Geekhood (14 page)

With the car gone, Tony turns to me, a conspirator’s grin on his face.

“Well, well, well,” he smirks. “I didn’t know you had it in you, Arch, defending your lady’s honour. And against a thug like that. I’d have done the same in your shoes, though. She’s a cracker.”

My EM smiles and nods. My IM groans and sighs.

“Must’ve been the Cava,” I shrug.

Tony stops and looks up, as though listening for something.

“Lose the bottle before your mum gets back,” he says evenly. “We don’t need any more grief tonight.”

“Yeah, OK.”

As I trudge painfully upstairs to retrieve the bottle, I silently resolve never to foxtrot with Tony again.

IM:
He’ll only tread on your toes.

The Dream is different tonight. The Gargoyle is waiting and I’m dragged out of bed and left to stand motionless in the middle of my room. For a while, it just circles, staring at me with its glowing eyes, its canonball muscles rolling under its stony carapace with every step.

Then it stops and regards me with a snarl. Slowly, it begins to walk towards me. Again, I’m paralyzed and brimming with fear, but suddenly, there’s a flash of purple light between us and another figure appears.

It’s Sarah, dressed in her Nox Noctis outfit. She extends one gloved hand and the Gargoyle responds, retreating slowly into the shadows. Although I can still see its eyes burning corrosively from the darkness, I feel safe now.

Sarah turns to me and her ice-blue eyes fix on mine as a soft smile plays on her lips. Her other hand goes to the back of my neck and she pulls me forward for a deep, lingering kiss. I feel a pulse of fire from my stomach and wake up.

I’m going to have to change my pyjamas.

THIRTEEN

When I finally reawaken the next day, everything decides to kick off on the wrong foot. Firstly, there’s the issue of my pyjamas. The most obvious thing to do would be to try and slip the incriminating evidence into the washing machine. However, as much as my mum knows me, I know her too; when it comes to washing, she’s like a border-patrol guard. Nothing gets past unnoticed and anything she’s unsure about gets severely questioned. Instead, I opt to beginmy day by standing at the bathroom sink with a sponge and some shower gel, hoping to scrub my DNA from the scene of the crime. By the time I’ve finished, the circumstantial evidence suggests that I’ve wet myself during the night. Strangely, I’m happier for the court to draw this conclusion than for them to discover the Awful Truth.

Once I’ve stashed the wet pyjama bottoms discreetly on the radiator, I chuck on last night’s clothes and inspect my war wound in the mirror. I have got a shiner, but it doesn’t look as heroic or as casual as the ones they get in the films. My black eye isn’t so much black, as a clash of colours, ranging from blood-red and
nicotine-yellow
to a dirty blue. The damaged skin looks waxy and,
as I find out when I practise a smile, hurts. Rather than looking like a devil-may-care swashbuckler, I look like a bruised fruit.

I enter the kitchen to the fading smell of bacon and the growing smell of cigarettes. Tony’s sat at the table, poring over a newspaper. As I appear, he looks up and starts singing something about “The Eye of the Tiger” and making strange noises that I take to be an electric guitar, whilst doing little jabbing actions with his fists. Which are a bit girly.

IM:
What with you being the heavyweight champion of the world and all.

Mum reprimands him with a disapproving look and sets about sorting me out a bacon sandwich.

“We thought we’d let you sleep in,” she says, placing some rashers into a pan.

I look at the clock: it’s half-past ten. I must have been more tired than I thought.

“Cup of tea?”

“Yes, please. Sorry about last night, Mum.”

“Well, it’s done now. But I’m going to be seeing the head about that boy; we don’t want anything like that happening again.”

My hearts sinks. Mum’s tone pre-empts my unborn protest and tells me that it’s going to happen, whether I like it or not. Which I don’t. I understand her concern,
but it’s tantamount to putting a bounty on my head. Schools work a bit like prisons – Jason doesn’t have to touch me to get me back. All he has to do is let the right word out to the wrong people and I stand about as much chance as a kitten in a piranha tank.

“How’s your eye?” The question arrives with a cuppa and a bacon sandwich, ketchup already applied.

“Yeah, it hurts a bit. But I’ll be OK.”

Mum tuts to herself and starts to clear away the pans. Then she turns to me with a look as though she’s just remembered something. She couldn’t be more fake if she tried.

“Oh! Sarah called for you this morning.”

My EM goes from nought to sixty in about three seconds, sending a flush to my face and tightening my throat round the food that I’ve just swallowed.

The options available to me are questions that should convey little or nothing about the fairground thrill I feel because Sarah has called, and the ghastly horror that my mum has spoken to her while I was asleep. I could go for the casual “Oh, yeah?”, the gentlemanly “How was she?” or even the non-committal “Uh-huh?” Instead, my IM takes charge and leaps out through my mouth like a laryngitic express train.

“What did she say?”

IM:
Oops
.

Mum smiles her “I can see through you” smile and sits down opposite me.

“She said,” she begins, as though she was reading a story to a four-year-old, “that
she
wanted to know if
you
wanted to go over and see her.”

“What? Today?”

“Today.”

IM:
Her house! You’ll be going to HER house!

While I try and create some cool and blasé response, the Greek Chorus at the end of the table contributes with a jackpot-style noise: “Ker-ching!”. Mum and I both scowl in unison.

IM:
Tosser.

“Her number’s by the phone. I said you’d call her back.”

I don’t need telling twice, but I can’t look too obvious; don’t want to wear my heart on my sleeve. I wait a few seconds. Mum and Tony are looking at me and the silence that follows is thick with anticipation. I wait a few more. Beneath my cool, calm exterior, I’m riddled with panic. What the hell am I going to say? Unfortunately, Mum doesn’t allow me the time to consider this fully.

“Well, go on, then!” she splutters. “Don’t keep the poor girl waiting!”

Fighting the rising urge to go and hide under my bed until it’s all over, I go to the phone. There, in Mum’s
handwriting, are the glorious numbers that will connect me with the most beautiful girl in the world.

IM:
Well? What are you waiting for?

What I’m waiting for is for my senses to get back into line: the phone suddenly looks like a piece of alien technology. The beeps it makes as I dial the Hallowed Numbers sound off-key and the ringing tone seems ridiculously loud. And there’s a strong possibility that my heart will flatline in the next thirty seconds.

“Hello?”

IM:
Oh, God. It’s her.

I cough nervously, trying to clear my throat before I speak. For some reason, my body – which may as well belong to somebody else right now – decides it’s a good idea to bring a little bit of bacon sandwich up with the cough. The result: more coughing. In fact, it’s one of those coughs that just won’t stop and gets your eyes watering with it. Between racking hacks, I manage to choke out a word or two.

“Hell—
Cough
—o?” I think I might be dying.

IM:
From shame or oxygen deficiency. Either’ll do.

“Hello? Who’s that?” Sarah sounds a little worried. And after last night, that’s pretty understandable.

“Sarah!” I splutter, before gaining control of the cough. “It’s Archie!” Unfortunately, these last two words come out as a hoarse, post-cough wheeze.

“Archie? Are you OK?”

“Yeah,” I manage to say, whilst clearing my throat for what I hope is the last time in my life.

“You sound awful.”

“No, no,” I say, in my normal voice. “Had something stuck in my throat.”

IM:
Well, at least that’s the awkward hello taken care of…

“How are you?” I throw the spotlight back at her, hoping to make my phone-retching a distant memory as soon as possible.

“I’m fine,” she says. “It was a really fun evening and thanks for my figure. It’s on my bedside table.”

IM:
…
!

“I’m sorry Jason saw my Facebook page, I’ve blocked him now. And I’ve changed my privacy settings. What a creep!”

“Well, he obviously likes you…”

IM:
Attempt at comedy! Abort! Abort!

“He needs to work on his chat-up lines!” Sarah giggles. “But I was really starting to enjoy the Game. I’d love to do it again sometime.”

IM:
*Sound of wedding bells*

“Yeah, sure, yeah,” I rattle off. “That’d be cool.”

“So. D’you want to come round? We could just hang out.”

I can think of nothing in the world that I’d like to do more, but I don’t want to frighten her off with what might sound like desperation.

IM:
Best keep your mouth shut, then.

“Yeah. That’d be cool.”

“Great. I live on Davenport Road. Number
seventy-eight
.”

“Oh, I know – the road just down from the shops.”

“Yeah. D’you want me to post it on Facebook?” There’s a tease in her voice that sends the butterflies in my stomach into a multicoloured flurry.

“Maybe next time,” I quip, planting the seeds that there might even be a next time.

“See you in about half an hour?”

“’K.” I don’t want to be the one to put the phone down first.

“Cool. Bye.”

IM:
She obviously doesn’t have the same problem…

“Bye.” I stand, looking at the receiver for a second, perhaps hoping that she’ll come back on the line.

IM:
That wasn’t too bad, was it?

Surprisingly, it wasn’t. Talking to a girl I’m hopelessly attracted to wasn’t too bad at all. It was almost like talking to a mate.

IM:
Weird.

Mum appears in the hallway, no doubt having
heard every word.

IM:
You really need that mobile phone.

“Perhaps you’d better go and get changed. You can’t turn up in the same clothes you wore yesterday.”

I dumbly agree and head to my Lair, clutching my bacon sandwich. As I climb the stairs, I hear Mum saying something to Tony about it being nice to see me so happy.

“Packing my pants” would be more accurate.

Rather than accepting Tony’s offer of a lift in “the Beemer”, I decide to walk to Sarah’s. It’s not too far and, after last night’s debacle, I’m done with being ostentatious; now it’s a case of what you see is what you get. Having said that, I did submit to Mum’s orders in choosing what to wear. I’m currently sporting jeans, the new trainers and a black shirt. All of which were ironed at Mum’s insistence – just after she’d noticed my sodden pyjamas on the radiator. I explained it away as a toothbrushing incident where I’d turned the tap on too hard, but I’m not sure whether my mother, the human polygraph, bought it.

My Grunt Detector
^TM
is on overdrive; everyone who appears round a corner or out of their house or on the horizon is marked out as a potential threat. But there’s no
sign of Humphries. Which is sort of more worrying than seeing him; it gives my already over-active imagination plenty of time to think about what he might do next.

IM:
Don’t fancy your chances in a rematch?

I don’t. Maybe Mum talking to Mrs Holly will keep him off me for a while, but no matter how much of an eye the school says they’ll keep on him, he’ll be back, I just know he will. His is the Way of the Warrior.

IM:
Yours is the Way of the Worrier.

After chasing a few scenarios round in my head – all of which involve my untimely death – I decide to try and forget about it. I’ve got other things to think about; I’ve walked along Davenport Road many a time, usually on my way to Matt’s. But today, it looks different. Even the air feels different.

IM:
SHE lives here.

As I walk along the pavement, I’m suddenly aware that these are the sights she sees every day – the parked cars, the lines of trees, the other houses – this is her environment. This must be how Frodo felt when he was walking through Lothlórien to meet the Queen of the Elves. Everything seems brighter and more profound; every leaf, every padding cat, every child on a bike – they’re all somehow inextricably linked to Sarah, and have some meaning in her life, no matter how small. I soak it all up, sensing the differences between her life
and mine, trying to figure out a bit more about her. And, like Frodo, while I’m aware of the sense of supernatural beauty of my surroundings, I’m also apprehensive of meeting my Queen, feeling unworthy of her presence.

IM:
And thank God that she can’t read minds like Galadriel could.

Number seventy-eight appears on my right and I take a moment to drink it in, scouring it for any clues that might tell me more about the girl who, whether she knows it or not, has captured my heart. Number
seventy-eight
is a modestly-sized, semi-detached house with a small gravel path leading to the green front door. Some sort of climbing plant has swathed the brickwork in purple blooms, giving it the appearance of a country cottage.

IM:
And it was the colour you chose for Nox Noctis. Maybe it’s a sign…

Maybe there is some sort of link between us. Again I think back to our meeting outside the shop.

I push open the gate. A fluffy black and white cat bowls over to me from the small front lawn. I crouch down and give it a stroke, feeling it push its head against my fingers. Could this be Sarah’s cat? It seems appropriate that it would be.