Geek Charming (10 page)

The look she gave me would have melted the Wicked Witch of the West. “Or not,” I added.

“Why don’t you just call a tow truck?” she asked as she went back to fanning herself.

“Good idea,” I said as I started to dial the phone. In the entire time I had spent with her, that was the smartest thing that she had ever said. “Uh oh,” I said a moment later.

“What?”

I looked at my phone, where none of the bars were lit up. “No reception.” There was a stretch of Sunset that was known for being a dead zone. Apparently we were in it.

Dylan started banging her head against the back of the seat. “I. Can. Not. Believe. This.”

“I know there’s a gas station a little ways up the street,” I offered.

“How far?”

“I don’t know . . . a mile?”

“You want me to walk a
mile
?!”

Frankly, I didn’t care if she walked at all—by this point, I just wanted her out of my car. I liked to think of myself as a pretty patient guy, but as my mom’s friend Jo’Say liked to say, she was working my last nerve. Between the personal-assistant stuff, and the chauffeur stuff, and the insults, I had had it. “If you want, you can stay in the car,” I said.

“By myself?! I could get raped or killed.”

I looked at the Range Rovers, Mercedes, and BMWs whizzing by. “I’m thinking there’s not a lot of serial killers in this part of town,” I replied.

She grabbed her bag. “No way. I’m coming with you.”

“Whatever you say.” I sighed as we got out of the car, taking my video camera with me in case someone did try and break in.
Maybe the documentary wasn’t such a great idea after all,
I thought.

 

Within ten minutes
maybe
had changed to
definitely
. After having to listen to Dylan’s complaints that it was too cold, too loud, and her feet hurt, I decided that not only did I no longer care if I got into USC, but I would’ve given up my entire Martin Scorsese library of movies just to not have to deal with her anymore. How Asher put up with her was beyond my comprehension. Maybe he wore invisible earbuds.

“How much longer?” she called out from behind me for the second time in two minutes as we trekked up Sunset toward Brentwood as cars whizzed by. Because we were in the residential area, there weren’t even sidewalks—just narrow shoulders. Every time a car rounded the bend I was sure we were going to be toast.

“I don’t know . . . five more minutes?” I called back. The truth was, my feet were hurting as well. Not that I’d need them if I were roadkill.

“You said that five minutes ago!” she retorted.

That was the thing about L.A.—as a rule of thumb, everything was twenty minutes away from wherever you were. Since we had been walking for about fifteen, I thought it was a safe answer. However, what I didn’t realize until that moment was that everything was twenty minutes away by
car—
not foot.

As we turned a corner, I saw the bright shining lights of a Mobil station. I had never been so happy to see a gas station in my life, even when Mom and I were driving to Scottsdale, Arizona, to visit my grandparents and I had drunk so much water I thought my bladder was going to explode and we were on a stretch of the 10 freeway where there’s nothing for miles.

“Omigodomigodomigod!” I heard her yelp. Thinking that she was as excited as I was to see that we were almost at our destination, I just kept walking until a few moments later she screamed “JOSSSSSSHHHH!”

I turned back to see her flat on her butt holding her ankle. “Ouchouchouchouch,” she moaned, looking like a bad actress in a fifth-rate horror movie.

“What happened?” I sighed as I walked toward her.

“What do you
think
happened? I tripped on some stupid rock and broke my ankle.”

I looked at her foot, which looked fine to me. “Can you wiggle your foot?”

She moved it a little, wincing with pain. “Yeah, but it kills.”

“If you can move it, it’s not broken. It’s probably just a slight sprain.”

“Sprained?! How long is it going to be sprained?” she asked, nearly in hysterics. “Will it be better for Fall Fling? It’s got to be better for Fall Fling. I’m not showing up in, like,
flip-flops
or something ridiculous like that!” She started to cry. “What if I can’t wear my silver Christian Louboutins?”

I had no idea who or what a Christian Louboutin was, but it certainly wasn’t the time to find out. “Okay, let me think of the best way to handle this . . . why don’t you wait here and I’ll run to the gas station and get someone to drive back here and pick you up.”

“Don’t you think we should call an ambulance so I can get to a hospital?”

I wondered if
Urbandictionary.com
had a picture of Dylan under
drama queen
. “As long as we get some ice on it soon, I think you’ll be okay. Plus this is a dead zone with no cell reception.”

“You can’t just leave me here by the side of the road!” she said.

“Well, what are my options? Carry you?”

The way that she looked at me made me realize that as far as she was concerned, that was a perfectly viable option.

“But I have a weak lower back. My doctor says I’m prone to herniated disks,” I said.

“And I’m a young girl wearing a tank top who can’t walk, lying on the side of a road,” she shot back. “I mean, hello? How would I defend myself if a serial killer stopped?”

After two minutes of hanging out with her, any serial killer with half a brain would realize that having to listen to Dylan was more trouble than it was worth and would go in search of a different victim.

“And, you know, if my
dad
found out about this, I don’t think he’d be too thrilled . . . ” she added.

I thought about it. His daughter was a pain in the butt, but Mr. Schoenfield
was
paying for the documentary. Taking a deep breath, I hoisted her up into my arms like a groom about to carry a bride over a threshold and began to trudge toward the gas station.

“I don’t want to be a pain and ask you to stop so I can get my sunglasses out of my bag, so do you think you could move a little so that the sun isn’t directly in my eyes?”

I did what she asked, but I didn’t even try and hide my sigh.

“Thank you,” she said.

I walked a few more yards.

“And do you think you could move your left hand up about two inches? It’s jamming into my spine and it feels like I’m about to be paralyzed.”

Again, I did what she asked, not really caring if I dropped her in the process.

“Thanks.”

We—or rather,
I
—walked a little farther. “I feel like I’m in
The African Queen
or something like that,” I said.

She looked around. “Um, sorry, but from what I’ve seen on TV, L.A. looks nothing like Africa.”

“It’s a movie,” I explained.

“Who’s in it?”

“Humphrey Bogart and Katharine Hepburn.”

“Never heard of them.”

Of course she hadn’t. I bet Amy Loubalu had seen
The African Queen
. Okay, maybe she hadn’t because it was from 1951, but I bet she had at least heard of it. Or, if we were dating and I suggested we watch it on a Friday night with a big bowl of popcorn with Tabasco sauce, she would’ve gotten into it.

“So I’m curious—what were you thinking driving around with so little gas?” she asked. “I mean, it’s one thing if, you know, it’s just
you
in the car, but don’t you think it’s a little selfish to put another person’s life in jeopardy like that?”

I stopped walking. “Wait a second—
you’re
calling
me
selfish?”

“Yeah, I guess I am. Which, frankly, is a little disappointing. I mean, just yesterday Lola and Hannah were saying how they thought you were actually a pretty decent guy, and they basically had me convinced, but now? Not so much.”

Luckily we had gotten to a part of Sunset that had sidewalks, so I didn’t feel so bad when I set her down. It wasn’t like I dumped her next to a guardrail or something, but from the look on her face, you would’ve thought I dumped her in a pig’s trough or something. But I had had it. Forget about the documentary—there was no way I could put up with her for the next four weeks. “And if you ask
me
, demanding that someone put aside whatever plans they may have had and drive across town just so someone else can go to a stupid exercise class because they want to look good for a stupid dance isn’t a little selfish—it’s a
lot
selfish.”

“I can’t believe you just called me selfish!” she said. I wondered if she was considering becoming an actress, because the wounded look on her face was beyond believable. “I’m really sorry to have to say this, but I don’t think this is going to work out, Josh.”

“Yeah, I agree,” I agreed.

“I mean, up until today I thought you were harmless, but to now see this other side of you that’s so . . .
cruel
. . . Wait—what did you say?”

“I said that I agree,” I snapped. “I’ll e-mail the USC people and tell them that an emergency came up and I won’t be able to do the documentary.” Out of habit I went to reach for my inhaler, but I realized I didn’t need it. Instead of being freaked out about this turn of events, I actually felt empowered. Who knew standing up for yourself could feel so good?

“Oh. Okay. Yeah, that’s probably best,” she replied. Were my glasses smudged, or did she look a little disappointed? Not that I gave a rat’s butt. From now on, I didn’t care
what
Dylan Schoenfield looked or felt like. I was finally free.

I started walking toward the gas station.

“Wait—what about my foot?!” she yelled after me. “Aren’t you going to carry me the rest of the way?”

Even with the roar of the traffic that was whizzing by, I bet they could hear my laugh all the way across town at USC.

“You’re amazing, you know that? From the moment I got your dumb bag out of the fountain, you’ve acted like
I
owed
you
something,” I said. “I have no idea how you got to be so popular, but I’ll tell you this much—it’s definitely not because of your winning personality. You’ve insulted me, you’ve insulted my friends, and guess what? I’m not going to take it anymore! I’d rather be a geek than a selfish, self-centered, materialistic . . . mean girl.”

For once in her life, Dylan Schoenfield had nothing to say. She just stood there with her mouth open so wide you could’ve fit a bus in there.

 

I wish I could say I just kept walking and never talked to Dylan again, but because I’m Jewish, the guilt of leaving her there—especially if her foot
was
screwed up—would’ve been too much to handle. That being said, I wasn’t a complete doormat: I refused to carry her. Instead I let her lean her hand on my shoulder like a crutch while she hopped on one foot, so it took us twice as long to go those last few yards to the gas station.

But that was as far as I went. It’s not like I talked to her or anything. While I waited for the gas-station guy to fill up a container with gas for me to take back to my car, she dialed her phone.

“Asher? Hey, babe, it’s me.” She turned her back to me. “Listen, I have a huge favor to ask . . . Asher? Asher, are you there? . . . Well, do you think you can turn the TV down for a second?”

Before starting the documentary, I had always thought Asher was an idiot. But after spending time with Dylan, I knew he was an even
bigger
idiot for dating her.

“That’s much better,” she went on. “So I was wondering whether you could come pick me up at the Mobil station at the corner of Sunset and Barrington . . . it’s a long story, but”—she whipped around and gave me a dirty look—“basically Geek Boy almost had us
killed
. . . so can you come get me?” Her face fell. “Oh . . . yeah, I understand . . . no, I know how tired you get after eating Mexican food . . . I’ll just call you when I get home, then . . . bye.” She turned to me. “Not that it’s any of your business, but he’s in the middle of something very important,” she explained.

I could think of lots of important things to do rather than help her out. Like, say, clipping my toenails.

After the gas-station attendant handed me the container of gas, I turned to her. “Well, I’m going now.”

“Fine. Have a nice life,” she snapped.

“You, too,” I replied.

I was feeling pretty good about myself by the time I got back to the car. “Raymond’s right,” I said out loud after I filled the tank and got into the Neilmobile. “If I’m going to be an A-list director, I need to stay true to my artistic vision.” I was a creative guy—I’d have no problem coming up with an equally good idea for another documentary. Maybe I’d take Hannah’s advice and do one on the unpopular crowd. That could work. It would be like Judd Apatow’s classic television series
Freaks and Geeks
, but just the “geeks” part. In fact, the more I thought about it, the more it seemed like a much better idea than focusing on the popular crowd. The whole popular thing had been done to death anyway.

When I got home, there was an e-mail waiting for me.