Going Geek (14 page)

M
y next meeting with Ms. Randall is more of the same. This time her crusade starts with the upcoming SATs. “We'd like to see your score come up by at least one hundred and fifty points. Does that look doable based on your tutor's assessment?”

I make a noncommittal gesture, halfway between a nod and a shrug.

She shakes her head. “That does not fill me with confidence. If you can do that, as well as present solid grades for the term, it'll give us a bit more to work with.” Hints of both doubt and desperation creep into her eyes.

“I have been working hard, as I always do—” I say, but I stop. Defending myself is useless unless I have the grades to back it up, and at this point I don't. I'm pretty sure that whichever college accepts me will have to be a big believer in potential.

“Is there anything of interest that you'd like to mention?” she asks.

“Well, things are very different for me this year, as you can imagine. I've actually had some fun experiences,” I begin.

“As long as ‘fun' translates to items that can strengthen your application, I'd love to hear,” Ms. Randall says. I wonder if she knows that every time she speaks, I get more afraid to say anything. But I regroup and forge ahead.

“I helped my roommate, Opal Kingston, start the Yoga Connection, which is a club she's been trying to get off the ground for the last few years.” I wait to see if she has anything encouraging to say about that, but she stays silent. “And I have a sort of advisory capacity in Jess Frazier's new Documentary Club. Both of those have proven to be surprisingly popular.” Ms. Randall keeps waiting, apparently unimpressed. I take a deep breath. “I'm also spearheading a Halloween event that will showcase Bettina Massey's artwork. It's unique, and I predict that it'll be a huge success.”

Ms. Randall removes her glasses and drops them on her desk with a crack. I prepare myself for another downsizing of my already fragile ego. “Ms. Hoffman. You do realize that these examples, while demonstrating some proactivity on your part, are completely dependent upon your classmates' talents?”

“Uh, of course, but we worked together…” I can't finish the thought. This woman is never going to think I'm good enough to be here.

“When working on your essay,” she says, abruptly changing topics, “remember to keep the focus on your own accomplishments and not your mother's.” We'd agreed that I'd write about my internship with my mom's company, and it's clear she's not thrilled about this approach but can't think of anything better. Neither can I.

She misinterprets my nervous expression. “I know it's hard to juggle applications with a senior course load. That's why we asked students to have most of this finished before returning to school.”

Well, believe me, I tried. Waiting tables in the hot sun all day didn't leave me with as much energy as one would think. But I don't say any of this. I just wait for her to get bored.

We keep staring at each other until I think maybe I'm just supposed to leave. “Don't you want your word for next time?” she asks.

Not really.
“Okay.”

“Your word is
prepare.
” Mentally I add
for the worst.
We both know that's what she means.

Following that meeting, I have a demoralizing FaceTime call with my parents. “We got an email from your college counselor. Seems like she thinks you're a bit behind in the process,” my mom says.

“Don't worry,” I say. “I have it under control. I've had to reevaluate some of my choices, but there are plenty of colleges out there.”

“We just want you to be happy, honey,” my dad says. They sound nervous but distracted. I give them a brief summary of my next steps.

Then, out of nowhere, they mention that they're borrowing money from my grandparents to help with the mortgage. That pretty much kills any further discussion about college.

“But otherwise things are great!” my mom says. “We had a garage sale and made over five hundred dollars.”

“Any bids on the house?” I ask.

“Our realtor suggested we take it off the market for a while. When a property hangs out on the listings for too long, there's a stench of death about it,” my dad says.

“Have you found a new screenwriter for the
Over It
sequel?” I ask.

My mom's jaw tightens. “Not yet. All the hot young writers don't want to work on anything that feels the least bit dated. But enough about us. How are you? How's Leo?”

“Fine,” I say, forcing a smile. Wow, every single one of these subjects has the stench of death about it. There's no safe topic. “Just a lot of work all the time, soccer, keeping busy with Calendar stuff. The usual.” My voice quavers, and I'm sure there's no possible way that I'm convincing anyone.

“That's great, honey!” my mom chirps. “So glad you're taking advantage of your last year!”

I use the opening sounds of Club Raks as an excuse to get off the call. After the day I've had, flailing around and sweating it out to aggressive music doesn't sound half bad.

“What happened to you today?” Raksmey asks when it's time to turn off the music. We've spent an hour dancing our faces off.

I sigh, sweeping sweat-drenched strands of hair behind my ears. “A little of everything. I need to figure out how to get a good score on the SATs, but I can't afford a tutor or even an online prep class.” Saying the words
can't afford
aloud feels so foreign that my tongue tangles over them and my high from dancing immediately dissipates. “It's probably too late now anyway.”

Raksmey beams, not even registering my discomfort. “Why didn't you say anything earlier? I'm thinking of taking them too.”

“Why? It's only fall.” She's a junior, and most people wait until spring of junior year to take them.

“Yeah, but I'm the master of standardized tests. I figure, why wait?”

“You're not even going to start with the PSATs?” I ask. I've never heard of anyone being cocky enough to do that.

“Growing up, I was always in after-school tutoring programs, and the teachers were college students, total geeks who got off on things like gaming tests.”

I roll my eyes. “I don't think you can game the SATs.”

“Well, not literally,” she says. “But trust me, there is a system, which means there is a strategy, which means that I can figure it out.” I must look skeptical, because why wouldn't I be?

Raksmey exhales in frustration. “It's multiple choice, is it not?” she asks. I nod. “That means the answer is right in front of your face.”

“Have you even been studying?” I ask.

“Here and there. I mean, if I bomb it, which I won't, I can still take it in the spring.”

She has a point.

“It'll be like a test party. And helping you will help me too. So when do we start?” she asks, practically bouncing on the balls of her feet.

“Last year would've been a good time,” I say, suddenly feeling the full weight of the dire predicament I'm in. “I've been studying on my own but not consistently and not in the most organized way.”

Raksmey lays a comforting hand on my arm. “We can only work with what we have. Amazing things can happen in just a few weeks. Onward!”

I have no reason to believe her, but her confidence settles me a bit. If nothing else, it feels better to not have to be in it alone.

O
n Halloween morning I beg Opal to come to the Canteen to help me make food for Ghouls and Graves. That's what I've decided to call this latest brainchild. Jess is at a track team meet and, despite her promises, has successfully avoided helping me so far. “I sort of already have plans,” Opal says.

“What could be more important than making sure Bettina and her art appear in the best possible light?”

She doesn't respond or elaborate on her plans, so when Remy arrives at Abbot, I assume he's here to see me. But I would be wrong.

“Okay, you're signed in,” Opal says to him, her cheeks flushed rosy pink.

Remy winks at me before they go upstairs. “Excuse me. What is this?” I ask, following them. Obviously I have a right to know. I've known both of them longer than they've known each other, and if it weren't for my flash of brilliance about the Yoga Connection, they wouldn't have even met.

“Remy wants to learn about the
Yoga Sutras,
” Opal explains. Sure he does.

“You mean the sex thing?” I ask.

Remy shoots me a horrified look. I guess stomping on his game is sort of mean. He's a good guy, not to mention very handsome, and I actually think he deserves someone sweet like Opal. “It's not a—”

Opal puts a hand on his arm. “She knows. She's just being awkward.”

“Well, am I allowed in the room?” I ask, continuing to fly in the face of all decorum.

“God, Skylar,” Remy says.

“Of course you are,” Opal says through gritted teeth.

I decide to take them at face value and follow them to the room. Popcorn balls can wait. I don't disapprove, exactly, but I feel acute discomfort at having my worlds collide. One should have a say if one's friends are suddenly going to start intermingling.

Sure enough, Remy and Opal sprawl on the floor, poring over some smelly old book. Every now and then Opal erupts with some Sanskrit chant. And though it's positively adorable, I about burst out laughing at Remy's mesmerized, smitten look.

Eventually my humanity returns. “Off to bake,” I say. “Won't be back for a few hours. At least. See ya!” I enjoy their baffled, cringing expressions as I slip out the door.

I spend the rest of the morning with Martin, the Canteen chef, elbow deep in popcorn and corn syrup, rice cereal and liquefied marshmallow. Of course I grumble and complain, but it's actually pretty fun.

“Am I invited to this soiree?” Martin asks.

“I'll save you a front-row seat,” I say. “It should be pretty good.”

“No offense, and I do love tea, but I have a feeling this will be much more popular with your fellow students,” Martin says.

“Sure. All this sugar is like teenage crack. But I bet they'll have plenty of sugar at the Masquerade Ball,” I say. “Last I heard, there was going to be a bulk-candy wall.”

“Ah. Not to worry. You'll get the forward thinkers at this. The dance is a friendly old standby, perfect for those who prefer tried-and-true.”

“And inferior outside catering,” I say. Martin winks at me, and suddenly I feel a lot better. I like the spin he put on it, like Abbot might be ahead of the curve on this.

We arrange the treats on industrial baking sheets, with puffy tents of wax paper held up by toothpicks covering them. Martin affixes note cards to each tray that read
PROPERTY OF GHOULS AND GRAVES. EAT AND DIE.

“Thanks, Martin. If I did this on my own, I'd probably give everyone food poisoning. You definitely saved the day.”

He smiles. “Happy to help. I love a good dark-horse story.”

I wince but then realize he's right. For the first time in my Winthrop experience, I'm a total underdog. No one expects me to succeed at this or anything else. The thought is sobering, and once again I wonder how it is that I've gone from the girl who had the perfect, coveted life to the scrappy long shot in just a couple of months.

While I set up card tables by the Mausoleum for the food and sweep off some flat grave markers for seating, Bettina works quietly and efficiently, with only a handful of impressively foulmouthed outbursts. She sprints to the studio a few times for what I imagine to be hot-glue-gun emergencies.

Attendance is still totally up in the air. Jess ran an announcement in the paper. I posted flyers around campus and even got a one-sentence mention in the Social Calendar e-newsletter. I highlighted the treats and the fact that costumes are welcome.

At a certain point I just can't watch Bettina anymore. I go back to Abbot. Remy's gone, but Opal's putting the finishing touches on her Bride of Frankenstein costume. Her dark hair is pulled back in a tight bun, and she wears a body-hugging, long-sleeved, floor-length white column dress and a thin layer of pasty gray foundation with greenish smudges on her face. She looks amazing. Naturally I picked everything out.

“Did Remy see you in that?” I ask. She ignores me.

I change into my Minnie Mouse costume, which is really just a sweet red-and-white polka-dot dress with a pinafore, black patent leather Mary Janes, lacy white ankle socks, and Minnie Mouse ears, which I've had since my first trip to Disneyland.

“What do you think?” I ask.

“Why do you get to wear something…nonconfining, while I have to wear this?” she asks.

“Because you live in nonconfining. We're both doing something different.”

Opal scowls and slips on her Birkenstocks. At least her feet are hidden by the dress. I don't know what she's grumbling about. If she showed up to the Masquerade Ball in that, Remy would have a lot of competition.

When the first people arrive at the Mausoleum, I immediately panic. Bettina continues assembling balloons and determining their optimal placement. Sometimes this means moving them a matter of inches, staring for a few minutes, and then moving them back. But oddly enough, people are riveted by her artsy meditation.

There are several dozen balloons. I have no idea how she found time to make so many. Each one is more intricate and colorful than the last. Bettina said letting them go is part of the process, but I think seriously about stealing one to keep. “Can we get this going?” I ask. “I said we'd start at six.”

She tilts her head and looks at me like I'm insane. “We have to wait until dark. Otherwise it won't make any visual impact.”

I want my head to make impact with the marble wall of the Mausoleum. Of course she's not going to change her plan just to help me not look like a complete idiot. I consider telling people to leave and come back later, but I know once they go, it's all over.

So I stall. I socialize, push snacks like my Nana Rose would, use my phone to look up trivia on some of the obscure dead people around us and quiz everyone.

By the time the sun sets, we have a decent crowd of about twenty-five people, and I'm grateful that Martin talked me into staying to make extra batches of Rice Krispie Treats. The Masquerade Ball has already started, and I fully expect people to leave within the next few minutes. It's completely dark, and I resist the urge to micromanage Bettina, but when she decides to light the candles that power the balloons, I collapse with relief.

“You okay?” Jess asks.

I clutch her arm. “This is so incredibly painful. The wow factor has to happen now. If these people have hung out all this time for nothing, there's going to be a riot.”

“You're being way too dramatic. Ooohh!”

We crane our necks as the first balloon floats up, a bright, glowing orb in the sky. Finally. The birthday candle illuminates the rich colors Bettina used, so that the painting looks like a gorgeous stained-glass window. This was worth the wait.

Now the crowd is on their feet, looking up, mouths open. I'd offer my help, but Bettina looks like she's in a trance, and I don't want to break her concentration. I make sure Samantha's recording.

Interestingly, she's not the only one. People are taking photos and videos on their phones and posting them or texting them to friends. Soon even more people arrive.

Bettina sets up her next round of balloons. There's almost no wind, so the first group hovers within sight. They illuminate the cemetery like a massive, delicate chandelier. Everyone's talking and laughing but keeping their voices low, mindful of Bettina working.

As more people join and claim spots on the ground or the steps of the Mausoleum, I get a nagging feeling that the ball may not be going perfectly. Whit's reaction won't be pretty if the gym isn't filled to capacity, much less if she finds out that people flocked here.

When we've blown through the treats and apple cider and it's standing room only, I busy myself with collecting discarded cups and napkins. Then I spot Leo in the crowd.

I drop the stack of paper plates I'm carrying and make a beeline for him. Seeing him out the night after a game is so unusual that somewhere in my confused head I think he must be here to see me. He looks startled when I tap his shoulder but breaks into a smile that I can't help returning.

“What are you doing here?” I ask.

“You can see these all the way from the quad,” he says, gesturing up to the sky. “Lots of people came this way to check it out. It looks cool from far away, but being up close is phenomenal.”

“Thanks,” I say, with what I hope is a combination of modesty and satisfaction.

Leo looks confused. “Was this your idea?”

“Well, I didn't make any of the actual balloons, but hosting it here on Halloween, that was me.”

“That's the part that's so genius.” Leo's looking at me like I just grew a second head. “I can't think of a more perfect time or place.”

“Glad you like it.” My tone is light, but I'm aggravated. Why's he so surprised that I'm capable of planning and organizing an event like this?

“And look—practically half the school is here.” He gestures at the still growing crowd.

Oh yeah. That small problem. Leo catches my distressed look. “That's good, right?”

I sigh. Confiding in him feels so natural. “It's just Whit and that girl Lila.”

He frowns. “The friend from New York?” He puts the “friend” in air quotes.

“Yeah. They're running the Calendar and expect everyone to produce exciting events, just not as exciting as theirs.”

Leo nods. “But once they hear how into it everyone was, they can't be too mad. They might even be impressed that you thought of something so out-of-the-box.”

I sincerely doubt it, but Leo's encouragement is sweet. I'm trying to keep my feelings in check, but I'm grateful that, in some ways at least, we can pick right back up where we left off.

With nothing else to say, we stand and enjoy the party. People sit on blankets, huddled close for warmth. Except for the temperature, the vibe reminds me of a beach bonfire—relaxed and convivial, even though there are people here from all different sectors of Winthrop life.

Samantha walks by, and I grab her arm. “We need more food,” I say. She holds out a big bag of gummy bears.

“Great, but that's probably not enough for everybody.” I grab a handful, shoving them into my mouth. They feel bigger and slipperier than normal gummy bears.

“That was ill-advised,” Samantha says.

And now I taste why. After chewing and swallowing, these leave an alcoholic after burn. They've been soaked in vodka. Sneaking alcohol was a regular occurrence in Lincoln, but until now I thought Abbot was stuck in the Prohibition era. Since I haven't had so much as a beer in a very long time, my head swims minutes after I've swallowed them.

Suddenly I don't feel quite as nervous. In fact, this could be the perfect time to ask Leo about where we stand. I take a deep breath. “So I know we really haven't had a chance to talk about—”

“Uh, Skylar.”

I lay a hand on his arm, determined to keep going. But then, in my peripheral vision, I see a hand snake its way around Leo. I turn to look at him squarely. He shoots me an apologetic look before my gaze returns to his waist.