Into the Wild Nerd Yonder

  “Yuck.” I crinkle my nose.

  “You said it. Anyway, we can definitely use this book if he isn’t willing to do it himself.” Barrett sounds unenthusiastic, hoping that calling Van’s exes is something he won’t have to do. “So—the basement in five minutes?” I nod and throw back the covers to get myself up. While I jump into my pajama pants, I think how I am so happy to be plain, straight-brown-haired girl and not buzzed, Van-attracting girl. It pisses me off that Van has such power over females, yet he’s such a complete sleazoid creep. Not to mention I won’t have any more drums to play.

  Barrett tunes his guitar in the basement. I sit down behind Van’s drum kit, the kit I learned to play on when me, Bizza, and Char started our band. Now Bizza’s out of my life, Van’s out of my head, and the drums will be no more. I kick the bass pedal hard. “Wait—are Mom and Dad up yet?”

  “They’ve been up for hours. They’re out to breakfast or on a hike or something. They left us donuts.”

  That is the invitation I need. Not the donuts, but the absence of anyone to annoy. I pound the bass pedal again, as hard as I can, so hard that the pedal buckles a bit under my foot.

  “Hey, careful. You don’t want to break the skin.” He looks at me. I look back, eyebrows raised. “Or maybe you do?”

  I’m barefoot in my pajamas, and run to get a pair of shoes. I scan the front hall closet and decide against canvas Chucks and leather flats. Instead, I choose the largest and heaviest pair of shoes I own: my winter boots. I slide them on over my pant legs as someone else takes over my brain. I’m Imalthia the fighter, and we’re on a quest to defeat the evil scum of Van and stop his torment of women. I clomp down the basement steps. Barrett sees me and laughs. “You look a little remedial,” he says. Imalthia growls at him, and he puts his hands up in surrender.

  “Ready to jam?” Imalthia asks, a violent gleam in her eyes.

  “Ready, Boots,” Barrett answers. I tack my sticks together. One. Two. One-two-three-four, but instead of slapping the heads with my sticks, Imalthia jams the sticks directly down and through the drum pad. I pause and look up at Barrett, who holds his breath. Crash! I slam a cymbal then pummel another drum until I plunge the stick through. And then I do it again, and again, all very rhythmically, of course, until I get to the grand finale, the pièce de résistance, and I stand up and plow my winter-boot-covered foot through the bass drum.

  I’m breathing heavily, and I realize my song has no guitar accompaniment. Barrett looks at me, a mix of shock and admiration. Then he declares, “You effed those drums up! Right on, sister!” And just like that, Imalthia is gone, and I’m standing in the basement in front of a destroyed drum kit, wearing my pajamas and winter boots. My mouth is a perfect O of disbelief.

  “Mother of turds,” I say. “He’s gonna be pissed.”

  “And? He deserves it. He never plays them anymore, anyway. But maybe you should hide in your room when you hear the doorbell ring, just in case.”

  We abandon our jam session and head up to the kitchen for some donuts. I start out with the strawberry frosted and finish with the sprinkles. I feel jazzed, vindicated, like I don’t need any of those jerks who made it so complicated to be friends. It is so much easier and so much more fun to be around people who include me—and not just for selfish reasons.

  When the clock actually says it’s a normal hour to be awake on a Sunday, I have a phone call to make.

  chapter 30

  TO KILL TIME UNTIL TEN O’CLOCK (the civilized hour whence to call someone on a Sunday), I shower and shave (my legs, that is), and work on some sketches for the costumes. I’m no artist, not like some of those designers who can draw fantastically stylized and funky images of their latest fashion lines. I don’t actually know what I’m designing for, and there’s a tiny part of me that worries they may have changed their minds, but what the heck.

  I have the school directory open to the correct page, and I have efficiently punched the numbers into my phone so when the clock strikes (glows, technically) 10:00, I’ll be ready. The longest minute of the day is excruciatingly 9:59, and during that minute my mind rushes through too many thoughts. What are you doing? Are you really going to commit to this? Does wanting to do this make you one of them? Doesn’t the fact that I want to hang out with them already make me one of them? What if they actually reject me? How pathetic would that be? What are you doing? And then it’s 10:00, and my finger automatically presses SEND. The phone rings, and:

  “Heyyy,” a slow, sleepy voice answers. “Hey” implies that the person on the other end knows who’s speaking, and yet I don’t want to assume—ass out of you and me and whatnot.

  “Hi, Dottie? It’s Jessie. Sloan. From study hall?”

  “Yeah, I know who it is. That’s the glory of caller ID. And I know who you are, Jessie. We hung out all Friday night, remember?”

  I don’t know why I’m being so flubbedy, but it’s always awkward when you talk to someone on the phone for the first time. Why is this such a big deal? I mean, it’s Dottie Bell. The school’s biggest . . .

  “To what do I owe this early-morning call?” Dottie yawns into the phone. Maybe I should have waited until 10:30. If she didn’t want to talk, she didn’t have to answer the phone. Calm. Down. I’m not trying to impress anyone here.

  I get it together. “I just called to say thanks for inviting me to D&D on Friday. It was really fun.”

  “Sure, sure. Hope to see you there next week, too. The party has way too much magic, not enough muscle without you.” That makes me laugh a little because of how nonmuscular I actually am. Although, give me a pair of winter boots, and who knows what might happen.

  “Definitely. I’d love to come.”

  “Cool.” There’s a long silence, and I wonder if Dottie has fallen back asleep or if she is doing something obscure on the other end, like dyeing her own wool or translating the Rosetta Stone.

  “Hey, Dottie? About the costumes . . .”

  “Yeah?” She suddenly perks up, and I get excited to tell her.

  “I want to do it. I think it’ll be fun. But there’s not a lot of time, so—”

  “Don’t say another word. Me and the guys will be over later today to discuss our needs and for you to get measurements. Will you be home?”

  Do I have a choice? “Yeah. I’ll be here.” And so will Barrett, I think, and he’ll see my new group of friends in all their nerdly glory.

  “Sweet. We’ll get there after lunchtime. We have to wait till Eddie gets back from church.” Eddie at church? Interesting.

  We hang up, and I’m edgy. I really want to tell Barrett what I’m doing, but I’m afraid he’s going to laugh. I’d laugh at him if he started hanging out with the senior geeks, right? Or would I? It’s just as weird that Mr. Punk Rock King of Greenville High is now dating the most popular girl in school. Just because she’s popular doesn’t make her better than Barrett, and just because he’s punk doesn’t make him better than me. Or does it? Because punk is cool? And nerds aren’t? I don’t know why, but I wonder what Bizza and Char would say if they saw the D&D crew show up on my doorstep. Char would probably be polite and then laugh when they left. Bizza, on the other hand, would greet them with a “What up, dork fest?” to their faces. But then maybe she’d decide it’s subversive to hang out with the uncool, and she’d make it her phase for all of three days until she got sick of them not worshipping her and—stop. Bizza and Char aren’t part of this equation. They’re not even part of this assignment or chapter. Hell, they’d never even get into the class. But Barrett’s pretty smart. Maybe he’ll get it.

  Barrett has no idea what time Van will stop by, so the two of us spend late morning/early afternoon making grilled cheeses in our Sandwich Maker. The Sandwich Maker is perhaps the greatest invention of all time (yes, better than sliced bread, because I could slice the bread myself if necessary). All you have to do is make a sandwich like you’d normally make a grilled cheese, butter sides out, and once the Sandwich Maker is warmed up (indicat
ed by the magical red glow on its lid), you open it up, place your sandwiches inside (lined up in the designated sandwich areas) and a couple of minutes later—voilà! (Or viola, as Bizza would incorrectly say)—you have two grilled cheeses, perfectly sealed on all four sides and divided into triangularly tasty halves. Genius!

  When we finish lunch, I set up shop at the coffee table with my homework, starting with precalc. Barrett heads to the basement to disassemble Van’s drum kit, so he can get it out of the house as quickly as possible once Van arrives. Barrett claims he’s not worried about dealing with Van, and he would even be a little happy if he’s forced to, as he put it, “Beat Van’s ass.” That doesn’t stop me from worrying, but I suppose I’m technically off the hook until Van actually heads to the basement. Not that I want to greet him at the front door.

  The doorbell rings, and I jump. I try to compose myself in case Van reads the mix of fear and guilt on my face, but instead I see Henry’s face peek into one of the windows near the front door. Behind him, I see Philip and Kent. A giant grin involuntarily explodes across my face. I’m so happy it’s them and not Van.

  Before I can open the front door, Barrett comes pounding up the basement stairs. “I’ll get it!” he yells, and pushes me aside to yank open the front door. There stands the whole Dungeons and Dragons crew: Dottie, Doug, Kent, Philip, Eddie, and Henry (who, I note, is wearing a different pair of long pants than the other day, this time black cords). “Can I . . . help you?” Barrett asks in confusion.

  “They’re here for me, Barrett,” I say, trying not to hesitate for their benefit.

  “Really?” he asks, and I’m not sure if he’s confused or condescending. I nod and invite everyone in.

  Politely Henry asks, “Should we remove our shoes?” So different from the boot brigade of Char and Bizza.

  “Not unless you stepped in dog poop,” I say. “You can just wipe them on the mat.” And a thundering cavalcade of wiping ensues.

  “Aren’t you going to introduce me?” Barrett asks, and I’m ready to snap at him for the sarcasm or irony I expect in his voice, but there is none. Barrett has a welcoming smile on his face that screams interested big brother.

  “Okay. Um, everyone, this is my brother, Barrett.” A chorus of his, heys, and nice-to-meet-yous follow. I introduce each person by first and last name, and each of them, initiated by Dottie, sticks out a hand for a handshake. I’m kind of in awe. I don’t know why I assumed Barrett would intimidate a group of people who have absolutely no idea who he is, nor why Barrett, who barely knew any of these guys existed before today, would judge them all. What’s even more amazing is the confidence that Dottie and her friends project—the friendly handshake, the genial eye contact—instead of the aloof toughness of the punk crowd or the snotty snubs of the popular crowd.

  “And how do you guys know each other?” Barrett asks. He couldn’t just have left it at hello?

  I intervene before anyone else can jump in. “Well, I know Dottie from study hall, and these guys through her.” All true.

  “We played Dungeons and Dragons on Friday night,” Eddie blurts.

  Thank you, Eddie. Didn’t they teach you at church thou shalt not blab?

  “Aaah.” Barrett looks at me with a lightbulb flicking on above his head. “Friday night . . .” He turns back to the group and says something that utterly shocks me. “I tried D&D once in junior high.” What? “It was a little too complex for my lazy ass, but it seemed pretty cool.” The group nods with what I detect to be pride, and I’m speechless. Why didn’t I know about this? Was Barrett embarrassed or was I just too young to care?

  I don’t exactly know how to end this bizarre conversion of the social strata until I see Van’s crappy car pull into the driveway.

  “Why don’t we go upstairs to my room and I’ll show you my ideas?” I quickly usher everyone up the stairs, but not before Van walks through the front door as a witness. I hear his obnoxious voice ask, “What’s happening here?”

  “Jessie just has some friends over,” Barrett explains, and their voices are lost as they head to the basement and I head to my room. Some friends. Not kids from school. Not weirdos or dorks or nerds. Friends.

  It didn’t occur to me earlier that I would be having a group of people in my bedroom. Luckily, I’m a relatively neat person. No undies or bras lying about, and only a few Rupert Grint pictures that could be slightly incriminating. The only messy area is my sewing table, and that’s not too bad, just some scraps of fabric and empty bobbins.

  No one except Dottie attempts to sit on my bed, which seems really sweet of the guys, but I feel guilty that everyone’s piled onto the floor. I throw my comforter over my pillows so it’s covering my sheets, and invite people to sit. I also pull out my sewing chair and footstool. When everyone’s comfy, I find them looking up at me in anticipation. I am not used to people giving me this kind of attention.

  “The first thing I need to know is what you’re looking for. I mean, I can’t make, like, leather armor or chain mail. It has to be simple. Because I’m not that good, and we don’t have that much time. When exactly is it again?”

  “Two weeks from yesterday,” Dottie says.

  “And what exactly is it again?”

  Kent explains, “It’s sort of like we are actually in a D&D adventure, like we’re actually our characters. There’s a whole town set up in a Wisconsin field, and we’re sort of like actors, only we make up our own lines.”

  “Will there be, like, magic and fighting and stuff?” I question.

  “Not for real.” Kent laughs, thank god. “But some of us will have swords. You can have one if you want. But they’ll be wooden and we won’t technically fight with them. We’ll just pretend that we do.”

  I rewind past the fighting and repeat, “Me included?” I hadn’t thought about going to this thing. I thought I was just the royal seamstress.

  “Yeah, I mean, if you want to be a fighter.”

  “I see Jessie as more of a chamber maid at Fudwhalla. No offense, Jess. That way she can follow my lead and won’t get into trouble.” Dottie has obviously thought this through. I am still stuck on how they’re so willingly including me in this thing.

  “Wait—so I would go with you? And be a chamber maid? Is that like a toilet maid?”

  Dottie laughs her low chuckle. “Kind of, although there won’t be any real toilets where we’re going.” Everyone laughs like they’re sharing some toiletless memory. “You’d be like my lady-in-waiting.” Then Dottie explains that there is actually a preplanned plot to Fudwhalla, where Dottie and Doug are a baroness and barron, and the guys are all some kind of knight or spy or manservant. And there will be a whole bunch of other people there, too, in on the game, each with a different part to play. It almost sounds like live theater without an audience. “So no toilets?” I double-check. “Where do we sleep?”

  “We’ll all bring sleeping bags, but we get to sleep inside a little royal house they make for us,” Dottie continues. “And there’s a dining hall, and fake money, and weird little stands where people sell all kinds of jewelry and snacks and fake wooden weapons. Oh—that reminds me. We have to pay Nigel before next Friday.” Nigel?

  “Nigel’s the guy running this whole thing. He’s a totally medieval-obsessed dork, but we went to Fudwhalla last year, and it was quite professional. You’ll have fun.”

  There isn’t even a question at this point of whether or not I’m going, which is nice because they want me with them, but frightening because this sounds completely out of my comfort zone. Bizza and Char and I never did anything like this. The closest thing was camping out for half a night in my backyard so we could study the constellations during our astrology phase. But we went inside around two A.M. when Char got assaulted with mosquito bites because she refused to spray herself with DEET in case it stained her clothes. And then there’s my own personal camping nightmare.

  “I’m not exactly the world’s best camper,” I admit, not wanting to repeat the time I campe
d with my family and had to poo in the woods in the middle of the night. I was too afraid that a bear would eat me (thanks to Barrett’s grizzly campfire tales), so I ended up pooing in my pants and stinking up the tent for the rest of the trip. It was so nasty, Barrett and I ended up sleeping in the car. Not that I’m actually that afraid of bears anymore or that I think I’ll poop in my pants in the middle of the night, but there are just too many stinky memories.

  “How long does Fudwhalla last?” I ask.

  “Saturday morning until Sunday afternoon’s banquet,” Henry answers.

  “And we’ll be in a house?”

  “Yeah, kind of. They’re what you’d call bare-bones structures. But they’re not tents,” Doug explains.

  “And we won’t actually be fighting?”

  “Only if you’re fighting off the advances of the other royal’s hired help,” Dottie smirks.

  “We’ll keep you safe, ma’am,” Henry assures me.

  How can I say no to all of this? They’re including me in this huge weekend thing that they’ve already done once together as a group. Just like that. I’m completely nervous, but I look around the room at their nerdy, goofy, and even cute faces, and know that I’ll be taken care of. It’s been a long time since I felt this way with Bizza and Char, and Barrett won’t be around much longer to big-brother me.

  “Let’s plan the costumes,” I say, and we get into it. I learn that the costumes don’t have to be historically accurate, seeing as we’re not actually reenacting part of history. We can fudge a lot of it with what we already own, and they just need me to come up with a unifying tunic for the men to wear and some sort of skirt for us womenfolk. I tell Dottie about the big skirts, and she seems really excited (or, as excited as supermellow Dottie gets). I have to measure all of the guys on top (thank god I’m not sewing any pants), and it’s funny to watch Kent suck in his gut as I bring the tape measure from around his back.