Geek Girl (6 page)

“Sorry about that.” He shrugs, shoving his hands into his pockets as we begin walking. “Once they get started, though, there’s no telling how long they might go on like that. It can get pretty heated, a little loud and—”

“Boring?” I interject.

“Right.” He smiles. Then he tips his head, looking at me oddly. “That’s not really your kind of movie, though, is it?”

“Not normally, no,” I dodge. “But it was okay. I kind of liked it.”

“Really?” He sounds disbelieving.

“Well,” I say, sensing that we’re on the verge once again of dangerous explanation territory, “you know, the main guy . . .”

“Kirk,” he supplies.

“Right, Kirk. He was pretty cute. The other guy—the one who doesn’t smile . . . Spark?” I look at him, and he grins, shaking his head.

“Spock.”

“Oh. Spock. Whatever. He was a little odd, but I could relate to him.”

“
You
could relate to Spock?”

“Well, yeah. I mean, here’s a guy who doesn’t really have a place in the world where he fits. Not human, and not . . .” I look at him to supply the word and find him looking at me with an unreadable expression.

“Vulcan,” he says.

“Yeah, that. There isn’t anyone who wants the guy. Not the humans and not his own people either. I mean, each tolerates him, right? But maybe doesn’t fully accept him. Or that’s how it seemed, anyway. Everyone considers him an oddity, right?” I indicate my own self—black skirt over blood-red tights, shiny black boots, striped corset over black mesh shirt, and pale face made more so by my heavily blackened eyes and reddened lips. “Kind of like me. Odd. But I guess I have one up on him; at least there are others like me. There aren’t any others like him, though, are there?”

Trevor stops dead, and I stop with him.

“What?” I ask defensively, not liking the way he’s looking at me. It’s verging dangerously close to pity, and if there is one thing I don’t tolerate, it’s pity.

“You
are
odd, aren’t you?” he murmurs, and I laugh. So much for thinking he pities me.

“You have no idea,” I say as we begin moving again.

“So, what do your friends think of you hanging out with us instead of them on a Saturday night?”

I heave an internal sigh. Trevor is far too perceptive for my own good, for my game.

“They don’t think anything. I live my own life, and they live theirs. They aren’t my parents.”

“Speaking of parents,” he begins.

“Do we have to?” I groan, and he laughs. It is a deep, rich sound that brings out his dimples in full force and makes my insides heat up a little. Not exactly the kind of reaction I expect to have in regards to him.

“I guess not,” he chuckles.

“Let’s talk about Spock’s parents instead. His mom was human, right?”

Trevor grins at me. I look away, not wanting to be unsettled by the dimples again.

“If you want, we could go back inside and they can probably give you Spock’s entire lineage, both human and Vulcan,” he teases.

“Uh, no thanks. I don’t have that kind of time. Or patience,” I add with a laugh.

“Yes, his mother is human.”

“But how does that make any sense? If the Vulcans are emotionless, how does his Vulcan father fall so in love with a human woman?”

“They aren’t emotionless, just really logical. I guess sometimes love isn’t logical.”

“Well, that’s a pretty romantic observation there, Trev,” I say sardonically. I glance up at him and see a slight flush in his cheeks at my words. I know when to push my advantage, so I step a little closer, hooking my arm through his. He stiffens at my touch. “But then, what is that thing people say? Opposites attract?” I stare at him until he feels compelled to look at me. “Guess there’s something to that, huh?” I ask quietly, pressing closer still.

He continues to look at me silently, intensely, and something shifts inside of me. Somehow, in that moment, I lose the upper hand—and I don’t even care. A warm breeze blows between us, causing goose bumps to break out across my arms, and I shiver. That breaks Trevor out of the spell, and he takes a step backward—small, almost unnoticeable, but I can feel it, feel the sudden space between us.

“Are you cold?” he asks politely, formally.

“No, I’m okay,” I say, releasing my hold on his arm.

“Do you want to go back in?”

I look behind me and realize we’ve walked quite a ways from Brian’s house.

“No, I don’t think I have the strength to walk back into
that
discussion.” I smile. He laughs lightly, shoulders relaxing.

“I’ll walk you the rest of the way home.”

“But you left your car back at Brian’s,” I protest.

“That’s all right. We’re closer to your house than his. I’ll go back and get it after. That gives me an excuse to avoid a little more of their ‘discussion.’” He makes little quotation marks in the air with his fingers—such a geek thing to do.

It doesn’t take much longer to get to my house. Trevor picks up the pace a little and keeps the conversation on safe subjects such as my lack of mathematical prowess and repeating his willingness to help me with my homework. He stops at the end of my driveway.

“Well,” he says, shoving his hands back into his jean pockets. “Thanks for coming over.” As usual, he sounds questioning, wondering
why
I did.

“Thanks for inviting me. It was . . . interesting,” I say, and he laughs.

“Guess I’ll see you at school.” He shrugs, still perplexed by my presence in his life.

“Bye, Trev,” I purr, trailing my fingers across his shoulder, wanting to leave him a little off balance. I turn and walk up to my door. When I turn back, he’s standing in the same place, watching me. I walk in, making the obligatory appearance with the fosters so that they can see I’m home in one piece. I walk up to my room, close the door without turning on the light, and cross to the window, lifting one slat of the wood blinds to look out—to see Trevor still standing there, watching my house, face shadowed but body language tense.

I know I should feel victorious, happy that I have him so flustered. Oddly, though, I want to open my window and call him over to talk some more, see if I can get him to bring the dimples out just one more time. He moves as if to turn away but catches sight of me watching him and freezes.

I pull back, letting the blind drop closed as I press my back against the wall next to the window, hiding.
Look who’s flustered now,
I think. I laugh derisively at myself and turn back to the window, heart sinking just a little at the now empty space where he had stood.

“Get a grip, Jen,” I mutter to myself, words that are fast becoming my motto. I sink to the bed, ignoring the funny twist in my stomach.

You should go to Morp with me,” he says off-handedly, as if my answer doesn’t really matter. I know better.

We are sitting together at lunch as we have been almost every day since the stardate-incident weekend. We sit alone since I don’t belong with his group and he definitely doesn’t belong with mine. Each of those groups watches us intently, mine with humor and his with confusion.

“Is that your way of asking me?” I try—and fail—to sound hurt by the informal asking.

He glances at me and then quickly shifts his beautiful green eyes away. He’s definitely nervous about my reaction to his asking. While in his eyes we have become something of friends—though odd ones at that—he is still unclear on the boundaries of said friendship.

Morp is the opposite of prom, casual but for couples, most couples coming either dressed the same or with some kind of “theme” to their outfits. I get an idea.

“I’ll go if you dress like me.”

“I’m
not
wearing a miniskirt,” he teases, finally meeting my eyes, something like relief reflected in his own.

“Party pooper,” I mutter. “How about just a little bit . . . rocker,” I say.

“Okay,” he agrees, leaning forward, grinning. “But then you come a little nerdy, like me.”

“C’mon, Trev. You think you’re nerdy?”

He rolls his eyes at me.

“Tell me
you
don’t.”

I shrug, then laugh.

“Well, let’s recap, Trev. You get straight A’s, you belong to all of the smart-kid clubs, and you always wear your shirts buttoned completely to the top.” He reaches up and fingers his top button self-consciously. “I’ll bet you know
Star Wars
inside out too.” He drops his hand and shrugs, a grimace his affirmative answer. “Maybe just a
little
nerdy,” I laugh.

“Which doesn’t explain why you want to be seen with me.”

“We’re an odd couple,” I agree lightly, treading carefully.

“Are we?” He’s suddenly serious.

“What? Odd?”

“No, you know, the other . . .” He trails off, unsure.

I smile inside, well aware of his confusion regarding me. “Well, if single is one, and triple is three, then couple must be two. And we’re two people sitting here. Even
I
know that, and you’re the one who’s supposed to be the math whiz here, Trev.”

“Trevor,” he counters automatically, quietly, unaware that he has even said the word. He watches me, seeming to decide whether to push me for a real answer for once, rather than my usual cryptic remarks meant to keep him guessing. He backs off, and I sigh inwardly in relief.

“So, what do you say? Do you want to go?”

“Isn’t it girl’s choice?”

“Is it?” I know he knows it is. He is an SBO (student body officer), and they plan all of these useless activities. He looks at me slyly from under those long lashes, and I know he’s teasing.

“Sure, why not?”

“Jen’s famous last words,” he mutters.

I lean forward and cover his hand with mine, tucking my fingers under his palm. His whole body stills. He looks at our hands, and then slowly his eyes rise to mine.

“Yes, Trevor, I would love to go to Morp with you,” I say, throwing the husky-sexy tone in, now that he’s off balance. I pull my hand away and lean back, biting into my apple, breaking the spell. He gives a little laugh. It sounds kind of like relief.

“Besides,” I say, “if you think people are surprised by us now, imagine what they’ll think if we show up as one another there.”

Trevor smiles at this.

“Could be fun,” he agrees.

“Definitely.”

⊕⊗⊕

This agreement gives my friends no end of amusement. They want photos.

⊕⊗⊕

The dance falls on a Friday, which is totally awesome because it gets me out of stupid family night for once. When Trevor comes to pick me up, I find I’m not really fond of him in black leather pants and jacket, black leather half-gloves, spiked hair, chains dangling from his waist, black lips and eyeliner, though he did a good job and could easily fit in with my friends—excepting his perfect posture and clear eyes, of course. If it isn’t necessarily my goal to get him to dress like this, it is still my goal to get him to turn bad—to be like me.

I’m wearing clothes borrowed from the cheerleader’s closet. She wouldn’t appreciate that I’m using her clothes to look nerdy. I wish she were here to know it instead of back at college. I’m wearing a letterman’s sweater (really, you
letter
for standing in front of a crowd and acting like an idiot while leading them in cheers?) with a pink-and-yellow plaid tweed skirt, and shoes that look like they time-warped from the fifties. I have my hair twisted into two braids, though even that doesn’t disguise its red and black coloring.

“Wow,” he says, looking at me, though only at my face and not the usual up-and-down body perusal that I get from the boys I normally hang with. “You look really good without all that makeup on.” Then realizing he might be coming across as impolite, he stammers, “I mean, you always look good, every day, but underneath all of that, you’re really beautiful.”

“I hope none of my friends see me,” I say to cover the fact that his comment actually flatters me a little.

Pat and Sue (aka the fosters) are there with their camera. I smile and make nice because I don’t want to offend Trevor—not because of anything noble like good manners, but because I need him malleable tonight.

Beth and Ella are at the dance—with their own cameras. I don’t say anything to them, though I pass in front of them twice before they see me. It takes them a while to figure out which bland girl I am. It entertains Trevor that they don’t recognize me.

Of course, his friends don’t recognize him either, so he plays my game, lying low until someone notices. Beth and Ella have an upper hand in this since they are aware of our trick. They take some future blackmail pics of us before leaving. They have better parties to crash.

It’s mousy Mary Ellen who recognizes Trevor.

“Trevor, is that you?” she asks while we’re sitting on the sidelines drinking ultra-sweet punch, a perfect complement to my costume and a natural for who Trevor is.

“Hi, Mary Ellen.” Do I hear a little longing in his voice, heightened attention in his eyes at her appearance? I scoot a little closer to him, pressing against his arm.