Nerd Girls Read online

  “Okay, I don’t want to hear about every moron in this school,” I said. “Just tell me, who’s bringing the real heat?”

  “Well,” said Q, “Four-Eyes Franny supposedly does this mean cup-stacking act. And then, of course, some kids will play the piano, some will sing duets, and Disgusting Danny Dortenfuller, a kid who is really talented, might play the cello, but he broke his finger while picking his nose last week, so he might not compete this year, either.”

  “How’d he break his finger picking his nose?” I asked.

  “Well,” said Q, “his father told him to quit eating his boogers, and when he didn’t, Disgusting Danny’s father smashed his fingers in a door.”

  “Tough break,” I said.

  “I guess they don’t call him Disgusting Danny for nothin’,” said Beanpole.

  “And then, of course, there’s the ThreePees,” said Q, looking over at the girls. “Gymnastics, dance, hip-hop, cheerleading, ballet, and fusion. And you know that ex-NFL coach?” said Q.

  “Yeah,” I answered.

  “Well, their mom hired a lighting technician, too.”

  “Their own lighting person?” said Beanpole.

  “They’re gonna have spotlights and special effects and stuff like that,” answered Q. “Rumor has it they even got a permit from the fire marshall to create an explosion of some sort for their grand finale.”

  “Indoor fireworks?”

  “It’s part of their theme,” said Q.

  “They have a theme?”

  “It’s gonna Rain Gold. On the audience, that is. With glitter and balloons and stuff.”

  “Is it just me, or does it seem like they are taking this to a really sick level?” I asked.

  “Kiki Masters is living for that yearbook picture right now. She even has a personal trainer. It’s the only thing that matters to their family, keepin’ their Grover Park streak alive.”

  “How do you know all this stuff?” I asked.

  “I got a special hookup in the nurse’s office,” said Q. “When I go for my daily shot, she fills me in.”

  “Your daily shot?” I asked.

  Q pretended she didn’t hear me, but I knew she did.

  “Why do you take a daily shot?” I said, this time loud and clear.

  “They’re experimental,” she answered in a low voice.

  “Experimental for what?” I asked.

  Allergy Alice raised her head, made eye contact with me, and paused, like she was about to tell me something big. Really big. Like the biggest news a person could ever tell somebody.

  “Berries make me sneeze.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Your berries,” she repeated. “They’re gonna make me sneeze.”

  “You want me to throw them out?” I asked.

  She thought about it. “Naw. But if you could eat ’em kinda quicker, that might help prevent a few achoos.”

  “Sure,” I said. “Weirdo.” I added that last part under my breath. Though I sorta mumbled it, I sorta said it loud enough for her to hear, too.

  I munched a bite of food. Q nibbled on a beet. This was one strange girl, I thought. One strange girl. A total and complete question mark.

  I looked across the courtyard at the ThreePees. Sofes O’Reilly did a cartwheel that turned into a one-armed handstand. No, she may not have had a brain, but she definitely had a body.

  “Aw, I could do that,” said Beanpole, standing up to prove it wasn’t so hard. Then she tripped over her backpack and smashed into a pole.

  “Ouch!” she said. “Don’t worry, I’m okay. I’m okay.”

  When she came back over, my eyes almost bugged out.

  “Oh my goodness,” I said. “Beanpole, your pinkie finger is like totally bending in the wrong direction.”

  “What?” she said, wiping some dirt off her knee. “Oh, that?” she replied casually. “I’m double-jointed.”

  And with that she twisted her finger back into place as if it were on some sort of swivel.

  “I have a rib that pops out, too. Wanna see?” she eagerly asked, beginning to lift her shirt.

  “No,” I said, grabbing her. “I don’t.”

  “All right,” she said, disappointed that I didn’t want to see another one of her human freak-ball abilities.

  “I can also pick up a cordless telephone with my knees,” she offered.

  I ignored the comment. With the ThreePees already looking like yearbook champions, and us a completely lost mess of a group, I realized that I needed to take charge of this situation before it ended up a total disaster.

  Or at least a total disaster more than it already was a total disaster.

  “Okay, here’s the deal,” I said with firmness in my voice. “We’ll meet again at my house today after school.”

  I paused and slowly turned my head toward Allergy Alice.

  “That would be my house, right, Q?”

  She didn’t answer. All I got was a Wheeesh-whooosh. Wheeesh-whooosh.

  “Four fifteen,” I added. “Be there and be prepared for greatness!”

  With that, I picked up my stuff and walked away.

  Of course, I didn’t have any greatness planned. I didn’t even have any terribleness planned. There wasn’t a thing in the world I could think of that would even give us a shot at taking down the ThreePees. Not a dang thing.

  When Q and Beanpole arrived, we went straight to my room.

  “So whaddya we got?” I asked, my mouth full of Oreos. This time I was the one who brought the plate of cookies into the room, but Q and Beanpole were still skeptical. I had to eat three of them before either would dare to take a taste.

  “So,” began Beanpole, twisting open a cookie and licking out the frosting. I could tell by the way she barely tapped the edge of the cookie cream with her tongue that she was still worried about ending up with her taste buds covered in fluoride protection. “After you left, Alice and I came up with some stuff.”

  “Talk to me,” I said.

  “We could invent fire.”

  “You’re about four thousand years too late.”

  “We could levitate.”

  “Do I even need to respond to that?”

  “Okay,” she said, checking off items on the sheet of paper in her hand. “Then I guess I don’t need to mention the challengethe-audience-to-a-blindfolded-arm-wrestling-contest-over-a pitof-alligators idea either.”

  I shook my head. “No, I don’t think you do.”

  “That means we’re down to either not being able to solve a giant-sized Rubik’s Cube puzzle or doing some sort of white belt tae kwan do.”

  “White belt tae kwan do?” I asked. “What’s that?”

  “Well, instead of breaking a board or a concrete block with the power of our fists, we would smash through some paper towels.”

  “Paper towels?”

  “Yeah, pre-wetted ones. Unless you think pre-wetted napkins would make the karate moves look more impressive,” answered Beanpole. “I’m not sure people in the audience would be able to see the difference, though, especially in the back, so we might be able to get away with one here.”

  “Oh yes,” I said in a tone dripping with sarcasm. “Napkins for sure. I mean what kind of jujitsu masters would we be if we didn’t rise to the challenge of smashing through a pre-wetted paper napkin.”

  I could tell Beanpole understood that I thought these were some of the stupidest ideas I’d ever heard.

  “There’s always my earwax thing,” she offered. “It’s why I never fail to carry Q-tips with me, just in case anyone ever wants to see it.”

  Just then, Beanpole pulled out a Q-tip out of her sock. I glared. Being a minor, and clearly being provoked, I doubted the courts would give me much more than second-degree manslaughter for the elimination of this person from our species. Heck, I’d probably be out of the big house in time for high school graduation.

  “I’m telling ya, it’s impressive,” she continued.

  Suddenly, there was a knock at
my door. Thank goodness, too. It just may have saved Beanpole’s life. I answered politely.

  “Go away!”

  They knocked again.

  “I said, Go away!” I repeated as I stood to deliver the message face-to-face. If it was Ashley, I was gonna pound her face into pecan pie.

  I threw open the door. It was Marty. Beanpole and Q jumped backward and immediately flinched. Q’s hands rose. She instinctively covered her ears.

  “Relax. I’m here to help,” he said.

  “Shove off, butthead,” I said, trying to shut the door in my brother’s face, but he stuck his foot in the door crack so I couldn’t close it.

  “I said, I’m hear to help,” he repeated. “Can’t you just trust me for one minute?”

  I looked at Beanpole and Q.

  “Nope.”

  “Nuh-uh.”

  “No way.”

  It was the one of the only times the three of us had ever been in agreement about anything.

  “Just trust me,” said Marty, forcing his way into my room. “I’ve got a plan to help you win the talent show.”

  We paused and stared at one another. With words like those, how could we not at least listen?

  Marty led us into the garage. To the black bags. Q was shaking the whole way.

  “Relax,” said Marty in the maturest-sounding, sixteen-yearold voice he could speak in. “I have allergies too.”

  “Ya do?” I said. I never knew that.

  “To dogs,” continued Marty. He started to open one of the black bags—one that was buried deep in the back of all the garage junk. “And my dad, well, he was going to make me one. Build me a dog.”

  “Build you a dog?” asked Beanpole, not quite following.

  “Yeah, he was kinda this mad professor type,” said Marty.

  “Always building weird stuff. Odd things, ya know, created just to sort of have a good time. Not much value to anyone, but fun. Guess I kinda take after him.”

  Marty opened the bag, realized it was not the one he was looking for, then grabbed another one.

  “Yep, this is it,” he said as he opened it. We looked inside.

  All it really seemed like was a bunch of mechanical crazy parts and stuff. I didn’t see where this was going.

  “This is stupid,” I said. “Let’s get out of here before we end up having our teeth turned pink or something.”

  “Just wait a sec, will ya?” Marty said, pulling out a few random pieces. “At first I was just gonna kinda make it for you, but then I realized you don’t need my help making it. You can build it yourself. All the things are here. You just need me to fix the central programming system, the brain, but you can put it all together yourself.”

  “You want us to make a dog? For the talent show?” I said. “That is so stupid. You really are a butthead.”

  “Not just make a dog,” he answered. “But bring it onstage with you. This dog can bark, walk on its head, do tricks.…It’ll be like a twenty-first-century demonstration of talent.”

  “Aptitude,” said Beanpole, clarifying.

  “Whatever,” said Marty. “Aptitude.”

  I looked over, thinking, Can we just get out of here already? But Beanpole and Q seemed intrigued.

  “Instead of you just being lame dancers, this dog can be the dancer. You can work out a whole routine around it.”

  “You mean like our talent will be to give the dog talent?” said Q.

  “Exactly,” answered Marty.

  “But then it’s not really our abilities, it’s yours,” I said. “We’ll get disqualified.”

  “I doubt it,” he answered. “I mean, the Masters sisters and their mom are fully choreographing, planning, designing the outfits and the fireworks spectacular for their sister, right? I think you can accept a little help from your brother, don’t you?”

  I looked at him with a sideways glare.

  Skeptical. Highly skeptical.

  “Look, you come up with the ideas, you work out the routine, you plan it all out, and I’ll make this pooch spin on its tail if you want.”

  Q and Beanpole looked at one another. They seemed to be seriously considering it.

  “My mom could knit us sweaters,” said Beanpole.

  “I bet she could,” I answered.

  “And we could be, like, color coordinated with matching hair bands,” Beanpole added.

  “Oh, really? Could we?” I said, clapping my hands together in a peppy way. “Oh, joy.”

  “Well, I’m kinda good with a screwdriver and a wrench,” said Q, showing a bit of interest. “I mean, if that’s all it takes to put this thing together.”

  “Aside from the computer brain, it’s just a matter of turning some screws and tightening some bolts,” said my brother.

  “Can it really dance?” asked Beanpole.

  “It’ll do a Tuscan tango if you want,” he answered.

  Beanpole started to get perky. “Well, even I know how to operate a screwdriver,” she said, grabbing a Phillips-head screwdriver that was sitting on a nearby shelf.

  Of course, when she grabbed the screwdriver she knocked over a hammer...which fell on her foot.

  “Ouch!” she yelped. “Don’t worry, don’t worry. I’m okay.”

  “Who’s worried?” I asked.

  Q picked up two pieces from the bag of parts and started exploring how they might fit together.

  “Wait a sec,” I said. “How do I know this isn’t some practical joke that’s gonna blow up onstage and make me look like an idiot in front of everybody?” I asked Marty.

  “It won’t,” he answered.

  “But how do I know?” I said. “Like why are you doing this?”

  Marty paused. For the first time ever, I saw a piece of a real human being inside of him.

  “Because I hate dad for leaving us just as much as you do, Maureen,” he answered. “And when I think about how many times I needed a father to help me out, to show me how something worked, or how much he hurt Mom, well…” He stopped. “I hate his guts.”

  Ouch. We all fell silent. Marty had gotten really deep all of a sudden.

  “Besides,” he said, stopping himself before he allowed any tears to fall from his eyes. “You see this trophy?” He pulled something out of an old, dusty cabinet. “Second Place,” he said. “Back when I was at Grover Park, I was robbed. It should have been first, and all I ever thought about the rest of that year was how someone needed to put CeCe ‘The Cheater’ Masters in her place. Bunch of witches in that family.”

  We all laughed.

  “I mean, when it comes to payback, better late than never, right?” said Marty, looking at the bag of robotic dog parts.

  We stared at one another.

  “So, whaddya think?” Marty asked.

  “It’s better than nothing,” Beanpole said.

  “And nothing’s all we got,” added Q.

  There was another pause while we thought about it.

  “And maybe I could, like, get the wax out of its ears or something?” added Beanpole.

  “With your toe?” I said.

  “With my toe,” she answered.

  I shook my head. Q reached back into the bag and fumbled around.

  “Wheels for feet?” she asked Marty.

  “And a tail with a stopper so it can stand and spin.”

  Q rummaged through more parts.

  “I could do this,” she said. “I could put this together.”

  “And let me tell you,” Marty added, “by the time I am done with the programming, this dog will be able to bark, wiggle, heck…I can make it lick its crotch if you want. I figured out how to program all sorts of moves from this Web site I found.”

  Beanpole looked at me with a serious expression. “Mo, you realize, if this robot dog actually does half the things your brother says, and we, like, plan this big, funny, awesome routine, we might win. We might win the whole darn thing.”

  I look at the black bag, then raised my gaze.

  “Not might win,
Beanpole,” I answered with a steel look in my eyes. “We’re gonna win.”

  Marty smiled.

  Beanpole smiled.

  Q, well, she just took a suck off the scuba tank. Wheeeshwhoosh. Wheeesh-whoosh. Then she got that Wild West gunfighter look in her eyes.

  “Better watch your backsides, ThreePees.…” said Q. Wheeesh-whooosh. Wheeesh-whoosh. “’Cause here come the Nerd Girls.”

  Turns out that Q was pretty good with tools. Unfortunately, Beanpole was not.

  “Ouch!” she yelped. “Don’t worry, don’t worry. I’m okay, I’m okay.” I heard that phrase so many times while we were in the garage building the dog, I stopped even bothering to find out how Beanpole had hurt herself.

  “Who’s worried?” I said.

  Q took a slurp off the scuba tank—Wheeesh-whoosh. Wheeesh-whooosh—then used a ratchet to tighten an interior screw near the dog’s upper thigh.

  “Pass me that power drill, would you?” said Q, pointing at the tool shelf.

  “You know how to use a power drill?” I said.

  “Yeah, my dad taught me,” she answered. I passed her the power tool, and she thoughtfully looked through the drill bits, searching for the right size. “I think I wanna bolt his tail from the underside in order to make sure it can hold up his entire weight when we get to the spin part. Just to reinforce it, ya know?”

  “Uh, yeah,” I answered. “Whatever you say.”

  Every time I thought I was getting a grip on this girl, Q pulled out something new on me, something completely out of nowhere. Like I said, a total question mark.

  “Maybe we should shape the ears into cute little stars,” said Beanpole, holding a saw. “Like sparkly, diamondy ones,” she added.

  A saw?!

  I leaped for the instrument before Beanpole cut off her arm.

  “I think we better leave the big-girl tools to the big girls,” I said, taking away the blade. “Here, take a pen and start jotting down a list of possible doggie names. Pens are safe.”

  “But I want to saw.”

  “Beanpole, even though amputating your head might not be a bad thing for the rest of humanity, I don’t want to have to clean up all the blood.” I picked up a yellow legal pad. “Besides, we have to call this robotic thingy something. Make a list and then we’ll let you paint the dog’s name on the side of its body once we choose something. Cool?”