. “This isn’t TMZ, Steven,” I snapped.

He looked at me, amazed. “When did you and Dylan become all BFF?”

“We’re not. It’s just . . . ” It was just what? I had no idea. Over the last few days instead of finding everything about Dylan annoying, now I only found sixty-five percent of it annoying. I turned to our little group, who had now gathered next to me. “Are you guys ready to go? I think Dylan should probably call it a night.” By this time Whitney had rescued Amy, and Dylan was sitting on the stairs with her head between her legs.

The three of them, along with Lola, looked at each other. “There’s no reason we
all
have to leave, is there?” asked Lola.

“Yeah,” agreed Hannah. “There’s two football players who seem to be really into us. They tell the funniest riddles.”

So much for Dylan’s best friends being there for her through thick and thin.

“Ari and I will make sure the girls get home okay,” added Steven, who had his car with him.

“Ari, you don’t really want to stay, do you?”

He thought about it. “Actually, I do,” he admitted, as amazed about the fact as I was.

“So I’m assuming I’m driving Dylan home?” I asked.

They all nodded.

“So we’re going to get back to the party. See ya,” Hannah said, walking back toward the kitchen.

“What about her car?”

“I’ll bring her back tomorrow to get it,” Lola replied, running toward Hannah.

Even if I had wanted to protest, it wouldn’t have mattered because they had all disappeared before my mouth was even fully open. I looked at Dylan, who was about to go tumbling down the steps headfirst, and sighed. “Let’s get out of here,” I said, hoisting her to a semistanding position before she broke her neck.

Apparently my job responsibilities as director extended far beyond what would end up on-screen.

 

“Where we going?” Dylan mumbled as I carried her down the street.

“To my car.”

“Shotgun!” she yelled in my ear.

“Ouch. My ear. Since it’s just you and me, I think you win,” I said. That being said, because she was now wearing the pizza that we had grabbed before the party, I had been hoping to put her in the backseat.

When we reached the Geekmobile, I sat her down on the curb while I found my keys. However, unlike a Weeble, she didn’t just wobble—she fell down.

“Talk about being committed to my art,” I said as I hoisted her back up to a semisitting-but-more-about-to-fall-over-any-minute position. “I bet Woody never had to deal with anything like this.”

Just then she opened her eyes.

“What. Is. That?” she said.

“It’s the Geekmobile,” I replied.

“The
what
?”

“My Geekmobile. Well, technically, it’s not
my
Geekmobile—I mean, the registration is under Good Buys’ name.”

“And you want me to
ride
in there?” she asked.

“It’s a very smooth ride,” I said defensively. “Plus it gets great mileage, even if it isn’t hybrid.” I had written the Good Buys headquarters a few e-mails about how, in the spirit of helping the environment, they should switch from Mini Coopers to Priuses, but so far I hadn’t heard back.

Holding my nose so I didn’t have to breathe in Eau de Vomit, I settled Dylan in the passenger seat. Once I got into the driver’s seat, I looked at my watch. “Shoot. It’s already eleven-thirty.”

“It is? It’s still so early! We should go do something!” she slurred, bouncing up and down in the seat.

“Don’t you have a curfew?” I asked

“I’m not sure. I never asked.”

I took out my phone. “Well, I do, and it’s midnight, so I need to call my mom and tell her I’ll be a few minutes late.”

“You have a currrrfewwww? Awww . . . that’s so cuuuute!” she brayed.

Wow. I hadn’t realized real live drunk people were as annoying as they were in movies. When I got Mom on the phone she was still so thrilled about the fact that I was socializing with non-Film Society-related people that she told me to stay out as late as I wanted.

The first few minutes of the ride were uneventful. Relaxing even, because there was no traffic on Sunset Boulevard, which happens as often as snow in L.A. But as soon as Dylan started fooling around with my iPod, I knew there was going to be trouble.

“Um, Dylan, maybe you should just hang your head out the window and enjoy the fresh air,” I said as I tried to grab it away from her.

“Excuse me, but I’m not a
dog
. Plus it’s Saturday night—we need some tunes.”

Before I could stop her, “Cherry, Cherry” by Neil Diamond was booming out of the speakers. “
Baby loves me, yes, yes she does
,” Dylan screeched.

Once again, the shock of how bad her voice was almost made me swerve. She hadn’t been lying about her knowledge of Neil’s work. I had to admit it was impressive, because other than myself, I had never met anyone under the age of sixty who knew all the words to a Neil Diamond song.

“
She got the way to groove me, Cherry baby
,” she howled.

I couldn’t believe what I was witnessing—any and all coolness that Dylan Schoenfield had was nowhere to be found. Right before my very eyes she had turned into a complete and utter geek.

“Come on, Josh—sing with me,” she demanded, grabbing my arm and almost making me swerve into oncoming traffic.

“No, it’s okay—you seem to be doing a pretty good job soloing it.”

“But it’s no fun to sing alone. Please?”

“
She got the way to move me
,” I halfheartedly sang along with her.

“No—you have to
really
sing,” she ordered. “Otherwise it doesn’t count.”

“
She got the way to groove me
,” I sang louder.

“
Cherry baby
!” she screamed as she bounced up and down in her seat.

“
Cherry baby
!” I screamed louder.

We looked at each other and started cracking up. If anyone had told me a few weeks ago that I’d be singing a Neil Diamond duet with the most popular girl in school while zooming down Sunset Boulevard at midnight on a Saturday in the Geekmobile, I would’ve said they were nuts. It was like something out of a John Hughes movie.

We had made our way through a pig-latin version of “Song Song Blue” and were just finishing up “Cracklin’ Rosie” as I pulled into her driveway.

“Omigod I haven’t laughed that hard in
forever
,” she said as I turned off the ignition. It seemed the combination of fresh air and singing had sobered her up, because she was no longer slurring. And there wasn’t a trace of her usual I’m-Dylan-Schoenfield-
That’s
-Why whininess.

“Me, either,” I agreed, fiddling with the camera case. “That was almost as funny as
Annie Hall.
”

She started twirling a lock of hair around her finger. “Annie Hall . . . her name sounds familiar . . . didn’t she graduate last year
?
”

This time, instead of getting annoyed at her lack of Woody knowledge, I laughed. “No.
Annie Hall
isn’t a person. It’s the name of a Woody Allen movie.”

“Oh. Isn’t that from like a
hundred
years ago?”

I shrugged. “1977.”

“Never seen it. What’s it about?”

“About these two people who are complete opposites who fall in love,” I replied as I continued pulling at a loose thread on my case.

“Ooh—kind of like
Knocked Up
!” she said. “I
loved Knocked Up
!” She had twirled her hair so much that it had ended up in a knot. I almost pointed it out to her, but decided against it. There was something about seeing her look less than perfect that was refreshing.

“Um, sort of. It’s a classic. Voted number thirty-five on AFI’s list of Top One Hundred American Films of all time.” I pulled the camera out. “Is it cool if I film you for a bit?”

“
Ew
, I look hideous!” she said.

“No you don’t. Plus the way the moonlight is coming in the window is really cool. Spooky, like a John Carpenter movie or something.”

“Who?”

“He’s another director. So can I?”

She shrugged. “I guess so.” She sighed. She flipped down the mirror on the visor and started smoothing her hair and then stopped. “Oh, whatever—if I see it and think I look like a troll, I’ll just have you cut it out.”

As I focused in on her, she settled back in her seat and looked at me. “You really
are
a walking Wikipedia when it comes to movies, aren’t you?”

“I guess,” I said. This camera picked up everything, and as I zoomed in, I could see a big pimple on her chin that wasn’t noticeable before. Who would have thought Dylan Schoenfield had oil glands?

As I zoomed back out (I know I had said I wanted this to be as real as possible, but I also didn’t want to nauseate people), she sighed and a wistful look came over her face. It was weird how sometimes when people looked sad, they became even better looking. “I bet that’s a really cool feeling—to have something you’re so psyched about,” she said quietly. “You know, like a real passion. Something to write about on your college essays.”

I cleared my throat. “Don’t you have a hobby or something like that?” Seeing this other, more real side of Dylan was a little disconcerting. If someone who had it all figured out got bummed out, why were the rest of us even trying?

She shrugged. “No. Not really.” She fiddled with the fringe on her purse. “I mean, obviously I’m great at accessorizing and I definitely know what makeup color palettes work with different skin tones, but that’s not a hobby—that’s a . . .
gift.”
She looked up from her purse and shrugged. “I don’t know,” she said quietly. “Sometimes it’s like . . . when people see you a certain way, they don’t
want
you to change. They just want you to keep being
that
girl—the popular girl.”

I zoomed in closer. This was good stuff.

“The one who’s five minutes ahead of everyone with the clothes and the bags and the shoes and whatever,” she continued. “Believe me, if I were to chuck it all and go all boho hippy and stop shaving my legs, people would freak out. Not just because it would be disgusting, but because they expect me to be . . . well,
me
.” She looked down at her lap for a second and then looked up again. “I’ve been this for so long I wouldn’t even know how to go be someone else,” she said quietly.