Geekhood (7 page)

“But I didn’t actually invite her, she just sort of invited herself. And then I couldn’t exactly uninvite her, could I?”  

“All you had to do was tell her you needed to clear it with us.”  

“And what would you have said, Matt? ‘No’?”  

“It doesn’t really matter, Archie. You’ve taken that option away, haven’t you?”

You can always tell when an argument’s starting to change up a gear – people start using each other’s names with pointed clarity and statements always seem to end in questions. These are the territorial displays of Geeks. Gorillas do it by beating their chests; stags lock horns; Geeks over-emphasize each other’s names and bring out the Great Swords of Rhetoric. The thing is, I’m in the wrong. I
know
I am, but I’ve gone too far to back down. And part of me can’t understand what the problem is.  

IM:
Part of you doesn’t
want
to understand what the problem is…  

There’s a simmering silence, which is broken by Beggsy’s NATO Peacekeeping sensibilities. “Dude, you just needed to check it with us. It’s not like we would’ve said she’s not allowed.”  

My argument fails in the face of my mate’s
Vulcan-like
logic. Like the straw house built by the First Little Pig, it simply blows away. However, this Little Pig’s not done yet; he has the whiff of the wolf about him and can huff and puff with the best of them.  

IM:
Don’t do it!  

Too late.  

“It’s not like you could anyway, Beggsy. It’s my house.”  

Any free-standing structures built from straw, sticks or bricks should be instantly decimated. But I have this
horrible feeling, even as the words leap sneeringly from my mouth, that I’ve just done a big one on my own doorstep. Matt fixes me with eyes that have suddenly become unreadable.

“OK,” he says, nodding slowly. “Good. It’s your house. At least we know where we all stand.” And then, with a barely perceptible clench of his jaws, he turns briskly on his heel and walks away, something like determination in his stride. Ravi pauses for a second and then follows him.

“Aw, Du-ude!” This one conveys *Is disappointed*.

“Well… He was being stupid.”

IM:
Do not pass “Go”. Do not collect two hundred pounds.

Beggsy remains obviously unconvinced, gently shaking his head.

“Dude. You’ve gotta sort this out.” By this point, we’re both staring at the same spot on the floor.

“I know…”

“Get him on the way home. Just say you’re sorry and it’ll be cool.”

“I know…But what about Sarah? I can’t just…you know…”

“Dude.” Conveys *Isn’t having any of it*.

Can’t argue with that. I sigh and follow the rest of the Year Nines down the corridor.

SIX

It goes without saying that Matt wasn’t at the school gates at hometime; he’d chosen a different route back to his house. Luckily, this allowed me to play my Righteous Indignation card with the rest of the gang. I started out with a disarming display of humility, followed by concern that Matt was all right. This worked like a charm and my remaining friends, concerned that I was concerned, tried to alleviate my concerns by telling me that it would all be fine and he’d cool off soon etc, etc. Once they’d started to sympathize with me, it was fairly easy to suggest that Matt had overreacted and then I played my trump card.

“You never know, if Sarah likes it, she might want to bring some friends along to another one…”

The odours produced by Fear and Excitement are remarkably similar. I detected a heady cocktail of both before we all parted company in a flurry of knowing nods and stupid grins. To my friends, I am now the man who could offer them a Passport to Normality. For probably the first time in their adolescent years, they are exposed to the dizzying possibilities offered by Hope.

So why do I feel like such a fraud?

As I take the turning that leads into my road, a flash of silver passes me; Tony’s going out, no doubt to clinch another deal.

IM:
Result!

My shields go offline and I realize that I’m exhausted after clinching deals of my own. I need to chill out; I need to paint.

I can hear the bubble of the kettle as I step inside the front door and I can smell the ghost of one of Tony’s cigarettes. And there’s another smell, one from my dim and distant past – a sweet, comforting smell. I amble into the kitchen, unable to help myself.

“What’s cooking?”

Mum turns round from the worktop and indicates a cake cooling on a wire rack.

“Fancy a cup of tea?”

I do, and Mum cuts me a slice of moist, warm cake. She hasn’t baked for what seems like for ever, not since she and Dad were together, I think. I guess she’s happy. For a while, the new house feels like a home: just me, Mum and the smell of cake.

“How was school?”

IM:
Shields up, maximum strength.

I mumble something vague and non-committal through a mouthful of tea and cake.

“And…?” There’s that little twinkle again.

“What?” I want her to ask the question, rather than me volunteer the answer.

“How did it go with Sarah?”

My EM responds with the laconic charm of a Bond villain; no blushing or deflating, just a casual lean-back in my chair and a brief pantomime of appraising the day’s events.

“Yeah … pretty good. I spoke to her. She’s coming over with the guys on Friday night.”

Mum smiles and ruffles my hair.

“See? I told you,” she says, grinning and putting her face right up close, like I’m four years old and I’ve just had a go on the slide that I thought was too big for me.

IM:
Any minute now, she’ll cap it off by giving you a Kinder Egg.

“Good for you, Archie. You see, I said it was simple.”

I take a last swig of tea and head on up to my Lair, feeling a bit better about things. I don’t know what all the fuss was about; Matt’ll be fine and we’ll all have a good time. And Jason Humphries doesn’t even know where I live.

After dedicating an hour and a half of my life that I won’t get back to Precipitation in the North-East, I finally settle down at my painting desk. Sarah’s witch gets a black wash and then I turn my attention to the gargoyle. Time for the Base Coat.

The Base Coat can, to the uninitiated, feel like a bit of a chore. It’s the first block of colour you apply to your grizzled-looking miniature. But – and it’s a big but – if you choose your Base Coat carefully, it can add a hell of a lot to the finished article. In this case, I’m doing stone. Well aware that stone isn’t just grey, I crank up the laptop and search for some images. Finally, I decide to mix up a grey with a touch of ochre in it. As I start to apply it, using a medium-sized brush, I occasionally change the mix, so that the colour isn’t uniform.

Absent-mindedly, I log in to Facebook and have a quick flick: Beggsy hates homework, Ravi’s put a link up to some YouTube
Star Wars
mash-up and a little red box tells me I’ve got a Friend Request. I click on it.

IM:
OhmyGod!

It’s from Sarah.

Of
course
I accept. And suddenly I’m like a six-year-old faced with a series of presents to unwrap – do I look at her Timeline or check out her Photos first?

I go for the Timeline; I need to check out the competition. Sarah’s Profile Picture smiles out at me, making me feel like I’ve been caught reading someone’s diary, but I need to know if there’s a boyfriend on the scene. Nothing in the recent posts, so I root through the older ones, feverishly searching for a whiff of male interest. Nothing; all her friends are from her last school:
St Brigidine’s School for Girls. With a sigh of relief, I go back to the top of Sarah’s Timeline and then my palms start to sweat.

Looking through someone else’s Photo Album is, I imagine, a bit like being a Peeping Tom. As I click on the Photos tag, I feel a thrill of seedy pleasure – what will I find there; how will she look? She’s got four albums on the go: Party, Christmas, Family and…

IM:
You’ve just hit the motherlode!

…Holiday.

I shouldn’t, but I do and the Rampant Rattlesnake in my head gives an anticipatory shudder.

Click.

IM:
Bingo. It’s a swimsuit shot.

I’m not averse to admitting that I’ve used Mum’s Next catalogue for … how shall I put it … recreational purposes. On the rare occasions that I’ve been tasked to pass sentence on a shirt or some jeans, there are certain sections of that weighty tome that just seem to demand my attention.

But this is different. Ordinarily, staring at a picture like this would lead to an obvious conclusion. But I can’t think of her in that way, I just can’t. OK, so she’s wearing a T-shirt over her bikini, but the light bouncing off the sand behind her is enough to give you a good idea of what it’s hiding, even if it’s only a silhouette.
It makes no difference; all I see is her beauty. It’s like the dark, hormone-powered recesses of my mind have shut down.

This must be the difference between Love and Lust.

IM:
Steady…

I go back to my own Timeline. I shouldn’t have looked. Flustered and damning my weakness, I pick up the Gargoyle and mix up some more paint.

A chat window flashes up on my screen, announcing contact from the Outside World. My heart leaps and my temperature suddenly reaches the equivalent of a solar flare – could it be Sarah? Does she somehow know I’ve looked at a picture of her on the beach in a bikini and T-shirt? How will I explain myself?

IM:
Deny, deny, deny!

My hot flush of guilt gives way to the cooling sweat of relief; it’s only Dad.

IM:
God and baby Jesus – he’s given up on capital letters now!

IM:
……………….
!

This is interminable; same damned questions every time. Still, got to go through the motions. I wish he would just phone the house, but he won’t because he and Mum aren’t quite on speaking terms yet. And as I still haven’t saved enough money for a new mobile we’re stuck with this for now.

(Oh God.)

IM:
The Game! Sarah!

My brain accesses my Excuse Department and settles on an unusual option: the truth. Albeit missing a vital component.

I groan inwardly; I know where this is going.

IM:
Nice and vague – might put him off.

IM:
Bollocksbollocksbollocks!

I sag over my laptop. Just what I need: for the first time, I’ve got a real, live girl coming over to my house and
my dad’s going to be there. I’ll have to work out a way of moving him on as quickly as possible. Just because my parents can’t get on, why should the rest of my life have to suffer?

IM:
Parents. Meh.

My self-pitying sag turns into a resigned slump. I guess I’m still angry at him for cocking things up with Mum.

Dinner does nothing to lighten my mood. Mum’s all a-twinkle with the possibility that her son might be about to join the human race, and Tony’s testing the limits of his leash, dropping in questions like “Who’s coming over on Friday, then?” and “Anything happen at school today?” I imagine that this is what it felt like being on the rack. I get through my shepherd’s pie as quickly as I can and then lumber back to my Lair to write about the theme of loneliness in
Of Mice and Men.

IM:
One A* coming right up.

That night, the Dream is upon me almost as soon as my eyes close. This time, my dream-self opens his eyes and looks around my room. All is dark and quiet.

Wait; what’s that?

I look over to the corner of the room just opposite
my bed and the figure is there, sitting hunched against the wall. It seems to have taken on more form since our last encounter – this time, it appears to be made of swirling grey mist that chalks its outline in the dark. Only its lava-red eyes remain constant, as whatever passes for the creature’s skin rolls and curls like cigarette smoke caught in sunlight. It just sits there, watching me.

My heart is going like a jack hammer and I feel waves of hostility coming off this thing in the corner of my room. Suddenly, I heave myself from the bed, but my limbs and muscles are like dead weights and I stagger on leaden legs to the bedroom door. Too late; it’s there, waiting for me, standing in my way. This close to it, I can hear its breathing; it sounds laboured and hoarse and there are weird vowel sounds coming from behind its swirling lips. Or maybe it’s me, maybe I’m trying to call for help and my mouth won’t work properly – I don’t know.

In a panic, I totter backwards and lurch to the basin that used to be in my old bathroom and has suddenly appeared in my new bedroom. For some reason, I think that splashing my face with water will help me out of this situation. I glance in the mirror above the basin and see that the creature has vanished. To my horror, as I turn on the taps it’s not water that comes out, but the curling, twisting smog of my assailant. He flows into the basin, growing in size and shape, until he eventually puts a misty
hand over my nose and mouth. Choking, I drop to my knees, swiping at the creature’s arm, but my hands just pass through it. I can feel the hand cutting off my breathing and I drop to the floor, face down…

…and wake up on the floor in a heap to the sound of my alarm clock, seemingly trying to eat the pillow that has followed me from the bed.

IM:
Mor-ning!

At this point, I think I might need professional help.