The Summer I Became a Nerd

The Summer I Became a Nerd - By Leah Rae Miller




Praise for THE SUMMER I BECAME A NERD

“Between the laugh out loud dialogue and Maddie and Logan’s pulse-skipping romance, I longed for the Flash’s speed so I could

read the book over again and again!”

- Cole Gibsen, author of the KATANA series (Flux)

“Leah Rae Miller’s debut is charming, funny, clever and utterly geek-tastic! But beyond that, I appreciated the book’s message

that the road to happiness is to be true to yourself first.”

- The FlyLeaf Review

“An extremely adorkable read about being comfortable in your own skin. Get ready to bring out your inner nerd!”

- Sara Book Nerd

“THE SUMMER I BECAME A NERD is everything you want in an ideal summer; it’s fun and bright, with the perfect mix of romance and

nerdiness. You’ll devour this book with as much enthusiasm as the main character devours the latest comic book.”

- Alice in Readerland

“A total feel good romance with plenty of laughs and smiles, and just the right amount of emotion.”

- A Good Addiction

“A sweet and fun summer read that turns the tables on the popular guy/nerdy girl scenario and refreshingly features a popular

girl who wants to let her nerd flag fly. I highly recommend it.”

- Just a Couple More Pages





This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used

fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

Copyright © 2013 by Leah Rae Miller. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or

by any means. For information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact the Publisher.

Entangled Publishing, LLC

2614 South Timberline Road

Suite 109

Fort Collins, CO 80525

Visit our website at www.entangledpublishing.com.

Edited by Heather Howland and Sue Winegardner

Cover design by Heather Howland

Ebook ISBN 978-1-62061-239-2

Print ISBN 978-1-62061-238-5

Manufactured in the United States of America

First Edition May 2013

The author acknowledges the copyrighted or trademarked status and trademark owners of the following wordmarks mentioned in this

work of fiction: Twitter; Facebook; Boston Celtics; Mylar; Wolverine; Captain America; Toyota Corolla; Magic: The Gathering;

Marvel; DC Comics; Ant-Man; The Avengers; Booster Gold; Blue Beetle; Fables; Vertigo; Superman; Sandman; Power Girl; Lumina; The

Hulk; Peter Parker; Chili’s; Wal-mart; New Orleans’ Saints; Xbox; Honda Accord; Yoda; Iron Man; Disney World; Infinity Crisis;

Supergirl; X-Men; iTunes; YouTube; Sea Monkeys; Akira; Tater Tots; Battlestar Galactica; Candyland; Lego; Lara Croft; Scott

Pilgrim vs. the World; Tangled; Batman; Green Lantern; Natchitoches Central Chiefs; Hogwarts; Action Comics; Pirates of the

Caribbean; Sith; Jedi; Lightsabre; Dumbledore; Lord of the Rings; Barbie; Smurfs; Jeep; Cup O Noodles; Plexiglass; Windex; Jimmy

Choo; Animal Man; La-Z-Boy; Home Shopping Network; Star Wars; Queen Amidala; Volkswagen Beetle, Hello Kitty; Rolling Stone;

Wookie; Evil Dead; Darth Vader; Lord Voldemort; Padowan; The Matrix; Hot Topic; Gandalf; Chevy Suburban; Gollum; Princess Leia;

Super Bowl; Scrooge McDuck; Dumpster; Jabba the Hut.





For my parents, Clyde and Nancy.





Prologue

When I was in junior high, the school I went to held a Halloween festival every year in the gym. There were all these little

booths where we could bob for apples or throw darts at balloons for crappy little prizes like plastic spider rings and whistles

that didn’t work. There was a “jailhouse” that was really just a big cardboard box with a door and a window with black spray-

painted PVC pipes as the bars. We could pay a dollar to send someone to “jail” for one minute. For some reason this turned into

a declaration of love if a boy sent a girl to jail.

The biggest part of this festival was always the costume contest, probably because the winner actually won cash. In sixth grade, I

was determined to win this contest. I spent weeks before the festival making my costume. I figured if I went as something the

judges—who were just the softball coach, the head of the cafeteria, and the principal—had never seen before, I was sure to win.

At the time, I was really into this comic book series called The Pigments. My favorite character was Spectrum Girl. She had a pink

afro and this awesome cape. The cape was what I spent most of my time on. I got these long, wide strips of fabric in every shade

of the rainbow, then lined the edges of each strip with bendable wire so the strips would stick out behind me and be all wavy so

it would look like I was flying.

On the night of the festival I was so pumped I almost threw up as I waited in the wings of the stage. The other competitors had

all chosen the same old costumes: witch, robot, the main character of whatever the most recent animated movie was. I could feel it

in my very core that I had this thing wrapped up.

Then, Mrs. Birdhill announced me.

“Our next trick-or-treater is Maddie Jean Summers. She’s dressed as”—and here’s where I started to doubt myself because when

she said this last part, it sounded like she was reading words she had never heard before—“the leader of the superhero team The

Pigments, Spectrum Girl?”

Yep, she ended it like she was asking a question.

I stepped onto the stage, expecting a wave of oohs and ahhs, but what I got was complete silence. I swear I heard a cricket chirp

somewhere in the back of the room when I stepped up to the microphone.

“Hi. I spent two weeks working on my costume. I chose Spectrum Girl because she’s the strongest of all the Pigments, and I think

she sets a great example for young women today,” I said and took a few giant steps back so I could make a slow turn.

When I made the complete 360, I stopped and looked out at the audience. It was a sea of my peers, everyone I went to school with,

everyone I wanted desperately to impress. In the front row was my best friend, who shall remain nameless. She would always rag on

me when I mentioned anything comic related, so I had learned not to talk about it.

I remember looking down at her in her cheerleader costume. I’m sure my eyes were pleading with her to break the silence, to help

me—even if she didn’t like comics, we were best friends. Surely she’d support me.

Instead, she leaned over to the girl next to her and whispered something in her ear. They both giggled before she-who-shall-not-

be-named yelled, “Where did you get your costume idea?”

I stepped up to the microphone, thinking my answer would help. Everyone loves Superman and Batman, how could they not like a

costume based on a comic character?

“The Pigments is a comic book I like a lot,” I said.

“A comic book? What a dork!”

I don’t know if everyone agreed with her, but they all laughed with her. Laughed me right off the stage. Thank goodness no one

was hanging out by the back exit because it would have been even more embarrassing if someone had caught me bawling my eyes out in

a dark corner.

Later, as I tore my excellently crafted cape to shreds and stuffed it into a garbage bag, I vowed no one would ever get the chance

to hurt me like that again.

And that’s when my double life began.





#1

Louisiana summers are unforgiving. Or maybe I’m too freaking impatient to tolerate the usual ninety-six-degrees-in-the-shade

heat. The final book in The Super Ones comic book series, which I’ve been obsessing over for years, comes out today, and I’m

waiting for Randy Henderson from down the street to finish mowing our lawn so I can check the mailbox. Normally, I download my

comics and read them on the computer so there’s no physical proof of my secret life, but the author of this particular series has

insisted the final book only be available in print.

Hurry up, Randy. Except, I think my impatience has made things worse. I’m pretty sure he thinks I’m checking him out. Every few

minutes, he sends me a sideways glance from where he sits atop his riding mower and tries his best to do a crooked grin like he’s

Robert Pattinson or something. I bet he’s practiced it in the mirror. I hope he doesn’t hit on me tomorrow at school. Eric, my

boyfriend, has never actually hurt someone for checking me out. He’s usually too busy being a “dude-bro.” It’s all about

football and chicks and “dude-bro, we should totally go mud riding this weekend.” But catching Randy checking me out would be a

chance to cause physical harm which, let’s face it, is what football is mostly about. And Eric is good at football.

Finally, Randy rounds the large pecan tree in our front yard, cutting the final patch of grass, and heads down our driveway. As he

turns right onto the street to go home, he waves back at me, revealing a thick mass of dark, curly underarm hair. Did you know

smiling suppresses the gag reflex? I do, so I smile and wave back.

Once the sound of the lawn mower is barely audible, I jump up and run off the porch. Maybe it’s more of a sprint. A dash? Either

way, I manage to get to the mailbox and pull out the contents with near-inhuman speed. As soon as I spot the manila envelope, I

swear angels sing. I super-run back to the house and dump all the mail on the kitchen counter, except for the manila envelope. I

take the stairs to the second floor in leaps and bounds. Grabbing the frame of my door before I fly past it, I use my momentum to

swing into my room. The door slams closed behind me.

I throw the envelope onto the bed, not wanting to look at it until I’m ready. This is too important to simply breeze through the

moment. I dig out my comic journal from its hiding place in the closet—on the top shelf, stuck inside a stack of sweaters that

won’t be brought out until early December—and throw it on the bed, as well. It’s just a notebook where I keep all my thoughts

about the books I read, but to me it’s a treasure trove of secret identities, quotes, and life lessons only superhumans can

teach.

I kick off my flip-flops a little too hard and they hurtle through the room, almost knocking over my bedside lamp. Whoops. I twist

my blond hair into a messy bun on the top of my head. Can’t have any tendrils escaping while I’m reading and blocking my view.

This is it. Is Marcus, The Sonic One, strong enough to defeat Baron Gravity? Or will he be sucked into oblivion by one of Baron

Gravity’s randomly created black holes? Will Wendy realize she loves Marcus and fly to his rescue? Does Grayson, the lovable but

oblivious sidekick also known as The Young One, die, thereby making me cry because he never found out the true identity of his

parents?

I sink into my plush comforter and cross my legs under me. I pull off the purple pen that’s been hanging onto the spiral wire

binding of my comic journal, turn to a blank page, and write: The Super Ones #400.

I am ready.

Eyes closed, I pick up the envelope. I blindly feel for the flap, open it, and pull out the comic. It’s thin, but oh-so-crisp.

There’s nothing better than the smell of fresh ink, so I take a deep breath to lock away the memory of this moment. After making

sure I have it facing the correct way by fingering the pages with my right thumb and sliding the tip of my left index finger over

the staples binding it, I take another deep breath, then open my eyes.

YOUR ORGANIC GARDEN AND YOU

Huh?

I throw my comic journal off my lap and lean over the side of the bed to grab the discarded envelope. Nothing else in there. There

are only regular envelopes on the kitchen counter. I couldn’t have missed it.

I scramble to my desk and turn on my laptop, barely resisting the urge to call it a slow piece of junk and cursing myself further.

I pull up my e-mail, which I haven’t checked since I got home from school, because I had been too busy watching Randy do his

Robert Pattinson impression. Sure enough, there’s an e-mail.

Dear Madelyne Jean Summers,

Due to unprecedented demand, The Super Ones #400 is currently out of stock. Your copy will be shipped in 5-7 weeks. We apologize

for the inconvenience.

They apologize? Are they kidding?! I can’t wait five to seven weeks. I must know now! Can Wendy, a.k.a. The Bright Frenzy, man-up

and tell her father to get a life so she can fly off to the war-ravaged planet of Zocore in order to sacrifice herself in the

ensuing battle? Will Marcus make a dying attempt to block a severe radiation blast heading straight for Young One’s face?

It’s too much to deal with. I must get my hands on issue #400.

There’s only one place in town that would have a copy. Is the risk of being seen and losing my place atop Natchitoches Central’s

elite worth it? No. Absolutely not. It’s been a long, hard climb to the top of the popularity ladder. It took a lot of deceit and

subterfuge to get people to forget The Costume Incident. And once something like that is started, there’s no going back. I’ve

been at it for five years now. Not having anyone to geek out with over the latest superhero movie (other than my brother, but he

doesn’t count), having to hold my tongue about all my fandoms, making a mad dash to hide all nerdy evidence every time a friend

shows up at my house unannounced… I’m in a constant state of “no one can know,” and it sucks.

But…can I go two months without knowing? Can I last two months without going on the comic book forums, Twitter, or Facebook for

fear of spoilers?

Of course I can’t.

Damn your awesomeness, Super Ones.

I grab a hoodie, my dad’s green Boston Celtics cap, and I make double sure my shades are in my purse.

Drastic times call for drastic measures.