Going Geek (22 page)

T
he Thatcher guys quietly take up our cause. They set up a website to post photos from First Snow, and C.J. and Declan come over to show it off to us.

“That's awesome!” I say. “Can anyone go on it?”

“It's password protected,” Declan says from his sprawled-out position on the couch. “But you guys are special. We'll share it with you.” He winks at me without smiling, and I think about how I haven't asked him about his show yet or given him the toy bike I bought him over Thanksgiving.

“And there's a full report on our findings!” C.J. says. “With charts and graphs! That's some next-level shit right there!” He takes an eager scan of our polite but definitely uninterested expressions. “But you guys don't care about that. Look, more pictures!”

Remy leans forward to scroll through some of them. “Can't believe I missed it. Are you going to do another one?”

C.J. snorts. “We were lucky to get this one on the schedule.”

“Maybe if there's an outcry for more sledding—” Opal says.

“Which, dammit, there should be,” I say, reaching out to meet C.J.'s hand for a high five. “You should post video. Wasn't someone wearing one of those forehead cameras? That would be hilarious to see. Also, I'd actually elaborate on the physics-experiment part. Right now all you say is that it's sponsored by the Physics Club, but you don't make it sound at all fun. Talk about the different sleds and how their respective features make each run unique.”

“That's what the charts are for,” C.J. says, wounded.

“Fine. But say it in words, so nongeeks can understand too. And it wouldn't hurt to mention the hot chocolate.” I look up to baffled glances.

“It sounds like you want us to make it more geeky, not less,” C.J. says.

“Well, yeah. But in a techy, extreme-sports-enthusiast kind of way,” I say, nodding at Declan. “Not just formulas and stuff. I'm serious. If you get another slot, you should let me write your copy.”

“You should,” Opal says. “She got Yoga Connection off the ground after three years of fruitless attempts.”

“And she masterminded Ghouls and Graves without making it cheesy,” Bettina adds. “I would never have thought that a high school party could revolve around art.” This is the first time she's voiced any enthusiasm for that event, which miraculously I haven't taken personally.

“Hey, can we add pictures from Club Raks onto your site?” I ask. “It's kind of stale news now, but according to Jess, the
Times
wouldn't touch the story, and I bet some people would want to see what it was all about.”

I stand, and Declan looks up. “Where you going?”

“To get my camera. You want to come with?”

He shrugs and follows me up the stairs. When we get to my room, I go straight for my desk to grab my camera, but the sound of the door clicking shut startles me. I turn around to see Declan leaning against it. “Oh, did you not invite me up here to make out?” he asks.

I bite my lip to keep from laughing. For some reason his very direct style of flirting doesn't embarrass me as much as he seems to think it will. “No? Obviously wishful thinking on my part. Awkward,” he says.

“No. But I do have a present for you.” I scoop up the bike and bring it to him.

“For me?” He steps forward, looking genuinely touched as he takes it from me.

“I saw it and thought of you.” I don't know how, but I'm only now realizing that I've just given him a reminder of a part of his life that he's chosen to walk away from. “Sorry if that's weird. I mean, I know that's not what you do anymore.” Why doesn't life have a rewind button? I go back to my desk for the camera.

“No, don't apologize. That was nice of you.” He holds it like he doesn't quite know what to do with it. I wish I could grab it out of his hand and throw it in the trash for him. Instead, I decide to distract him with an abrupt subject change.

“I still feel terrible about your show,” I say. “How did it go?”

He sighs and returns to rest against the door. “It was okay.”

I groan. “Sorry.”

“I got all dressed up, and we didn't even take pictures because it looked too empty and sad.”

Even though I can tell he's teasing, the guilt is crushing, and I hide my face in my hands. “Stop! I already feel terrible.”

But Declan chuckles. “I'm kidding. Kind of. Most of my teachers were there, so I filled them in on the boycott. At first they thought it was interesting, then I told them my friend was responsible, and they thought it was hilarious.”

“Oh no.”

“Yeah. You're lucky I like you.”

I raise my face to find him staring at me. “Look, I kind of feel like I owe you more of an explanation,” I say.

“I don't need one,” Declan says. “Some things cannot be rushed.”

Suddenly I don't know where to look. “Why are you so sure there's even a thing to be rushed or not rushed?” I ask.

“I'm not,” he finally says, and I'm surprised to feel a pit forming in my stomach. “I just hope that there is.”

Those words feel so daring and brave, especially because they have to travel the several feet between us. “Well. Do you want to know what happened?” I ask.

“If you want.” His tone is intentionally casual.

So I tell him. I tell him about my parents, my mom's business, my job, how I tried to cover it up, and how it all completely backfired and cost me my friends and my boyfriend.

“What was the point of pretending?” Declan asks. “If you can't be honest, those don't sound like such great relationships.”

I sigh. “I'm not even sure what would've happened if I'd told them. Maybe nothing. Maybe I created all this drama by myself.” He's still listening. He knows that's not all there is. “I guess working with my mom and that stupid movie were my special things, and I wanted them to keep being true.”

“You're not special because your mom made some movie.”

“Thanks. But after I got here it took over my identity. And I clung to it because I had nothing else to offer.”

“I can't believe you think that about yourself.” His voice is low and soft, his expression concerned.

I haven't moved any closer to him. “I don't know. Everyone here is exceptional. And if not actually them, at least their families are.”

Declan snorts. “Yeah, well, I hope you know by now that there's a lot of posturing and bullshit when you first get here. But I think it's because they drill it into our heads that we're the best and the brightest and we all secretly feel like we must be the one mistake. The one who doesn't really deserve to be here.”

“You feel like that too?”

“Not anymore. But when I got here, I'd just quit the thing that had been my life. Even though I knew those sports weren't for me anymore, I felt bummed at everything, including myself.”

“But at least you had art.”

He shakes his head. “That was something I discovered here. I wasn't used to having a lot of time on my hands and had to look really hard for ways to fill it.”

“Well, you definitely found one you're good at.” I can't hide my bitterness. Winthrop students land on their feet, almost effortlessly, it seems.

“Unfortunately, my first attempt at finding a new interest wasn't quite as constructive,” he admits. “I almost got kicked out sophomore year for partying, which I'm sure you know, since pretty much everyone does. And then I didn't know who my friends were anymore and had to find something new to throw myself into.” He watches me for a reaction.

“I remember hearing about it but never knew any details,” I say.

“When I lived in Webster, someone brought back all this booze after he went home for the weekend, and we stashed a little bit in everybody's room.”

“Where'd you hide it?”

“The usual places. On top of the ceiling tiles, in trunks, behind furniture. I used some emptied-out bottles of Centrum, because they're white and you can't see through them. Oddly enough, I felt less nervous hiding them in plain sight. Until Mr. Guerra came by to talk to me and I was drinking from one of the bottles. If it'd been Chris, I might've been able to talk my way out of it.” Declan grimaces, remembering.

“I guess house counselors are pretty much required to ask questions if they see you swigging from a vitamin bottle,” I say.

“And I had three others sitting on my dresser. What can I say? I was a sophomore. So anyway, I had my disciplinary-committee hearing, and I got probation for the rest of the year and fall term junior year.”

“Is that why you moved to Thatcher?”

“Yeah. Not that I expected anyone else to step up and take the fall with me, but no one even said anything to me. It was like they all wanted to forget it happened as quickly as possible. Even Remy, who I'm totally cool with now, completely disappeared on me at the time.”

I think about Remy's initial reaction to my breakup with Leo. “It takes him a minute to get on the right page, but he gets there eventually.”

“That's the perfect way to put it,” he says with a rueful grin.

“But you seem like you ended up in a better place.”

“Sometimes things have to end to make room for something better. Maybe you haven't found it yet, but you still have plenty of time.”

I smile and walk toward the door, hesitant to say what I really want to. “I've missed hanging out with you. That's probably selfish of me, but I just want you to know that.”

He takes my hand, and it's somewhere between friendship and something more. “It's cool. I know what you mean, and I can wait until things clear up for you,” he says.

“But the year's half over. What if they don't?” I ask. At the moment that still feels like a very real possibility. I'm afraid to hear his answer.

Declan gives my hand a squeeze. “Then I'll still be glad I got to know the brains behind Ghouls and Graves and Club Raks.”

Downstairs, I sit next to Declan as he uploads all the photos from my camera onto his laptop. And I stay there, glued to his side, as he clicks through them, choosing which ones to post. He glances at me a couple of times, but I don't move away. He lands on one of us dancing only inches apart with one of his hands on my hip. His face is turned away from the camera, but my eyes are closed and my smile is happy and genuine. My hand covers his, possessive, keeping him close.

B
y the end of the week, the newly dubbed Winthrop Underground website has gone viral. Everywhere I go someone requests the password. “Okay, but don't tell anyone,” I say before giving it out. The more we can build intrigue, the less likely it is that the Calendar will be able to continue ignoring us.

I cross paths with Whitney on the quad. We're the only two on the walkway, but she blows by me like I'm not even there. I can't imagine she's responding well to the pressure. Two major events and one entire weekend have bombed on her watch, and everyone knows that we're at least partly to blame.

It's killing me not to know what's going on, so I ask Guthrie to meet me at Perk Up.

“Thanks for coming,” I say when he walks in.

“Hey, Skylar. What's going on?” he asks, sliding into the seat across from me. He takes his hat off but not his coat. Guess this won't be a long conversation.

“That's what I wanted to ask you,” I say. “Is the Calendar getting the message?”

“Not really sure,” he says, shrugging. “Whitney canceled this week's meeting, so we haven't been able to discuss it.”

“Interesting,” I say. “It's probably for the best. Whitney tantrums are never fun, and with Lila fueling the fire, it's got to be unbearable.”

“Listen, I get what you're trying to do. I wish it wasn't wreaking so much havoc, but I get it. But if Marshall won't come around, I don't see what good you're doing by making everyone sweat it out like this.”

“Did you want to order something?” I ask Guthrie when the waiter comes around. “I'll buy, since I asked you to meet.” I silently hope he just orders a coffee.

“No thanks. I'm good.” He smiles apologetically at the waiter, who nods and walks away. “I just wanted to come by to tell you that I think you made your point but I'm not sure continuing to screw around with everyone's weekends is going to work in your favor.”

“A lot of people's weekends already suck,” I point out. “At least we distributed the suckage more evenly.”

He smirks at that. “What do you think is going to happen? Has Marshall said anything?”

“No, he's avoiding me.”

Guthrie rolls his eyes. “That could be about anything. You just need to be aware that the tides could turn.”

“Well, it's not like I thought we could boycott indefinitely,” I say.

“Do you have any more tricks up your sleeve?”

I duck my head to take a sip of my latte. “Unfortunately, if I did, I don't think I'd be telling you about it.”

After Guthrie leaves, I sit a while longer and think about what he said. He'd laughed when I said the part about not telling him. I wonder if he could see that I was bluffing.

“Hey, has anyone actually read this thing?” I'm sprawled on my bed, flipping through a copy of the Calendar bylaws, but my door is open, so I'm assuming other people can hear me.

“Read what?” Samantha calls back.

“The bylaws.”

“Yes. Front to back,” Jess says, sticking her head in my room.

“Then why don't we know about this clause where we can get faculty sponsors for an ad hoc election if the student petition doesn't come together?” I ask.

Opal comes in carrying her toiletries. “Did you read it carefully? First of all, we have to get five faculty sponsors, and I know from trying to get Yoga Connection started that it's not as simple as merely asking. Some ask for a full written explanation of your request, with supporting documents. Then it involves a whole hearing in front of Student Council, with speeches and questioning and everything.”

I sit up. “Yeah? So?” She and Jess exchange wary glances. “Seriously? We've come this far, tortured a bunch of people so we could hopefully make a difference, and we're really going to draw the line here? You guys have to be the laziest activists I've ever met.”

“She's right,” Jess says with a sigh.

So we stay up until the early hours of the morning crafting our position paper and use screenshots from Winthrop Underground as our support.

“We're barely even two weeks into winter term, and already we're pulling an all-nighter,” Opal says, yawning.

“I know, but if we get this done tonight, we have a shot at getting this wrapped before we leave for break,” I say.

“Why all the sudden urgency?” Jess asks. She's lying on my bed with her eyes closed, the gallons of coffee she consumed having apparently no effect on her.

“I'm just…done. Ready to put this all behind me. I can't go on fighting with Whit forever.” Exhaustion from more than just the all-nighter has worn me thin, and tears start welling up in my eyes. I brush them away quickly, but the tremor in my voice outs me.

“I agree,” Opal says. “Resolving this one way or the other is the last thing you need to do to cut your energetic cords with her. And probably other parts of your past.”

She means Leo. “Exactly,” I say with an impatient sniffle.

“I'm just happy that you're not a total idiot,” Jess says kindly. “Declan's awesome. You better not screw it up.”

“Jess, slow down. She's not ready yet,” Opal says.

I have to laugh. “You said the exact same thing to me after Rally Weekend.”

“I know,” Opal says, “and I meant it, but at least I can see that you're trying, and really, how much more can we ask?”

“Thanks. That's generous of you.”

For the rest of the night, we alternate taking forty-minute naps, so that by the time the sun rises, our paper is finished.