Geek Girl (22 page)

Suddenly arms snake around my waist from behind, and still on edge and defensive, I turn around and strike out.

“Ow!” Trevor grabs his chest where I slugged him.

“Oh, Trev, I’m so sorry.” I lean into him, wrapping my arms around him. I feel like crying.

His arms come up to hold me tight, hands soothing my back.

“It’s okay, Jen,” he laughs. “It really didn’t hurt. I was just joking.” He pushes me back from him, sees the tears shining in my eyes. “Whoa, what’s this all about? What’s the matter?” He looks at Brian questioningly. Brian just shrugs, hurrying off before he has to try to explain the unexplainable.

“Did Brian say something to you?” He’s disbelieving but willing to defend my honor all the same. The thought makes me laugh.

“Yeah, he told me I look nice.”

“I’ll kill him,” he says sternly.

“Please don’t. I don’t want to have to visit
two
people in prison.”

I have been back to see my biological mother. I wanted to thank her for not fighting the adoption so that I could have a name and a family before I turn eighteen, while I’m still young enough to
need
to belong to someone. In that visit and the letters we have exchanged, I’ve come to view her less as the mother who screwed up my life and more as just a woman who’s lived a sad life, who could use a friend.

“Besides that, he’s just being nice. I don’t think I’ve ever looked so plain in my life.”

“Plain?” Trevor scoffs. “I don’t think plain is an adjective that could ever be used to describe you, Jen. You’re the most beautiful—”

“Don’t, Trev,” I cut him off. “We’re always honest with each other, right?” Even as I say the words, the familiar sting of guilt pierces me at the big thing—the big lie, if I’m being honest—I haven’t yet told him.

“Exactly,” he says, giving me a squeeze, “which is why I’m not lying when I tell you how beautiful you are. Best looking girl here.”

I shake my head at him. I guess I can add blindness to his small—very small—list of faults. He looks around him dramatically, then leans down conspiratorially.

“I don’t know if you realize this or not, but we still have our arms around each other. People are going to
see
.”

I smile at his facetiousness and lean up to plant a serious kiss on his lips, which he returns enthusiastically.

“Guess that means the whole let’s-keep-it-a-secret thing is over, huh?”

“Can’t really remember why I wanted to keep it a secret, Trev.”

“Good.” He wraps his arm possessively around my shoulder. “Come on, let’s go get our locker assignment.”

“Locker? Singular?” I ask.

“Sure, why not? We can share one. I can teach you some organizational skills.”

I grimace, and as we’re walking away, I happen to glance over and see the mouse Mary Ellen glaring in our direction. Apparently she’s witnessed the kiss, divined its meaning, and isn’t happy about it. I heave a sigh. It seems that there aren’t any new girl friends in my immediate future.

I
’ve had boyfriends before. None of them have ever stuck for longer than a couple of weeks. The closest I’ve had to anything of longevity was the year-long pseudo-flirtation with Seth. So being someone’s girlfriend is a new experience in itself. Being
Trevor’s
girlfriend is taking that experience to a whole new level.

Over the summer, we hadn’t really had to share each other or our time with anyone other than our families and the occasional movie with Trev’s friends at his house—or the few unfortunate parties with mine. But now, we don’t share a single class, only have lunch together every other day, and still have family obligations, which make it hard to spend much time together. Trevor comes to pick me up each morning, and in his usual style makes sure to hurry to walk me to each of my classes, even though that leaves him to run for his own classes to avoid the tardies that will mar his perfect attendance record.

He ran for Student Body President, which soaked up even more of his time, both when he was campaigning and even more now that he’s won. We spend as much time together as possible in the evenings, doing homework—another first for me, caring about my grades—and on weekends.

On the days we have lunch together, we sit with his group of friends talking mostly about last weekend’s sci-fi movie, whichever one we’d watched. On the opposite days, I sit with Brian, Jim—and Mary Ellen. Brian and Jim keep the conversation flowing, either oblivious to or ignoring the tension that exists between the mouse and me. I can’t blame her for hating me—I would hate anyone who took Trevor from my attentions. Plus, she intimidates me a little, because I still know that she would be so much better for him than I am.

I’ve become a target for all of my old friends, Beth and Seth particularly. Ella seems a little embarrassed by their harassment, but she goes along with them anyway. That’s something else I understand.

Even with the limited Trevor time and the less than stellar school experience, I’ve never been happier.

⊕⊗⊕

Trevor didn’t pick me up this morning because he had to be to school early for an SBO meeting. Nothing unusual in that since he’s been doing it twice a week for the last couple of months since the election. What is weird—no, not weird,
alarming
—
is the fact that I come through the doors, automatically scanning for him as he always hurries to meet me, and instead of his waiting for me, I see him in conversation with Beth.

They stand with their heads close together, Trevor leaning down toward her as she is quite a bit shorter than him. Jealousy doesn’t play a part in my alarm—I trust Trevor implicitly. It’s not that I think I have some unbreakable hold over him, that he couldn’t possibly stray from my immutable charms. It’s more that I
know
Trevor, and one thing I know is that if he wanted to move on, he would do the right thing by telling me first before making a move in any other direction. His infallible politeness does have its benefits, dubious though they might be.

What worries me is that he’s talking to Beth at all. Or rather, that Beth is talking to him. He knows some of how Beth has treated me since my “change” and because of his sense of honor toward me, he would feel like he was somehow betraying me by being friendly with her. And, okay, honestly I probably would also. Yet here he stands, deep in conversation, intent on whatever she’s telling him. Somehow, I don’t think she’s telling him that she has seen the error of her ways and is now ready to join our little geekdom.

Trevor’s cheeks begin a slow burn as I watch, and my own redden in response. As if sensing me watching, his eyes come up and unerringly land on me. In his eyes, I can see it; I can see exactly what it is that she has confessed to him. She also turns my way, and my eyes flick briefly her way to see the smugness in her own expression. I don’t care about her, or her reasons. All that matters is Trevor.

My eyes meet his, and I can’t hide it. He reads the truth, the confirmation of her words plainly on my face. My heart begins to pound as he walks my way. I want to turn and flee, stop him from what I know he is going to say. Of course he would come to me, ask me, want to hear the words from
my
lips. If I lie, I know he will believe me over Beth. I frantically try to form a lie in my head, imagine the words that will take that horrible expression from his face, make him smile and take my hand and walk me to my first class like any other day. I can see that it’s too late—he already
knows
.

“Is it true?” he demands when he reaches me. In his eyes, I can read the hurt, the disbelief. He waits while I swallow over the dry lump that clogs my throat.

“Trevor, I didn’t . . .” I can barely get the words out. I didn’t . . . what? Because actually, I did.

“What did you win?” he demands quietly.

You
, I want to say, the best prize of all. I can see the pain in his eyes being replaced by something else, something I’ve always had in my own eyes—distrust. Anything I say now will mean nothing to him. I want to look away, to not witness all of the terrible emotions running across his face and through his eyes. I can’t. I’m firsthand witness to my own destruction.

“I was a
bet
?” he bites the word. I can’t speak, can’t defend myself.

“I hope it was worth it,” he murmurs quietly, the words laced with pain and resentment. The emotions in his eyes finally stop seething and settle on anger, even as I feel my heart breaking and my world tilt on its axis.

“See you ’round,” he says coldly, turning away,
striding
away, as if he can’t get out of my presence fast enough.

I make it into the girls’ bathroom and into a stall before my legs give way. I sink to the floor. Silent anguish wracks my body in an ache so deep that tears seem pointless.

When I’m able, I push myself up. The bathroom is mercifully deserted. I see my pale, drawn image reflected in the mirror—a stranger. I can’t stay here; I can’t face anyone. I look ill. I feel dead. This observation drives me from the bathroom to the office, where the office secretary doesn’t even question the authenticity of my “I’m sick” claim. In fact, she hurries to bring me the phone. I guess I look worse than I thought.

I call my mom—funny how quickly I’ve come to think of Sue as that—who then comes to pick me up. She looks horrified as I climb into the car, and I’m forced to talk her out of driving me straight to the doctor’s office. It’s not easy, and some small part of my mind recognizes the love in her concern and is grateful of it.

We arrive home. I make it to the upstairs bathroom where I throw up this morning’s breakfast. Even when my stomach is empty, it continues to clench and heave as if trying to expel my very soul. I am finally able to stop and crawl into my bedroom, pulling myself into the bed, blanket over my head.

My mom comes in with a cold, wet cloth, which she presses to my forehead. She’s murmuring to me, but I can’t make sense of her words; I don’t want to make sense of her words. After an eternity, she leaves me alone in my dry-eyed misery. I’m numb, my mind reeling and refusing to accept that Trevor’s gone.

A few hours later, Mom comes back into my room, quietly. When she sees I’m awake, staring at the wall, she sits and smooths her hand across my hair. I shudder in response to the touch. She says something, and the up-lilt at the end of her words suggest a question, but my mind refuses to open enough to comprehend her words. There’s something about her words, something that nags . . . 

Pregnant?

Comprehension pours over me as I finally hear her.
Is there any chance you might be pregnant?

I think about Trevor, his innate decency and strong moral compass. That matched with my stubborn determination to hold onto my own virginity until
I
decide it’s time to give it away, with how careful we have always been to make sure we didn’t go too far, the unspoken understanding between us that
that
wasn’t going to happen; and just like that, I’m laughing. Just a giggle at first, but it quickly escalates into a hysterical laugh. Mom’s brows pull together in worry. For some reason, that makes me think of Trevor, his terrible face when he realized the truth, the finality of his words.

My hysterical laughter becomes hysterical crying as the pain crushes me. My new mother lies down in the bed beside me, curling herself protectively around me, just holding me and soothing me for the eternity it takes for my sobs to taper. I drop into a restless sleep, still in her arms, hoping to never wake up.

A few weekends ago at Trevor’s house, we watched a cheesy movie from the eighties about zombies—not strictly sci-fi, although there was a great debate afterward about that exact subject. I found the movie rather amusing, though Trevor and his friends spent a lot of time arguing the merits of whether zombies could really exist or not.

I can tell them now.

Zombies do exist. They don’t exist to eat the flesh of those who are still living, or have rotting flesh hanging from their bones. They look just like everyone else. They get up in the morning, put on clothes, eat breakfast, and answer questions directed their way. They go to school, go to their classes, turn in their homework, then go home to have dinner with their families. The blissful relief of bedtime is when they no longer have to keep up appearances. It is also the time of nightmares—both waking and sleeping. In the morning, it all begins again. Zombies
are
the walking dead, only it isn’t their bodies that have died but their hearts, their souls.

I know they exist because I have become one.

I guess there were some advantages to having never had a serious boyfriend. I’ve never had to go through this misery, the misery I used to mock in others. I’ve known pain in my life—that’s nothing new. That pain was always thrust upon me, circumstances beyond my control. This is different. This is of my own making.

I can see my family worrying about me, so I smile bigger, pull on those acting skills I’ve honed so well over the years. I’m not sure they’re fooled.