Geek Girl Read online

  Contents

  1. The Bet

  2. The Brady House . . . Or Is It the Cleavers?

  3. The Wrinkled Prunes

  4. Bowling, of All Things

  5. Stardates and the Spock-girl

  6. The Dance Begins in Earnest

  7. Old Birds and Songs

  8. More Time

  9. Tents and Blisters

  10. Marshmallows and Competition

  11. Mr. Green in the Study with the Candlestick

  12. New Resolve from the Lost Girl

  13. Chicken, Flat Soda, and Vines

  14. Klaatu Comes in Peace

  15. The Money Is Mine

  16. A Thief Confesses

  17. Offers and Issues

  18. Will the Real Mother Please Stand Up?

  19. If All the Raindrops Were Lemon Drops and Gum Drops . . .

  20. The Thunder Rolls

  21. The Lightning Strikes

  22. Adopting a New Lifestyle Isn’t for the Weak of Heart

  23. Back to School

  24. If It Seems Too Good to Be True . . .

  25 Life Goes On . . . Until you Meet an Angel, Anyway

  26. Of Nightmares and Hope

  27. Change Doesn’t Always Make Sense

  28. Friends and Sisters—Sometimes Both at the Same Time

  29. Two Dates?

  30. Date Disaster # 1

  31. Date Disaster # 2 . . . With a Twist Ending

  32. All Good Things . . . Well, You Know the Rest

  33. Na-nu, Na-nu

  34. “You Spin Me Right ’Round, Baby, Right ’Round”

  35. If Wishes Were Kisses

  36. Playbills and Pianos

  37. Whole Again

  Acknowledgments

  Discussion Questions

  About the Author

  Geek Girl

  Cindy C. Bennett

  Sweetwater Books

  An imprint of Cedar Fort, Inc.

  Springville, Utah

  © 2011 Cindy C Bennett

  All rights reserved.

  This is a work of fiction. The characters, names, incidents, places, and dialogue are products of the author’s imagination, and are not to be construed as real.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form whatsoever, whether by graphic, visual, electronic, film, microfilm, tape recording, or any other means, without prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief passages embodied in critical reviews and articles.

  ISBN 13: 978-1-59955-925-4

  Published by Sweetwater Books, an imprint of Cedar Fort, Inc.

  2373 W. 700 S., Springville, UT 84663

  Distributed by Cedar Fort, Inc., www.cedarfort.com

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Bennett, Cindy C. (Cindy Carlsen), 1967- author.

  Geek girl / Cindy C. Bennett.

  pages cm

  Summary: Jen, a teenaged foster child and social outcast, makes a bet with

  her friends that she can turn Trevor, a straight-A student and self-avowed

  “geek”, into a social outcast like herself, but quickly finds there is more

  to him than she expected.

  ISBN 978-1-59955-925-4

  1. High school students--Fiction. 2. High schools--Social

  aspects--Fiction. 3. Friendship--Fiction. 4. Marginality, Social--Fiction.

  5. Foster children--Fiction. [1. Interpersonal relations--Fiction. 2.

  Wagers--Fiction. 3. Dating (Social customs)--Fiction. 4. High

  schools--Fiction. 5. Schools--Fiction. 6. Friendship--Fiction. 7. Foster

  home care--Fiction.] I. Title.

  PZ7.B43913Gee 2011

  [Fic]--dc23

  2011033130

  Cover design by Angela D. Olsen

  Cover design © 2011 by Lyle Mortimer

  Edited and typeset by Melissa J. Caldwell

  Formatted for Kindle by Simon Shepherd

  For Lexcie, my amazing daughter, who forced me to finally finish Jen’s story by insisting on new chapters to read daily, and whose enthusiasm for the story made the journey that much more pleasurable. You rock, chickadee.

  1. The Bet

  “Think I could turn that boy bad?”

  My two best friends—my only two friends, really—Ella and Beth, follow my gaze and laugh. We’re sitting on the outskirts of the cafeteria, outcasts physically and socially. We’re proud of this. We strive for this.

  “Trevor Hoffman?” Beth scoffs. “No way, Jen.”

  “I bet I can,” I say, chewing on one of my painted black nails as I gaze at my intended target.

  “No way,” they both agree.

  I look at Trevor Hoffman and my grin widens. He is such a nerdy, Goody Two-shoes. Kinda cute actually. But he always has his shirt buttoned to the top and is a straight-A student who all of the teachers adore. He’s the Junior Class something or other—not the president but one of the other officers. He’s a little different than the other geeks in that he’s sort of . . . cool-geek, I guess. No glasses, asthmatic wheezing, or too-short pants for him. But he’s firmly entrenched with the geek-squad, a nerd to the core himself.

  “I bet I could,” I say, shrugging. “Might be fun.”

  Fun is something I desperately need. I can’t tell Beth and Ella, but my life has become a dreary cycle of tedious monotony. I get up, go to school, go home, avoid the people I live with as much as possible, and sneak out on weekends to party with my friends. There was a time when that was something to look forward to. I have to take it easy on that end now since this newest do-good family I’ve been foisted onto has a DEA agent for a father, who seems to be able to spot glassy eyes a mile away.

  The first time I came home from a party, I’d been subjected to hours of maudlin lecturing from them on the dangers of drugs and drinking, with much crying by the mother and fact-giving by the father until I wanted to pull my hair out. They grounded me, which meant even more time spent in their charity-radiating presence. I’d have preferred they yell at or beat me—those things I can deal with. I’ll do almost anything to avoid another lecture and grounding like that.

  “Why him?” Beth asks. “Why not any of the other nerds sitting there with him?”

  “Because,” I say slowly, as if it should be obvious to them, “he isn’t your typical run-of-the-mill geek. Any of those other dorks would flip immediately if a girl so much as touched them. But Trevor Hoffman is different. He’s a geek, right? I mean, none of the cheerleaders would date him because he’s not a jock, but they all know him, talk to him, use his help for their homework, whatever. And he is the Junior Class . . . Treasurer, or something like that. He would be a little more difficult to take down, more of a challenge—and more satisfying, you know?”

  They laugh again. Looking at each other, they silently agree to the plan, an odd ability the two of them have, probably because they’re identical twins, separated in looks only by Ella’s small mole above her lip—amplified with an eyebrow pencil.

  “If you can,” Ella says thoughtfully, “we’ll pay for your lip to be repierced.”

  That would be worth it. My current foster family has a no-piercing-on-the-face rule, which really cramps my style. At least so far they haven’t banned my hair, makeup, or clothing choices because, as my newest do-gooder foster mother says, those things aren’t permanent. Goes to show how much she knows.

  I’ll have to wait until the summertime to get the repiercing because that’s when I’m due for my big blowup so that I can get kicked out and move on to the next unsuspecting do-gooders. It’s been my MO for almost as long as I’ve been passed around, so I don’t see any reason to stop now, even if the current ones aren’t so bad. Though compared to what I’ve lived with, that isn’t saying much.r />
  “It’s a deal,” I tell her, hooking pinkie fingers with first Ella and then Beth in our traditional promise-making gesture. I attended this same school last year, though I lived with a different family then, so I’ve had the chance to get to know a few people pretty well. It was pure luck to be placed with a new family within the same school boundaries. Ella and Beth are my girls, having pulled me firmly into their circle when first they recognized my kindred spirit.

  Beth pokes my lip where the scar from the last piercing shows faintly. “How you gonna explain that one to the Straw Hat?”

  This is the nickname we call the foster mom, in reference to her penchant for wearing straw hats when working in her garden. The hats are utterly ridiculous.

  “My time’s up this summer, so it’ll be a good catalyst.”

  Ella and Beth know my history; they understand without explanation.

  “We’ll miss you,” they say at the same time.

  “But you aren’t going to win using this one as a bet,” Ella says, indicating Trevor with a nod of her head. As if to confirm her words, Trevor makes a dorky face at his equally dorky friends, who all burst out in dorky laughter. And then he cuts his eyes toward Mary Ellen, a complete homebody girl who sits at the table.

  Competition, huh? I muse.

  I watch her for a minute. She’s completely unaware that Trevor’s display was for her. She sits quietly, shyly eating her lunch with her head down. She has long, straight, mousy brown hair, glasses, and shapeless nerd clothes covering her shapeless nerd body.

  She’s perfect for Trevor.

  I smile. She’s no competition for me. I am his complete opposite in every way, but when I’m finished with him, he’ll recognize Mary Ellen for the mouse she is.

  I stand up and turn toward where Beth and Ella still sit. A flyer hanging above their heads catches my eye. I pull it down with a grin and hand it to them.

  “A school stomp?” they echo together, horrified.

  “A stomp,” I say firmly. “Tonight. We’re going.”

  I look back toward where Trevor sits, straight and tall as befits a nerd of his station.

  “Tonight, I begin,” I tell them, walking away as they dissolve into laughter behind me.

  ⊕⊗⊕

  We show up to the stomp. They have to admit us in spite of our heavy black eyeliner, cherry red lips, stark black hair with red streaks, and tight black shirts and miniskirts with thigh-high plaid stockings and black boots. They want to turn us away, these cheerleader-types, but they have to let us in: we have student ID cards.

  We head over to the corner where a few of our “kind” stand, the few willing to brave something as mainstream as a school dance. Admittedly, it’s mostly because it’s a good place to gather while we figure out whose house we can go party at tonight. And tonight it probably has a little to do with the fact that they know my plan and are here to watch me begin my game.

  I search Trevor out almost immediately—not hard to do with the nerd herd gathered all together. Varying degrees of nerd-dom huddle with one another, none dancing.

  “There’s your boyfriend,” Ella says sarcastically, following my gaze.

  “Watch,” I say, beelining for him. The dance is in full swing, sweaty teenagers bouncing to the beat.

  “Hey!” I call. He doesn’t look. I tap his arm, and he turns, surprised when he sees me in front of him. He’d probably sooner expect to see a talking zebra in front of him.

  “Wanna dance?” I ask with what I hope is a seductive look. Now, I think, is when his expression will turn to disgust and he’ll turn away, making my goal harder—and giving my friends amusement.

  But he doesn’t.

  “Sure,” he agrees, ignoring his friends who do wear distasteful looks. I’m surprised he agrees, but I manage to hide it behind a smile meant to turn him to jelly. He doesn’t turn to jelly, though he does have a look of vague puzzlement in his eyes. He follows me out to the dance floor, and we begin moving. He’s not a bad dancer.

  I decide to let him go after the first dance, the old attack-and-retreat strategy, and back up a step, intent obvious. He’s flustered, unsure what to do.

  “Thanks,” he says as I start to turn away.

  He just thanked me, I think scathingly.

  Dork.

  But I refrain from rolling my eyes and smile again, reaching out to lightly squeeze his arm. He still doesn’t turn to jelly, but something definitely changes in his eyes.

  I keep an eye on him for a while, making sure he’s aware of it. I’m always standing in his line of vision, always watching him, making sure he’s aware of my attention. He turns away first every time, confused, and maybe a little nervous by my unexpected and unprecedented attention.

  “How goes the plan?” Beth asks as she walks over to me, watching as Trevor once again glances my way to see if I’m still watching.

  “I have him wondering,” I tell her.

  “You have him scared,” she corrects.

  “Maybe a little,” I concede. “But mostly curious, I think. And you know what they say about curiosity.”

  “He’s not a cat,” she says.

  “Sure he is. They all are.”

  She gives me an odd look. I’m about to explain that an animal by any other name . . . but then someone calls me.

  “Hey, Jen.”

  I turn, annoyed at whoever is pulling my attention from my target, and see Seth. Seth is a bit of an enigma to me. I think he has a thing for me, but he refuses to act on it. He’s definitely my type: long, stringy, black hair, tight black pants riding low, black eyeliner, and pierced ears, tongue, and lip. He is tall and skinny and weird. He’s usually high. Seth is most definitely my type.

  “What’s up, Seth?” I ask dismissively, turning back to look at Trevor again—only to see he’s looking my way, watching me. I give a slight smile; he flushes at being caught and turns back toward his own friends. I mentally compare him to Seth.

  Night and day.

  A slow song comes on, and I intensify my stare, moving toward him. One of his geek followers looks meaningfully in my direction. Compelled, curious, Trevor turns my way, and I lock gazes with him as I walk toward him, leaving Seth and Beth behind me, one corner of my mouth lifting at their rhyming names. Maybe they should hook up.

  Trevor seems unsure as I continue my deliberate path toward him but stands as I come near. I tip my head toward the dance floor in invitation without speaking, and he follows me without answering. He places his arms lightly around my waist, holding me at a respectable distance. I’m surprised by the solidity of his shoulders beneath my hands—not soft at all.

  I push closer. He backs up a little.

  “Good song,” I say quietly.

  He shakes his head, indicating he can’t hear me. I lean in toward him and, afraid of being rude, he leans down to hear what I’m saying.

  “I like this song,” I say, though I’ve never heard it before and have no idea who’s singing.

  “Yeah, me too,” he says, and I hold on tightly, refusing to let him back away again. Once more afraid of being discourteous, he doesn’t push me away, though he is stiff. Such a nerd.

  He smells good, clean.

  As soon as the song ends, his hands drop. I hold on a little longer, then slowly draw my arms away, dragging them down his chest, which causes that change in his eyes again.

  “Thanks,” I say huskily, leaning in toward him again, beating him to the politeness, but my thanks is definitely not the same as his, and he knows it.

  I turn and walk toward my friends, swaying the hips a little, and they grin at me.

  “He still watching?” I ask.

  “Oh yeah,” Beth says.

  “What did you do to him?” Ella asks. “He hasn’t moved. He looks like—”

  “—a lovesick puppy dog,” they finish together, breaking down in giggles.

  Seth doesn’t look happy. Oh well . . . you snooze, you lose. Now he’ll have to wait his turn because I’m going
to have to focus all my attention on my new goal. And the prize, I add mentally, fingering my bare lip. I turn back to face Trevor, who’s still watching me, looking a little shell-shocked. I’m still fingering my lip, and his eyes home in on this action. I grin at him, sweetly but with a little tramp thrown in for good measure.

  This seems to unfreeze him, and he turns quickly away. I watch him as he goes to his friends and says something urgently. They are surprised and talk back a bit frantically. But he shakes his head firmly and walks away from them as they look after him in confusion. As he nears the door, he looks back at me. He doesn’t look happy. Before I can smile, he turns away and is gone.

  A slow grin crosses my face.

  2. The Brady House . . . Or Is It the Cleavers?

  I turn on the stalking at school, going out of my way to be in his path, watching him and smiling at him. He’s unsure but courteous, so he smiles back, if a bit hesitantly. His smiles are always small and brief. If I’m with any of my friends, he seems intimidated and will avoid eye contact altogether, no matter how hard I try.

  But if I’m alone, then he makes eye contact, and though his smiles aren’t exactly what I might hope for, at least they’re there. He’s paying attention. His eyes reflect his confusion.

  My friends are all amused—except for Seth, of course.

  After a couple of weeks of this, I turn it up and begin saying hi. The first time I do this, he actually stops in his tracks, stunned. I keep walking. But the next time it isn’t quite so shocking, and the geek says hi back—though he sounds unsure and only says it when I’m mostly past him. Wouldn’t want to be impolite, I guess. That sensibility is something I can use in my quest, though.

  On a Friday afternoon after I’ve gotten him used to saying hi as I walk past and smile at him, I walk right up to him while he stands at his open locker. His locker is, of course, neatly organized and clean, with his many books stacked tidily on the shelf. There are no pictures or anything that would make it personal. And definitely nothing like the chaos that is my locker.