Geekhood Page 5

  After some searching, I manage to find some: there’s an archer(ess?), an elven witch and an elven thief(ette?). Which one should I choose? This is more difficult than choosing a model for myself; Matt, Ravi and Beggsy will know that I have painted it for the occasion and it will be scrutinized. They will be looking for the signs of anything soppy, such as a Galadriel-type figure. The archer is quite good: she’s wearing a leather jerkin and tight leggings which show off her legs, but I can’t help feeling that Sarah might find it a bit boring. The other two are elves, which I’ve always had a penchant for. Elves are sexy: they’ve got good, angular bone structure, long, laconic faces and there’s even something a bit kinky about those ears. The thief is clutching a leather pouch of loot in one hand and a curved dagger in the other. In her belt are bottles, which I could paint up to look like a selection of poisons. But again, it’s not quite right. It’s not interesting enough.

  The witch, however, is possibly a bit too interesting.

  This witch obviously bats for the bad guys. Not that she’s an old hag with a face like a crescent moon – she’s an elf, remember? This witch has a cruel, yet seductive smile on her elegant face. One arm is outstretched, as though casting a spell and the other cradles a crystal ball. But the problem is her outfit: thigh-high boots, elbow-length gloves and a short jerkin that is cut tantalizingly low. Add to that a few bangles and a circlet on her head and you’ve got the general idea.

  Dare I buy it?

  Admittedly, I’d get a lot of kudos from the guys for presenting this one to Sarah – but how would she take it? As a compliment? With a look of horror? Or would she look into my soul and recognize it for what it is – flirting.

  I look down at the miniature and, for a moment, feel as though I’m buying a dodgy magazine – which I never have, by the way. It is with some trepidation that I approach the counter before popping the witch in front of Big Marv. He picks it up and looks through the protective bubble, giving it a quick once-over. Then he raises a knowing eyebrow.

  “Good luck,” he says.

  Home sends me scurrying through newspaper balls and over empty cardboard boxes, up to my room. As I creep Gollum-like through the hall, strangled strains of radio from outside tell me that Mum and Tony are somewhere in the garden. Perfect. I skulk up the stairs and into my Lair, closing the bedroom door behind me as quietly as possible.

  My EM drops a gear and I settle myself at my painting desk to re-examine Sarah’s model. It’s a bit booby. Suddenly, my idle fantasies about impressing her with my Michelangelo-like abilities seem a lot less cinematic; I feel like I’ve just been caught drawing a dick on a school desk. Not that I ever have, you understand.

  In the safety of the Hovel, the witch looked slightly classy, had a touch of refinement. Now she looks like something that a sexually frustrated teenage boy might draw on his artist’s pad at night and then rub out come the morning feeling a bit guilty.

  IM: No comment.

  Maybe an undercoat will even things out. I throw open the dormer window above my desk and spray the witch with a fine blizzard of matt white. While she dries, I take a look at the gargoyle: it sits, hunched, almost scowling at me, begging for colour. Time for a black wash.

  A wash, for the uninitiated, is where you thin a colour right down, until it looks almost like dirty water. Then, using a brush, you drizzle it on to your model. The liquid runs into every nook and cranny, carrying the pigment with it, exposing all the detail. It’s all in the details.

  After his bath, the gargoyle is already looking more alive; I can see cracks and splits in the stone skin surrounding his mouth, grooves in the horns and sinews writhing round his chest and shoulders. I can even see his irises, which are horizontal slits, like those of a lizard.

  “Hello!”

  My EM takes a second to find its default setting, but I needn’t have worried too much; it’s only Mum.

  IM: Uh-oh.

  Uh-oh, indeed. She’s wearing one of those silly grins that says she can’t wait to talk about something.

  IM: And we know what it is, don’t we?

  My EM throws a slightly bashful smile to my lips, which fail to catch it properly and it looks more like I’m having a bout of wind. Silly grin still on her face, Mum comes and sits on the end of my bed.

  “So, then…” The smile almost cuts her face in two and her expectant eyebrows reach to the heavens in anticipation of the Glorious News.

  IM: Please. God. No.

  “Tony tells me you’ve got a girlfriend.”

  At this point, my IM is barely able to contain itself and struggles with my EM for dominance.

  IM: Aaaieee! Divert all power to the main engines! Employ the cloaking device! Detonate the reactor core! We need warp factor five or we’re all dead! DO SOMETHING!

  My spine seems to melt and I slide down in my chair, my eyes rolling to one side, a world-weary sigh adding to the possibility that I might be deflating.

  “She’s not my girlfriend, Mum.”

  “Oh?” Smile gone. Look of surprise.

  “No. She’s just someone I met.”

  “Oh.” Look of disappointment.

  IM: Isn’t it amazing how adults can wield vowel sounds to such great effect?

  “She’s just a friend.”

  “Tony thought there might be a bit more to it…”

  I deflate a little more, this time with a groan. If this carries on, I’ll be little more than a sack of skin soon. Mum half rises off the bed.

  “It’s OK if you don’t want to talk about it…”

  If magic is real, then you need look no further than the Power of Mums; the slightest intonation or gesture can send you back to feeling like you were still in nappies. And had probably filled them.

  IM: No! Be strong! Resist!

  I give in and take charge of my IM.

  “No … no, it’s fine… She’s not my girlfriend, Mum… But…”

  “But you like her?” There’s that look of hope again, the one that prays that her son might be freed from the Shackles of Geekdom.

  Despite all its attempts to retrieve my dignity, the old EM just isn’t built for this sort of pounding. It gives up and floods my face with blood, which promptly lights up like a solar flare.

  “Yeah … I suppose so… Yeah.”

  “And what’s her name?”

  “Sarah.”

  “She goes to your school?”

  “I think so.” I’m going redder by the moment.

  Mum leans forward in a conspiratorial sort of way, excitement dancing in her eyes.

  “Ask her out, Archie. Ask Sarah out on a date.”

  IM: That’s it, she’s finally lost her mind.

  “Yeah … great idea, Mum… But it’s not that simple…”

  “It is that simple, Archie; nothing ventured, nothing gained.”

  I would love to believe her, love to be able to embrace that simplistic attitude, but she just doesn’t understand! The mere thought of asking Sarah “out” fills me with dread and self-loathing. Equally, I can’t seem to face the ludicrous levels of excitement that telling Mum Sarah’s already coming over would bring. And I don’t want to jinx it; I’ll tell her when it’s all settled in my head.

  “Tony says he wants me to get her round for dinner one night.” Try as I might, I can’t keep the bleating terror out of my voice.

  “Don’t worry. I’ll have a word with him, tell him to back off. I know how awkward it can be to let someone know you like them, but he’s just excited for you. So am I.”

  Mum’s earnest little face almost makes me want to cry. Not tears of joy, but tears prompted by the fact that she’s going to end up disappointed by her socially-challenged son.

  “Ask her out, Archie. It’d do you good to have a girlfriend. Lunch’ll be ready soon.” And then she’s out of the door and gone with a discernible spring in her step.

  By the time I make it down to lunch, Tony has obviously been put on a leash and the subject of Sarah is dropped. However,
it’s clearly been dropped from a great height, because the ripples it’s made make any other topic of conversation seem forced and stilted. I restrict my answers to nods and grunts, trying to become one with my roast pork.

  After lunch, I thunder back up to my Lair and get some more unpacking done, leaf through old rule books, do a bit of painting – anything except think about what I want to think about, but I know I shouldn’t think about. I can’t help it; I end up thinking about it. I wonder where she lives.

  IM: Stop it…

  The parade of local shops is about a five-minute walk away from the new house. Given that I saw Sarah up at the local shops, it must mean her local shops are now my local shops.

  IM: You’ll be telling us that two plus two equals four in a minute!

  And given that she was on foot, it means her house can’t be too far away, either.

  IM: How did you manage it, Holmes?

  I wonder what her house looks like.

  IM: Stop it…

  But, try as I might, I just can’t picture the sort of house a girl that beautiful would live in; this piece of the mental jigsaw puzzle has yet to be found. It’s like I want to imagine it right and nothing less will do.

  IM: *Sick noises*

  And I wonder what she likes? Should I take a leaf out of Tony’s book and start thinking about flowers? I’ve never bought flowers before; I wonder which ones are her favourites?

  IM: Why don’t you start planning the wedding while you’re at it? It’s not even a proper date, you freak!

  My IM’s right. I need to put these thoughts to bed. I keep going with the unpacking, but after a few hours, a hurried sandwich, a few false starts and a bubbly “good night” from Mum, I eventually throw in the towel, crash on to the bed, and take a profound interest in the ceiling. I wonder what Sarah’s doing right now?

  IM: Not expending the same amount of energy thinking about you, that’s for sure…

  Sleep ought to be a blessed release from the trials and tribulations of my non-existent love life, but the Dream is waiting for me.

  I wake up with a jolt, just as I’m about to discover the identity of the menacing thing at the bottom of my bed – and realize that it’s standing over me.

  Wearing slippers.

  “What are you doing down there? And you’re still wearing the same clothes from yesterday! Come on, you’ve got a big day at school today.”

  It’s Mum. I groan and roll on to my back, suddenly aware of a string of dribble that’s connecting me to the floor.

  “Must’ve fallen out of bed,” I mumble, climbing to my feet. “What’s happening at school?”

  That excited grin again. Here it comes.

  “You’re going to ask that girl out.”

  IM: No pressure, then.

  I realize this will cement my position as a Geek, but I like school. I like routine, I like learning – I even like homework. I keep hearing adults say that your school years are the best years of your life and, while there are worse things to be than a bookworming virgin, I hope it’s not true. But today’s got a little extra shine on it – today I might see Sarah. My stomach seems to be home to a kaleidoscope of butterflies.

  Me and Ravi snigger through the peaks and valleys of the female reproductive system in Biology, and Matt lends his caustic wit to a debate on the themes in Of Mice and Men in English. It’s a regular enough day, but there’s no sign of Sarah.

  IM: I tell ya, I tell ya a guy gets too lonely an’ he gets sick…

  Lunchtime waves its magic wand and we’re all allowed to talk to each other about the things that matter most to us. For me, Matt, Ravi and Beggsy, it’s planning the Game on Friday night. I still haven’t got round to mentioning that Sarah’s going to be there, and each time I think I’m going to say something, there’s a flurry of panic in my stomach and my brain steers the conversation away to something else. Usually Kirsty Ford – they bite at that one like fish to bait.

  “Yeah, but what do you think they look like?” Beggsy’s saying. “I mean, when they’re unbound?”

  There’s a brief silence round our table. The rest of the dinner hall keeps chatting and eating, unaware of the Nest of Perversion that lurks scant feet from their packed lunches and fish fingers and chips.

  “‘Unbound’?” Matt mocks. “These aren’t oven-ready chickens we’re talking about…”

  “But they could do with stuffing, just the same,” Ravi pipes up and we all groan.

  “A little more decorum, please, gentlemen,” I interject. “If we’re going to plumb these depths…” resounding sniggers from the assembly “…then let’s at least show a degree of respect. Mr Beggs, you have the floor.”

  “I’m just asking if you think they’re uppies or downies – that’s all.”

  Another stunned silence. Beggsy tries to recover ground.

  “Do they defy gravity or are we talking about a pair of spaniel’s ears? It’s an important question!”

  More laughter from the assembly and cries of “Order! Order!” from me, seeing as I seem to have been unofficially recognized as chairman. And just as suddenly as it starts, the laughter dies off and, too late, my Grunt DetectorTM goes online. It takes me a split second to read the change in my compatriots’ body language: rounded shoulders, eyes down and bland, unreadable expressions all round: the Nerd version of Duck and Cover – Cower and Quake. There’s someone behind me.

  IM: Uh-oh…

  My EM follows suit, doing its chameleon-best to blend in with the environment, but a hand on my shoulder calls my bluff; I have no option but to turn round. Which I do, very slowly. A muscled forehead ripples at me.

  “You’re that kid outside the corner shop yesterday.”

  Up close, Jason Humphries looks even more terrifying; his skin resembles the surface of the moon and he has visible laughter-lines forming.

  IM: Probably from the twenty-four-hour delight he experiences at being tougher than God.

  For a moment I’m not even sure that he is my age – surely no fourteen-year-old can look so grizzled. And he seems to have more than his fair share of teeth, all of them little, but glittering like knives. The smell of cigarette smoke is thick on his breath as he fixes me with his dead eyes.

  “You’re that kid.”

  IM: Deny! Deny! Deny! Even in the face of photographic evidence! You weren’t there! It was your twin! Anything but the truth!

  “Um … yeah.”

  IM: Ashes to ashes, dust to dust…

  I feel Jason’s meaty hand tighten briefly on my shoulder, suddenly aware that he’s wearing a ring as it presses through my sweater. He blinks like cows do when there are flies bothering them.

  “Who was that girl, then?”

  IM: Sister. Go for sister.

  “Um … just a friend…”

  The smell of cigarette smoke gets more intense as Jason’s anvil head gets closer to mine.

  “Well, you tell her that I want to meet her, got me?”

  I nod feverishly and I think the word “sure” drops out of my mouth like a rabbit turd.

  “Good.” There’s another squeeze on my shoulder and then he swings away like a shark that’s just detected one part blood in a million parts water. Slowly my friends unfold, like crumpled origami animals.

  “What girl?” Matt’s first out of the starting gate.

  IM: Oh, great. Here we go again.

  “That girl from the Hovel. I bumped into her again. Yesterday.”

  “Dude!” Beggsy can do wonders with that word. This time it conveys *Is impressed*.

  “And what about Humphries?” Of all of us, Ravi is the most shaken – and he doesn’t care who knows it. That powerless, fearful feeling is written all over his face.

  IM: And he’s not even anything to do with it!

  “He was there. With Paul Green and Lewis Mills.”

  “Dude!” This one conveys *Is worried*.

  “And he likes her.”

  “Yes, Matt. He does.” I’m getting a littl
e irritated by my friends pointing out the potentially fatal aspects of my situation.

  IM: Coming through! Dead man walking! Coming through!

  My IM’s cheery sentiment is echoed in the faces of my friends and the cloud of silence that seems to have descended over our table.

  “That girl’s going to get you into trouble, dude.”

  I try and gain control of my breathing.

  IM: Search your feelings, Archie; you know it to be true…

  And no matter how much I don’t want it to be true, it is; Jason Humphries, the Human AvalancheTM, likes the girl that I like. Somehow, I don’t think pistols at dawn are quite his style.

  It takes the journey from lunch to my next lesson for my pulse to return to something like normal. Having said I like school, my heart sinks as Mr Cook reveals the latest dose of geography homework. Tonight – and probably for the next two nights – I’ll be researching precipitation in the North-East of England. In my life, when it rains, it pours…

  The bell sees us spilling like a torrent of ants into the corridor and my inherent Grunt DetectorTM scans the terrain for any tracks: knuckle trails, recent kills or even fresh droppings (usually cigarette butts or crumpled worksheets). Clear so far, but Grunts, like lions, tend to watch from afar, hidden in the long grass. Or the toilets, whichever is more convenient.

  Up ahead, Ravi comes out of Maths, turns to see me and waits up. He calls over to Beggsy and Matt, who are heading for the drinking fountain. But all I can see is the person who follows Ravi out of his class.

  “Hello, you.”

  My arm is linked and, once more, I’m gazing into Sarah’s ice-blue eyes.

  IM: She’s in your year! Re-sult!

  Addressing a fourteen-year-old boy as “You” is a sure-fire way to grab his attention. However, precede it with an “Oi!” and drop it from the mouth of a fourteen-year-old sociopath and the promises aren’t nearly so inviting. My Grunt DetectorTM does a quick sweep of the locale – so far, so good.

  IM: Here’s a tricky one: your three best mates up ahead and Starshine on your arm; how’re you going to juggle this one?

  But my Interior Monologue is falling on deaf inner ears at the moment. I’m currently reeling from the difference in the way Sarah looks. No wonder I didn’t recognize her: a) of course she’s new. There’s no way that even I wouldn’t have noticed her before, and b) being a Goth must be her weekend thing. Goth make-up has that slightly forbidden feel to it; will what’s underneath reveal a shining beauty, or will it unmask a Gorgon that would put Medusa up among the World’s One Hundred Sexiest Women? Thankfully, it’s the former; her skin is pale and flawless and her mouth curls up slightly more at one side so that when she smiles, it’s like she knows something you don’t. Which, in my case, is probably true.