Geek High (2 page)

W
hat do you mean, you're moving to London?” I shrieked, staring at my mother in horror.

We were sitting at our dining room table, which was lit by fourteen taper candles (Sadie has a thing for eating by candlelight, claiming that it's fabulously glamorous, although personally I think it has more to do with how she thinks candlelight is flattering to her aging skin), and I was poking at the inedible tofu-and-lima-bean unmeatloaf my mother made, and mostly thinking about the short story I'd been working on before dinner. It was about a teenage girl who wakes up one morning to discover that overnight, while she slept, she's sprouted a beautiful set of wings. She's torn between the glory of being able to fly, and fear that she'll be seen as a freak. I liked writing about the sensation of flying, and the beautiful swishing, beating noise her white-feathered wings made as she soared through the air. But at Sadie's startling announcement, I dropped my fork with a loud clatter, all thoughts of my short story driven from my mind.

“Miranda, why do you always have to be so dramatic?” Sadie replied, pursing her lips and rolling her eyes heavenward. “I'm not
moving
to London. I'm just going to live there for a bit.”

“I'm not being dramatic,” I said, stung.

If anything, my mother's the one in the family who has a monopoly on dramatics. But, then, Sadie's a romance novelist, so she comes by it naturally. She publishes under the pen name Della De La Courte. Which is about the dumbest pseudonym I've ever heard of, although her legions of fans think she's just wonderful. She gets a ton of e-mail telling her so.

I mean, really. How embarrassing is that?

Sometimes when Sadie's on a deadline, she pays me to respond to the e-mail.

But then my mom caught me, and now she double-checks the “sent e-mail” folder before she pays me.

“I can't move to England. School starts next week,” I said, reeling at this news.

“I know. That's why I'm going alone,” Sadie said.

It took a moment for this to sink in. I spent the time gaping at Sadie, my mouth opening and closing silently.

“
What?
You mean you're deserting me?” I finally sputtered.

“Oh, sweetie, I'm not
deserting
you.” Another eye roll. “I'm just going to stay in London long enough to research and write my next book. It shouldn't take longer than six months. A year at the most,” Sadie said blithely, spooning the revolting unmeatloaf into her mouth.

“Six months to a year?” I repeated. I shook my head, not understanding. “But…but…
what about me
?”

This came out in a pathetic little bleat. But I couldn't help it. How could Sadie leave me?

“You'll be fine, darling, really. The time will go by so fast, you'll hardly even miss me,” Sadie said.

And then a thought occurred to me that made the whole idea a bit more palatable.

“So, I guess I'll be staying here by myself?” I asked casually, trying to hide the flutter of excitement the idea gave me. Living all alone! The freedom! Rather than being known as the Human Calculator, I'd be That Really Cool Chick Who Lives by Herself and Plays the Guitar Just Like Jewel!

Or I'm sure they'd say that if I actually played the guitar. I've been meaning to take it up. Whatever. The point is, it'd be so cool. Everyone would want to hang out at my house, and we'd all sit around the living room on floor pillows and debate politics and world events and the demise of the boy band in pop culture.

But Sadie quickly put an end to that fantasy.

“Stay here alone? Don't be ridiculous. You're only fifteen; you can't live alone. No, you'll stay with your father,” she said.

I felt as though something heavy had been dropped on top of my chest. I stared at Sadie, my breath choked off somewhere between my lungs and throat. Stay with my
father
? But that would mean…that would mean living under the same roof as my horrible, awful, terrible, evil stepmother.

No
. No, Sadie couldn't be serious…she couldn't possibly mean it…she wouldn't do that to me….

Would she?

Oh, no…she totally
would
.

“Mom,” I said, aghast, forgetting for the moment to call her Sadie, as she prefers. She says that calling her Mother reinforces the stifling societal view of what the parent-child relationship should be. “I can't live with Dad and
Her.
I can't. Please don't make me. And, besides, what about Willow?”

Willow was our rescued greyhound, a tall and sleekly beautiful brindle. My stepmother hates dogs. Want to know what kind of a person hates dogs? I'll tell you: someone who lacks a soul.

“The thing is, sweetheart, that I'm at that age where I have to think of myself first. I need the room to grow, as a woman and as a writer. Someday you'll understand,” Sadie said philosophically, waving her hand as she spoke. She was wearing a black tunic covered with sequins that winked and glittered in the candlelight. “Besides, your father was the one who wanted to run off and start a new life. I think it's time he remembered that he has just as much responsibility for raising you as I do. It's sexist for him to assume that I should do all of the mothering just because I'm a woman.”

I was so angry that for a moment I was actually speechless. And that says a lot. Normally I'm quick with the smart-alecky response. It's sort of my thing.

“You're using me to teach Dad a lesson?” I asked. I was appalled. Hadn't she read any of the self-help books on how not to destroy your children during a divorce? I'd even left copies of them for her on her bedside table, marking the chapters I thought she most needed to read with Post-it notes.

My parents didn't always hate each other. I have happy memories of a childhood full of trips to the beach and family bike rides around our neighborhood. Every Friday we had a weekly movie night. My parents would rent
The Lion King
or
Mary Poppins
, and we'd all pile on the couch together with a big bowl of popcorn. And I remember my parents laughing, and my dad taking my mom's hand in his, while she leaned forward to brush her lips against his cheek.

But then came the fights. At first, it never seemed like they were fighting about anything important. My mom would be mad when my dad forgot to stop for milk on his way home from the office. My dad would get angry when my mom scheduled a book tour without running the dates by him first. But then the arguments grew louder and more frequent. When they started shouting, I'd zip myself into my purple sleeping bag and put my fingers in my ears, so that their raised voices would sound muffled, like the grown-ups on those old Charlie Brown cartoons. The fighting was awful…but, in a way, it was even worse when it stopped, and the house was filled with an awful cold silence.

They officially separated when I was eleven, and divorced when I was twelve. And less than a year later, my dad married Peyton, aka the Demon. And I'd hardly seen my dad since. He was too busy with his new life and his new family to make time for me.

And now my mother was proposing I move in with them.

“I won't do it. I won't go. I won't live there with Her. I won't, and you can't make me. I will not live with the Demon and her Demon Spawn,” I announced.

My mother looked pleased at that. She and I may have different opinions on just about everything, but there was one subject we were in perfect agreement on: We both hated Peyton. She was
awful
. She was mean and snotty, and thought the fact that she was rich—her grandfather made a zillion dollars after he invented that mouthwash that's supposed to rinse all of the plaque off your teeth, but burns like crazy when you gargle with it—means that she can boss everyone around. And I'm not much fonder of Peyton's daughter, Hannah, aka Demon Spawn. Hannah—who is my age—is stunningly beautiful and perfect at everything, which leads to all sorts of unfortunate comparisons, usually made by Peyton and usually at my expense.

“Can't I just come with you to London?” I asked. “Please don't leave me, Mom. Please.”

I saw Sadie waver, read the uncertainty in her face, and I knew I had her. No parent could withstand such a guilt trip. I'd read all about it in biology class last year, during “The Human Mammal: Fact or Fiction” week. Parents are hardwired not to desert their offspring. A hormone is released when a woman gives birth that keeps her from running away, even when all the kid does is poop and cry and spit up. So I knew there was no way she'd be able to go through with her plans of deserting me. Even Sadie couldn't defeat Mother Nature.

I
stood on the doorstep of my father and Peyton's beachside mansion, holding Willow's leash in one hand and my wheeled suitcase in the other. Willow was sniffing around, extending her long neck and twitching her nose from side to side, like Samantha on
Bewitched
. It was early in the morning, and the sky over the water was still pink and hazy.

My dad, an architect, designed the house. It's how he and Peyton met. She hired him to draw up the plans, and by the time the construction was complete, they were married. The house was huge and modern, with long rows of square windows that faced out over the private curved driveway on one side, and huge floor-to-ceiling glass doors that took in the incredible view of the Atlantic Ocean on the other side. I knew the house was supposed to be impressive, and it had even been photographed for
Architectural Digest
. But I'd always hated it. It was just
too
—too big, too modern, too cold. The little Arts and Crafts cottage Sadie and I lived in was so much cozier and more comfortable.

My mother honked the horn suddenly, and when I turned to look at her, she waved wildly from behind the wheel of her zippy red convertible.

“Good-bye, Miranda! I'll call you as soon as I'm settled!” she called out the window before speeding off down the road.

I crossed my arms, and spun back around without returning the wave. I wasn't speaking to Sadie, aka the Child Deserter. Even if I'm not technically a child, I am fifteen, which everyone knows is a tender age. Teen girls are susceptible to all sorts of trouble—drugs, sex, Internet predators. Which reminded me: As soon as I got the chance, I was going to do some Internet research on how exactly you go about divorcing your parents. I know child actors are sometimes able to do that when their loser parents steal all of their money. Surely the courts would consider deserting your only child to be at least as bad.

I propped my suitcase up and rang the doorbell, feeling awkward as I did so. This was my dad's house, after all. But Peyton had never given me a key. Whenever I came to visit, she always stood stiffly at the door and said, “Welcome to our home.”
Our
home. As in:
not yours
. She'd always made it very clear that I was just a guest.

Although now I wasn't just a guest. For the next year—or whenever Sadie decided to come back and rescue me—this was going to be my home, too. A cold burst of fear flooded over me.

A few minutes later, when no one answered the door, I rang again. And then again. My fear slowly turned into annoyance. Wasn't anyone going to let me in? What kind of a welcome was this? Willow let out a little whimper of impatience and looked up at me questioningly.

Finally there was a flurry of footsteps tapping down the white marble foyer. The door was flung open, and there stood the Demon in the flesh.

“Hello, Miranda. Welcome to our home,” she said, stepping aside—ever so slightly—to allow me entrance.

“Hi,” I said without enthusiasm.

I stepped inside, pulling my bag awkwardly after me, and immediately started to shiver. You can tell everything you need to know about Peyton from her house: It's always freezing cold and everything is white. The walls are white. The luxuriously thick wall-to-wall carpeting is white. The living room furniture is upholstered entirely in white leather. Even the cat—a snotty Persian named Madonna, who looks like a cotton ball that's sprouted legs—is white.

Likewise, Peyton is pale with short, spiky white-blond hair, and she's so cold-blooded, I wouldn't be at all surprised to find out that she's secretly a contract killer for hire. She's also the thinnest person I've ever seen. She doesn't eat. Really: I've never actually seen even a morsel of food enter her mouth. She'll sit down at the table while other people are eating, but she just uses her fork to push the food around on her plate. Seriously, the woman is a freak. She should be locked up in a laboratory and studied by scientists.

Even though it was early, Peyton was already dressed in an ice blue T-shirt that was so tight, I could practically count her ribs; perfectly pressed white linen slacks; and tan pumps with high, needlelike heels and very pointy toes.

Peyton's nostrils flared when she saw Willow, as though something particularly unpleasant-smelling had just entered the room. Which was really unfair, since I'd just given Willow a bath the night before, and she was wearing her best collar, the pink one with the candy-colored rhinestones.

“The dog will have to stay outdoors,” she announced.

I shook my head. “She can't. It's too hot outside. She might get heatstroke,” I said, reaching down to pet Willow, who leaned against my legs like a cat.

“Well, perhaps we can put it in the garage,” Peyton said, looking unhappy at the idea. As though Willow—beautiful Willow, who doesn't smell the least bit doggy—would foul up the stinky old garage.

“Willow's a ‘she,' not an ‘it.' And my dad said she could stay in my room with me,” I said, trying very hard to keep my voice friendly. I didn't want to start off on the wrong foot, but I also wasn't about to let the Demon send Willow out to live in the garage. Willow would hate that. She's really very sensitive.

Peyton's eyes narrowed. “We'll see,” she said ominously. Peyton crossed her arms and looked me up and down, her bony face pinched with disapproval. “Are those holes in your shorts, Miranda?”

I glanced down at myself. I was wearing my favorite old khaki shorts. I'd had them for so long, and they'd been washed so many times, that the material was comfortably soft and the seams had started to unravel in a few spots.

Peyton's white-blond eyebrows arched in disapproval.

“Your mother lets you go out with holes in your clothing?”

“Um, I guess,” I said slowly, thinking that Sadie probably hadn't noticed. But, even if she had, I doubt she'd have minded. Sadie wouldn't care if I decided to go out wrapped up in a sheet, toga-style; she'd probably just applaud my creativity.

Suddenly I found myself missing Sadie fiercely, even though I'd just seen her moments before, and then I'd been so angry I hadn't spoken to her. So she wasn't the most dependable mother in the world…she was still
my
mother. The only mother I had.

“I see,” Peyton said. “Well, while you're staying with us, I'd appreciate it if you dressed more…appropriately.”

“Appropriately?” I repeated.

“Yes. Appropriately. I know you're used to living in a very…well,
bohemian
type of home, Miranda, but we have standards here,” Peyton said. Her lip curled, making it very clear just what she thought of the bohemian home from whence I came.

My cheeks flamed hot with anger. As if it wasn't bad enough that I had to stay here with this woman who hated me, and my father whom I didn't even know anymore; now they were going to tell me how to dress, too? Outrage began to simmer inside of me.

Don't tick her off
, I tried to warn myself.
It's not worth it. It's not worth…

“You're not my mother!”

The words popped out before I could stop them. They echoed across the hard floors, sounding like a slap across the face.

Uh-oh
, I thought.

Peyton stared at me, two spots of red rising on her pale face. When she spoke, her voice was frosty. “I am well aware of that fact, young lady.”

Just then Hannah wandered in, yawning and tossing back her sleep-tousled hair, cradling Madonna in her arms. Despite her short pink pajamas emblazoned with
VICTORIA'S SECRET
in sequins across the chest, and a face that was still puffy with sleep, Hannah looked like a fairytale princess. She had long, platinum blond hair, sapphire blue eyes, a sweetly pretty face, and a perfect, slim body. Next to her, I always felt like a homely giantess—tall, gangly, big-nosed, and with an uncontrollable mop of brown curls.

“Oh,” Hannah said when she saw me. Her lips twisted into a grimace. “It's you.”

Peyton's face defrosted when she saw her daughter. “Good morning,” she said in a singsong voice. “How did you sleep, honey?”

Hannah shrugged one elegant shoulder and yawned. “Okay, I guess. Until the
doorbell
woke me up.” She shot me a dirty look.

Madonna stretched and raised her petulant flat face to blink at me with round yellow eyes. Then she saw Willow. The cat let out a loud hiss and leaped from Hannah's arms, landing on the floor with her tail straight up and all of her fur standing on end.

“Willow,” I said warningly.

But it was too late. With an outraged yowl, Madonna turned and fled toward the kitchen. And Willow couldn't help herself. She is a greyhound, after all. They're genetically programmed to chase after small animals. Well,
hunt
small animals, actually, although I know that deep down in her heart, Willow is really nonviolent. Just maybe not when it comes to cats. Willow streaked off after Madonna in a blur of brindle. They skidded down the hall, around the corner, and out of sight.

“Madonna!” Hannah cried.

“Willow!” I yelled, and darted after my dog.

There was a loud crash in the kitchen, another hiss, and then the sound of glass breaking. I rounded the corner and sprinted into the gourmet kitchen, with Hannah and Peyton right on my heels. When I saw what awaited us there, I came to an abrupt stop, staring at the scene before me.

Madonna was sitting on the granite kitchen counter, looking pleased with herself as she twitched her fluffy white tail in the air. Willow was cowering on the slate-tiled floor, her face covered with strawberry jam, and surrounded by shards of glass that had clearly once been a jam jar. And there was jam everywhere—splattered on the cupboards, puddled on the counter, and a blob of jam was slowly oozing its way down the door of the stainless-steel refrigerator.

“Madonna, are you okay?” Hannah exclaimed. She grabbed the cat, pulling Madonna to her chest. “Did that big, mean, awful dog hurt you?”

I rolled my eyes at this. If anyone was hurt, it was obviously Willow, who was looking a little dazed. I wondered if the jam jar had fallen on her head. Willow extended a long pink tongue and licked at the jam dripping off her nose.

“Look at this mess!” Peyton shrieked when she saw the splatters of strawberry jam on the cupboards and floor and refrigerator door. She spun around and, with her hands planted on her bony hips, glared at me. “Look what your filthy dog has done!”

“Willow didn't break the jar,” I protested. I wet a paper towel and used it to wipe Willow's sticky face. She quivered with fear, glancing nervously up at Madonna. “The cat probably knocked it over when she jumped up on the counter.”

“Madonna's never broken anything before,” Hannah said, still cuddling Madonna. The cat was looking smugly pleased with herself.

“From now on, the dog stays outside,” Peyton ruled.

“But—”

“No buts. Outside,” Peyton said. Her eyes glittered dangerously. “Hannah, once that
beast
is in the yard, please show Miranda up to the guest room.”

Not
my
room, the
guest
room.

“Miranda!” My dad walked into the kitchen, a huge smile on his face. He was already dressed for work. My dad was tall, with thinning dark hair and the same too-big nose I'd inherited from him. He'd lost weight since he'd married Peyton, and he'd traded in his Dockers and golf shirts for designer suits and silk ties. These changes made him feel even more like a stranger, and less like the dad I'd known growing up.

“Hi, Dad,” I said.

“Come here and give me a hug,” Dad said, folding me into his arms and squeezing me tight. I stood there stiffly, not fighting him, but also not giving in. Just because I had to live there didn't mean I'd forgotten that he'd practically ignored me for the past three years.

“Let me look at you,” Dad said, holding me back, while he looked me up and down, just as Peyton had back in the hallway. But, unlike Peyton, my dad beamed at me. “Don't you look pretty! And you're getting so grown-up!”

“Richard,” Peyton said. “This…creature can't stay in the house.” She pointed an accusing beige-lacquered nail at Willow.

“What? Oh, Miranda's dog? Of course he's going to stay inside! He's part of the family now,” my dad said.

“She,” I corrected him. “Her name is Willow.”

“Right. Willow. Hannah, why don't you show Miranda and Willow up to their room,” Dad suggested. “And then, once you're settled in, come down and have some breakfast with us, honey. Peyton and I can't wait to catch up with you.”

Yeah, right
, I thought, as I caught sight of the sour look on Peyton's face.
The only thing the Demon wants to know about me is when I'm moving out.