The Queen Geek Social Club Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Acknowledgements

  Chapter 1 - A GEEK IS BORN (or 101 Creative Uses for Silly String)

  Chapter 2 - DINNER AND A MOVIE (or Bald Obese Aliens Ate All My Popcorn)

  Chapter 3 - PRETTY IN PRANKS (or Shopping for Trouble with a 10-Percent-Off Coupon)

  Chapter 4 - TWINKIES AND SYMPATHY (or Fat Food for Fashionistas)

  Chapter 5 - QUEEN GEEK SOCIAL CLUB (or Chocolate Should Be Its Own Food Group)

  Chapter 6 - JUNE CLEAVER VERSUS SUPER MODEL (or The Cream Filling Has to Be ...

  Chapter 7 - BOWLING FOR BOYS (or You Always Hurt the Ones You Love)

  Chapter 8 - PLAYING TELEPHONE (or Love Between the Lines)

  Chapter 9 - SHERLOCK HOMES (or If You Lived Here, You’d Be Rich by Now)

  Chapter 10 - A DATE IS A CHEWY FRUIT (or The Utter Inconvenience of Boys)

  Chapter 11 - ANGER MISMANAGEMENT (or Make Rejection Work for You!)

  Chapter 12 - DANCE COMMITTEE FEVER (or The Confusing Cloud of Boy-Dust)

  Chapter 13 - NATIONAL INVISIBLE BOY DAY (or What You Can’t See Can’t Hurt You)

  Chapter 14 - THE BIG DANCE (or Yo Ho Ho and a Bottle of Humble)

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

  Published by the Penguin Group

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  Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  This book is an original publication of The Berkley Publishing Group.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2006 by Laura Preble.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without

  permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of

  the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  BERKLEY is a registered trademark of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  BERKLEY JAM and the JAM design are trademarks belonging to Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  PRINTING HISTORY

  Berkley JAM trade paperback edition / September 2006

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Preble, Laura.

  The Queen Geek Social Club / Laura Preble.—Berkley Jam trade paperback ed.

  p. cm.

  Summary: Seeking more of their own kind and wanting to shake things up at school, fifteen-year-old

  Shelby and her new best friend, Becca, start a club, but geek solidarity may not solve their problems

  with weird single parents, guys, or popularity.

  eISBN : 978-0-425-21164-9

  [1. Popularity—Fiction. 2. Clubs—Fiction. 3. Best friends—Fiction. 4. Friendship—Fiction.

  5. High schools—Fiction. 6. Schools—Fiction. 7. San Diego (Calif.)—Fiction.] I. Title.

  PZ7.P9052Que 2006

  [Fic]—dc22 2006006422

  http://us.penguingroup.com

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I’ve been writing since I was sixteen, so I have a lot of people to mention. I’m grateful to my parents, Dick and Therese Preble, who always read to me and encouraged me to do anything I wanted to do, and to my three sisters, Linda, Barb, and Ann. Thanks to my husband and partner in chaos, Chris Klich, and our two wonderful boys, baby Noel and Austin, my first proofreader and reality checker. Thanks to the great staff at West Hills High School, especially to the English department and Sue Arthur, our awesome librarian. Thanks to all the English, drama, and journalism students I’ve had over the years who made for the best character studies a writer could ask for. Special thanks to Kym, Patrick, Twink, Jasmine, Gilbert, Leina, Queen Bob, West Hills GSA, Becca, Fletcher, Samantha D., Alyssa, and Laura B., who will inherit Euphoria upon my untimely demise. Also thanks to my friends, Becky, Stacey, Shaun, Kayak Boy, Jackie H., Joe N., Diana S., and all those who encouraged my writing. Big, big, big eternal thanks to Susan McCarty who said yes at a Writer’s Conference, and to Tova Sacks who picked up where Susan left off. Thanks to all my teachers; to Virgil Mann, thanks for the Kafka. And a shout out to God, the Universe, and Everything, including the number forty-two.

  1

  A GEEK IS BORN (or 101 Creative Uses for Silly String)

  The original meaning of the word geek was a person in the circus who bit the heads off live chickens. Let me say up front, I’d never do this, because I am a strict vegetarian. However, in more modern terms, I guess I fit the definition.

  If you say the word geek to people today, they think of a schlubby kind of misfit, usually young (I don’t think geeks live to a ripe old age—must check this out) and almost always single. My theory: The universe in its wisdom tries to keep geeks from mating to keep the geek population in check. In this way I sort of mess up the averages, because I date with a vengeance.

  I’m actually on a date right now. It’s ten-thirty at night, I’m sitting in a parked ’68 Mustang in front of my house, which is dark, but I know my dad is still awake because I can see the flickering lights of the television in his bedroom. Dustin Garrett is staring at my breasts at the moment, and if it were possible to have a small, inflatable thought bubble orbiting his head, it would be filled with the word Yum. For about the tenth time tonight, I mentally kick myself for going out with someone who has an IQ in the negative digits. I know better, I really do. But sometimes your hormones get the best of you. Even if you’re a geek.

  “So what about going to the dance next week?” Dustin is stretching his arms and yawning, using that classic move to put his arm around me, all the better to get a grope at my boobs. “I mean, I know you’re a freshman and all, but don’t let that stop you. I don’t care what people think.”

  “That’s very considerate.” I wriggle around to avoid the grope. Dating is like a fine country line dance without the funny hats. “But I have a science fair coming up, so I think I really need to spend some time on that next weekend. And you know, I really need to go. My dad’s waiting up for me.”

  The mention of my dad has the chilling effect I was going for. Dustin shrinks a little and throws a cautious glance at the front door as if my father is going to appear, crazed, with a shotgun, demanding that this boy marry his daughter and make her boobs honest.

  “Well, yeah, it is getting late.” He changes focus and smiles his expensive-orthodontia smile. “Got a tennis match tomorrow after school. You coming?”

  “I’d love to. But I have a study session after school.
Sorry.” I fumble in my purse for my keys.

  “Study session? Why? You have, like, straight As, don’t you?”

  “Yeah. That’s why.” I produce the key and hold it up like a magic talisman. Begone, oh feeler of boobs! “I better go. Thanks for the movie. I’ll see you at school.” I lean over and give him a peck on the cheek. Sensing his options disappearing, Dustin pulls a wrestling move and I’m lying face up in his lap, the steering wheel digging into my scalp.

  “Hey! That’s hot!” His face is hovering above me, his eyes wide, nostrils flared with the scent of girl. “Let’s do it.”

  “My dad is right in the house,” I remind him. “He has a shotgun.”

  “Oh.” For a nanosecond, common sense flashes across Dustin’s face. Then lust takes over again. “I’ll be quiet.”

  I sigh, pull myself up by levering my weight against the steering wheel, twist, and open the door in a lightning move calculated purely with physics that would make my science teacher, Mr. Rich, extremely proud. “See ya.”

  “Shelby!” He’s frantically rolling down the window, cranking the handle. “Wait!”

  “‘What satisfaction canst thou have tonight?’”

  “Huh?”

  “Romeo and Juliet. Anyway, thanks for the movie. I’ll see you at school, okay?”

  “Shelby!” He’s yelling now. Not cool.

  I go back, lean in the window. “What?”

  He swallows hard, as if he has honest words caught in his throat. “I love you.”

  “You do?”

  “Yes. I think so.” He grips the steering wheel and concentrates on it. “It’s kind of annoying.”

  “Dustin. You don’t love me. You’re just feeling desperate.”

  “Don’t sell yourself short. You’re really hot.” He turns to me, smiles again, and I realize it was all a ploy to get my boobs back to the car.

  “Thanks again. Gotta go.” As I scamper across the lawn, I hear scuffling behind me.

  “Shelby!” I turn, and Dustin is standing next to the passenger door of the car, his shirt open to the waist, his arms outstretched across the car, his head upturned like an underwear model on a Times Square billboard. He has a great upper body since he plays tennis, and I guess he must feel like it’s his secret weapon. I have no choice.

  I rummage in my purse and pull out my own secret weapon. I shake the can of Day-Glo pink Silly String, take aim, and decorate Dustin Garrett’s gorgeous chest with sticky strands of embarrassment. “Good night!” I whisper as, horrified and confused, he plucks absently at the mess entwined in his scraggly chest hair. I cleanly make my escape.

  Tomorrow, no doubt, he’ll have to try to explain that to the tennis team.

  My dad usually stays up until at least three in the morning working on various hobby projects. By day, he is a well-paid researcher for some company you’ve never heard of, and he gets to do a lot of his work at home, which is nice. They even built him a lab in back of the house so he could have all the equipment he needs. At night, though, he works on his eccentric ideas that the company wouldn’t necessarily want to fund.

  On the night of Dustin’s humiliation, Dad is in the lab, as I suspected. He leaves the TV on in the house so it looks like we’re sort of normal. He never watches it. Okay, except for the old Star Trek episodes.

  I go through the dark house and out the sliding glass door in back, to the steel door with a keypad. I key in the password, and it swooshes open with a satisfying Star Trek hiss. Dad didn’t really need this; he paid extra for it himself so he could feel like Mr. Spock hunting for Klingons or something.

  “Hey.” The room is dim, as usual, except for the glow of computer screens and some equipment radiating green neon in the corner under a huge portrait of Mom. It makes Mom sort of look like that princess from Shrek.

  Dad is wearing goggles and is staring at something through a huge magnifying glass on a hinged arm. It makes him look like a big-eyed insect. He doesn’t look up. “Oh, hey, Shelby. How was the movie?”

  “Okay.”

  He hears the catch in my voice, looks up, and slides the goggles up into his wild nest of salt-and-pepper hair. “What? Wasn’t he nice?”

  “Hmm.” I perch on a tall stool and swing my legs back and forth. It makes me feel little again. “He was a jerk. Just in it for the boobage.”

  “Hmm.” He’s back to the magnifying glass again. “I found some really intriguing properties on this—”

  “I’m going to bed. See you in the morning.” I kiss him on the forehead. “Don’t stay up too late.”

  He doesn’t really notice I’m leaving. Dad is literally the absentminded professor if he’s on a project. He does care about me, he really does; but if I disappeared while he was working on something juicy, I don’t know that he would notice for, like, a week. When my mom died three years ago, he threw himself into work, and that helped him deal with the loss, I guess. Now it’s just a habit.

  “Night,” I hear him say as the Star Trek door swooshes behind me. Well, nothing left but to go talk to Euphoria.

  Euphoria is the robot my dad built for me. She (I call her a she, but actually, she has no real gender) is sort of a combination diary, best friend, playmate, nanny, and baby monitor. She’s about five feet tall, with a brushed-nickel finish. Dad gave her sort of a face, but it’s kind of like the robot maid on that old cartoon The Jetsons. She’s a very simple machine, really, but he did program her to be able to talk to me and respond. She’s also sensitive to temperature and humidity, so if I’m angry or crying, she knows it, and she knows the proper response to make. I know this is all fake, the right combination of zeros and ones, but I have pretended that Euphoria is really a person for years, like most kids pretend their teddy bears are real, or that the imaginary friend in the couch cushions is real.

  “Good evening, Shelby,” she whirs as I walk into my bedroom. “How was your date?”

  “It sucked.” I kick off my black Vans and dig my toes into the carpet.

  “Oh. Sorry to hear that, baby.” Her voice is kind of like a grandma, but also kind of Southern-sounding. I think this is because Mom was from Georgia, but Dad claims it was totally accidental. Her green eye-lights blink in the darkness.

  “Yeah, well. That’s what I get for dating a jock.”

  “A jock?”

  “Yeah. He’s a tennis star.” I sit on the bed and click the remote for my stereo. Classical music. Ahhh. “I had to Silly String him.”

  “I think you need to find someone who thinks like you do.”

  “You mean, someone who thinks too much?” I pull off my plaid knee socks, shimmy out of my black, pleated mini, and pull my red sweater over my head, which leaves me in my underwear. “Check it out.” I stand in front of a full-length mirror attached to my closet door. “I’m attractive, right? I’m smart, right? And yet I have no real friends and boys bore me.”

  The image looking back at me isn’t bad. I have long auburn hair, straight as a stick, and huge eyes that look like aggie marbles swirled with shades of blue. And there are those darned boobs. They get me in so much trouble. I mean, in seventh grade, I had nothing. Suddenly this year, they’ve puffed out like rice cakes in water. I have to constantly watch my posture, Euphoria says, because I tend to hunch over to hide these huge monstrosities. Okay, well, they’re not that big, but they feel pretty obvious, and when guys look at your chest instead of in your eyes, it sort of makes you feel like the dollar-a-pound special at the butcher shop. Anyway, moving on . . . high cheekbones, delicate lips, a slim but curvy figure . . . all pretty good. So why am I so miserable? Isn’t this supposed to make me happy?

  “You are a pretty girl, but you are way too picky.” Euphoria rolls to the stereo and changes the channel to a rock station. “And you’re just too much of an egghead, if you’ll pardon my opinion. You need to get in touch with your rebellious teenager side.”

  I punch a button and change the music back to Mozart. “Time for bed, Euphoria. Good night.”

>   The light goes off. Daddy has rigged it to Euphoria’s central control, so she can turn it off and on all by herself. “Night-night, Shelby. Don’t let the bedbugs bite.”

  “Wouldn’t you kill them if they showed up?” I snuggle up under my covers.

  “Absolutely.” Her lights blink off too.

  Green Pines High School, in beautiful San Diego’s North County, is best known for its high percentage of tanned students, and for having one of the only surf phys ed classes in the country. It also has a huge number of teenagers who think they are better than everyone else. I suppose I’m one of them.

  I don’t have a lot of friends at Green Pines. I’ve gone here for nearly a year, and I’ve made some acquaintances, but nobody I’d consider a best friend. I don’t know if I’ve ever had one, to be honest; I hung out with a girl named Jane in junior high, but she and her family moved to North Carolina or some other state with a North in it, and I haven’t heard from her since last summer.

  Here’s the thing about friends, I mean real friends: You can’t just put up a poster at school and advertise for somebody and hope you find the perfect one. It might work, I guess, but you’d look so pathetic and desperate that no one would want to be your friend, and so it would be kind of pointless. And if you’re somebody like me—smart, witty, charming, humble—it’s even more challenging to find that special someone who becomes your Best Friend. Plus, it’s even harder than finding guys, because Best Friends are much more important. You can date anybody, but you can’t just tell anybody about the time you threw up milk through your nose at the seventh-grade honors lunch, or about the time you got your period in the middle of the baseball game while wearing white jeans and a tank top, sitting in the front row.