Geek Girl by Cindy C. Bennett
The third family I came to was different. Consisting of a mother, father, and their only son, they took me in and treated me as if I’d always been a part of their family. Their son became an immediate brother, teasing and torturing me like a real little sister, but always with that underlying sense of love and security that came in true families. Not in my real family, of course, but in normal families.
That’s where I learned about cars, spending hours in the garage with them, listening and learning. The TV was always on car shows or races. It was the first place I’d had a sense of security, of really belonging.
I thought I’d stay there forever.
Then the mother developed a fast-moving cancer. When it became obvious she wouldn’t live, the state removed me from their home, from my home. She died within six months of the diagnosis, and in spite of my pleading and my foster father’s efforts, the state wasn’t about to put a teenage girl back into a home with two males and no females.
That was when I decided to take control back. From that point on, it became my decision how long I would stay with any given family, and I would cause the circumstances that made the family turn me back in.
I’ve never made the mistake of loving a family again—no risk of heartache that way.
Now I sit with Trevor in this car that I see value in, that probably would have seemed a piece of junk otherwise, driving to the senior center. This time when he touches my back as we walk through the doors, his hand lingers just a little longer than necessary.
I’m pleasantly relieved that the place doesn’t stink like stale urine as I had imagined it would. It’s actually pretty nice, like a fancy hotel more than an assisted living center.
We walk into the cafeteria, and Trevor directs me into the kitchen. There are a few people standing here who just might have been born before the time of the dinosaurs. They—as well as those who are relatively younger—are all clearly shocked at my appearance and don’t try to hide it.
Calls of “Trevor” in happy voices bound around the room. They might not be happy to see me, but they are clearly beyond delighted to see him.
“This is my friend Jen,” he introduces me repeatedly, and apparently that’s all the endorsement needed to get their approval. If Mr. Dork says I’m worthy of being accepted, then in their eyes it must be true. Soon they are chatting with me and asking me questions—where do you go to school, how do you know Trevor, what is your favorite movie—things that are thoroughly none of their business. But I’m working on my project, and so I smile sweetly and play the part, answering with things they want to hear rather than anything near the truth.
We serve the old wrinkled prunes the dinners that have been put together by the eclectic kitchen staff. The food looks nauseating. Trevor serves it as if it were a feast fit for a king—the do-gooder at his finest. Or so I think until we move into the common area as soon as they are finished eating. I’m just grateful that we don’t have to do dishes until, to my horror and embarrassment, Trevor goes and sits at the piano and begins playing.
He plays old songs and sings along with them. Seems I’m the only one embarrassed, though; these centenarians love him. He knows almost every song requested of him even though they are songs from the beginning of time. He plays really well—not exactly surprising considering the mammoth piano sitting in his living room—and to my shock, he doesn’t sing so badly either.
Those aren’t the facts I’ll share with my girls, however. I’ll only tell them of his playing and singing old songs as the oldies sing and clap along. They will find that endlessly amusing.
By seven thirty, the biddies are exhausted, and aides come in to roll them back to their rooms. Trevor makes sure to tell them all good-bye, calling them by name. Or rather by respectful name, as befits the geek he is. Mrs. Jones, Mr. Anthon, Mrs. Green—never by their first names. A few of them wave to me, and I wave back because I have become acutely aware of the fact that Trevor’s watching me discreetly. Most of them seem to have gotten over their initial shock by my appearance, though a few still look at me distastefully. Nothing I’m not used to.
“Are you hungry?” he asks me.
I look toward the kitchen and cringe at the thought of eating the same slop we served these people. Seems a little cruel to serve it to anyone.
“No,” I say. My stomach rumbles loudly, giving me away. Trevor grins, and those dimples make an appearance again.
“Yeah, I can hear that you’re not. Come on, let’s get out of here and get some food.”
“Oh, well in that case . . .”
He takes me to an Italian restaurant, where we’re both out of place. I’m like a nightmare to the patrons as I walk in. The hostess at the front desk would turn me away if she weren’t afraid I’d cause a scene (I would). And Trevor is way too buttoned up for the chic-type clientele.
I like it. Because he’s now out of his comfort zone along with me.
They seat us at a table along the back wall in a cove, partially hidden from view by draping curtains held back by a hook sticking out of the dividing wall. I know this is on purpose to hide me from the rest of their guests, but Trevor acts as if it’s an honor to be sitting here.
Our server comes over, definitely looking down her nose at me. Her eyes widen a little when she sees Trevor, and her eyes shift quickly back to me, and then to Trevor again in astonishment. We are an odd pair.
“Can I get you something to drink?” She directs her question to Trevor, not so desirous of looking at my offensive person again. I wonder how badly the hostess will have to pay when this particular server is finished with her shift for having seated us at one of her tables.
Trevor looks at me.
“Diet Coke?” he asks with a grin. “They have some really good Italian sodas too. I like the strawberry one.”
I almost smack my head at my own stupidity. Of course he’s been here before. He’s not out of his comfort zone, he’s just oblivious to how out of place he is.
“I’ll have what you’re having,” I say.
“Two strawberry Italian sodas, please.”
The waitress doesn’t say anything, just writes the order on her pad and walks away, giving me another quick glance, sneer barely concealed.
“You’ve been here before?” I ask.
“Oh yeah, my family comes here all the time. It’s pretty good. Haven’t you ever been here?”
“Do I look like this is the kind of place I normally visit?”
He sits up even straighter, if possible.
“I’m sorry. Do you not like Italian?”
I roll my eyes at him.
“Italian is fine, Trev—Trevor. This is just a little . . . fancy, I guess.”
He looks around at the other customers as if noticing them for the first time, then back at me, taking in my black and red hair, heavy makeup, tight black clothes.
“Oh. Sorry. I guess I’ve just gotten used to . . .” He trails off, flustered, looking away. “Do you want to leave? Go somewhere else?”
I have to admit I’m a little surprised. I’ve never been on a date where my discomfort was worth consideration.
“Nah, it’s okay. It smells good. Besides, it’ll give all these people something to go home and talk about. The freak they saw at dinner.”
“You’re not a freak.” His denial is immediate, unexpected.
“What makes you think I’m referring to me?”
He freezes, cheeks darkening with embarrassment, and I smile at him to let him off the hook.
“Just kidding, Trev. You really need to relax a little.” He forgets to correct my shortened version of his name. I lean forward. Subconsciously he does the same.
“So, really, Trevor? You don’t think I’m a freak at all?”
“No.” He sounds sincere anyway.
“And before you met me? Did you then?”
He shakes his head. At my lifted brow, he explains himself.
“No, not a freak. I mean, obviously I can’t go to school and no
“A little differently?”
He smiles with his killer dimples, and I find myself wondering why girls aren’t all over those.
“Okay, a lot differently, especially with, you know, the makeup and all. And the piercings. But you don’t have any of those.”
“Not that you can see, anyway,” I say lowly, seductively. The effect on him is immediate. His eyes drop a quick perusal over my body, and I can see his mind clicking, wondering just where those piercings might be. I decide to let him fantasize and not burst his fantasy by telling him the truth—currently I am pierce-free—or at least jewelry free. I suppose the holes are still there.
After a few minutes, he swallows the lump in his throat and squeaks out, “Oh.”
I can’t help it. I laugh. His eyes meet mine, and he smiles slightly.
“Are you teasing me?” I just shrug and leave him hanging, counting on his ever-present courteousness to stop him from asking again.
The rude waitress comes back to take our order. I change my mind purposely three times so that she has to keep scratching it out on her pad, only to wind up back at the first thing I ordered. Trevor watches, eyes scrutinizing, recognizing that I’m doing this on purpose. Then, to my utter amazement, he follows suit and changes his four times. By the time he’s finished, she is vibrant with irritation. As she walks away, Trevor looks at me and grins.
“She deserved that,” he says.
“Yeah, but I can’t believe you did it.”
He shrugs, then looks at the table, chagrined, drawing an imaginary pattern with one long finger. “I’ll leave her an extra tip to make up for it,” he mumbles.
I laugh again, and he grins, peeking up at me from under what I notice are incredibly long lashes covering an amazing shade of green. Huh, I think. I haven’t noticed his eyes before. They’re not bad. Kinda nice, actually. Almost killer.
After dinner, which he insists on paying for—lucky for me since I’m short on cash—he drives me home, walking me to the door. It almost feels like a real date, which suits me just fine. It’s important to my goal for him to start thinking of me as something other than a strange acquaintance.
“Did you have fun tonight at the senior center?”
“Oddly enough, I kind of did,” I tell him. “The whole night was fun. Maybe next weekend we can—”
My words are cut off as my foster mother pulls the door open. She seems surprised to see us there.
“Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t know you two were out here. I was just going to go for a walk.” Which I know is true because she goes almost every night—sans the straw hat—always trying to drag me along. Exercising is not the way I want to spend my evenings. Neither do I want to spend that much time hanging with her.
“Hi, Mrs. Grant. How are you?” Trevor asks.
“I’m fine, Trevor. Did you two have fun tonight?”
Trevor looks at me, as if expecting me to answer. I shrug.
“Yeah, we did,” he says.
“Good, good,” is her inane response. “Do you want me to wait for you, Jen? You can walk with me.”
I give her my normal response, which is a look that says “You’re kidding, right?” She translates correctly.
“All right, I’ll be back soon, then. Bye.”
“Bye, Mrs. Grant,” Trevor says. I remain silent. She walks to the end of the driveway and starts stretching. Could she be any lamer? But Trevor either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care. He’s watching me, a question in his eyes—one I don’t want him to ask.
“I’ll see you at school next week then,” I say, turning to go into the house. He hesitates, but seeing that I’m not going to satisfy his curiosity, he sighs.
“Okay, see you later,” he says. “And thanks for coming. I’m really glad you did.”
I want to scream at his politeness, but instead I turn back, the little secretive smile that flusters him pasted firmly on my face.
“Me too,” I say quietly, closing the door on his darkening eyes.
It’s going well.
4. Bowling, of All Things
Wanna go to a party this Saturday?”
Another week has passed, and though he hasn’t quite worked up the nerve to approach me at school, he is many times the first one to say hi in the halls now.
“I’ve got a family party Saturday night. Sucks, but I gotta go.”
“I’m starting to sound like a broken record here, Trev.” Again, he doesn’t comment on my use of the shortened version of his name.
“It’s okay,” he says, closing his locker, arms loaded with books. “I’m just glad you still want to hang out with me. Perplexed, but glad.”
Dangerous territory, that conversation, so I change the subject.
“How do you have time to do anything but study when you take so many books home every weekend?”
“I’m good at managing my time,” he says with a shrug. “If you ever need help with studying, I could help you.”
I eye his books skeptically. They’re all AP and college credit courses.
“Somehow I don’t think any of my books are the same as yours.”
“Well, I’ve probably already taken some of your classes, so I could help.” This nerd statement is given as fact, no conceit, just the truth. He’d probably laugh if he saw the kinds of grades I pull in my classes. Then again, his helping me with homework is another thing I can use in my quest. I tuck that thought away for now.
“I might take you up on that sometime,” I say.
“Come with me,” he says.
“Come with you where?” I ask in confusion, glancing behind him.
“Saturday. To my family thing.”
“Really, Trevor? You want to show up to a family function with me in tow?”
He gives my outfit a once-over, taking in the shredded, tight black jeans; heavy black combat boots; and tight red sweater covered with a short black vest adorned with chains. It couldn’t be more different from his pressed, dark blue jeans and long-sleeve shirt with not even the top button left open.
“Might make it fun for once,” he says with a smile, and I laugh. I realize how very much I’m starting to like his big green eyes. I think about missing yet another party this weekend, what my friends will say, and all of that only to go to some stupid family function with the geek. He’s coming around, though. I can feel it.
“Okay, sure. Why not?” I start to turn away, then add as an afterthought, “You want me to tone it down a little?” I run an indicative hand down my clothes with a questioning look.
“No,” he says, surprising me yet again. “Just be you.”
“More shocking that way?” I ask.
He looks about to argue, then grins.
“More interesting, anyway.”
⊕⊗⊕
On Friday night, we’re doing the family thing, me and the fosters. Bowling, of all the horrible things for them to choose from. Their two biologicals are free to come, so that means we’re required to do something particularly boring.
Their oldest biological, Jeff, is married. He and his wife, Kari, are actually pretty tolerable. They don’t look at me like I’m a piece of embarrassing trash their parents picked up like the younger one does, a college girl named Tamara, who was clearly a cheerleader. Her name is even pronounced in a definite cheerleader way—not like the spelling indicates it should be pronounced but like Tuh-mahr-uh.
I’ve heard her on the phone with her friends. She’s horrified at her parents’ “midlife crisis,” which has caused them to take in a troublemaker like me. I’m their first foster. If I do my job correctly, I’ll scare them off from the idea, making me also their last.
We show up at the white-trash-family-heaven, get our fashionable rental shoes, and pick out a pocked, dirty, greasy ball that carries who knows how many diseases from the previous users. I can only hope I don’t see anyone from school, though I have no doubt about whether I will see
I’m changing from my boots to the lovely multicolored shoes, slowly and deliberately to annoy the cheerleader since the others are disgustingly, infinitely patient with me, when I hear a familiar voice.
“Hey, Jen, I didn’t know you’d be here.”
Trevor, his parents, and a brother I didn’t know he had are pulling into the lane right next to ours. Trevor stands there holding his personalized bowling bag, smiling. Relief and something like happiness flood me as I stand up. Happiness? Really? I chide myself. Get a grip, Jen.
“Hey, Trevor. You guys are seriously here to bowl tonight?”
“Yeah. It was a last-minute thing. I thought about calling you but then remembered that Fridays are your family nights.” He says this as if it’s a desirable way to spend a Friday night and not the most torturous thing in the world. “What are the chances we’d come here and end up right next to you?” he asks as I slip the last boot off and slide my foot into the hideous bowling shoe.
“Pretty big co-ink-a-dink,” I say, and he smiles at my lame word. Behind him I can see his mother’s sour face at this turn of bad luck.
His father, who is a surprisingly masculine jock-type, and not bad-looking for an old guy, is watching us with interest.
“You wanna come meet my dad and brother?”
I shrug and start forward, only to nearly fall on my face when I trip on my untied shoelace, stopped from a full face-plant by Trevor’s hands. I hear a guffaw of mocking laughter from the cheerleader.
“Whoa,” Trevor says, steadying me. “Your lace is untied.”
Thanks, Einstein, I think cynically, recognizing that my embarrassment is making me mean. So I keep my mouth shut, the whole if-you-can’t-say-anything-nice thing. Then he bends down to tie it for me. I push back the little warm fuzzy that tries to surface at this completely humble gesture.