Geekhood Read online

  In one world, I am a Level 5 Mage, capable of summoning an undead army to do my bidding. In this one, I’m a nerd who stands about as much chance of facing off these jerks as a fart in a hurricane.

  Thankfully, Goth Girl is made of sterner stuff. With a flick of her alabaster head, she snaps back with a retort that is packed with more swear words than you’d have thought possible. She throws “the finger” in for good measure and then, I could be wrong, but I’m sure that her walk morphs into a strut that accentuates the swing of her hips. She stops in front of me and fixes me with her ice-blue eyes.

  IM:………………………………………Eep.

  “You were in that funny shop yesterday, weren’t you?”

  I silently damn my nerdishness and nod like I’ve been possessed by the spirit of a woodpecker.

  “The Hovel, yeah.”

  “Can we talk for a minute?”

  IM: God and Baby Jesus.

  “Yeah, sure.”

  With that, she quickly links arms with me and walks me away fromthe shop. I’mashamed, but not too proud to admit, that this is themost contact I’ve ever had with a girl in my whole life. It’s as if I’ve suddenly inherited Peter Parker’s spider-sense; every patch of my skin (that is in contact withmy sweatshirt that is in contact with her tight black top that is in contact with her skin) is suddenly suffering from heightened awareness. Not to mention the faint blooming in my nether regions.

  We keep walking away from the shop, my mother’s milk becoming a distant memory.

  IM: Dear Sigmund Freud…

  “So … uh … what do you want to talk about?”

  IM: Just shut up for a minute. Let her do the talking. Mouth closed; ears open.

  Beautiful Goth stops suddenly and swings me round in front of her.

  “Have they gone?”

  For a moment, I haven’t got a clue what she’s on about and then it clicks. I peer past her and look at the Pack of Grunts. Even from here, I can see their foreheads rippling. All three of them are looking at us now, and the muscular nodding that is taking place can only spell bad news. Then, to my relief, they pull their bikes round in a motion that reminds me of cowboys on horseback, and vanish in the other direction, leaving cigarette smoke in their wake.

  “They’ve gone.” It’s only two words, but I try and inject them with as much Han Solo as I can.

  Beautiful Goth seems to put all her weight on one leg and lets half her body slump. I’ve never seen anyone slump so elegantly.

  IM: Come on! She’s stressed! You might be able to get your arm round her!

  I silence the newly awakened predator that seems to have moved into my body and search my extensive database of films for the appropriate thing to say.

  “Were they bothering you?”

  Goth Girl unslumps and looks me dead in the eye with a smile that would make Clark Kent order a kryptonite sandwich.

  “Why? You a ninja or something?”

  IM: She knows you’re a nerd! Abort! Abort!

  This causes my EM to react with an all-systems shutdown. Without a film quote or a terminal one-liner to fall back on, all I can do is blink excessively, stutter a bit and blush. Goth Girl’s expression changes to one of concern.

  IM: Pity’ll do…

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it! I’ve just got a bit of a funny sense of humour. Look – let’s start again. Hello. I’m Sarah and thanks for helping me out with that bunch of losers.”

  Out comes a hand. I think I’m supposed to shake it. My EM comes back online and manages a lopsided smile.

  “Archie.”

  My hand goes up and meets hers, spider-sense tingling in anticipation. But I don’t anticipate her next move: when our hands meet, she pauses for a second and then suddenly grips it tighter. At the same time, there’s a barely audible gasp and a look of alarm crosses her face.

  “Oh my God…”

  She’s looking really concerned now, and for a second I have this awful image of my flies being undone. In a panic, I pull my hand from hers.

  “What is it? What?”

  “You’re really…” the alarm on her face deepens to a sort of sadness “…angry. Aren’t you? Hurt.”

  I wasn’t expecting that. I’ve had a few odd encounters in my life – the worst one to date was walking in on Tony in the bath – but we now have a new reigning champion. In all the IM/EM chaos that’s going on, something in her pure, pure voice calls to a fragment of my soul that I’ve kept hidden for a Long Time. But I’m not about to spill my guts to a beautiful girl I’ve only just met.

  “Isn’t everyone?”

  IM: Good work. Sounds worldly-wise and is neither a confirmation nor a denial. A career in politics beckons.

  Sarah looks at me with a squint, as though trying to probe deeper, and then suddenly starts acting as though nothing has happened.

  “Why were you in that shop yesterday?”

  “I like the games.”

  “They’re all about magic and stuff, aren’t they?”

  “Well … yeah.”

  “So, do you believe in magic?”

  “They’re role-playing games. You sort of pretend with rules.” I want to die.

  “But do you believe in magic?”

  Whether I believe in magic or not doesn’t really matter to me right now. What does matter is that Sarah is still walking with me even after my response, which was:

  “I’ll get back to you on that. I need to buy some milk.”

  Hardly a show-stopper, I know. But then, to cement my position in the world as an idiot, I add:

  “But I have read Harry Potter.”

  Sarah’s reply consists of a bewildered smile and a series of blinks, which only reinforces my suspicion that I am as stupid as I look.

  We retrace our steps in deafening silence, and she waits outside the shop, while I damn myself until the milk-buying is over.

  IM: WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU? WHY NOT JUST SHOUT “EXPELLIARMUS” AND ASK HER FOR A GAME OF QUIDDITCH?

  I think the last time I was asked if I believed in magic was when I was in the audience of a pantomime as a kid. Back then, it was just a given – of course magic was real, of course there was a Father Christmas and it was an indelible fact that something unspeakable lurked under my bed at night. However, as time passed and hairs grew, the idea of magic simply hadn’t occurred to me; not as a reality, anyway.

  We start walking and talking – two things I do most days, but now they seem almost impossible to do simultaneously. It takes me a moment to realize that we’re walking in the direction of my old house, back towards town, and that we will soon have to go our separate ways.

  But I want this to last for ever.

  My EM slows the pace down to an amble. Like the ones that couples do. Throughout my pondering, fretting and self-damnation, I am now managing to explain the mechanics of role-playing games to Sarah, who wants to know how they work. And who looks confused.

  “So you use dice?”

  I really do want to die right now. Better still, I’d like Jason Humphries and his Pack of Grunts to reappear and for me to be suddenly possessed of the ninja skills so obviously absent from my life. That would be magic. Instead, I’m trying to justify playing what suddenly sound like children’s games.

  IM: Pass me the Lego.

  “Yeah – there are points systems and you use the dice to accumulate or lose points, so you can learn new skills or get stronger.”

  “So there’s a lot of maths involved?”

  “Well, yeah … but it’s not really about rolling dice. It’s more about creating a character and trying to react the way that character would.”

  “What? Like acting?”

  “Sort of. I s’pose it’s more like narrating a story; you say what your character’s doing.”

  “Can you die in the Game?”

  IM: I could do it right now, if you wanted.

  “Yeah.”

  “And what do you do? Do you dress up?” Her Antar
ctic eyes sparkle with mockery – but it still looks sexy.

  “No! We use models. Figures.”

  “Little men?”

  At this point I’m eagerly listening for the bony scrape of Death’s feet behind me, almost wishing for a skeletal hand on my shoulder.

  “Yeah. Little men.”

  “And what are they for? I mean, if you’re narrating a story.”

  “Uh… They’re more to give you an idea of where things are, like if you were in a battle or something. I’m not explaining it very well; you’d have to play it to understand.”

  “OK. I’d like a go. Could I?”

  IM: Oh. My. God.

  I now experience two conflicting emotions. One is a joyous lightening of my spirit: the most beautiful girl I have ever seen – with whom I have had some form of bodily contact – wants to come and play an RPG. The other feeling is as though liquid lead has been added to my soul: if I allow this, I will be vulnerable to her. She will see me for what I am: a nerd of biblical proportions. My mouth is dry and my stomach feels like it’s on fire. What do I do? Rock forward on to my toes and lean into the wind or walk away from the edge?

  Now or Never.

  Now is quite a frightening place at the moment. Never is safe and peaceful.

  “Yeah, OK.”

  “Great! When?”

  “Well, we’re having a game on Friday night. You could come to that if you want.”

  “Cool, it’s a date.”

  IM: A date? She said “date”! She said “date”! Oh my God – it’s a date! You’ve got a date! With her! A real one! A date!

  I know that it’s not a date, not in the official sense, but part of me is suddenly convinced that it is. It’s this mad fantasy that stops me from hearing her next question, so she has to repeat herself.

  “Do I have to bring a little man?”

  Images of midgets flash through my mind.

  “Uh … no. No. I’ve got one you can use.” I drag to a halt; this is as far as I can go without walking her home. And much as I’d love to, I think it might be interpreted as stalking.

  “Cool. I’ll see you at school and we can sort it out.”

  “School?” I squeak. It’s not a word that I usually squeak, but on this occasion it makes my heart flutter to the point that I’m wondering how long it would take a team of paramedics to get here.

  “Yeah. Don’t you go to the Community College?”

  I nod dumbly.

  “Me too! So, I’ll see you there! Bye.”

  She goes to my school? As I surreptitiously watch her walk away, drinking in as much detail about her as possible, I find it impossible to think that I wouldn’t have noticed her. Perhaps she’s new. Then again, I’m a Geek and Geeks know that there are certain girls you mustn’t even look at – you mustn’t even acknowledge that they exist. Because if you do, your Geeky little heart will shatter in the knowledge that pretty much all girls will never, ever be in your league. Especially girls like Sarah. Sarah, who has talked to me and wants to come round to my house on Friday!

  Just as my spirit spreads its wings and goes to soar, eagle-like, over the rooftops, a screech of brakes and a honk-honk brings me back to earth. It’s Tony. He pulls up next to the kerb and the window slides down. Panic races through me like a forest fire: how much has he seen? Please, God, don’t let him ruin this for me.

  “Hey, Arch! Want a lift?”

  I get in, my EM doing its best to appear as though I haven’t just been hanging out with a real, live girl. Tony sparks up and a grin twists his face as we pull away.

  “You sly old dog!”

  The car journey is a cocktail of smoke, denial and knowing nods. However much I try to tell Tony that I’m not seeing Sarah – which I’m not – it doesn’t stop the worldly-wise wag of his head and the “I see through you” chuckle that accompanies each of my attempts to explain away the situation as casually as possible. I’m not helped by the fact that my EM has gone into warp-drive, causing my face to glow like a Hallowe’en pumpkin. But what’s even more worrying are Tony’s attempts at complimenting me on my choice of girl (like I’ve mail-ordered her or something). To hear the man who is living with my mother describing a teenage girl as “a cracker” does make me wish that Tony’s car had an ejector seat. His or mine – I don’t care. I realize that this is an attempt at bonding, but the only palpable results are my nails digging into my palms and my toes bunching up in my trainers.

  “So when do we get to meet her?”

  IM: What a great idea, Tony! I’ll bring her round to the house so that she can listen to your pointless comments about life and then, to round it off, we’ll go and set fire to ourselves in the garden!

  “Dunno.” I’m running out of energy.

  “Why don’t you get her round one night, after school? I’ll cook dinner and we can all have a laugh.”

  IM: ARE YOU MENTAL?

  “Yeah … I dunno… We’ll see how it goes.” I’m running perilously close to accepting his offer, which would be a disaster.

  “Have you told your mum yet?”

  “Told her what?”

  “About your girlfriend.”

  “But she’s not… No.” I give up.

  “Well, let’s get back and give her the good news.”

  Jesus, this is getting out of hand. All I was doing was getting a pint of milk and now I seem to be the centre of some Carnival of Love! The thought of facing my mum and telling her that I’ve got a girlfriend – which I haven’t – is too much to consider. I really need to get a grip; all it is is a girl coming round to the house. OK, it’s the first time – but it had to happen eventually, even by the Law of Averages. And I’m the first to admit I’m pretty average.

  “She’ll be chuffed for you.”

  And then I see his little game. He signals it to me without knowing – a little grin to himself, a subtle change in his demeanour. Me having a girlfriend would justify his existence. It suddenly makes sense. People get together. If I can do it, then there’s no reason why my mum can’t do it. Tony’s presence in my life would be entirely justified. A sneaky, shameful part of me realizes that if that were the case, I’d have nothing to rail against. I’d have to accept him. The house is getting closer and I don’t want to go there right now.

  IM: Bail out! Bail out!

  “Oh! I’ve just remembered! I’m supposed to be meeting the guys down at the Hovel. Could you drop me there?” With a bit of luck, Tony’s inherent laziness will instantly dismiss the idea of driving back into town and he’ll make some excuse and stop the car. Then I can get out and the interrogation will end.

  “Sure thing, partner. Don’t worry – I’ll prime your mum.”

  IM: Partner? And so it begins. Tony’s acceptance into the fold starts here.

  Ordinarily at this point, I would want to die. Today, however, I want Tony to. Even if he has miraculously decided to drive me into town.

  We pull up outside the Hovel and I hand over the milk and get out of the car, my EM throwing a casual wave at my stepfather as he speeds off. The way this is all panning out is making me tired; I need to clear my head. The Hovel’s the best place I can think of.

  Although it’s a Sunday, there are quite a few people in here. Some old-school metal is blazing away in the background, screaming something about running to the hills.

  Whoever’s singing has captured my mood perfectly and the thought of just vanishing is an attractive one. I could get a little backpack together, with my trusty walking staff, and just wander into the countryside, like Frodo Baggins. But I don’t have a backpack or a staff and the Black Rider that hunts me owns a BMW. Plus I couldn’t do it to Mum.

  Another metal song from the Dark Ages starts up – something about “You Shook Me All Night Long”. Like an age-old demon answering a summons, the sex-serpent in my head uncoils and whispers an idea. And it’s a good one.

  I need to paint a model for Sarah.

  OK, this might not be an earth-shattering idea by most
people’s standards, but it works for me on a number of levels. Indulgently, I picture the scene.

  Sarah enters my bedroom (hereafter to be known as my Lair). Matt, Ravi and Beggsy are there, settled round my gaming table. A gentleman to the last, I pull out a chair for her and she sits – do I sense she is a little flustered? Perhaps it is the aftershave I’m wearing. Sarah looks around my Lair, her curiosity piqued by the reams of dusty tomes that line the walls. I hand her a character-sheet for the Game, all filled in and ready to go. She looks at my friends and the miniatures they are holding; dismay crosses her perfect face.

  “Oh!” she exclaims. “I didn’t bring my little man.”

  “Not to worry,” I breeze with a casual smile, “here’s one I knocked up for you earlier.”

  Sarah takes the model from my hands, barely able to suppress her delight that I’ve thought of her, and gushing with admiration at my masterly brushstrokes.

  “Did you do this just for me?”

  I take a seat and casually produce a bottle of champagne.

  “The pleasure was all mine. Would anyone care for a drink?”

  As I pour and my friends turn their attentions to dice and rule books, Sarah casts me a secret smile and I’m sure I can feel something brushing against my lower leg…

  This is neither the time nor the place to chase that particular narrative, so I turn my attention to the rows of blister packs that adorn the walls. It is with some indignation that I am, for the first time, suddenly aware of the lack of figurines for girls. What’s the matter with the company that makes them? Don’t they realize that girls play too? Or do they think these games are the sole pursuit of fourteen-year-old boys who’ve never had a girlfriend?

  IM: And so rests the case for the prosecution.