Geekhood (15 page)

IM:
Only one way to find out – brace yourself!

I stand, take in a deep breath and crunch my way to
the front door. The cat does figures of eight between my legs as I walk, meaning that I have to stride with my legs apart in case it trips me up. But it likes me; could
this
be a sign?

IM:
Here goes…

For a second, I stand on the doorstep like an idiot until I realize that the iron door knocker right in front of me probably wasn’t put there for decorative purposes only.

IM:
Take two.

With my heart pulsing in my throat, I knock on the door. Only twice. And trying to make it sound as casual as possible.

A moment passes and nothing happens. Then, through the front door’s frosted glass, I see a distorted shadow moving and hear the scuff of feet on floorboards. The door opens and I’m given a glimpse of the future.

My dad always used to say that he knew that Mum would always “be a looker” because of the way her mum, my nan, aged.

I am confronted with what Beggsy would describe as a MILF. Crude, I know, but Sarah’s mum definitely falls into that category: the same crystal-blue eyes, Cupid’s bow lips and midnight hair. A leak in the old EM allows a little blush through the net and all the moisture leaves my mouth.

“Hello,” she smiles. “You must be Archie.”

“I am. Yes. Hello. I’m Archie.”

IM:
Right words. Wrong order.

For some reason, I offer my hand out in a handshake which Sarah’s mum takes. She then responds with another melting smile and I counter-respond with another hello. For fear of being stuck in some sort of vocal loop, I manage to throw in a “How are you?”

“Very well, thanks. Come in, Archie. I’ll call Sarah down.”

I step into the house and my senses go into overdrive, taking in pictures on the wall, the sage-green paint and the vase of flowers on the hall table. Something else hits me: a smell, a faint smell, which takes me a moment to search through my memory banks and identify.

IM:
Incense!

Incense. I’ve never been so grateful for a smell in my life. It tells me that I got something right last night; that I’ve edged a little closer to finding out what it is that makes Sarah Sarah.

Sarah’s mum goes to the bottom of the carpeted stairs and calls her daughter’s name. There’s a vague thunder of activity from somewhere upstairs, which Sarah’s mum pretends not to notice.

“Would you like a cup of tea, or a cold drink?” she asks.

My IM flips through its underused Etiquette Files and I go for a cup of tea; it feels a bit like having a security blanket with me. Just as she turns to the kitchen, Sarah’s mum looks intently at my face.

“That’s a nasty bruise,” she says. “Have you put anything on it?”

“Peas.” I blurt out, embarrassed. “I mean cold ones. Frozen ones.”

IM:
The name’s Bond. James Bond.

“Have you tried arnica?”

My memory banks are unfamiliar with this, so I respond in the negative.

“It’s a cream; very good for bruising. And it’s all natural – no chemicals. Would you like some?”

IM:
OhChristwhatdoIsay?

“Um… Yeah. OK. Thanks.”

Sarah’s mum takes me into a small, quaintly decorated kitchen and tells me to sit on one of the chairs. Once again, vampire-like, I suck as much detail from the surroundings as I can: photos of Sarah when she was younger, small knick-knacks lining the window sill and a cat flap in the back door. Sarah’s mum reaches into a cupboard behind her and produces a small tube of cream.

“This won’t hurt,” she says, squeezing a blob on to her middle finger. “It’ll bring the bruise out quicker.”

She leans in close to me and rubs the cream on to my cheekbone in gentle, soothing circles. My EM has a complete power failure and my IM has taken a brief vow of silence; all I can do is stare ahead, like a broken android.

“Look up.” The soothing circles go under my eye.

“Look down for me.” The soothing circles go under my eyebrow.

IM:
Eep.

Eep indeed. I can see right down the front of Sarah’s mum’s loose jumper.

IM:
Bra alert! Bra alert!

Quickly, I shut my eyes.

“Sorry, did that hurt?”

“No, no. I’m fine.” I manage, still with my eyes closed, trying to force the image of Sarah’s mum’s bra out of my mind. “I think I can feel it working.”

IM:
Well covered.

“Mum! What’re you doing?”

Sarah’s voice snaps me back into reality and I open my eyes to see her standing in the kitchen doorway, wearing a punk-style T-shirt and black jeans. I try and ignore the flash of black bra strap on her left shoulder. I’m surrounded by bras. It’s a bra carnival.

IM:
A Mardi Bra.

“Just treating Archie’s bruise,” Sarah’s mum trills. “It’s a nasty one.”

“Yes, well I’m sure Archie doesn’t want you poking about with it,” Sarah replies tersely.

“No… It’s fine… I’m OK…” I mutter, like I’ve just learned how to talk.

“There, you see.” Sarah’s mum smiles, triumphant. “Why don’t you two go on up and I’ll bring you some tea in a minute. Do you take sugar, Archie?”

“Two, thanks.”

“Come on, Archie. Let’s go.”

With a feeble smile and a muttered thanks to Sarah’s mum, I begin the ascent to A Girl’s Bedroom.

As we approach the landing, I half expect to see Gandalf leap out, shouting “You shall not pass!”. Instead, the black and white cat appears from nowhere and starts figure of eighting round my legs again. I half stumble up the final stair.

“Oh, Aslan; leave him alone!”

“Aslan?” I try to keep a chuckle out of my voice.

“Yeah,
The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe
. It was one of my favourite films when I was little.”

With some horror, I realize that she’s just named one of the few sword and sorcery films that I don’t actually like.

IM:
It could be worth re-watching…

“Yeah. It wasn’t bad. Hello, Aslan.” I give the cat another stroke, hoping that my action will be taken as
some sign of approval. The smell of incense beckons like an invisible finger from behind a door at the end of the long landing. As we walk towards it, I’m transported back to the Shop of Unrequited Love, experiencing that strange, otherworldly feeling. It’s as though I’m experiencing things for the first time; everything seems unfamiliar, no matter how ordinary it might be: the pale landing carpet seems to absorb our footsteps, the walls seem almost to be watching us and the closed doors hint at parts of Sarah’s life that I have yet to see. Only the smell of incense is familiar, although not necessarily comforting.

“Come in.” Sarah pushes open the door and steps inside. I give the cat one last pat – just for luck – and follow.

Sarah’s bedroom somehow isn’t what I expected – although I’m not sure
what
I expected. The walls are a sunshine yellow and adorned with a few framed pictures. A star-shaped crystal on a chain, which I presume to be a rainbow maker, hangs in front of an old-fashioned, criss-cross window, below which is a small dressing table and chair. Her bed is white and there’s a delightful absence of cuddly toys from it; TV and stepsisters tell you that all girls have cuddly toys on their beds. On one wall is a freestanding bookshelf, quite tall, and crammed with books of all sorts: big ones,
small ones, hardbacks, paperbacks – it’s amazing what you can take in when your future depends on it. And there, on the bedside table, is Nox Noctis. I try not to announce that I’ve noticed by not doing anything.

IM:
Do something! Say something!

“Nice room.” I stand, jamming my hands in my pockets and turn slowly on my heel, like I’m in an art gallery. “Yeah. Nice.” I throw in a sage nod or two for good measure.

“It’s OK.” She smiles. “Not as nice as yours, though.”

An alert runs through my system as my brain tries desperately to figure out whether there is any hidden meaning to this statement. Does she like my room because of its size, its decor, because it’s mine, because she’d like to be in it? A thousand possible meanings present themselves in an instant – is it a compliment just about my room or is it somehow about me as well? Thankfully, Sarah’s mum walks in with a tray carrying tea and biscuits, otherwise I’m sure her daughter would be able to hear the page-flipping going on in my head as I mentally scour my copy of the
Female Phrasebook
. There appear to be a few crucial pages missing.

“Tea?” Sarah’s mum asks, as though I might have changed my mind in the minutes since I last looked down her top.

“Thanks, that’s lovely.”

IM:
You sound like a plumber.

“I gather you’re a bit of an artist, Archie. Have you seen Sarah’s paintings?”

IM:
So – she’s spoken about you.

“Mu-um…” Sarah’s voice is enough, but her beautifully arched eyebrow sends her mum out of the room, apologies echoing in her wake.

“Paintings?”

“Oh, I like to paint a bit in my spare time. They’re silly, really.”

“Let’s have a look.” I’ve got that coy, slightly teasing tone in my voice that I hate when I hear other people do it.

Sarah gestures casually to the pictures on the wall, but I’m sure I can see the beginnings of a smile on her face, almost as if she’s pleased that I’m showing an interest. I decide to pursue it.

“These? Here?” It’s a fairly fatuous question, but helps propel me across the room, tea in hand, to look at the pictures in question.

IM:
Zoinks!

They are pictures of fairies. But not your common or garden, tutu-wearing fairies. These are Sexy Fairies. Once I get past the fact that most of them appear to have little or nothing on, I can see that she’s used the paint with stunning ease, creating an effect that suggests that
each fairy is luminous, so bright in fact that their light obscures any of the really naughty bits. They’re all in different poses, and each is a different colour, but all of them have the same knowing look on their faces. It’s a gallery of erotic Tinker Bells.

Whilst my EM has a stiff word with the Blush Department and puts extra sandbags round the pores, I realize that I’ve got a slight problem on my hands.

IM:
What do I say?

If I show too much appreciation, it might suggest a pervert in sheep’s clothing. Too little and I’m going to come across as arrogant.

IM:
Go for “nebulous”.

“I’ve never seen fairies like these before!” I accompany the statement with a little laugh that could be interpreted as both surprised and/or cheeky.

“I’ve always thought that fairies were too girly in books. I always thought they’d be a bit sexier.”

“Well… They are. They’re really good.”

A bit too good, actually. My own painting skills suddenly feel a bit primitive.

“Thanks.”

Fearing an awkward silence, I take a little tour of her bookshelf and see that it’s lined with lots of different-coloured crystals of varying shapes and sizes. Being a Geek, I’ve got a vague knowledge about such
things and pick one up that I recognize.

“Amethyst,” I announce, confidently. “I like amethyst.”

“Interesting you should be drawn to that one.”

“Is it? Why?” My EM is caught off guard and I look up too quickly, feeling like I’m under the microscope.

“Amethyst is a healing stone. You can use it to help you sleep or cure headaches, but its greatest power is to heal emotional wounds.”

“Oh. OK.”

IM:
We are now entering uncharted space. Please remain calm.

I sip my tea and then grin inanely.

“Well. I like amethyst.”

IM:
There’s only so many times you can say this before you start to sound like a madman.

“You’re hurting, Archie.”

“No, I’m fine. Honestly. Your mum put some cream on it.”

Sarah laughs; a delicate, silvery sound, which only adds to my feeling of unease and confusion.

“Not your eye.” She smiles. “You. You’re hurting
inside
.”

IM:
Eh?

“Eh?”

“Come and sit down.”

Another problem and another absent page in the
Female Phrasebook
. Does “Come and sit down” mean “Come and sit down by
me
” or “Feel free to be seated anywhere in this room, but not necessarily by my side”?

IM:
Maintain standard orbit.

I opt for the chair.

“Do you remember when we met outside the shop?”

Although the scenario is branded into my memory, I go through a very amateur pantomime of trying to remember.

“Yeah, Jason Humphries was giving you some hassle.”

IM:
Which is no longer a problem, ma’am.

“I could tell you were hurting then. Do you remember I said so?”

“Yeah. Sort of.”

“I knew it when I touched your hand. It felt like an electric shock.”  

Sarah looks at me very intently and then a decision works its way across her face.

“Archie, have you ever had your aura read?”

IM:
Man battle stations! We are under attack!

FOURTEEN

Sarah gets up from her bed and closes the curtains.

IM:
Doors to manual…

“Put your tea down and come and sit on the floor.”

I oblige, trying not to show fear. I’ve heard that girls can smell it.

“Do you know what an aura is, Archie?”

“Uh… Isn’t it a light or something that surrounds you?”

That gossamer laugh floats through the darkened room.

“Sort of.” Sarah settles, cross-legged in front of me, fixing me with her eyes, which look almost translucent in the half-light. “Everything living has an aura. They’re energy fields and they can reflect how you’re feeling.”

“So – how am I feeling?”

IM:
You want to start praying that this is inaccurate…

Sarah laughs again; I seem to be good at making her do that.

“It’s not
that
easy! Shall I read yours? Mum says I’ve got a gift for it. She’s taught me loads.”

“What is she? A witch or something?”

“No! She’s a psychic practitioner! Come on – are we going to do it or not?”

IM:
If only
.

The earnest expression on her face and the want in her voice are impossible to resist. This is one of those “Now or Never” moments.

“Yeah, OK.”

Whether I believe in this or not, I still feel a thrill of excitement, coupled with a sense of dread. What if she is able to read my aura? She’ll know just how deeply I feel about her. Is there any way I can hide it? Should I push those thoughts to the back of my head or focus on them, in the hope that she gets the message loud and clear?

IM:
It would save you having to ask her out
.

“OK, then. First I need you to relax. Close your eyes.”

I do, but am unable to prevent a self-conscious grin from escaping.

“Come on, Archie. Stop messing about. Just relax.”

IM:
In for a penny
…

I take a deep breath and try to relax. While my body seems to welcome the opportunity, I can feel my mental shutters going up as a just-in-case and all my other senses kick into overdrive. There’s a scent of whatever soap or shampoo she uses; I can practically feel her
presence and her voice seems to melt through me.

“Breathe in, Archie. And out. And in. And out. Now focus on your muscles and try and relax them. Let’s start with your toes; feel them relax and go limp…”

Sarah takes a tour of my body, so to speak, telling me to concentrate on each area and let the tension go. Everything’s fine, until she says the word “buttocks”. At that precise moment in time, I become convinced that if I relax that particular region, I might fart. To cover the fact that my buttocks are now rock solid with tension, I expel another deep breath – in keeping with the spirit of things. Finally, we reach my shoulders, neck and head and I allow my cast-iron backside to sink a little deeper into the carpet.

“Good, Archie. That’s really good. Now I want you to rock gently from side to side.”

IM:
You know how stupid you look, don’t you?

As I rock, I can hear Sarah breathing in and out deeply. It’s horribly sexy, but the fact that I’m wobbling like a nodding dog seems to take the erotic charge out of it for me.

I wobble and she breathes for what seems like an eternity, until finally Sarah tells me to open my eyes. When I do, it’s to find her staring at the space round my head, heartbreaking concern written all over her face. I raise my eyebrows in a silent query.

“Well,” she says, looking a little brighter, “you’re very healthy, physically – although the Cava has dulled your psychic abilities. You should be careful of drinking too much; you’re a little out of alignment.”

Feeling a little out of alignment, I nod. Slowly.

IM:
I think you’re being told off for last night’s fisticuffs
.

“But it’s obvious that you do have some psychic abilities. The yellow colouring tells me that you’re a perfectionist and too self-critical. You should cut yourself some slack. There’s a lot of red, which says that you have a great inner strength and that you’re very passionate.”

IM:
Ker-ching!

“You’re sympathetic and reliable. But there’s a lot of dark blue, which tells me that you feel misunderstood. You don’t communicate easily with the rest of the world.”

IM:
OK, this is getting weird
.

“But there’s a lot of black, Archie. Almost all of your colours are surrounded by this black…” She searches for a word. “…halo.”

For a moment, my ego awards itself a series of medals; I like my newfound position as a Dark Angel. It feels cool. But the expression on her face tells me that that’s not a good thing, so I break my silence.

“What does that mean?”

Sarah searches my halo before answering. When she
does, she looks straight into my eyes.

“It means you’re hurting, Archie. That you’ve developed a protective shield against the world – like a mask, or armour. It means that you don’t really show your true feelings to people because you don’t want to get hurt any more. But you’re paying a very high psychic price for that shield.”

This is starting to feel a little too close for comfort. On one level, I’m really enjoying being so close to Sarah and getting a foot inside her world, but something in her words is appealing to something inside me that I’d rather not think about.

IM:
Because she’s right. You are hurting.

My EM gets the fidgets and I start scratching behind my ear, even though there’s no itch. It’s like she’s pressed the button marked “Do Not Press”. The one that sets everything off. The one that opens doors that ought to remain shut. I can feel an unfamiliar pressure building up in my head and chest and my EM fidgets more; I sit back, resting on my hands and breathing hard.

IM:
You’re losing control…!

I grit my teeth together and force another breath out through my nose, like a poor impression of a hunted dragon.

“What is it, Archie? Why are you hurting?”

I scowl at the floor, trying to pull my EM back into
alignment, but it’s no good; my fingers clench into fists and back again.

“It’s…uh…It’s nothing.” But my voice is thick with yearning confession. Sarah’s hand on my ankle does nothing to draw me out of my scaled-down breakdance.

“It’s OK, Archie. It really is.” Her voice is heartbreakingly soft. “Is it your stepfather?”

IM:
Self-destruct sequence initiated: Five – Four – Three – Two…

In a final act of betrayal, my EM shuts down completely, leaving my face to tremble and crack into tears. Instinctively, I lurch forward and wrap my arms round my shins and thrust my head between my knees, silent, seething sobs escaping between ragged breaths.

And then it all comes out.

I tell her everything: Tony, the divorce, my dad leaving, how much I love my mum, how I’m a Geek, Tony, how weak I am, how I don’t really talk to anyone, my IM, the Gargoyle, the Dream; the whole lot comes out in a big, wet, snotty, snivelling mess. And then I’m silent, exhausted, plagued only by trembling, weepy sighs. I don’t even notice Sarah’s arm round my shoulders until I’ve managed to regain some sort of control over my spasming lungs.

“It’s OK,” she says gently. “I can help you.”

“Can you?” I moan hopelessly from between my legs.

“Yes. But you’ve got to trust me.”

Sarah helps me to my feet and points me in the direction of the bathroom, where she leaves me to splash my face with water. I look in the oval mirror above the white, glistening basin to see my mismatched eyes rimmed with red and a nose that wouldn’t look out of place on a certain reindeer. I can’t believe I’ve done this. I’ve wept like a snivelling child in front of the girl I love. Any chance I had with her is now melting like a snowball in Hell.

But I’m tired. Too tired to be cross with myself for breaking like I did. Too tired to try and get my shields back online. Too tired to try and plug my IM back into the grid.

I feel empty and exposed, but too tired to care.

After a final splash, I go back into Sarah’s room with an apologetic half-smile on my face. The curtains are open and she’s sat on the end of her bed, a bright smile glittering in the light.

“OK?”

“Yeah,” I mumble. “Sorry about all that.”

“Stop being sorry!” I can’t tell if she’s cross or putting it on. I feel like I’m back in primary school. “You’ve been strong for too long, Archie – it’s time to stop.”

“OK. So… What do we do?”

“We talk. Properly.”

Because I seem to have nothing left to say, Sarah takes the reins.

“Have you ever wondered why you were drawn to that Gargoyle in the first place?”

“I just liked it,” I manage dumbly.

“Just like you liked the amethyst. It goes a bit deeper than that, Archie. When I read your aura, I could tell that you’ve got psychic abilities, but they’re being suppressed by your shield – your armour. Yet they’re still trying to find a way to leak out – to communicate with you. Your dream is your subconscious trying to make contact, but you keep pushing it away; you don’t want to hear what it has to say.”

“Which is what?”

“That you’re far more powerful than you think. You can change things, Archie – you can make your life what you want it to be.”

“Can I? How?”

“The Gargoyle in your dream represents your subconscious. It’s your Psychic Self trying to talk to you. You have to embrace it. Your Internal Monologue is part of your shield; you need to shut it out because it’s made up of fear and hurt. You need to start listening to your Psychic Self.”

Despite the fog that has descended over my senses, this seems to make sense. My IM has always been the
voice of doubt; that thing that has stopped me from taking any uncertain steps. Perhaps Sarah’s right, perhaps there is more to me than meets the eye.

“What do I do?”

“We need to give you some exercises to help you develop your psychic awareness.”

We spend the next half an hour going through some “alternative” books that Sarah’s got on her bookshelf. Right now, I wouldn’t really care if she told me to go and boil my own head. She really seems to understand me and she gives me a series of exercises that she says will help me embrace my Psychic Self, something to do with Positive Visualization and chatting to myself in the mirror. My IM remains in exile; I trust her. I have no doubts. I can change.

“Take this – it’ll help.” She presses a thin, dog-eared paperback into my hands.

“Thanks.” I smile. “I guess I need all the help I can get.” I’m sitting next to her on the bed and we enter one of those silences where I don’t know if I should be doing something or not. I guess I’ve got a lot to learn. I think it might be time to make a graceful exit; I don’t want to make any more of a fool of myself than I already have.

“I’d better go,” I say, looking at my watch. “Stuff to do.” It’s a generic answer that suggests I won’t be sitting around thinking about her and nothing else
for the rest of the day.

“I’ll see you out.”

As we walk downstairs, I check my reflection in any surface that will bear it; I think I look OK. In fact, I look considerably better than the blonde lady that Sarah’s mum is helping out of the room opposite the kitchen. Judging by her puffy eyes and her luminous hooter, I reckon it’s fairly safe to assume she’s just had her aura read too. What have I stumbled upon? A suburban coven? Sarah opens the door and I step out of the sanctuary of her home.

“OK … well … thanks. And sorry about earlier…”

“Stop it!” Sarah scolds, before joining me on the path and fixing me with a determined stare. “It’s all going to be OK, Archie.”

And then she kisses me on the cheek.

My head detonates with pure, crystal-clear joy. I am flooded with energy, bright, fizzing power, and I want to laugh out loud. Instead, I hang on to what’s left of my self-control and walk to the gate.

“See you Monday,” I say, grinning, and head for home, ten foot tall and bulletproof.