The Summer I Became a Nerd

#3

That was incredible! No, it was amazing! Incredizing? Amazible? Whatever. It was awesome, the perfect ending to a spectacular

series. Of course, the story was left a little open at the end to allow for future spin-offs and things, but that’s to be

expected.

I turn the final page of #400 to read the “Letter from the Author” and the receipt paper with Logan’s number on it slides into

my lap. I don’t look at it until I’m completely done reading every last word of the author’s “this couldn’t have happened

without the fans” thing.

I write down my final thoughts in my comic journal, ending with a quote from the book: Be true to yourself and others will be true

to you, too. It’s a nice thought, but so not realistic.

Now that I’m done, I can return the book and forget I almost exposed my dark side to another living person. I’m about to dial

the number on the slip of paper when I read what else he wrote:

I know your secret identity.

“He what?” I jump off my bed, still staring at the note.

How could he know who I am? I was adequately disguised. I told him I didn’t live in this town.

This is a disaster.

What do I do? Call him up and pretend like I have no idea what he’s talking about? Try to bribe him to keep his mouth shut? I

find myself glaring at #400 like this is all its fault but quickly look away, mentally apologizing to the book.

He’s expecting me to call him tonight. He’s probably sitting by his phone with that knowing smile spread across his perfect boy

-lips.

My phone rings, and I jump about four feet in the air. He couldn’t wait for me to call? He just had to rub it my face as soon as

possible that I’m just like him and don’t have the guts to admit it? Of course, this is true, but it’s not polite to rub

anything in anyone’s face unless it’s… Well, now that I think about it, it’s never polite.

I lean over, eye the screen on my phone, then relax. It’s just Terra. I should have known. We have a standing appointment of a

thirty minute phone call every night.

I lucked out when it comes to Terra. She’s awesome, plus she moved here after The Costume Incident. We’ve been best friends

since ninth grade, cheer-sisters since tenth grade, and soul-sisters since we were born. Or, at least, that’s what we’ve

decided. We are proof positive that opposites attract. Where I’m stand-offish and shy, she’s charismatic and balls-to-the-wall

outgoing. I mean, seriously, who has inside jokes with their English teacher? The girl could make friends with an armadillo. And I

’m so thankful she’s as awesome she is. Without her, I wouldn’t be where I am today.

“Hey, Terra.”

“Oh my God, Maddie, did you hear?” she asks, and my breath hitches.

Someone knows. Someone saw me leaving with that bag or talking to Mr. More Money.

“Hear what?” I ask in a weak voice.

“Allison Blair is doing a concert in Shreveport next month!” she screams, and I let out a sigh of relief.

“Cool, very cool,” I lie. Like most people around this area, I like country music, and Allison Blair is the biggest thing to hit

the country music scene in years. But I just don’t get it. Her songs are too sappy with no meat to them, and they’re so

overplayed. All of my friends love her to bits. Little, tiny, microscopic bits. Which is why I have both of her CDs strategically

placed on the backseat so everyone thinks I’m a fan when they pass my car.

The things I do to fit in.

“So?” Terra prods.

“So?”

“So, are we going? I have to go, I mean, when will we ever get this chance again?”

Actually, we’ll probably get this same exact chance next year or the year after that or, hell, maybe in a few months, considering

how often these tours happen, but I don’t tell her that.

“I don’t know. I’ll have to ask my parents.” I look at Logan’s note again. How can I think of an adequate excuse to not go to

this concert when I hold my potential downfall in my hand? It’s just a simple one sentence note, you might say, but I see it for

what it really is.

A threat.

“Well, ask them. Tickets go on sale in two weeks, and people are going to snatch them up. If I find some good ones, I’ll grab

you one, okay?”

“Yeah, sounds great.” I’ll figure out some way to get out of this later. At the moment, I have bigger fish to fry. When Terra

hangs up, I drop my phone on my bed and crush Logan’s note in my hand.

…

I pull into a parking space and glance in the rearview mirror at Natchitoches Central High School. It’s the last day of school.

Today, I officially become a senior. I should be strutting through the halls like a peacock, eying soon-to-be juniors and

bestowing my newly gained seniorly wisdom upon them, but instead, I’m sitting here in my hand-me-down Lumina wondering if Logan

really knows who I am.

This could be a disaster of epic proportions. What if he says something to someone? What if the girls on the squad realize I swoon

over Peter Parker or that I secretly wish our uniforms included a cape? It would be The Costume Incident all over again. Good-bye

awesome plans for this summer. Good-bye stress-free senior year.

If he puts the word in the right person’s ear, the double life I’ve been leading for five years will crumble like a fortune

cookie beneath the Hulk’s big, green toe.

It’s not that all my friends have an unnatural hatred of comic books. It’s just one of those things popular people like me aren

’t supposed to be into. We’re not like the group of poor RPG-obsessed guys that meet every morning in the band room to get in

some imaginary life-living before class. They, at least, aren’t too embarrassed to admit who they are and what they love.

I envy them.

When I walk into first period, Logan is sitting behind my normal desk even though his regular seat is in the back row, third from

the window. He doesn’t say a word, but I can feel him staring at me. The back of my neck stays warm through the whole class like

he has heat vision. Which puts me even more on edge. It’s like he’s toying with me. Or maybe he really doesn’t know. Please,

please, please let him not know.

My second class period goes by without a hitch. During lunch, though, things get stressful.

“Dude, did you read #400 yet?” a boy’s squeaky voice says behind me in the lunch line. It’s hard not to know the owner of that

voice: Dan Garrett.

“Unfortunately, no,” Logan says, his voice a complete contrast to Dan’s, all velvety and shiver inducing. He raises his voice a

little. “I lent my copy to somebody before I finished.”

Dan gasps. “Are you bat-shit crazy? It was fan-freaking-tastic.”

“She seemed pretty desperate. Who am I to deny a damsel in distress?”

“She? She? A girl wanted to borrow your #400? Where in hellfire-damnation do you find these chicks?”

Well, at least he’s creative with his expletives. Wait, did he just say “chicks” as in plural? Maybe he didn’t mean another

chick, specifically…

“Or was she, ya know, not hot? I mean, the old ball and chain was damn fine, and it would be cosmically unfair if you were struck

with the hot-nerd-girl-lightning twice.”

My ears perk up at this. He did mean another specific chick, but the more important matter is: does Logan Scott think I’m hot?

It gets really quiet behind me until I hear a pained grunt from Dan just as I’m paying for my food. I turn to leave and see Dan

clutching his shoulder. His dirty blond hair brushes the tops of his glasses, and his mouth looks like he could be saying, “Ow,

ow, ow,” but the only sounds coming out are high-pitched squeaks. I glance at Logan. He’s looking at the ceiling, hands clasped

behind his back, whistling.

Whistling.

If there was even a little doubt in my head about whether or not Logan really knew it was me at The Phoenix, it’s vanished now.

My heart speeds up when he has the nerve to look me in the eyes and say, “The Celtics have a good chance at the championship this

year, don’t you think, Maddie?”

This is it. My tumble down the popularity ladder has begun. What if he follows me to my table? What if he asks in front of

everyone if I’m done with #400 yet?

What if he never says my name in that sexy voice of his again?

Bolting for the exit doors is really tempting. I could have just realized I left my headlights on this morning. Maybe I’ve just

come down with an incredibly rare and contagious disease. But that would just bring more attention to the whole situation, wouldn

’t it?

Crap.

Logan leans forward, one eyebrow raised mischievously, waiting for my response. Instead of deigning to answer him, I edge around

him and go to my regular table, head down and shoulders scrunched up. Like somehow that might keep me from being seen. Eric has

saved a seat for me, but before I sit, I look out over the sea of jabbering students for Logan. Just as I find him walking to his

own usual table on the other side of the cafeteria, he looks directly at me. He raises that eyebrow again and puts on that knowing

smile. I avert my gaze and sit down as fast as I can.

Unfortunately, I sit on something that’s moving. I squeal and jump back up, jarring the table, which knocks over Terra’s bottle

of water. When I look at my seat, Eric’s hand wiggles its fingers at me, and he starts to laugh with great big, honkin’ snorts

that echo above the other commotion.

Another quick glance at Logan and he’s shaking his head. I slap Eric’s muscled upper arm and say, “You’re such a jerk,” in my

most I’m-a-giggly-cheerleader voice, but what I really want to do is dump my fifty-cent banana pudding on his tall, dark, and

handsome head.

“Seriously, Eric, grow up,” Terra says as she mops up her water with some napkins.

“Whatever, that was classic!” He fist-bumps Peter.

“You going to the party tonight, Maddie?” Terra asks.

“Sure, I guess.” I look over at Eric. “Are we going?”

“Hell, yes,” he says through a mouth full of spaghetti, and I can’t stop my nose from scrunching up at the sloppy sound of the

food vibrating in his mouth. Gross.

And that was the most important part of the conversation because the rest of lunch was spent listening to Eric and Peter discuss

their upcoming summer vacation to Destin, Florida. If you could call it a vacation. It sounded more like Jocks Gone Wild with all

the “getting wasted” with Peter’s brother and the “hot babes” that are sure to be on the beach. This last part was supposed

to be whispered, but Eric is kind of like a four-year-old in a seventeen-year-old’s body. He doesn’t quite understand the

concept of voice volume control.

There was no “I’ll miss you so much, Maddie-babe,” or “I’ll call you every night,” like a normal boyfriend would have said.

Not that I expected that from him, or even wanted it.

I know I’m just an accessory to him, but what he doesn’t realize is he’s just a handbag to me, too. He’s not a bad guy.

Despite his immaturity, he does most of the required boyfriend things. He puts his arm around my shoulders when we walk down the

hall, he points to me when he makes a touchdown-scoring pass—after he points to the stands, of course—and he never chats up

other girls in my presence. There’s just something missing. I don’t get that feeling. You know, the swoony one a girl is

supposed to get when she sees her guy waiting for her by her locker in the morning. But what can I do? Landing Eric as a boyfriend

was the coup de grace of completing my nonnerdy persona. The quarterback dates the cheerleader. This is the way things are

supposed to be.