Into the Wild Nerd Yonder Read Online Free Page B

rings.
    Before Mr. Bowles begins class, I hear Mike Eastman a couple of seats over say, “Was somebody smoking?” I simultaneously hope that someone and no one thinks it’s me.

 
     

chapter 5
    WHILE BIZZA AND CHAR WOW THE free world with their punk-rock selves during seventh-period lunch, I have study hall. On occasion I have ditched study hall to hang out in the lunchroom (when I know I won’t get caught), but I’m glad I have the excuse of first-day-of-school honors classes homework to stay in. Not that they’d notice. I spied Bizza in the hall before seventh (of course she didn’t see me) talking with a couple Crudhoppers, who seemed totally wrapped up in her bald-is-beautiful look. I watched as she put a hand on each guy’s shoulder, completely sure that that’s where her hands should be. Of course, I totally froze when I could have put my hand on Van’s shoulder, or more. I mean, he did touch a tiny portion of my boob, so that’s gotta mean something, right?
    Study hall “teachers” (Are they really teaching us anything except how to fake bathroom passes?) at Greenville High School are a crapshoot. Sometimes you get the motherly, doting woman who just wants to give you bathroom passes and is fine “as long as you talk quietly.” Other times you get the gym teacher who’s so used to yelling all day that any instanceof a disturbance is cause for a shout and a detention. Today is the in between: a home ec teacher who doesn’t take any BS excuse (too used to that with students trying to get out of her own classes), but not too concerned with the noise level.
    I try to focus on my precalc, but my mind keeps floating back to my pseudo-date with Van. I must be drooling or something because I’m snapped back into reality when a girl’s voice asks, “Where
are
you?”
    I look next to me and notice for the first time that I am sitting next to Dottie Bell, one of the known weirdos of Greenville High. And junior high. And elementary. She isn’t the weird that Bizza and Char want to be known for, but the kind who was just born odd. Her hair is strawberry blond, with the possibility of being quite pretty if it weren’t for the clumping factor due to obvious unwashedness. She wears oddly colored corduroys no matter what the temp is, and never goes anywhere without her denim jacket, which is lovingly covered with a hand-drawn Lord of the Rings symbol (yes, I lose several cool points for knowing what it is). She’s been in several of my classes, usually pretty friendly, but mostly in her own world. I’ve never really gotten to know her, probably because I never put in the effort. Or maybe because she always seemed a little strange and I worried that I’d get sucked into some conversation about things which I know nothing about (except
Lord of the Rings
, which I do know something about, but I’d rather not everyone else know I know).
    “Where are you?” she repeats with a curious look.
    “Nowhere, really,” I reply hesitantly because I’m not quite sure if she wants to know what I’m thinking about or if she actually thinks I’m on some other, parallel plane. “Um . . .” I manage.
    “Like, you’re obviously thinking about something pretty sweet. Or some
one
?” She laughs in her lazy voice.
    “How can you tell?” I would not put it past her to be a mind reader.
    “You’re twinkling, like on an old TV show.” She wiggles her fingers in front of her eyes. “Twinkle, twinkle and shit.” I laugh. “Do I know him?”
    Hmmm. She asks like I’d know who she knows. Is there any reason for Dottie to know of Van? Although, really, how could anyone
not
know of Van?
    “Maybe,” I suggest. “He’s a friend of my brother. We had lunch. And maybe a little more. I’m not exactly sure, to tell you the truth.”
    “Well, keep me posted.” She instantly loses interest and begins writing in a tattered notebook. I curiously watch her write, nervous that my flakiness will become fodder for her blog