Geek Girl (5 page)

his is what happens when I’m forced to go out in public.

“I didn’t do it!” I gasp as the man pulls me through the crowds. He’s holding my hand and – I have to be honest with you – I’m not sure he’s allowed. I think it might be against the law or something. “I mean,” I clarify, “I
did
do it. But I didn’t mean to. I’m just…” How can I put it? “Socially disadvantaged.”

And – just so you know – that’s what I’m going to plead in court as well.

“Cherub-cheeks, that sounds so
fun
,” the man says over his shoulder in a high voice that doesn’t seem to fit him properly. “Society is
tedious
, don’t you think?
Sooo
much better to be pushed out of it.”

What
did he just call me?

“I haven’t been pushed out of it,” I tell him indignantly. “I just don’t seem to be able to get in it in the first place. Anyway,” I add as firmly as I can, “you should know I’m only fifteen.”
Too young to go to jail
, I want to add, but I don’t want to give him any ideas.

“Fifteen?
Perfectomondo
, my little Sugar-kitten. So much potential for free publicity.”

The blood drains from my cheeks.
Free publicity?
Oh, God, he’s going to use me as a warning to other underage wannabe hat vandals.

“Before you take me anywhere,” I say quickly, “I need to find my best friend. She’s not going to know where I’ve gone.”

He stops walking and swivels round with his spare hand on his hip.

“Mini-treetop, once I have a photo of you, you can go wherever the tiddlywinks you like.” And then he tinkles with laughter.

I freeze. “A photo?”

“Well,
yes
, my little Peach-melba. I could draw a picture, but Head Office thought that was
ever
so unfunny last time.” He giggles and pushes me away with a limp wrist. “Oh,” he adds casually. “I’m Wilbur, by the way. That’s
bur
not
iam.
From Infinity Models.”

My knees abruptly buckle, but Wilbur-not-iam keeps tugging as if I’m on wheels. Suddenly I know how Toby feels when he tries to do the high jump.

Infinity Models?

No.

No, no, no,
no
.

No no no no no no NONONONONO.

“Oh, it has just been a
mare
this morning,” Wilbur continues as if he’s not dragging me bodily across the floor.

“But
w-w-why
?” I finally managed to stutter.

“Oh, you know, total chaos. The Birmingham Clothes Show: highlight of the fashion year etcetera etcetera. Well, apart from London Fashion Week, obviously. And Milan. And New York. And Paris. Actually, it’s quite far down the list, but hey, it’s still a
blast
.”

I can’t really feel my mouth. “N-n-not why is it busy. Why would you want
my
photo?”

“Oh, Baby-baby Panda,” he says over his shoulder. “You’re, like, so
tomorrow
you’re next Wednesday. No, you’re the Thursday after. Do you know what I mean?”

I stare at him with my mouth slightly open. I think it’s safe to say that the answer to that question is no. “But—”

“And I am
loving
this look,” he interrupts, pointing at the football kit. “So new. So fresh. So unusual.
Inspired.
”

“My jeans had sick on them,” I blurt out in disbelief.

“
My Jeans Had Sick On Them.
I love it.
Such an imagination!
Darling
-foot—” and here Wilbur pauses so that he can pull me through a particularly dense crowd of really angry-looking girls – “I think you might be about to make my career, my little Pot of Tigers.”

One of the girls behind me mutters in confusion: “Hey, she’s
ginger
.”

(She’s wrong, by the way: I’m not. I am
strawberry blonde
.)

“I don’t underst—”

“All will become clear shortly,” Wilbur reassures me. “Maybe. Maybe not, actually, but hey, clarity is
so
overrated.” He pushes me against the wall. “Now stand there and look gorgeous.”

What? I don’t even know how to
start
attempting that.

“But—” I say again.

Wilbur takes a Polaroid picture, shakes it and puts it on the table. “Now turn to the side?”

I stare at him, still frozen in shock. None of this is making sense. He tuts and gently pushes my shoulders round so I’m facing the other wall, and then takes another photo.

“
Wilbur—
” I turn to frantically search the crowd for Nat’s dark head, but I can’t see anything.

“Baby-pudding,” Wilbur interrupts, “you know you look
just
like a treefrog? Darling, you could climb up a tree with no help at all and I wouldn’t be shocked in the slightest.”

I pause and stare at him with my mouth open. Did he just say I look like something with suckers on its feet? Then my mind clears.
Focus
, Harriet. For God’s sake,
focus.

“I have to go,” I explain urgently as Wilbur twists me round and takes a final photo. “I have to get out of here. I have to—”

But I can see Nat heading straight towards us. And I know two things for certain:

iding under the table probably isn’t the best impromptu decision I’ve ever made, but it’s the only one I can think of. Which is a problem.

First of all, because Wilbur knows I’m here. He just saw me drop to my knees and crawl away. Second, because the table cloth doesn’t quite reach the floor. And third, because there’s already somebody else under here.

“Hi,” the person under the table says, and then he offers me a piece of chewing gum.

There are times in my life when the synapses in my brain move quite fast. For example, during English exams I’ve normally completed the essay with plenty of time to doodle little relevant pictures in the margin in the hope that it gets me extra points. However, there are other times when those synapses don’t do anything at all. They just sit there in confused silence, shrugging at me.

This is one of them.

I stare at the chewing gum in shock and then blink at the boy who’s holding it. He’s so good-looking, it feels like my brain has collapsed and my skull is about to fold in on itself. Which is actually not as unpleasant a sensation as you might think.

“Well?” the boy says, leaning back against the wall and looking at me with his eyelids lowered. “Do you want the gum or not?”

He’s about my age and he looks like a dark lion. He has large black curls that point in every direction and slanted eyes and a wide mouth that curves up at the edges. He’s so beautiful that all I can hear in my head is a high-pitched white noise like a recently switched-off television.

It takes an interaction of seventy-two different muscles to produce human speech, and right now not a single one of them is working. I open and shut my mouth a few times, like a goldfish.

“I can see,” he continues in a lazy accent that doesn’t seem to be English, “that it’s an extremely important decision and you need to think about it carefully. So I’ll give you a few more seconds to weigh up the pros and cons.”

He has really sharp canine teeth, and when he says
F
s, they catch on his bottom lip. There’s a mole under his left eye and he smells sort of green, like… grass. Or vegetables. Or maybe lime sweets.

One of his curls is sticking up at the back, like a little duck tail. And I’ve just realised that I’m still staring at him, and he’s still looking at me, and he’s still waiting for me to answer him. I quickly trawl my mind for an appropriate response.

“Chewing gum is banned in Singapore,” I whisper. “Completely banned.” And then I blink twice. It’s probably not the best introductory statement I’ve ever opened with.

His eyes shoot wide open. “Are we in Singapore? How long have I been asleep? How fast does this table move?”

Nice one, Harriet.

“No,” I whisper back, my cheeks already hot,“we’re still in Birmingham. I’m just making the point that if we
were
in Singapore, we could be arrested for even having chewing gum in our possession.”

Stop talking, Harriet.

“Is that so?”

“Yes,” I gulp. “Luckily we’re not in Singapore, so you’re safe.”

“Well, thank God for UK legislation,” he says, leaning his head against the wall again. His mouth twitches. And then there’s a long silence while he closes his eyes and I go red all over and try to work out whether it’s possible to make a worse first impression.

It’s not.

“I’m Harriet Manners,”I admit finally and then I put my hand out to shake his, realise it’s sweaty with nerves, swoop it back in and pretend I’m scratching my knee instead.

“Hello, Harriet Manners,” Lion Boy says and all I can think is:
I know there’s something outside the table that I’m supposed to be running away from, but I can’t quite remember what it is.

“Erm…”
Think
,
Harriet
.
Think of something normal to say
. “Have you been here long?”

“About half an hour.”

“Why?”

“I’m hiding from Wilbur. He’s using me as bait. He keeps chucking me into the crowd to see how many pretty girls I can come back with.”

“Like a maggot?”

He laughs. “Yes. Pretty much exactly like a maggot.”

“And have you… caught anything?”

“I’m not sure yet,” he says, opening one eye and looking straight at me. “It’s too early to say.”

“Oh.” I glance briefly at my watch. “It’s not that early,” I inform him. “Actually, it’s nearly lunchtime.”

The boy looks at my watch – which has a knife, fork and spoon instead of hands – raises an eyebrow and stares at me hard for a few seconds. His nose wiggles a little bit. And then – clearly fascinated by the mesmerising first impression I’ve made – he closes his eyes again.

With Lion Boy apparently unconscious, I suddenly feel a great need to ask him all sorts of questions. I want to know
everything
. For instance, what is his accent and where is he from? If I get a world map out of my bag, can he point to it for me? Does it have strange animals and really big insects? Is he an only child too? Were the holes in his jeans there when he bought them, like Dad’s, and if not, how did he get them?

But nothing is coming out. Which is lucky, because people don’t tend to like it very much when I interrogate them relentlessly while they’re trying to sleep.

“Do you often hide under furniture?” I manage eventually. He grins at me and his smile is so wide that it breaks his face into little pieces and my stomach immediately feels like a washing machine on spin-dry mode.

“I don’t make a habit of it. You?”

“All of the time,” I admit reluctantly. “
All
of the time.”

Whenever I panic, actually. Which means, because I panic a lot, that I’ve been under many types of things. Dining tables, desks, side tables, kitchen counters… Any kind of furniture that allows me to disappear. Which is, actually, how I met Nat.

And I’ve just remembered what I’m doing here.