Free Geek Charming by Robin Palmer Page A

be near her. One of the classic story lines in movies is this: boy meets girl. Boy and girl can’t stand each other. Boy and girl realize that, actually, they love each other. Boy and girl live happily ever after. I knew right away that Dylan and I were going to stay stuck in the can’t-stand-each-other phase of the movie rather than pass go and live happily ever after.
    On Wednesday afternoon at 1:45, Dylan sent me a text telling me that she had decided that she was willing to let me accompany her and the girls to Robertson Boulevard, which was a street with lots of expensive boutiques.
    But I have an allergist appointment, I texted back. My doctor was concerned about how often I used my inhaler and was always telling me it wasn’t an antianxiety aid, which bothered me to no end because I didn’t use it for anxiety—I had allergies. Could I help it if I had been born three weeks premature and my lungs never developed properly?
    OBVIOUSLY as much as u call yrself a FILMMAKER u don’t take it all that SERIOUSLY!!!! was the text I got back.
    Luckily I was able to reschedule the appointment, but I was starting to understand why so many directors were in such bad physical shape—when you were invested in a movie, it was all-consuming. Everything suffered: your health, your relationship. Luckily I didn’t have one of those, but if I did have a girlfriend—like, say, someone like Amy Loubalu—I bet she’d be very understanding and supportive about dating an artist.
    “Tell me again what this has to do with school and popularity,” I asked later as I trudged behind the girls on Robertson Boulevard trying to juggle their packages and my camera. I was on my own, as Steven’s mom wouldn’t let him skip his weekly weigh-in at Weight Watchers (he kept gaining instead of losing, which may have had something to do with the fact that he’d eat entire boxes of 100-calorie Chips Ahoy cookies instead of just one package). Ari had tryouts for the musical version of Macbeth (he was shy in a group, but when you put him onstage, he rocked).
    “As ambassadors of popularity, we owe it to everyone to look our best,” Dylan explained. “Omigod—this is my absolute favorite store!” she squealed for the third time in fifteen minutes, pointing to a place called Magique that had mannequins wearing ripped clothes that made them resemble the homeless ladies on Hollywood Boulevard.
    As the three of them ran inside, I followed, but not before the door smacked me in the face.
    “I bet no one treats Quentin like this,” I grumbled as I juggled the bags and the camera and I opened the door. Once inside I plopped down on an overstuffed chair and tried not to cringe from the techno music that was blaring through the speakers as the girls rifled through the clothing racks. I took out the camera and panned around the store. So this is where popular girls spend their afternoons. I felt like I had found the secret passage to the inner sanctum.
    “Are you with the paparazzi?” sniffed the salesgirl whose pale skin and dark lips made her look like Morticia from the classic TV show The Addams Family .
    “No. I’m a director,” I said proudly.
    Her snooty look was replaced by a smile. “Oh yeah? I just happen to have a copy of my headshot and acting reel in my bag.” She gave me what I guessed was supposed to be a sexy look, although it was more like she needed to go to the bathroom. “I’d love you to take a look when you have a moment.”
    “Oh. I’m not—I mean I’m still in high school. This is a documentary I’m doing to get into film school—”
    She walked away before I could even finish my sentence.
    Dylan came out of the dressing room wearing a dress that looked like a Hefty garbage bag with armholes. “Okay—you can start filming now.”
    With the camera in one hand, I used the other to reach into my pocket and pull out the list I had made during physics class entitled “Questions to Ask Popular People.” It was a little