The Opposite of Geek Read Online Free

file folder, saying she’ll check back in next week and that Mr. Marchand is overjoyed to hear about James tutoring me.
    “I wanted to show you this collection I just picked up.” She hands me a thin book with half a picture of a bird on it. It screams poetry. I flip to the table of contents.
    This is what I always do — scan the titles of poems for one that stops me. That’s the first one I read.
    “Her lines are so elegant,” she’s saying. “I was really impressed that it’s her first collection.”
    I find it: “Mesmer and the Goldfish.” That’s the first one I’m going to read —
    “Gretchen?”
    “Huh?”
    “I said you should think about writing toward a collection. It takes years, of course, but I know you’re really prolific. I can see it now.” She smiles in that way adults do when they want to encourage you but not seem too eager.
    I close the book. “You can see it now?”
    “Sure. Now just work on that chemistry grade so you can relax and spend your time doing what you really want.” She taps my shoulder. “Right?”
     
Clique of One
    In the old days, Nemiah and I would be inhaling microwave popcorn and making fun of reality TV stars. We’d be painting her toenails silver and mine chocolate. Now, at home, wondering how Nemiah’s swim practices are going, I try to convince myself there are plenty of things to do without resorting to a crutch like the cooking club. I take out a lawn chair and read the book of poems in the sunny garden. But it’s February and my fingers are numb in minutes. I practice writing metaphors for kitchen utensils. They all sound like sexual innuendo.
    I even break down and do a five-million-piece puzzle with Layla — a cheerful scene including kittens and balls of wool. She likes to laminate each puzzle and hang it on her wall. Isn’t that what kids did for fun in the nineteenth century? I call Nemiah and get voicemail.
    Leave a message.
     
Ashlyn’s Joy/My Regret
    I crumble, call the number beside Rutgard, Ashlyn J. Hold the phone away as she shrieks, tells me to come to the Foods room on Wednesday for the next meeting. Mrs. Fletcher’s the teacher supervising, but she’s pretty relaxed. Ashlyn thinks this gives them licence to make really out-there things like soufflés and caramel lava cakes. Pride tries to strangle me as she blabs on. Jelly moulds, paring knives, sculptured vegetables. Three-tiered cakes. The only thing I can do is say that I’ll be there and hang up.
     
Screw the First Meeting
    Foodies engulf me in the hall Tuesday like I’m a new captive in their little tribe. Fresh meat, if you can pardon the pun. I guess I’ve found new friends, whether I want them or not.
    “Ashlyn says you know a ton about food,” one girl says. “Are your parents chefs?”
    “No, just European,” I say.
    “Are you vegetarian? We don’t like vegetarians — we want everyone to try everything,” another kid says.
    “Like tripe and sweetbreads?” I ask, horrified.
    The kid looks at me blankly.
    One point for Gretchen — these morons don’t even know their way around a butchered animal.
    I beg off to run for biology, knowing it’ll be a long afternoon tomorrow.
     
4:24 P.M.
    Gretchen
: cooking club is populated with CRAZY PEOPLE
    Nem
: crazy-good or ??
    Gretchen
: definitely ??
    Nem
: you’ll fit right in! JK, you’re the sanest person I know. And you love food. You could lead that club
    Gretchen
: no thanks
    Nem
: R U and Nemiah hooking up?
    Gretchen
: ??!
    Nem
: sorry G! Miles text-jacked my phone! Idiot! TTYL?
    Gretchen
: who’s Miles?
     
Tutor, Take Three
    James and I meet at our table in the library. It is our table now. It has his energy and my confusion etched into its surface. (In fact it says: Jeremy is a male slut; B.R. + S.J.; Love Rules!)
    No one dares sit at our table, as if they know when we’ll be meeting. I wish I could enter the library, see the tables all filled and say,
Too bad, James, guess we can’t meet today
. But