Self-Portraits - 3. A Complete Geek

“Sit with us at lunchtime,” Vicky insists on the way to school on Monday.

I know she’s trying to help, but the prospect of another lunch with the Squeaky Girls is too awful. Plus, the only thing more pathetic than having no friends is having pity-friends. I just mumble something that isn’t quite a yes or a no.

As we pass through the school gates, I look around for Nicholas. It’s a habit. I don’t see him, but I do see that blonde waiter from Sizzler’s, Stu. Stu really does look like he’s from another planet, with his white-blonde hair and his earring. His odd appearance hasn’t stopped him making friends; it seems to have had the opposite effect. There’s a group of kids standing around him, inspecting his piercing with interest. He’s made more friends here in five minutes than I have in four years.

“You’re blocking the path!” snaps a voice behind me.

It’s Harriet Hayes with her enormous backpack. I jump out of the way. She strides past, huffing irritably.

My first class is English. When I walk in, Nicholas and Darren are snickering about something. Nicholas doesn’t notice me enter. I sit in my seat, but wish I could sink right through it, into the floor.

But when Miss Bristol comes in, I actually find the class interesting. This is probably because I’m more than halfway through David Copperfield. I put my hand up to answer questions almost as often as Harriet Hayes. This bothers her even more than blocking the path. I know this because, at lunchtime, she approaches me in the library.

“What do you think you’re doing?” she demands. She glares at me over her glasses, arms crossed.

“Uh, calculus,” I say.

“You’ve been reading ahead in English,” she says. Then she cranes her neck to look at what I’m doing. “And that’s next week’s calculus chapter! But you’re getting imaginary numbers all wrong.”

I try to cover my work with my hand but she swats it away, then sits down beside me. I’ve never seen her up close before. She has a big nose, round glasses, and a black fringe cut in a hard straight line. But up close, I notice that her eyes are quite pretty – green, with nice eyelashes. She smells nice too, like lavender.

“The whole point of imaginary numbers is that they’re imaginary,” she says. “The square root of negative one doesn’t exist. Think about it, if you square negative integers, they’ll always be positive. Get it?”

“Um …”

She sighs at the blank expression on my face, and gets up.

“You really shouldn’t be reading ahead,” she says. She stalks off, satisfied that I’m not an academic threat after all.

*

At the end of the day, I’m heading out the gate when someone shouts, “Hey, Sizzler boy! Wait up!”

It’s Stu from the restaurant, waving at me. He jogs up to me and gives me a light punch on the shoulder.

“I thought it was you,” he grinned. “I was hoping you might be in some of my classes, but I haven’t seen you anywhere!”

I can’t think of anything to say but luckily Stu’s a talkative guy.

“This school’s weird, so old-fashioned, but I love it,” he grins. “Everyone’s way nicer than any other school I’ve been to. Hey, I can’t remember your name,” he says. “Can I just call you Sizzler Boy?”

“Aren’t you Sizzler Boy?” I say. “I mean, you’re the one who works there.” I don’t know why I’m being so matter-of-fact when he’s just joking around.

“Only on Friday nights, Sunday lunchtimes, and every second Saturday,” Stu says. “I’ve got to keep some Saturday nights free for fun. What do we do for fun around here, anyway?”

At the moment, I spend weekends with my mother, but I don’t want to admit that.

“I don’t know,” I say. “We hang out, watch movies, and stuff.” Then, to make it sound like I at least have one friend, I say, “Sometimes there are parties.”

“Cool. Do you know if there are any parties this weekend?”

“Um …” I wish the ground would swallow me up for being a friendless loser. “There might be.”

“There’s a girl Lisa Something,” Stu says. “She’s in my graphic design class. She said a group of them might go up Lambchop Hill on Saturday night.”

“Lisa Meadows?” She’s one of the most beautiful and popular girls at school; Darren Park’s phone is allegedly full of topless photos she’s sent him.

“Yeah, that’s her. You’re so lucky, you know everyone. Anyway,” he pats my shoulder again, “see you tomorrow, Sizzler Boy!”

As Stu jogs off, towards the bus stop, I realise I still haven’t told him my name. No wonder I can’t make friends. I can’t even introduce myself. I’d fail Conversation 101.

*

It doesn’t take long for my classmates to realise I’ve become a complete geek.

In Calculus, I answer a question about the square root of a negative number. I’m actually just quoting Harriet from the library the other day. I can feel her eyes burning into the side of my head, but hopefully she’ll think twice before sticking her big nose in my business during lunchtime again. Then, in English, I accidentally let it slip about David Copperfield and Agnes, so Ms Bristol deduces that I’ve read ahead.

“We’re only up to Chapter 9,” she says. “Agnes doesn’t come in until Chapter 32.”

Darren Park coughs “Nerd!” and everyone laughs. My face is permanently red these days.

The only class I don’t do well in is Art. The assignment was painting a natural environment, so I sat at the living room window and painted the garden. I think it looks good, exactly like our garden, dark and jungley, full of overlapping shadows, but Mrs Hansen is unimpressed.

“Your technique is adequate, especially in this corner.” Her bangles jangle as she points. “But it’s almost photographic. You’re showing me what the garden looks like, but you’re not showing me anything else.”

“There wasn’t anything else,” I ask.

“You’re showing me what you looked at, not what you saw.”

Sometimes I think Mrs Hansen must be on drugs.

“Whereas this.” Mrs Hansen holds up a bit of paper. “Now this is interesting.”

For a second, I don’t know what I’m looking at. It’s a sheet of paper covered in pen scribbles. But then I recognise it; it’s my doodling from calculus. A massive plant, tendrils snaking, wrapping around miniature screaming people. I must’ve dropped it on my way in. I grab the page off her, embarrassed. “That’s nothing,” I say.

“A plant like that would do very nicely in this garden of yours,” she says. “Full of anger and emotion.”

“But our garden isn’t full of anger and emotion,” I say. “It’s just a garden.”

“Everything’s full of anger and emotion,” Mrs Hansen says. “Remember when we looked at The Scream painting last month?”

“Not really.”

“That’s what you need to paint,” she says.

“What?”

“Paint your Scream.”

Those are her parting words. She drifts over to Lisa Meadows.

“We can’t really paint the sun, can we, dear? We can only really paint around the sun.”

After Mrs Hansen moves on, I hear Lisa whisper to her friend, “What the fuck does that mean?” so at least I know I’m not the only one.

*

I thought Harriet Hayes despised me, so it’s a surprise when she comes up to me in the library again. This time, she holds out a block of dark chocolate at me, her blue eyes unblinking. I assume she’s offering me some as an olive branch, so I snap off a square.

“Thank you,” I say.

“It’s brain food,” Harriet says, and takes a square for herself. She stands there, chewing thoughtfully. “Do you want me to explain imaginary numbers to you? Because I doubt Mr Jane really understands them himself, so if you were hoping he’d clarify it for you, think again.”

“Uh … well …”

Harriet takes my hesitation as affirmation. She sits down beside me and opens her own Calculus book. As expected, her work is immaculate. She never even goes out of the squares. To her credit, she is a good teacher. She explains things in a simpler way than Mr Jane. Mr Jane is always having to erase what he’s done and re-explaining it.

By the time the afternoon bell rings, I realise that I actually understand imaginary numbers. I’m also starting to find Calculus interesting, which will only cement my new geek status.

Chemistry’s my last class of the day, and it’s here that I discover I’ve accidentally put Harriet’s Calculus book in my bag. I’ll just give it to her tomorrow, I think, but then I see the big block writing on the front of her book.

Property of Harriet R. Hayes! If found, return immediately! It includes her phone number and address.

After school, I wait for her at the gate, but I don’t see her.

I must be scared of Harriet R. Hayes, because I head towards the address on the front of the book. Harriet lives in a small white house surrounded by enormous lavender bushes. Mum loves lavender, so I pluck a few sprigs for her, taking care not to bother the bees humming around.

I knock on the little white door and a big round man, who must be her father, answers. He resembles a friendly teddy bear.

“Good afternoon!” Mr Hayes has a big booming voice.

“Um, hi,” I mumble. “I go to school with Harriet Hayes. Um, is this her house?”

“These are her lodgings,” he intones, “but alas! The lady is not here. She plays the harpsichord most afternoons with her band of merry musicians!”

Harriet plays a harpsichord?

I hand over the Calculus book. “I took this by accident. I would’ve just given it back to her tomorrow, but – well, I thought she’d probably want it.”

Mr Hayes snatches the book and holds it to his chest as if it’s his most precious belonging. “Thank heavens! This house would’ve been burnt to the ground had it not been for your kindness!”

“Okay, well, bye …”

“Not so fast!” He grabs my hand and shakes it. His hands are big, pink and clammy. “We must reward you for your toils!”

“Oh, no, that’s okay, I—”

“You must join us at a feast! This Friday! Pray tell, what is your name, good sir?”

“Um, Richard, but, really, it’s no big deal.”

“Great name! King Richard the Third! Well, no, he was a deformed murderer. We shall call you Richard the Lionheart! I believe he was Richard the First – as are you! The First Richard to set foot in our humble abode. Well, actually, we do have a dear friend, Richard Lamble, but apart from him – you will be the First! Well, no, there’s Richard Chang, and Richard Murphy-Jones, and I think when Harriet was little, one of her babysitters shared your good name. So you’re the Fifth Richard. But, apart from all of them, this Friday – come over after school. We’re having a do. You must come. Is that understood and freely agreed to?”

“Yes, sure,” I say, just so I can get away. “Thanks.”

“Thank you, Richard the Fifth!” Mr Hayes says, and at last I’m able to get away with my life.

*

It’s not until I turn out of Harriet’s street that I realise what neighbourhood I’m in.

These are the same streets I followed the Red Woman down last week. Before I realise what I’m doing, I’m retracing my steps. I turn down her street and go right up to her house. The messy garden, the worm farm, the wind chimes.

I stand on the street, wondering why I’ve come here. I’m certainly not going to break in. Why would I? So why am I here?

The poor letterbox has snapped off its post and is resting on the fence. It looks like it hasn’t been emptied in a few days, with flyers and bills jammed into the slot.

I tug one of the envelopes out. It’s an electricity bill, addressed to Maggie Silver. So that’s her name, the Red Woman.

Maggie Silver.

I push the envelope back in, then head home as fast as I can.

*

Back at home, Vicky’s having a pre-dinner nap in my bed, and Mum’s in the kitchen with Cheryl, having already emptied an entire bottle of wine on their own. There’s African music playing, because Cheryl wants to go to Kenya next year.

I go straight into the study and go online. It doesn’t take me long to find Maggie Silver on the internet. Sure enough, she works at the hospital, as a counsellor. A nice caring woman, probably. There’s a photo of her, and it’s the first time I see her face properly. She’s pale and spotty. Well, freckly. Her hair is really, really red, and her smile takes up half her face.

I stare at her for a long time, trying to imagine a child that half-looks like Maggie Silver and half-looks like Dad. But it doesn’t work. I just end up imagining a baby with waist-length red hair.

I hunt Maggie Silver online for nearly an hour before Mum calls “Dinner!”

The last thing I want to eat is goulash. Luckily Vicky’s there to hoover up whatever I can’t.