A Catastrophe of Nerdish Proportions (12 page)

Two years ago, for my birthday, my mom took me to see a production of
Peter Pan
, but the stage ropes weren't working that night, so the actors couldn't even fly. There's nothing more pathetic than a nonflying Peter Pan. Captain Hook should have kicked his scrawny butt. Plus, Tinker Bell should have suffered a beat-down, too. I mean, what kind of wimp can't stomp a nonflying fairy?

Carnegie Hall this theater was not.

Kiki and her coconuts beat us to the Civic Center, so by the time we arrived and walked inside the main lobby, they had already been to the registration table and picked up all the forms. The place was buzzing with activity. Nine different middle schools would be competing in the California Region Eight showdown, and you could feel the energy and excitement in the air. Parents swirled about; coaches addressed their teams, giving them instructions and pep talks. We were the only group of kids that was just a group of kids, with no adults to guide our way. Mrs. Applebee had decided to run to the drugstore to get eucalyptus drops to put into Q's air purifier as a way to help her with the wheezing, and said she'd pick us up in forty-five minutes, despite the fact that Q said she didn't want any eucalyptus drops and wouldn't use them. So we huddled off to the side and tried to figure everything out by ourselves.

Kiki passed out two forms to each of us that needed to be signed and returned by the following Wednesday.

“The first's a registration and grade-verification form,” she explained, “and the second is a parent permission slip to appear on TV.”

“We're going to be on TV?” Q asked, her eyes big.

“Calm down, goober,” Kiki answered. “It's only a local community station, like channel 723 or something.”

“Yeah,” Brattany said. “Only about thirty-eight people ever watch it, and most of them are old folks in nursing homes who drool.”

Q turned to me for support. I knew how much she dreaded appearing in front of crowds.
Wheeesh-whooosh. Wheeesh-whooosh
. “TV?”

“It'll be fine,” I told her, with a false confidence. “Don't worry.”

But of course, I was worried, too. Appearing on TV could mean only one thing: I needed to lose some weight.

And fast.

I immediately made a plan to eat only celery stalks for the next thirteen days, supplemented with small sips of water. Then on day fourteen, I'd give up the celery and go with just straight H
₂
O until the competition. Perhaps I could even cut the
₂
in the H
₂
O and just go with HO. I bet that would help trim flab faster. I knew I'd need all the help I could get, because I'd heard that TV cameras put ten pounds on you.

Ten pounds? How unfair is that? I mean, if something is going to add ten pounds to my body, shouldn't I at least get the pleasure of its being soaked in caramel and traveling over my taste buds?

“Oh, look. If it isn't Kiki Masters.”

“Well, if it isn't Wynston Haimes,” Kiki responded.

A dark-haired girl with sparkling green eyes approached. She was wearing a navy blue schoolgirl uniform accented by a crisp white shirt with tasteful red trim on the collar. On her chest was an embroidered
SD
, the initials of her school, and on her feet were a pair of chocolate-brown penny loafers that must have cost $350.

Of course, the kicker was the knee-highs.

It takes a lot of guts to wear knee-high socks when you're our age—a lot of self-confidence, too—and not every girl has the legs to make them look good.

Wynston made them look great. I could tell right away by the manner in which she approached, with her army of knee-high-wearing junior bunny rabbits following closely behind, that we were looking at the ringleader of the Saint Dianne's team.

“Competing in the Septathlon, are you, Keeks?” Wynston's classmates formed a wall of crisply dressed private-school prigs behind her. And yes, it was intimidating.

“Competing? No,” Kiki answered. “Winning? Yes.”

Wynston and her henchgirls laughed.

“Oh, you've got to love that public-school spunk, don't you?” Wynston said. “Well, losing won't sting too bad, Kiki. I mean, you've got to be getting used to it by now.”

Ouch.
The girls from Saint Dianne's snickered. Kiki and Wynston had a history that went back to cheerleading camp, where they had gone toe to toe for the past two summers to see who would be named head cheerleader of the city's formidable intramural squad.

Both times, for division six and division seven, Wynston Haimes had eked out a close victory over Kiki.

“Well, here's a little FYI and four-one-one you can take to the B-A-N-K,” Beanpole suddenly blurted out, as she stepped forward and crossed her arms in a
Take that!
manner. “The Aardvarks are on a mission to make some whomp-'em powder!”

Beanpole turned to high-five Q. They raised their hands for a
That's what I'm talkin' about, baby
hand slap.

But missed. Beanpole nearly fell into a table.

“Don't worry, don't worry, I'm okay,” she said, regaining her balance. Then, remembering how to deal with such situations, she slowly spread her arms, stood on one foot, and began to chant, “
Ommmmmm
.”

Wynston lowered her chin and looked us over, first Beanpole, then me, then Q.

In response to the scrutiny, Q took a scuba dive.
Wheeesh-whooosh. Wheeesh-whooosh.

“New chums, Keeks?”

“Not hardly,” Kiki answered, as if we were nothing but pieces of garbage.

“Well, I do hope that you and your band of tragics aren't too embarrassed come competition night,” Wynston replied. “I mean, it must get so tiring being defeated by me all the time.”

Wynston smiled. Her teeth were beautiful, like fine jewelry.

“Times change,” Kiki answered defiantly.

Wynston took a second gaze at me and my nerd herd.

“Indeed they do, Keeks. Indeed they do.”

“Come, come, girls,” the coach of Saint Dianne's said to her team, with a clap of her hands, as she walked up with the requisite registration forms. “I've scheduled a nutrition break of artisanal salads in twenty minutes, and then we'll do a study session on Greek rhetoric.”

Beanpole leaned in to ask me a question, trying to speak in a low voice so no on else could hear. “What's
rhetoric
?”

“Yeah,” Sofes said, overhearing. “And what language is Greek?”

Wynston smiled again. “Ciao, Keeks.” With her army of identical soldiers following immediately behind, she began to walk away.

“Eat lint, Wynston!” Kiki cried.

Wynston stopped, turned, and grinned.

“So cultured, they are,” she said to her navy blue crew. “Must be a class they insist upon campuswide.”

The girls from Saint Dianne's swished away, swirling their skirts from side to side with every step.

“Note the purses,” Kiki said to Brattany as she crossed her arms.

“François Fumeil?” Brattany replied.

“Yep. Straight from Paris,” Kiki replied. “I want one, like, so bad.”

“How much?” Brattany asked.

“Six hund-ee,” Kiki replied. “If you can even find one.”

Kiki and Brattany continued to stare at the girls from Saint Dianne's. Their envy oozed.

“Sheesh, they're even more stuck up than you,” I said. “I didn't think that was possible.”

“Put a sock in it, Maureen.”

“And, like, way to stick up for your teammates, too,” I added. “Real cool the way you hung us out to dry.”

Kiki spun around and jumped in my face. “Look, we're not teammates, we're not friends; we're nothing other than a bunch of kids thrown together who are trying to avoid being suspended from school; you got it, skinny-chubby?”

“You should think about seeing the school counselor, you know that, Kiki?” I said. “I mean, you realize they've been specially trained to deal with psychopaths like yourself, right?”

Kiki sniffed and grabbed her backpack. “Just make sure you and your band of geeknods know the material,” she ordered. “It's embarrassing enough having to appear with nerds, but having to appear with nerds who aren't even supergeniuses, well, that just takes the Christmas cake.” She turned to her donkeys. “Come on, ladies. We are outee.”

And without a good-bye or a “see ya tomorrow,” the Three-Pees were gone.

“But we are, too, smart,” Beanpole said. “I mean, I have a 3.92 GPA.”

“Four point”—
Wheeesh-whooosh. Wheeesh-whooosh.
“Oh.”

“You have a perfect 4.0?” I said to Q. “Like, you've never even had a B plus?”

“Nope. Never will, either.” Q reached into her backpack and pulled out a cylindrical container filled with a weird-looking brown liquid. “Education was important to my dad. I'd die before I'd get less than an A now.”

She withdrew a straw. Not just a regular old straw, though. Always having to be different, she pulled out one of those twisty, swirly straws that make whatever you're drinking look like it's on a crazy roller-coaster ride before it hits your mouth.

“And that is…?” I asked, watching a swoosh of brownish liquid travel up and around and sideways before entering her mouth.

“Almond milk?”

“Allergy fighting?” I asked.

“Double bonus of being brain juice, too,” she answered. “I think Barbara's right. It's time to break out the whomp-'em powder.”

A smile came to Beanpole's face, and she started excitedly clapping her hands like a five-year-old who had just found out the whole family was going to go out for ice cream. She and I knew that Q was the smartest of all of us, and that she was going to set her mind to actually kicking some butt at the Academic Septathlon.

“Your doctors give you that?” I asked, staring at the sludgy-looking mush she was consuming.

“Cashews,” she answered.

“Excuse me?”

“It's got ground-up cashew nuts in it,” she said. “You see how my mom is getting more and more obsessive? Time for me to step up the plan.”

I knew Q was just avoiding my question about her doctors, but her message was loud and clear: whatever she was doing in her quest to help her mom, she was going to do it whether I thought she should or not.

“Beanpole,” I said. “Get your phone.”

“Got it,” she said, whipping out her cellie. “Why, Mo?”

“Just make sure you've got 9-1-1 on speed dial,” I told her, gazing at Q. “For more immediate medical attention, that is.”

Q reached into her backpack, took out a bag of peanuts, and popped one into her mouth, just to show me what she thought of my commentary. She washed it down with her new brown-sludge drink. “Cheers,” she said.

Once again, I found myself watching the liquid travel up, down, and around the roller coaster before hitting her mouth.

“Come on, let's go, guys,” Beanpole said. “Your mom's gonna be here any minute, Alice.”

With only a few weeks to go before the competition, we exited the Civic Center. I was entirely confident that we held a supreme and unchallenged hold.

On ninth place.

T
he next day at 2:15, the six of us gathered in the public library, since the school was closed. Teacher workday.

“So, when we tackle the history section,” Kiki began, “I'll go first, then Brit, then—”

“Wait a minute,” I said. “Who put you in charge?”

“Look, the rules say we need a captain in case any important decisions come up,” Kiki answered. “And clearly, I'm the most fit.”

“You mean you're the most self-absorbed,” I replied.

“She's not my captain,” Q said. “Maureen should be our leader.”

“Me?”

Q nodded and took a swirly sip of magic nut juice.

“No way,” Brattany answered. “I'm not following anyone who wears plus-size jeans. My father says it shows weak character.”

Ouch
. I'm not sure if people who don't struggle with their weight understand how much comments like that hurt.

“And he should know, 'cause he's a lawyer,” Brattany added.

Just. So. Mean.

“You ever think that maybe it's people who judge other people by the size of their jeans who have the weak character?” Q asked, coming to my defense. She must have seen the sting of Brattany's words on my face.

Brattany considered it. “Nope. Fat kids are pretty much lame. And by the way, what's in that thing, anyway?” she asked, pointing at Q's scuba tank. “Alien particles that allow you to breathe our air?”

“Stop it,” Beanpole said. “We've got to put aside our differences and become a team. The universe is all about oneness.” She rose to her feet to give a General Patton–like victory cry. “Now, are we Aardvarks or not?”

Q and I crossed our arms and scowled. Why was Beanpole so thick about this stuff? Didn't she know oil and water did not mix?

“I said, are we Aardvarks or not? Come on, chant it with me.

“We're the Aardvarks,

The mighty, mighty Aardvarks!

We're the Aardvarks,

The mighty, mighty Aardvarks!”

At the end of the cheer, to really drive her point home, Beanpole leaped high in the air and cheered a big
YAY!

But she smashed her knee into the table on the way up.

“Ouch!” she yelped. That one sounded like it hit marrow. “Don't worry, don't worry, I'm okay.”

“Do you know how stupid that sounds?” Kiki said as she watched Beanpole hop up and down on one foot. “I mean, who on this green earth would actually want to be an Aardvark?” She popped an Oreo into her mouth. Every time we met, she'd eat a sleeve of those things, but the girl never put on an ounce of weight. What I wouldn't have given for her metabolism.

“I'm an Aardvark,” Sofes said.

“What?” Kiki said, in the midst of another Oreo.

“I'm an Aardvark,” Sofes repeated. “And you are too, Keeks. When you really think about it, we're all Aardvarks.”

Beanpole, rubbing her knee, smiled.

Kiki contemplated the idea for a moment; then, after finishing her cookie, she took a tube of lip gloss out of her purse. Slowly, she applied a fresh coat of shine.

“Indeed, that might be true, Sofes. But let me tell you something about being an Aardvark,” she said in an
I know something that you don't know
way. “I'm not brainless enough to like it.”

“Yeah,” Brattany confirmed. “Neither am I.”

Sofes, quiet, hung her head.

“I need to pee,” I said, rising to my feet, disgusted by pretty much everything I was seeing.

“But you just went,” Kiki replied. “And we've got work to do.”

“I'm hydrating,” I said, pointing to my liter-size water bottle. Now that I knew I was going to be on TV, the idea of shrinking my tonnage consumed me, and drinking gallons of water was always rule number one for any diet. After all, the last thing I wanted was to look like a mama sea otter for my very first time on television.

“Hydrating?” Brattany said. “Looks more like you're bloating to me.”

“Yeah, whatever you're doing, I think it's backfiring,” Kiki added with a laugh.

“Actually, I don't need to pee, Kiki,” I said matter-of-factly. “I just really need to get away from you for a few minutes.”

“The feeling's mutual, skinny-chubby,” Kiki replied. “Take your time.”

Oh, how I wished she and I could switch body shapes for the rest of the year. Wouldn't that teach her a lesson?

“I'm coming with you,” Q said, standing up.

Beanpole, unsure of what to do, took a moment to consider whether or not she should stay at the table or join us.

After a moment of, I assume, debating oneness with the universe, Beanpole sighed and rose from her chair. Clearly, she wished things were going more hunky-dory between all of us. But clear, too, was the sense that a homicide might occur at any moment. Slowly, and without saying a word, Beanpole walked with us to the bathroom. For the first time in my life, I kept my sarcastic comments to myself. This whole thing was getting way too intense for humor.

My phone buzzed. I looked at the screen.

“Figures,” I said, when I saw it was my father calling. “I mean, who in the world would have ever thought that speaking to him might actually be a more pleasant conversation than the one I was just having?”

“You're going to answer?” Beanpole asked. I looked at Kiki across the library. She glared.

“Of course not,” I said. “I mean, it's all his fault, anyway.”

“What does that mean?” Beanpole asked, looking at me like I was nuts.

“Nothing,” I said as I pushed the mute button. “Just drop it, okay? With my caloric intake this greatly diminished, I can't really be held responsible for what comes out of my mouth right now. It's hard enough to monitor what goes in.”

Five seconds later, my phone buzzed again, notifying me that I had a new voice-mail message. I put my cellie back in my pocket, telling myself I'd delete it later.

After school let out the next day, being gluttons for punishment, my crew and I met with the wenches in the library again. We knew that we had no choice but to work together so that we could at least scratch our way into fourth place in three weeks. If this was Mr. Piddles's idea of justice, justice was a mighty cruel beast.

“Okay,” Kiki said, taking the lead once again. “The subject is math.”

“Did you say
math
?” I asked.

“Yes, I said math,” Kiki replied, exasperated. “I am not saying I am the captain; I am simply saying we are going to study a key area of the test right now—unless, of course, you have a problem with that, Maureen?”

“Nope, no problem,” I answered. “I just want to be ready.”

Q, Beanpole, and I reached into our backpacks and took out our calculators. The ThreePees stared.

“Um, what are you doing?” Brattany asked.

Q took a sip from her swirly-strawed container of cashew-flavored almond mud, opened her binder, and began to read.

“‘Competitors are permitted to use basic four-function calculators, provided that they supply their own, as they will not be'”—
Wheeesh-whooosh. Wheeesh-whooosh
—“‘given on site to contestants who fail to bring one, and should a calculator fail, the student must'”—
Wheeesh-whooosh. Wheeesh-whooosh
—“‘continue with the contest, as replacements are prohibited and will not be provided.'”

“Just getting our calculators,” I said to the snoots across the table. “I mean, if we're allowed to use them, we should, right?”

Brattany, Kiki, and Sofes exchanged confused looks. Clearly, they hadn't known this rule.

And clearer still was the fact that they hadn't brought calculators to the study session.

“Well, well, well, it seems the Dorkasaurus Mafia actually knows something, now, doesn't it?” I said, gloating.

“Don't get carried away, Nerd Girl,” Kiki responded. “Come test day, we'll be sure to have calculators.”

“There's other stuff, too,” Beanpole said perkily. “Other strategies and stuff you should know.”

“Like what?” Brattany asked in a snippy but curious tone.

“Don't tell them,” Q said. “Those witches already—” She began to cough. It took a moment for her to catch her breath and finish her sentence. “They already know everything. Let them”—
Cough-cough
—“suffer.”

“No,” Beanpole said. “We should tell them. We're a team.”

Q and I rolled our eyes. We knew Beanpole was right, but still, I didn't want to share anything with these snots, much less the key ins and outs of the rules we'd spent so much time learning.

Beanpole, however, saw this as an opportunity to have some real group-bonding time, and she leaped at the chance.

She told them about the no-penalty-for-guessing rule, so that no matter what, we should always take a stab at a question, because points would be subtracted only for rule violations and not incorrect answers. She also told them about using the process of elimination to find right answers, because each question offered more wrong answers than right ones, so that if you looked for what was wrong as opposed to what was right, you could up your chances of success that way. And she taught them about trusting your instincts.

“Because research has proven,” she said with extra perk, “that a student's first guess is most often the correct guess.”

Kiki and Brattany might have had sneers on their faces as they listened, but they paid attention, because Beanpole was relaying all sorts of critical information that solid Septathlon contestants needed to know.

Essentially, Beanpole became an open book about sharing everything, and before the week was over, the six of us were actually studying together.

And improving.

Except for Sofes. She couldn't get an answer right if her life depended on it.

“The subject is science,” Kiki began.

Sofes turned to Beanpole. “That's my worst one.”

“You can do it, Sofes. You've been studying hard. Trust your instincts.” Kiki began to read:

“According to modern science, a change in allele frequencies in a population is called

1. evolution
   
2. directed selection
   
3. Neo-Darwinism
   
4. recombination
   
5. gene flow”
   

Sofes contemplated the question. “None of the above.”

“That's not an option, Sofes.” Kiki waited for a new response.

“Nope, I say that it's none of the above,” Sofes replied, her confidence growing. “I don't think any of those answers are right, and my instincts tell me that they are using inverse psychiatry.”

Kiki took a deep breath. “So, let me get this straight. In an
A/B/C/D/E
question, you are claiming that the correct answer is none of the above, like perhaps
F
is the answer choice?”

“Exactly,” Sofes said. “I'm going off the board, and I'm gonna take answer choice
F
.”

“I like her spirit,” Beanpole said.

“You would,” I replied.

“Sofes, I want you to go home, fall off your roof, and not heal until we can find a replacement,” Kiki said to her.

“Really, we could bring a kangaroo to the Civic Center next week and I bet they'd get more answers right,” Brattany added.

“So the answer's not ‘none of the above'?” Sofes asked.

Brattany rubbed her temples as if this whole thing were giving her a migraine.

“Make sure the roof is at least four stories,” Kiki said, pointing upward. “And lobby level doesn't count.”

Sofes turned to Beanpole. “But it seemed like a trick question.”

“Don't worry,” Beanpole replied. “Lots of them do.”

If Sofes was bad, Q was the exact opposite. It was like she had turned into a virtual answering machine. Ever since she'd shifted from learning the rules to learning the actual material, she was knocking out answer after answer.

“Wow,” I said, after she aced a particularly challenging question on the Middle Ages.

“Yeah,” she said, with a smile. “I guess I've just kind of got a knack for this.”

“Well, they do say that alien life is supposed to be intelligent,” Kiki sniffed.

“Whatever,” I said. Of course, I knew that Q had been really cranking on the studying, because feeling prepared was her way of dealing with the stress of appearing on television. Every moment she intensely studied was one less moment she would spend worrying about stage fright. Brainiacism had become her antidote for nerves.

Well, that and a gallon of sludge every day. I swear she was gulping down that mystery mud like a fiend.

“Time for a break,” I said, rising from my chair. “I need to—”

“We know, we know,” Kiki said, filling in the rest of my sentence for me. “You need to pee.”

“It's called biology, Kiki,” I said, and then I whipped my head around to hit Beanpole with a pop quiz in order to keep her sharp. “Quick, name a species of bird where the male, the father, is the caretaker of the eggs.”