Geekhood Read online

  “Go on, then; put the kettle on.”

  It’s Wednesday morning and I awake, refreshed, from a dreamless sleep. Days like this are a rarity; you wake up and everything seems to make sense. Problems are there to be overcome, to test your resourcefulness and strength of character, rather than the impenetrable obstacles that they usually appear to be. I don’t know whether it’s the good night’s sleep or sorting things with Matt or even watching the film with Mum, but I’m feeling sharp and confident; I’m ready for anything.

  Even Tony’s post-bacon-buttie cigarette doesn’t blister my lungs with its usual ferocity, and the walk to school fills me with a sense of buzzing anticipation; what will happen today? What will me and Sarah talk about?

  IM: How much you wuv each uvver…

  Can I be in love? Aren’t there supposed to be two people involved in the equation? I hardly know Sarah, but I do feel a connection – a strong one. I think back to that day when we met outside the shop and she touched my hand. What was it she said? Something about me being hurt or angry.

  How could she know?

  Everything seems to make sense today and it seems completely obvious that me and Sarah are destined for something: she understands me without me even having to speak to her, like there’s some invisible thread that joins us together.

  A thrill runs through me as I wonder whether I should ask her out properly. I know she’s coming round to my house, but it’s not an actual date or anything; she’s coming round to see how the Game works. But it’s a sign, isn’t it? The way she is with me at school, the way she talks to my friends and the fact that she’s interested in my Geeky little life…

  IM: She likes you…

  And I like her. “Like” is such an insufficient word for what I actually feel, just like “fancy”; you like a song or you fancy a slice of cake. Maybe “love” is too big a word, but it feels more on track than anything else. A smile seems to etch itself on to my mouth and I can’t shake it. Even Ravi, possibly one of the least aware people I know, picks up on it.

  “What’ve you been up to, then?” he asks.

  “Nothing. Just feeling good, I guess.”

  I mustn’t rush this love thing; I’ve got to create my chance. The best thing I can do at the moment is plough my energies into the Game and see how things go. If it all goes well, then I might make it official and ask her out.

  IM: How exactly do you do that?

  A good question and the search for a good answer occupies me for the entire morning. I barely hear what’s being parlayed in French, and Maths is just a blur. How do you ask a girl out? This is something I’ve never seriously considered before. Sure, I’ve had daydreams about smooching with Kirsty Ford, but those fantasies have always skipped over the asking-out bit; I’ve already been going out with her or just been the object of her wanton desire. There’s never been any asking-out going on.

  The thought follows me to the toilet at lunchtime. Thankfully they’re empty. Toilets hold a modicum of fear for Geeks. I know this to be true after dark confessions with Matt, Beggsy and Ravi. We’ve all admitted to suffering from a condition that we’ve christened PPS: Public Piss Syndrome.

  PPS manifests itself when you are stood at the urinal, ready to relieve yourself. All systems are go and you’re just about to strangle the ferret (one of Beggsy’s more graphic euphemisms) when somebody walks in and stands beside you.

  And the entire system shuts down.

  You could have drunk a bucket of ice-cold water four hours ago and have run round the games pitch ten times, but nothing on God’s earth will force even the merest drop on to the porcelain below. Your bladder could be on the verge of serious rupture, but the presence of Another in your vicinity is like putting a cork in a bottle – nothing, rien, zilch.

  Which gives rise to another problem…

  You cannot risk losing face. Under no circumstances can you communicate the fact that you have suffered a no-show from the bladder department. If it’s uncovered, you risk public ridicule beyond your wildest dreams – although Matt, Beggsy, Ravi and I have also confessed that we know of no such cases in our school history. Nonetheless, who’d want to risk being the first?

  In order to keep your private shame private, you’ve then got to mime a successful delivery. You’ve got to go through the whole thing: the sigh of relief, the little shake, the zipping up and then, dreading the possibility that you’ve been unmasked as a widdle-shy freak, you’ve got to go through the whole rigmarole of washing your hands while, at the same time, trying to buy yourself the opportunity for another run, without looking conspicuous. God, it’s complicated. And if someone else comes in, you might as well forget it and resign yourself to walking like a duck for the rest of the day.

  However, not today. Today, I can relieve myself at my leisure, unhurried and safe in my solitude. In celebration, I walk backwards to the sinks and spin round, a bit like that thing James Bond does in the opening titles of the early Bond films.

  And then my perfect day crumbles, for looking back at me in the mirror is not the suave, sophisticated ladykiller that I’ve been feeling like all morning. All I can see is an awkward, badly-put-together nerd. Everything’s wrong: my hair’s lank, my eyes are too close together, my nose is too big and the hairs sprouting out of my chin make me look like Shaggy.

  IM: Zoinks.

  Zoinks, indeed. The cloud that forms over my head proceeds to follow me around for the rest of the day. When I came in this morning, I was excited and looking forward to maybe bumping into Sarah, maybe getting to know her a bit better and kidding myself that maybe I had a chance with her. Now, the thought of her even seeing me from a distance fills me with dread.

  There’s nothing attractive about me at all. I have been “beaten with the ugly stick”. There is no hope.

  IM: That’s the spirit! Sell yourself!

  To add insult to injury, as we’re queuing in the dinner hall, I see Sarah up ahead, paying at the till. Matt’s in front of me so I use his height to try and mask my hideous form, ducking down so that my head is hidden by his shoulders.Unfortunately, my sudden stoop sends an elbow into Ravi, who is standing right behind me. With a resounding “Hey!”, he launches his tray, complete with Ocean Pie and Peas, up into the air. Prawns, fish and peas land with an unexpected grace on my head, left shoulder and down my left arm, with a warm, wet, sloppy splat.

  IM: Not your day, is it?

  A cheer goes up from the rest of the diners and those around me and Ravi quickly split, making us the centre of attention.

  IM: As if they’ve never seen anyone wearing fish pie before. As if.

  “Archie! What – what are you doing?” In the midst of all the cheering and peas, I can’t help but admire Ravi’s Geek-Savvy: distance yourself from any involvement by naming the culprit as soon as possible. Then Beggsy lends his oh-so-welcome wit to the situation.

  “Dude!” he hollers from the sidelines. “D’you want ketchup with that?” Cue laughter from anyone within earshot. I wish I didn’t exist.

  As if things couldn’t get any worse, I’m then overpowered by a team of dinner monitors who proceed to squirt me with squirters and scrub me with scrubbers, taking my jacket off so that they can really get it clean.

  “Don’t want to go home smelling of fish,” one advises as I’m jostled between them.

  In real time, the scrubbing is over in seconds and the squad of dinner monitors return to serving starving students. In Archie TimeTM, the ordeal lasts for hours, but as they move off in slow motion, I see before me Sarah, standing with her arm outstretched, clutching a paper napkin, concern etched into her beautiful face.

  IM: Heads up!

  I twist my malformed features into something that might pass for a smile, feeling uglier than ever before, and take the napkin.

  Sarah smiles. “You’ve got some on your head.”

  IM: Which one?

  “Thanks,” I nod, and go at the prawn in my hair.

  IM: Salmon, actually.
/>   “It’s a good look,” Sarah giggles. “It suits you.”

  “Everyone’ll be wearing it by tomorrow,” I say with a tired smile.

  Sarah blesses me with another laugh.

  IM: Way to go!

  “You are funny, Archie.”

  “Yeah. It’s a gift I’ve got.”

  More giggles, before a girl in her class comes to whisk her away to do something more important. But, as she goes, she does something that relights the Fires of Hope in my stomach: she looks over her shoulder, smiles and does one of those waves that girls do where all their fingers waggle.

  When Ron Weasley looked in the Mirror of Erised, he saw himself as Head Boy…

  IM: …When you looked in it, it cracked.

  OK, I know I’m no Orlando Bloom, but there must be something I can do to boost my chances.

  IM: Time to get thinking, Prawn Boy.

  I’ve never asked to have a haircut before; usually I’ve just been told that it’s happening and have grumbled accordingly. But, pursued by the new found awareness of my physical shortcomings, I come to the conclusion on the walk home that, barring plastic surgery, I’ll just have to work with what I’ve got – which is hair.

  The problem is that I’ve somehow got to plant the idea in Mum’s head that I need a haircut, without it looking like I want one because Sarah’s coming round on Friday. And that’s the other problem: Sarah’s coming round on Friday. Where am I going to find the time to squeeze in a cut in the next forty-eight hours? At least forty-seven of them are pretty much spoken for. There is a slight chance that if Mum thinks I need a trim badly enough, she might ring Jean, the lady who comes to the house to do her hair.

  IM: It’s a long shot, but it just might work…

  I sneak into the house through the front door and head straight for the downstairs toilet. The mirror confirms all I need to know – my hair probably looked better with the Ocean Pie in it. A flash of inspiration and I’m wetting my hands under the taps and then running them through my fringe, which starts to droop over my eyes. Perfect. I then sneak back out of the front door, to come back in with my customary cry.

  “Hello-o!”

  “We’re in the kitchen!” Mum’s voice comes back at me.

  Great! “We’re” suggests that Tony is around. My shields go up and I can feel my IM whirring in anticipation, but I’m going to see this one through. I step into the kitchen; Mum’s got her back to me and Tony is sat reading at the kitchen table, beneath a small, smoke-filled cumulonimbus.

  I try again. “Hello?”

  “Cup of tea, love?”

  “Yes, please… pffft,”– I blow at my fringe, as though it’s irritating me. “Pffft.”

  With a tinkle of spoon against mug, Mum turns round, tea in hand. She stops and frowns.

  “Is it raining?”

  I groan inwardly; surely it’s obvious that my hair is bothering me? However, my EM is already up and running – I respond with well-practised confusion.

  “No. Why? Pffft.”

  The expression that Mum wears as she comes over to me is one that takes me back about seven years. It’s analytical and determined. Seven years ago it would have been the precursor to having my cheek scrubbed with a handkerchief. This sense-memory is obviously stored in the Emergency Files of my EM and I instinctively flinch on her approach.

  “Keep still…”

  Mum runs her hand through my fringe with one hand and gives me my tea with the other. There’s multitasking for you.

  “Archie, what’s this?” She sniffs her fingers. “You’re hair’s wet. And you smell of fish.”

  IM: Curse her powers of observation!

  “Is it? Do I?” I affect a surprised exploration of my own head. “Oh, yeah. Accident with an Ocean Pie at lunch.”

  IM: …and the nomination for worst performance under pressure goes to…

  Mum looks at me again, trying to work out what her halfwit son is up to. As if to confirm her suspicions, my EM guides me to take a sip of tea and grin gormlessly.

  IM: Genius.

  Something like recognition flickers in Mum’s eyes and she chucks a quick glance at Tony, but he’s still engrossed in his book and cigarette. The flicker of recognition turns into something more playful.

  “Take your jacket off, it needs a wash. Go and have a look in your room.”

  It’s my turn to look quizzical.

  “Go on.”

  I trudge upstairs carrying my tea – half damning myself for the failure of Operation Haircut and half excited by whatever’s in my room. I open the door and there on the bed is a new pair of jeans, a cool shirt and a pair of trainers. I hold the jeans up – they’re skinny and black, just the way I like them. The shirt’s pretty good too. It’s short-sleeved with a faded red-check design. While it might have a whiff of Glee about it, I figure I can balance out its emo-appeal by wearing it over one of my old T-shirts.

  The trainers are ones I’ve had my eye on for a while: proof that my mum does listen to me. Grey Converse. I try them on. Cool.

  Mum’s trademark knock at the door announces her arrival. Her face is a portrait of nervous anticipation.

  “Everything OK?”

  “Thanks, Mum. It’s all great.”

  “You checked your bedside table?”

  In response, I turn away from her and pull open the drawer. There, resting inside, is a small bottle of aftershave. I don’t know the label, but with an unconscious “cool!”, I open it and have a sniff.

  IM: Sarah will be powerless to resist…

  “Thanks, Mum.” I give her a hug.

  “That’s all right,” she giggles over my shoulder. “You need to thank Tony as well; the aftershave was his idea.”

  For a fleeting second, I feel strangely betrayed that Tony and Mum have been discussing my love life. But then I realize that there’s not actually any love life to discuss, so I swallow my pride and get on with it.

  “Sure. I’ll come down now.”

  “Your hair’s fine, by the way,” Mum grins, ruffling my mop.

  I look at her as though I don’t know what she’s talking about, but I suspect that even James Bond would have a hard time keeping a secret from my mum.

  The cumulonimbus in the kitchen has been joined by a cirrostratus. Ordinarily, I’d perform a pointed cough on entry to such a haze, but the circumstances dictate a ceasefire in the anti-smoking campaign.

  “Hey, Tony. Thanks for the aftershave.”

  Tony unpeels himself from his book and rolls back in his chair, a satisfied smile on his face. I bite the inside of my cheek to keep the crooked grin on my face from slipping.

  IM: Tosser.

  “Not a problem, mate. Glad to help. You’ve got to make an effort when there’s a lady coming round.”

  Fearing a Tourette’s-style outburst, I quickly override my EM’s autopilot settings and opt for manual control; in those three sentences, Tony’s broken the Golden Rule of Non-Specific Conversation: You NEVER refer to the heart of the matter. I know he knows what all the clothes and aftershave are for and he knows I know that he knows what it’s for – but you NEVER refer to it. Mum knows the score; we’ve had our earlier discussions and she’s made her feelings on the matter clear, but after that point, she is honour-bound never to refer to the matter specifically. It’s like talking to someone who wears an obvious wig – you know they’re wearing it; they know you know they’re wearing it, but you are both honour-bound not to mention it. Much as I hate to liken Sarah to a hairpiece, Tony, Tosser-like, is effectively announcing my baldness to all and sundry. I decide to opt for diversionary tactics.

  “Yeah, I guess so. I was wondering if I could borrow a few of your books for a couple of days?”

  “Sure. What’re you looking for?”

  “I’ve got a couple of bits of homework,” I lie easily. “I’ve got to research natural wonders of the world, classic authors from history and…” I do a mental scan on things that girls might like “…butterflies. Have you
got anything in those departments?”

  “Let’s go and have a look.” Tony heaves himself from his perch and puffs his way to his study.

  Mum’s obviously been hard at work here because most of his books are on the shelves. The one thing I will say for Tony is that his reading habits are wide and varied. His study is like a small version of what I imagine the British Library must be like and I briefly consider asking him whether I could hold the Game in here. The overflowing ashtrays and the general sense of disarray bring me to my senses. Despite his eagerness to avoid anything resembling hard work, Tony’s computer has been unpacked and assembled, ready to go. I know him well enough by now to understand that this is a no-touch item. Whatever dark secrets it harbours, I’ll never know about them; it’s his Holy Grail, his Jewel in the Crown and his Retreat from Family Life.

  While Tony stretches and inspects, I make a brief appraisal: there are some shelves that make uncomfortable reading. Not because there’s anything untoward up there, but because they’re not dissimilar to my own. There are plenty of pulp sci-fi books, such as The Stainless Steel Rat series and some obscure titles that look as if they’re from the fifties or sixties. Dress it up how you want, it’s escapist nonsense.

  IM: Just like all the swords and sorcery that line your bookshelves.

  The other thing is that there are loads of books here I’d love to own: huge, glossy photo-books of space, books about wildlife and even a few about UFOs.

  IM: Is Tony a secret Geek?

  Or, more to the point, is this what happens to Geeks when they get older? Me and my mates – are we destined to become overweight Tossers with no real insight into the people around us, for ever making conversational blunders and surrounded by people we don’t really know how to talk to? I shudder at the thought and something like sympathy for my stepfather stirs in a long-forgotten part of my soul; are Tony and I more alike than I’m prepared to admit?