Nerd Girls Read online

  “You know, you’re not stupid, you’re…” she blurted out, trying very hard to be uplifting. “You’re big boned.”

  I glared.

  “Please, never say that again.”

  “Okay,” she answered, then she smiled with extra perkiness as if we were really getting somewhere.

  I shook my head. More silence followed. The awkward kind.

  A bird chirped.

  “We should be friends,” Beanpole Barbara suddenly declared.

  “Excuse me?” I answered.

  “You know, friends. The three of use should be friends.”

  I looked over at Allergy Alice. She took another slurp.

  Wheeesh-whooosh. Wheeesh-whooosh.

  The stupid bird chirped again.

  “We can’t be friends,” I answered. “The best we can be is associates. Look around. We’re like the leftover grapes in the bottom of the bowl. Nobody wants us.”

  I scanned the groups of kids in the lunch area, chatting together, eating together, laughing together. All the real friends, the people who had chosen to be with one another because they wanted to, not because there was no one else to spend their time with.

  “Naw,” I repeated. “The best we could ever be is associated grapes.”

  “Sometimes I like to smell my belly button lint.”

  “What?” I said, fairly horrified.

  “Sometimes I like to smell my…”

  “I heard you the first time, Beanpole,” I snapped. “But why would you say such a thing?”

  “Because friends,” she answered, “they share secrets.”

  “I hate secrets,” I said. “And I am terrible at keeping them.”

  There was another awkward pause.

  “And to think,” I added with a groan, “these are supposed to be the good years in my life.”

  “You’re funny,” said Allergy Alice, looking at me with a goofy grin.

  I raised my eyes and stared, waiting for another wheeeshwhooosh, but it didn’t come.

  Then it did.

  Wheeesh-whooosh. Wheeesh-whooosh.

  I knew it. I just knew it.

  “Well, look who it is, the Three Little Doofuses,” said a voice from behind me. I felt a surge of terror crawl up my spine. I had known it would only be a matter of time before the ThreePees showed up to make us low people feel even lower.

  “Beanpole Barbara, Big-Boned Maureen, and Allergy Alice Applebee,” said Kiki Masters as she wiggled over and took a seat. Of course her two pet donkeys were with her, Brittany-Brattany Johnston and Sofes O’Reilly. “So, what’s the four-oneone, nerd-o-las?”

  “Yeah, like, been on YouTube lately, Maureen?” asked Brittany-Brattany with a smirk.

  I stared at the ground.

  “Leave her alone, Kiki,” said Beanpole Barbara with some fight in her voice. “Maybe she likes being on the Internet, huh? Maybe she likes being famous, huh? Maybe she likes that the entire world saw her do her fat little Mrmphh Mrmphh dance with sandwiches? Ever think of that? Huh? Did ya? Did ya?”

  I raised my eyes. Was that supposed to be some kind of defense of me?

  “Oh, right,” said Sofes O’Reilly. “Just like when that kangaroo totally took a bath in the river.”

  Kiki and Brittany slowly turned to Sofes and crinkled their foreheads.

  “Excuse me?”

  Sofes tried to backtrack. “Maybe it was on the History Channel,” she added, as if that made any sense at all.

  Just then, the bell to end lunch rang. And thank goodness, too. Time to go back to class. I gathered up my stuff and rose from the table.

  “Have a good afternoon, loser,” said Kiki, with bite in her voice.

  “You too, Kiki. See you after math.”

  “Not you, Sofes!” snapped Kiki. “I was talking to Big-Boned Maureen and her dork squad.”

  “Oh…” answered Sofes. “Yeah. Have a good afternoon, dork squadders.”

  The ThreePees stood, grabbed their fancy backpacks, and began to wiggle away. But before they were gone, Sofes turned around and fired another dart in our direction.

  “And we mean it!” she shot.

  “Uh, mean what, Sofes?” asked Brittany-Brattany.

  “Um ... you know ... that,” answered Sofes, looking back at the three of us. Hand lotion probably had a higher IQ than Sofes O’Reilly.

  Then they were gone.

  Beanpole Barbara stood and immediately began to mock the ThreePees by trying to wiggle like them when she walked.

  “Have a good afternoon, dork squadders,” she said in a high-pitched voice. However—Bam!—she crashed into a tree.

  “Ouch!”

  Beanpole Barbara, not having seen the stationary tree, which had probably been in the same spot for, oh, about a hundred years or so, then walked back over with a large red welt on her forehead. “Don’t worry, I’m okay. I’m okay.”

  “Who’s worried?” I said. Her bump began to swell.

  “Really. I’m okay,” she said, then Bang! Beanpole bent down to reach for her backpack and smashed her head into the table. “Ouch!” she yelped again. “Don’t worry, I’m okay. I’m okay.” She raised her head. Now there were two red bumps. Her wounds made her look like some kind of baby goat that was starting to grow horns. Suddenly, Allergy Alice spoke. Actually, it was more of a mumble. “What’s that?” I asked, turning around. “I didn’t hear you.” Allergy Alice stared into the distance like some kind of Wild West gunfighter. “Girls like them, you gotta hit ’em where it hurts.” Then, still staring into the distance with a dangerous squint in her eye, Allergy Alice raised her scuba tank.

  Wheeesh-whooosh. Wheeesh-whooosh.

  “Hit ’em where it hurts ’em bad.”

  Who were these freak-a-zoids?

  “We’re in!”

  That’s how Beanpole Barbara approached me the next day. Declaring, “We’re in!”

  Then she ran up to the lunch table and smashed her knee into the bench so hard it sounded like she cracked a bone.

  “Ouch!” she yelped.

  Her collision caused my grape juice to spill. But thinking quickly, Beanpole Barbara made an effort to catch the container before it fell over entirely.

  That’s when she smashed her elbow.

  “Ouch!!” she yelped again.

  That second crash sounded like she’d need a sling.

  “Don’t worry, don’t worry, I’m okay, I’m okay,” she said, holding her arm like a wounded bird.

  “Who’s worried?” I said, as I stared at my spilled drink. But there went my daily dose of nutrients. I mean, that thing contained three percent real fruit juice.

  Oh well. I tried.

  Ignoring her injuries, Beanpole Barbara sat down across from me, away from the purple puddle on the bench.

  “Did I mention we’re in?”

  “Did I mention I was gonna drink that?”

  “Sorry.”

  A moment later, as if this was some kind of prearranged meeting, Allergy Alice walked up and sat down next to Beanpole.

  Right in a lake of grape juice.

  “So, we’re in?” Allergy Alice asked.

  I sat there waiting for her to realize that she had parked herself in a puddle, but she didn’t say a word.

  “Yep, we’re in,” answered Beanpole.

  “In what?” I asked, though I knew I probably shouldn’t have. And why hadn’t Allergy Alice flinched or something from the juice pond she had plopped into?

  “In the talent show!” Beanpole Barbara exclaimed. “Haven’t you seen the flyers around campus? Every year the ThreePees win the thing and get their picture in the yearbook, and every year they rub it in. So I say, let’s beat them at their own game and get OUR picture in the yearbook for a change.”

  “Like I said yesterday,” added Allergy Alice, flashing another Wild West gunfighter squint, “hit ’em where it hurts.”

  Then, sure enough, out came the scuba tank.

  Wheeesh-whooosh. Wheeesh-whooosh.

 
“What’s in that thing?” I asked.

  “Inhibitors,” she answered.

  “Inhibitors?” I said. “What kind of inhibitors?”

  Allergy Alice paused, raised her eyes, and stared at me with a serious look.

  “I think I peed my pants.”

  “You’re sitting in juice,” I informed her.

  “Oh,” she replied. “I thought I felt something.”

  There was another pause.

  “Aren’t you going to get up?” I asked.

  “What’s the point?” she replied. “It’s pretty much all soaked in by now.”

  “It’s grape,” I said. “Gonna stain.”

  She sat there for a moment thinking about it. “I’ve dealt with worse,” she answered.

  I stared.

  “You’re strange,” I said.

  “You’re funny,” she responded.

  “I’m not trying to be funny,” I told her.

  “I’m not trying to be strange,” she replied.

  Then out came the scuba tank.

  Wheeesh-whooosh. Wheeesh-whooosh.

  Had aliens landed and no one sent me an e-mail?

  “So,” said Beanpole, interrupting our highly thoughtful conversation, “are we gonna do this, or what?”

  “I’m in,” said Allergy Alice.

  “I’m in,” said Beanpole Barbara.

  They both looked at me with hope and excitement.

  “Naw,” I told them. “Not me. I’m out.”

  The table got quiet. I could feel their disappointment. We began to eat our lunches. Allergy Alice had some cut fruit, some cut vegetables, and a gluten-free, wheat-free, taste-free, organic granola bar. Beanpole Barbara had an egg salad sandwich with the crust trimmed off. Actually, it had more than that trimmed off. Her lunch had been shaped into some sort of dazzling eight-point starfish.

  I stared at Beanpole’s food. I’d never seen such a fancy sandwich.

  “Is this gonna bother you?” Beanpole said to Allergy Alice, pointing to her lunch before she took a bite.

  “Eggs don’t bother me,” she answered.

  “Good,” said Beanpole Barbara.

  “But chicken feathers make the bottom of my feet itch,” Allergy Alice added.

  “I’ll write that down,” I said, fascinated by this piece of information. Then out came Mr. Lemon.

  It was back-to-back cupcake lunches for me, but that’s only because it would have gone stale if I didn’t eat it by that afternoon. You know how cupcakes are. Some places only sell them four to a pack, and if you don’t eat them all by day three, the frosting dries out.

  I prepared to take my first bite.

  “But why not?” Beanpole asked, wanting an answer from me.

  “’Cause what kind of talent do you have anyway?” I shot back, setting down Mr. Lemon.

  “Um, I dunno,” she answered. “Let me think for a sec.”

  “And what about you, Q?”

  “Q?” repeated Allergy Alice with a shrug, not understanding the term.

  “Q, that’s what I’m calling you,” I replied. “It’s too long to call someone Allergy Alice every time you want to speak to them, so your name is Q, which is short for Question Mark, and your name is Beanpole.”

  “Why Question Mark?” Q asked.

  “Because every time I look at you,” I answered, “my brain is filled with questions.”

  “Oh good, we’re nicknaming. That’s what friends do,” said Beanpole, with perkiness. “Isn’t that right, Moo-Moo?”

  Slowly, I turned.

  “Mo-Mo?” she offered.

  I glared.

  “Just plain Mo?” she suggested.

  “If you must,” I replied. “If you must.”

  I think the blaze in my eye scared her.

  “Gotcha,” she answered.

  “So, like I said”—I turned back to the allergy oddball—“do you have any talent, Q? Any talent at all?”

  “Wait!” exclaimed Beanpole before Q could answer. “I have a talent. I can swab my ears with a Q-tip.”

  “So ... who can’t?” I replied.

  “Yes, but can you do it using your toes?” Suddenly Beanpole started to unlace her shoes.

  “Stop, stop,” I said, checking around to see if anyone was looking at us. “Even if you can clean you ears with your toes, that’s not a talent, that’s circus freak stuff.”

  Beanpole dropped her head, dejected.

  “Let’s face it,” I continued. “Between the weirdo girl being allergic to air, you bonking into every cement object that exists on this planet, and me being the star of a ridiculously embarrassing YouTube video that already has eight thousand hits…”

  “Twelve thousand six hundred and eighty-three.”

  I stared.

  “It’s 12,683 hits as of 7:19 this morning.” Q shrugged. “I told you, accurate statistics are important to me.”

  “Well, thank you for the latest numbers,” I replied with a ton of sarcasm in my voice. “But you forgot to take a slurp off of your deep-sea diving tank to add the extraterrestrial sound effects for me.”

  She stared like a lost kitten.

  “You’re funny.”

  “Stop saying that!” I said. “We’re losers. Don’t you get it? We’re all losers.”

  Q and Beanpole looked at me with wide eyes.

  “We are the duds in life,” I continued. “The doofs. And any time we try to play with the big dogs we’re going to be embarrassed, okay? So if you’d kindly just let me eat my cupcake lunch in peace, I would greatly, greatly appreciate it!”

  Ouch, I thought as soon as the words left my mouth. That was harsh. But then again, they needed to hear it. And better for them to hear it from me now before they learned it the hard way by being humiliated onstage in front of a whole universe of people in some talent show that was rigged for the ThreePees to win anyway. I mean, didn’t they know that not only had Kiki won it every year in middle school, but her older sister JoJo had won it every year in middle school, and that their oldest sister, CeCe, had won it every year in middle school before them? The Masters sisters had owned the Grover Park Middle School Talent Show for something like eight years in a row.

  Even their mother had won it back in like the 1900s or something, when she went to Grover Park Middle School. There was just no way possible for us to win. I wasn’t being mean; I was simply saving Beanpole and Q from the hurt, shame, and embarrassment, even if they were too stupid to realize it.

  “Um ... Mo...” said Beanpole.

  “I don’t want to hear it,” I answered.

  “But, Mo…” she said, trying to get my attention.

  “No, Beanpole!” I replied, and though Beanpole and Q might not have understood things at the time, one thing was for sure…Mr. Lemon did. I raised him up to my nose, took a deep inhalation of yellow-flavored love, and prepared to take my first bite of lunch.

  “Hey, fat girl, try a carrot!”

  SMASH!

  Just then, someone pushed my hand up into my face, forcing me to ram the lemon cupcake up my nose.

  From chin to eyebrows, I was covered in gooey cream.

  “Ha-ha!” said Kiki.

  “Smile, big bones!”

  Snap!

  Brittany-Brattany took a photo.

  “Har-har,” screamed Sofes. “That’s the way the cupcake crumbles!”

  Kiki and Brattany paused, amazed by Sofes sudden cleverness. They each gave her a big high five.

  “Good one, Sofes!”

  “Yeah, well,” she replied, “you can’t always judge a cover by its book.”

  The three of them giggled away, another fun victory in the life of being a ThreePee.

  It took a moment for me to realize what had actually happened. Slowly, I scraped the lemon frosting from my eyes. Then, through a creamy haze, I saw a horrible sight.

  Logan Meyers. Laughing at me.

  Laughing his butt off.

  Wow, I must have been good for chuckle after chuckle, huh
?

  A moment later, I turned around and saw Q and Beanpole. They were staring at me. Just staring. Scared and hurt and nervous and afraid and frightful.

  That’s when I stood up. But I didn’t just stand up; I straightened my spine, puffed out my chest, and calmly began to pack up my things.

  “Practice will begin after school at my house at four fifteen,” I said in a firm, even voice. “And, ladies, don’t be late.”

  With that, I walked away…to go clean the frosting out of my schnozz.

  “You registered us as what?” I said.

  “The Dorkasaurus Mafia.”

  “I thought you said the Doofasaurus Mafia,” replied Q.

  “No,” answered Beanpole with a shake of her head. “The Dorkasaurus Mafia is much more intimidating than the Doofasaurus Mafia. It’s the hard K sound in Dork that gives the name some fire.”

  “Hey,” I said. “I have an idea. Maybe we should call ourselves The Dipstick Mafia? That’ll really scare ’em.”

  Q and Beanpole looked at one another, seriously considering my suggestion.

  “Nah.”

  “No.”

  “Nuh-unh,” they replied. “People might make fun of us.”

  I rolled my eyes as I approached my front door. Really, I couldn’t believe I was going through with this. Who would have ever thought I’d be a part of a Dorkasaurus—or Doofasaurus —or Dipstick—or whatever-it’s-called Mafia, trying to win the world’s stupidest talent show? But this wasn’t about friendship; this was about business.

  The business of revenge.

  “Okay, look, there’re a few rules,” I stated before we entered my house. “So listen up.”

  Q and Beanpole raised their eyes and gave me their full attention.

  Well, aside from a short break for scuba.

  Wheeesh-whooosh. Wheeesh-whooosh.

  “Inhibitors?” I said, waiting patiently.

  “Exactly,” Q answered.

  “Can I begin now?” I asked when it appeared she had finished her latest deep-sea dive.

  “The stage is yours,” she answered.

  “Thank you,” I said with a sigh. Oh, this was gonna test me.

  “Okay,” I said. “Couple of things you need to know before we go in. It’s like the zoo in there. Don’t feed the animals.”

  “You have animals?” asked Q with a fearful look. “Pet dander makes my nostrils close.”