A Catastrophe of Nerdish Proportions Read online

  “Are you serious, Mo?” Beanpole finally said. “I mean, are we really not going to do this?”

  “We have to make ’em pay nerrrd style,” Q said in her most intimidating voice.

  Beanpole and Q nodded in solidarity and then decided to high-five each other.

  But missed.

  The momentum of fanning on the high five sent Beanpole tumbling into a flower bed. She quickly popped back up, soil in her hair.

  “Don’t worry, don’t worry, I’m okay.”

  “I’m just going to pretend I, like, didn’t see that,” I told them.

  Beep-beep. Beep-beep.

  “Look,” I continued, “I want to thrash the ThreePees more than anyone, but I just don’t want to end up spending all my time studying every subject under the sun, knowing that no matter what I do I still have no chance to—” Beep-beep. “Jeez Louise,” I said, after yet another car-horn honk. “What moron has the parent who keeps blasting away on their stupid horn?”

  “Um, you do, Mo.”

  “What?”

  “Look,” Beanpole said, pointing toward the carpool loop. “It’s your father.”

  My father?

  I spun around. It was my father. He got out of the car and waved at me.

  He was wearing an untucked white dress shirt rolled up at the sleeves, blue jeans, a large watch, and midlife man sneakers, the kind you can’t actually run in but are made to look sporty (if you are a midlife man, that is). His mostly brown hair had relaxed curls in front, but some gray streaks at his temples showed he wasn’t a spring chicken anymore. However, his face was still kind of boyish. I thought I looked nothing like him.

  “You kinda look like him,” Beanpole said.

  “Stuff a piece of pita bread in it, doof face.”

  He waved again.

  “He’s picking you up?” Q asked.

  “Uh, I guess. Must be part of his whole ‘holes to fill’ thing.” I didn’t move toward the vehicle.

  “How’s your”—Wheeesh-whooosh. Wheeesh-whooosh—“brother taking it?” Q inquired.

  “Marty?” I said. “He’s like a silent volcano. Totally ignores him and looks as if he’s ready to explode at any moment.”

  “And Ashley?” Beanpole asked.

  “He gave her twenty bucks yesterday. She thinks having a dad is cool.”

  My father waved a third time. Why had mom given him her car? I wondered.

  “And what about you, Mo?” Beanpole asked. “How are you doing with it all?”

  “Well, let’s see…My divorced mom is now re-dating my re-divorced dad,” I said as my father blocked the flow of traffic and cars began piling up behind him. I mean, everyone knew that the carpool loop was a no-waiting zone.

  Yet still, there he was, waiting.

  “What’s a re-divorced dad?” Q asked.

  “He got married and divorced after he married and divorced my mom,” I explained. “Thus, re-divorced.”

  “And you never told us any of this?” Beanpole said, looking at me with big ol’ bug eyes. “Oh, you are so ketchup.”

  I stared at my mom’s car. I didn’t want to go over there. And I certainly didn’t want to share a car ride home with my long-lost father so we could fill some stupid holes, whatever that meant.

  “This is just so, I dunno…weird-o-rama,” I said.

  My father, smiling, waved a fourth time.

  I half waved and half smiled back. Feeling encouraged, he motioned to me with his arm, as if to say, Come on. Get in.

  “So, what are you gonna do?” Beanpole asked.

  “Eat something fudgey.”

  “No, seriously, Mo. What are you going to do?”

  “Why would you think I’m not serious about that?” I took a deep breath. “Well…I guess I’m just gonna have to go over there and tell him the truth.”

  “The truth?” Beanpole said in a surprised voice. “You mean, like about how emotionally conflicted you are with him so suddenly trying to re-enter your life?”

  “No, of course not,” I said, as if that were the dumbest thing I’d ever heard. “I’m gonna tell him how busy my schedule is going to be, due to all the time I’ll be spending on the Academic Septathlon.”

  Beanpole stared at me in disbelief.

  “Heck, if we go all the way to the national finals, I might not be free until Christmas vacation of the year 2086.”

  Each of them looked at me in amazement. Q spoke first.

  Well, sort of.

  Wheeesh-whooosh. Wheeesh-whooosh.

  “Oh, don’t start with me, cheese brain,” I said, understanding every word she had meant, by the tone of that last scuba dive. “I haven’t had enough doughnuts today to deal with this.”

  “Mo, I’ve just got one word for you,” Beanpole said, in a calm voice.

  “Oh, yeah, what’s that, Beanpole?” I asked.

  “Restaurant ketchup.”

  “That’s two words,” I said.

  “Clogged up as you are, what’s the difference?” she replied. “Do you want me to go with you?” she asked. “Like, walk over for support?”

  “Naw, thanks,” I said as I headed toward the car. “Just wait here. This should only take a sec.”

  “Okay, here’s the deal,” I said to Beanpole and Q as we got ready to roll on our first study session. We’d decided to study at Beanpole’s house, because Q’s mom would have been helicoptering over her daughter way too much for us to get any real work done, always wanting to make sure she felt good, wasn’t pushing herself too hard, blah-blah-blah. And my house was out, because Superdad might unexpectedly pop in wanting to go on some kind of hole-filling, daddy-daughter, let’s-reconnect, bonding excursion at any moment. And oh, what a joy that would have been. If I wasn’t careful, I might have found myself standing in some grassy park flying a plastic kite.

  Pah-thetic.

  “‘The Academic Septathlon,’” I read to my fellow nerdsters from the introduction in the binder, “‘is a seven-subject competition in Art, Music, Science, Math, Language, Literature, and History.’” I looked up. “And let’s not kid ourselves. This thing’s a monster.”

  Beanpole and Q nodded.

  “How about we see where we are with a few practice questions first?” I asked.

  “Ready!” said Beanpole, bubbling with perkiness.

  “Q, we’ll start with you,” I said. “The category is Science.”

  I randomly turned to page 524 and began reading from the study guide:

  “Which one of the following processes can

  occur only in a living cell?

  bulk filtration

  endocytosis

  osmosis

  diffusion

  molecular protein expulsion”

  Teen Einstein would have struggled with some of these brain-benders.

  I raised my eyes and waited for an answer.

  Silence.

  I waited some more.

  More silence.

  Q rubbed her chin, thinking.

  I waited some more.

  And some more and some more and some more.

  Finally, Q opened her mouth.

  Wheeesh-whooosh. Wheeesh-whooosh.

  “Okay, let’s flip to another subject,” I said, trying to be encouraging. “The category is Art.”

  I randomly chose a question from page 921:

  “The printing process in which ink is forced

  into recessed lines is called:

  lithography

  intaglio

  collograph

  woodblock printing

  screen inkage”

  I raised my eyes and waited for an answer.

  Silence.

  I waited some more.

  More silence.

  I waited some more and some more and some more.

  Wheeesh-whooosh. Wheeesh-whooosh.

  “All right, Beanpole. Let’s try you.”

  “Hit me!” Beanpole rubbed her hands together, studious and intent.

  I fli
pped to page 678. “Let’s go back to Science. That’s always a biggie in competitions like these anyway.

  “Humans and chimpanzees share a common ancestor. If you compared their genomes, you could determine:

  why humans have vestigial structures

  what atavistic stepping stones led to humanity

  which species developed first

  which species is most evolved

  how long ago the populations separated”

  “May I have a definition, please?”

  “Excuse me?” I said.

  “I’d like a definition, please.”

  “You can’t ask for a definition, Beanpole.” I turned to Q. “Can she ask for a definition?”

  Q shrugged. “They do in spelling bees.”

  “But this isn’t a spelling bee, this is the Academic Septathlon. Check the rules.”

  Q turned to the rules section of the 906,268-page binder.

  “There are one hundred fourteen pages of rules, and it’s all written in lawyerese,” she said, leafing through the pages. “Hmm, interesting.”

  What to do? I thought.

  “You can’t have a definition, Beanpole.”

  “I’d like a definition.”

  “But you can’t have a definition,” I said.

  “And how do you know that?” Beanpole asked.

  I hesitated.

  “See, you don’t,” she snapped. “And unless there’s a rule saying that I can’t have a definition,” Beanpole argued, “I think it’s only fair that you give me a definition.”

  I turned to Q. “Did you find it yet?”

  She began reading.

  “‘For international contestants competing on domestic soil, the Academic Septathlon will be given in English, but in the event that the competition is being’”—Wheeesh-whooosh. Wheeesh-whooosh—“‘given in a country other than an English-speaking nation, the contestant will have the option of’”—Wheeesh-whooosh. Wheeesh-whooosh—“‘taking the test in the country’s native language.’”

  “Why would you read me that?” I asked.

  “Operational functions intrigue me,” she answered.

  I took a deep breath, struggling to keep my composure. “Just answer the question, Beanpole.”

  “Can you repeat it, please?”

  I glared.

  “What? You asked it a long time ago,” she said, in her own defense. “I don’t remember what it was.”

  I slowly looked down at my binder. “The category is Science.…

  “Humans and chimpanzees share a common ancestor. If you compared their genomes, you could determine:

  why humans have vestigial structures

  what atavistic stepping stones led to humanity

  which species developed first

  which species is most evolved

  how long ago the populations separated”

  “I’d like a definition.”

  “You can’t have a definition.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I don’t,” I said.

  “So why are you acting like you do?” she asked.

  The two of us turned to Q, looking for her to settle this disagreement once and for all. She read from the rules. “‘Inquiries regarding borderline course subjects should be referred to the State Director, who will make the’”—Wheeesh-whooosh. Wheeesh-whooosh—“‘determination of eligibility based on the academic nature of any questionable course of suitable study.’”

  “Well, thank you for that,” I said. “Your entirely irrelevant point is duly noted. Now, Beanpole…” I turned my attention back to her so that we could get some actual studying done that day. “Let’s just say I am able to provide you with a definition. Being that I do not even see a dictionary in your room, where would I get this definition from?”

  “From our phones, of course,” she answered, holding up her new cellie. “We’ll use our phones to go online. Don’t you just love your phone, Maureen?”

  “I’ll tell you where I’d love to stick my phone,” I muttered. I turned to Q. “Do the rules say that we are allowed to use our cell phones during the competition?”

  She began to read.

  “‘In the case of a non-neutral match site where there is no recognized arbiter for disagreements, a coach’”—Wheeesh-whooosh. Wheeesh-whooosh—“‘reserves the right to challenge any irregularities in the proceedings.’”

  “Well, that certainly seems to answer it, now, doesn’t it?”

  “I think I’m gonna read all the rules,” Q informed us. “You never know when you might need ’em.”

  “You do that,” I said. “Matter of fact, maybe one day you can even rise to the grand height of becoming a Middle School Rule Referee. And wow, wouldn’t that be something to tell the grandkids?”

  Beanpole stared at me, her hands on her hips, waiting for a definition. “Well…”

  “Okay,” I said in an exasperated voice as I reached for my phone. “I mean, we haven’t even covered one stupid question yet, but all right, I’ll start surfing the Web for a definition for you.” I prepared to go online. “What word do you want a definition for?”

  “I forgot. Can you repeat the question, please?”

  “‘In the event of environmental disruption, competition shall resume from the point of play at which’”—Wheeesh-whooosh. Wheeesh-whooosh—“‘the contest was halted, unless circumstances prevent a re-continuation of the match.’”

  I calmly closed the ten-thousand-pound book sitting in my lap.

  “So you’re not going to reread the question?” Beanpole asked.

  “No, I am not going to reread the question,” I said. “And I am not going to listen to subsection B, paragraph 11, bullet points 7, 8, and 9 as to why I should, either. Instead,” I said, raising my cell phone, “I am going to go online to learn all that I can.”

  “About the Academic Septathlon?” Beanpole asked.

  “No,” I replied. “About the disposal of human body parts!” I slammed down the book, waved my arms, and started pulling at my hair. “AAAAAARRRGGHHH!” I screamed. “YEEEEESH! Sometimes the two of you make me so nuts.”

  Q stared, calm and serene.

  “You’re funny. Do that again.”

  Suddenly, there was a knock at the door, a knock that probably saved one of those two from being force-fed a study binder.

  “Who’s ready for a snacky-wacky?”

  It was Department Store Mom. She was wearing a green apron with a matching green hair bow and a crewneck white sweater. Beanpole’s mom whirled into the bedroom as bubbly as a can of Pepsi being poured over ice.

  “Snack? Oh, am I ever ready, Mrs. Tanner!” I said, practically salivating at the sight of the homemade goodies she carried on her silver tray. “After all, it’s a scientifically proven fact that ingesting large amounts of sugary foods is a great way to reduce stress.

  “Mmmmm,” I said. “Gingerbread. And are these chocolate-hazelnut? Wow.”

  She had made two types of snacks today. Probably one batch was for Q, made entirely from ingredients that wouldn’t trigger any sort of allergic reaction, since she couldn’t have nuts. Pistachios, almonds, hazelnuts, peanuts—especially peanuts—were off-limits for her.

  I looked over the creations. Before I ate any of Department Store Mom’s food, I always had to take a moment to appreciate the artistry. She was like some sort of cooking van Gogh, except she still had both her ears.

  Today’s nibblers had been made in the image of a girl fiendishly wringing her hands together, plotting dastardly revenge. Between the homemade white icing, the black-and-red sprinkles, and the use of slivered raisins for eyes, it was clear that Department Store Mom had spent a heck of a lot of time bringing these cookies to life.

  “You really went all out today, Mrs. Tanner,” I said, reluctant to even take a bite because they were so beautiful.

  But I did. Chomp!

  “Mess with my kid and it’s game on, Maureen.”

  “Game on is right, Mrs
. Tanner,” I assured her as I chewed up the head of little Miss Ginger Vengeance. “We’re gonna get ’em good.”

  “Yeah,” Q said. “Get those witches good. Wait till you see what we have in store for them.”

  “But I thought we were going to uphold the truce,” Beanpole said, alarmed by the news.

  “We are,” I answered. “Until we aren’t, of course,” I added with a smile. Q and I had been kicking a few ideas around behind Beanpole’s back. No need to bring Miss Goody Two-shoes into the conversation until our plan was better formed, we decided.

  Q squinted like a gunfighter and then reached for a cookie.

  “Oh, Alice, dear, the cookies on the left are for you,” Department Store Mom said, pointing to the treats she’d made with Alice in mind. “The ones on the right have nuts in them.”

  “Oh,” Alice said softly.

  “We could just make friends with them, you know?” Beanpole offered.

  “I’d rather drink paint,” I answered. “Oh, wait, I already did that.” I munched the head off a second cookie. “Besides, I bet you they’re preparing to get us right now, anyway.”

  Q nodded in agreement.

  “But where does it end?” Beanpole asked.

  “Hopefully, with them groveling and begging for our never-to-come mercy,” I answered. “At least, that seems like a good start.”

  “My tai chi teacher says that we need to be one with the universe, accepting it as it is,” Beanpole informed us, “and be peaceful within it.”

  “Are we seriously going to take the advice of a person who wears pajamas to work?” I asked.

  “It’s called a gi,” Beanpole answered. “They’re not pajamas.”

  “Getting along would be best, of course,” Department Store Mom said as she straightened an already straight picture frame on the wall. “However, if you’re expecting the meanness toward you girls to simply stop on its own, well…that may be a bit naive, honey. Sometimes you have to stand up for yourself in this world.”

  Beanpole’s father popped his head into the room. He was wearing a checkered sweater and tan khaki pants, like he had just stepped out of a commercial to promote the grand opening of a new shopping mall.