The Opposite of Geek Read Online Free Page B

says, washing her hands in the sink for the seventh time.
    Just then [angels sing here] LUKE MY LUKE walks into the Foods room and all movement ceases. Well, only mine does. I freeze with what must be a deer-in-the-headlights look on my face. Oh, god, let me not have a zit on my forehead. “Hey,” Ashlyn giggles, and sidles over to my future husband. Then the impossible happens. The polar ice caps melt all at once and we are enveloped in a sudden and ferocious flood.
    Okay, no. Something worse happens. Luke kisses Ashlyn on the cheek. Ashlyn hugs him with her clean hands around his neck.
    I try not to puke up my seven-layer dip.
     
Haiku for My Loss
    How broken, broken
    Not a living heart remains
    I ache: only Luke

 
Tutor, Take Four
    James is actually, shockingly, late. After ten minutes of my doodling lightning forks into Ashlyn’s head, he drags himself through the door.
    “Apologies,” he whispers (he is very obedient of library rules).
    “What happened?” I ask.
    He shakes his head and opens my textbook. “People issues. You don’t want to know.”
    I stick my neck out (figuratively). “Yes, I do.”
    He shakes his head again. That’s a lot of exercise for his scrawny body. “It’s unimportant. Let’s chemistrate.”
    “If it’s parent issues, I know about that. You’ll recall the Doctor Dream? The Board completely doesn’t understand me,” I say to give him an out.
    He snorts. “That can’t be correct English.”
    “And do you tutor English?” I say. “You know what I mean. They’re totally in denial about who I am.”
    He nods appreciatively. There’s a moment when I think he’ll say something about his issues, but he thumbs through the textbook and is silent.
    “So?” I ask.
    He stares at the page. “Let’s chemistrate.”
     
Parental Concern
    My worried mother (who worries as a pastime, not just sometimes), corners me before dinner the next night to ask if there’s something I want to tell her. Do I have any news of good grades? New friends? How’s Nemiah? Firstly I tell her to mind her own beeswax (actually I sigh heavily, but it has a waxy feel to it). Secondly, I say, one must not ask so many questions. Questions make one appear foolish. I actually do say this; it gets me a dirty look. Thirdly, I tell her Nemiah’s getting along swimmingly (ha!) and that I have to get to my chemistry homework. She smiles faintly, unable to resist this positive attitude.
    I win this round.
     
Layla Asks for a Favour
    As I’m drifting off to sleep at eleven, my bedroom door squeaks open.
    “Are you asleep?” Layla asks.
    Why do people ask this? Why don’t they say, “Are you awake?” If I was asleep I wouldn’t be answering!
    “I’m asleep.”
    She sits on the bed. I open my eye a slit. She’s wearing her Winnie the Pooh nightie and her hair is in a messy ponytail. “I have a date,” she says.
    In spite of myself I sit bolt upright in bed. “You have a what?”
    She looks startled, then giggles. “I’m going to a movie with a boy. And our other friends. But he asked me first.”
    Her face is red — even in the dark I can tell.
    “That doesn’t sound like a date,” I say.
    Her tone is certain. “It’s a date.”
    I take a moment to consider my options:
    1. Be the big sister. Offer advice, be cool. Lend her makeup and swear I didn’t.
    2. Be above grade seven so-called dating. Claim to have no interest and threaten to call the cops (M&D) if she keeps me awake any longer.
    She stiffens at a sound outside my door like a deer hearing a hunter in the woods. She’s so small, so cute in some ways, it’s hard at this moment for me to hate her, even though I do. I want to know who this boy is.
    I go for option 1.
    She celebrates quietly on my purple throw rug like a freak. I offer to show her some suitable makeup possibilities in the morning.
    “What about clothes — what should I wear?”
    It’s like she’s going there tonight.
    “Can we wait until tomorrow?” I