Self-Portraits - 4. A Complete Geek

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

I mumble something that isn’t quite a yes or a no. I know she’s trying to help, but the prospect of another lunch with her loud Year 10 friends is too awful, and pity-friends are worse than no friends at all.

As I pass through the school gates, I look around for Nicholas, out of habit. I don’t see him, but I do see the waiter from Sizzler’s, Stu. With his white-blonde hair and earring, he looks like a time-traveller from the future. His unusual appearance hasn’t stopped him making friends. There’s a group of kids standing around him, inspecting his piercing with interest. He’s made more friends in five minutes than I have in three 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. I put my hand up to answer questions almost as often as Harriet Hayes. This bothers her even more than me blocking the path.

She approaches me in the library at lunchtime.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Harriet glares at me through her glasses, arms crossed.

“Uh, my Calculus homework,” I say.

“You’ve read ahead in English.” She cranes her neck to look at what I’m doing. “And now you’ve got your book open to next week’s Calculus chapter.”

I try to cover my work with my hand but she slaps it away and sits down. I’ve never seen her up close before. She has a pointy nose, round glasses, and a straight black fringe. Her hairdresser must use a ruler. Up close, I notice that her eyes are green, and she smells like lavender.

“You’re never going to solve equations correctly if you keep drawing in your Calculus book.” She taps a finger at the bottom of my page, where I’ve sketched a dinosaur-human hybrid. “That looks like a tanystropheus with the head of a man.” Of course Harriet Hayes would know what a tanystropheus is. “But look, you’re getting imaginary numbers all wrong. The whole point of imaginary numbers is that they’re imaginary. The square root of negative one doesn’t exist. Think about it in reverse: if you square negative integers, they’ll always be positive. Get it?”

“Um …”

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

“Stick to drawing,” 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 grins. “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, like something out of a movie! Some of these buildings are like tiny castles. And you don’t just have a regular old school dance, you call it a Ball. But I love it. Everyone’s way nicer than my last school. Hey, I can’t remember your name. Can I just call you Sizzler Boy?”

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

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

“I don’t know,” I say. Right now, I spend weekends with my mother. “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. “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?” Lisa is the most beautiful and popular girl at Crampton; 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 gently punches my shoulder again, “see you tomorrow, Sizzler Boy!”

As Stu jogs away, I realise I still haven’t told him my name. I can’t even introduce myself. No wonder I can’t make friends.

*

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, so hopefully she’ll think twice before sticking her nose in my business during lunchtime again.

Then, in English, I accidentally mention Dora Spenlow, so Ms Bristol deduces that I’ve read ahead.

“We’re only discussing Chapter 9,” she says.

Darren Park coughs “Nerd!” and everyone laughs. I overheard him gloating that he hasn’t even opened the book yet. I go red, but that’s okay. My face is permanently red these days.

The only class I don’t do well in is Art. The assignment was drawing the natural environment. When Mum and I got home from our walk on Sunday, I sat by the living room window and sketched the garden. I thought I did a good job. It looks exactly like our garden, dark and jungly, full of overlapping shadows, but Mrs Hansen is unimpressed.

“Your technique is adequate, especially in this corner.” She points a lime-green fingernail. “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 say.

“Oh, there’s always something else. Take your work last week ...” Mrs Hansen flicks back through my sketchbook. “Now, this was interesting.”

At first, I don’t know what I’m looking at. I’ve never seen this drawing in my life. But then I realise this is what I drew last Thursday, half-asleep during free association. It’s Mum, Dad, Vicky and me, at the dinner table on Wednesday night – only it looks like something out of a horror movie. My earlobes are melting onto my shoulders. Mum’s jaw is drooping onto her plate. Vicky’s eyes are oozing out of their sockets. And as for Dad, there’s nothing above his shoulders. His entire head has melted.

Embarrassed, I flick back to my garden drawing.

“A melting family,” Mrs Hansen says. “Disturbing, nauseating, and real. I wanted to see something like this family hiding in your garden. Something showing 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 term?”

“Sort of.”

“That’s what your melting family made me think of,” she says. “That’s what you need to tap into.”

“What?”

“Paint your Scream.”

“You asked us to paint a natural environment,” I point out, but she’s already drifted over to Lisa Meadows.

“A slight improvement, my dear,” Mrs Hansen says, “but we can’t really paint the sun, can we, dear? We can only really paint around the sun.”

After Mrs Hansen’s moved on, I hear Lisa whisper to her friend Carrie, “What the fuck does that mean?”

So at least I’m not the only one.

*

Harriet Hayes approaches me in the library again. My heart sinks, expecting her to make fun of my Calculus homework. But, to my surprise, she holds out a block of dark chocolate, her green eyes unblinking.

“Um, thanks.” I snap off a square but hesitate before putting it in my mouth. What if Harriet’s trying to poison me, so she can get the library to herself at lunchtimes again?

“Dark chocolate contains a high proportion of cocoa flavonoids,” she says, taking a square for herself. “They contain antioxidants that promote neuronal growth.”

If I didn’t know that Harriet Hayes is a genius, I’d think she’s making up at least two of those words.

She sucks on the chocolate square thoughtfully, so I figure it’s safe to do the same. At first it tastes bitter but then I can taste coffee, then nutmeg, then vanilla.

“So, did you want me to explain imaginary numbers to you properly? Because, between you and me, I don’t think Mr Jane understands them at all, so if you were hoping he’d provide clarification, think again.”

“Uh … well …”

Harriet takes my hesitation as confirmation. She sits down beside me and yanks my Calculus book away from me. I start to object but she shushes me, flicking back through the pages, scanning my work.

“Wrong,” she mutters. “Wrong, wrong, wrong. As I expected, you’ve got this completely wrong.”

My face burns. Who does she think she is?

Then she says, “This is good,” and I’m hopeful for a second, but she’s found another doodle I’ve made between equations. This time, it’s a picture of a hurricane, pulling up trees, houses, farm animals, pieces of fence. On the ground, people are recording it with their phones.

“You’re a good artist,” she says. She slides my Calculus book back to me, then opens her own to show me.

As expected, her work is immaculate. And to her credit, she is a good teacher. She explains things in a simpler way than Mr Jane. Mr Jane often realises he’s made an error halfway through an equation, then erases what he’s done and starts over.

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 geeky status.

Chemistry’s my last class of the day. The science lab is so cold that, even though we’re not using the Bunsen burners today, Dr Monagle lets us turn them on for warmth if we promise to be careful. Of course, that only lasts about two minutes, because Darren Park pretends to set Lisa Meadow’s textbook on fire, and she screams at him, so Dr Monagle makes us all turn them off. We sit in the cold lab and finish the chapter on diatomic molecules.

At the end of the class, I notice there’s an extra book in my backpack. I wriggle it out and see that it’s Harriet’s Calculus book. I figure I’ll just give it to her tomorrow but then I see the big black writing on the front.

Property of Harriet Hayes! If found, return immediately! It includes her home address.

I wait for her at the front gates, but she doesn’t come past.

I must be scared of Harriet, because I find myself heading towards the address on the front of the book. I know the street – at least it’s not far. Harriet lives in a 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 white door. A man resembling a big teddy bear answers.

“Good afternoon!” he says in 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, “and I am her father! But alas! The lady is not here. She tinkles the ivories most afternoons!”

I’m sure I misheard. “Tinkles the ...?”

“The ivories!” Mr Hayes wiggles his fingers up and down an invisible piano.

I can totally imagine Harriet playing a piano. She’s exactly the sort of person who would love practising scales for hours, with a metronome keeping her in perfect time.

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 and pink. “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 Richard the Fifth. But I digress. This Friday – come over after school. We’re having a feast. You must come. Is that understood and freely agreed to?”

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

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

*

At the end of Harriet’s street, I realise what neighbourhood I’m in. These are the same streets I followed Dad’s girlfriend down last week.

Before I know what I’m doing, I start retracing my steps. I walk down her street until I’m standing right outside her house again. I look at the messy front garden, the worm farm, the wind chimes, and wonder why I’ve come back. Is it just to see if Dad’s actually living here?

The poor letterbox has snapped off its post and is resting on the brick fence. A few envelopes and flyers are jammed into the slot.

I pull out one of the envelopes. An electricity bill, addressed to Maggie da Silva. So that’s her name.

Maggie da Silva.

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 consumed half a bottle of wine between them. Mum’s squinting at a goulash recipe on her phone and Cheryl’s found a Hungarian playlist on Spotify, because (Cheryl tells me) they’ve literally just decided to take a trip to Hungary next year.

I give Mum the squashed bunch of lavender and she acts like it’s the nicest gift she’s ever received. Cheryl shudders and declares, “Oh, I despise lavender.”

I leave them to their wine and Hungary-planning. I curl up on a couch in the living room with my phone, to look up Maggie da Silva. Sure enough, she works at the same hospital as Dad, as a counsellor. 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 smile takes up half her face. I stare at her for a long time, trying to imagine a child that half-looks like Maggie da Silva and half-looks like Dad. I just end up imagining a baby with waist-length red hair.

For a while, I search for any information about Maggie da Silva. Apart from the hospital website, the only thing I find is something she posted in an online forum about worm farms. She asked about soil monitors and limestone pellets. She used a lot of smiley faces and exclamation points.

One hand, she looks like a nice woman. Maybe I would like her.

On the other hand, she broke up my parents’ marriage.

At one minute to six, Mum calls, “Dinner!”

I go into the kitchen feeling like a complete traitor. I shouldn’t be researching Dad’s girlfriend. The whole thing makes me feel sick. The last thing I feel like eating is goulash. Luckily Vicky’s there to hoover up whatever I can’t.