The Geek and The Goddess Read online

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  The Geek

  and the Goddess

  By Allie Everhart

  The Geek and the Goddess

  By Allie Everhart

  Copyright © 2018 Allie Everhart

  All rights reserved.

  Published by Waltham Publishing, LLC

  Cover Design by Okay Creations

  This book is a work of fiction. The characters, things, and events are fictitious, and any similarities to real persons (live or dead), things, or events are coincidental and not intended by the author. Brand names of products mentioned in this book are used for reference only and the author acknowledges that any trademarks and product names are the property of their respective owners.

  The author holds exclusive rights to this work and unauthorized duplication is prohibited. No part of this book is to be reproduced in any form without written permission from the author.

  Chapter One

  Luna. Of latin origin. Name of the Roman goddess of the moon.

  Thinking of it that way, it sounds romantic. Majestic. Like the name of a woman with a beauty so rare that people stop what they're doing the moment they see her, amazed such beauty exists.

  When I imagine that Luna, I think of a woman with long flowing hair that's black as the night sky, eyes dark and deep as the ocean, and a tall lithe body that glides effortlessly across a room.

  Unfortunately...I am not that Luna. In fact, I'm pretty much the opposite. At five foot two, I'm what most people consider short. And unlike my mythical Luna, I'm not model thin. I'm not fat. I'm just average. My hair is mostly brown with a hint of red, which I tried to get rid of with a home coloring kit but it only brought out more of the red. It's long but not flowing. It's stick straight and constantly clings to the side of my face. Someone told me dryer sheets help and it's true, so I carry one around and run it through my hair throughout the day when no one is looking.

  I've come to terms with the fact my appearance is at best a seven but more likely a five. After all, it's normal for teens to go through an awkward stage. I'm just hoping mine ends soon because it's been going on forever.

  Ironically, when I was a kid, my appearance got me a job. I was a cute kid—so cute I was cast in a commercial. When I was in kindergarten, a talent agent came to our school and saw me and a few weeks later I was flown to New York to film a canned tuna commercial. I thought it was the start of a long career in show business but it turned out to be my one and only commercial. And it ended up ruining the rest of my childhood thanks to my stupid classmates and their stupid nickname.

  For the rest of elementary school I was called Luna the Tuna. To make matters worse, the tuna company gave my family a lifetime supply of canned tuna so my mom sent me to school with tuna fish sandwiches for lunch every day which made the nickname stick even more.

  By middle school, kids got meaner and gave me the nickname Luna the Lunatic because I freaked out during a school assembly when the power went out. The whole gym went dark except for the faint glow of the emergency lights by the exit doors. With my eye problems, I couldn't see a thing, which is bad because I hate the dark. Panicking, I got up from the bleachers, knowing the door to outside was just a few feet away. But I tripped going down the stairs, which led to me screaming in pain. Just then, the lights came on and everyone saw me lying there on the bleachers, my legs tangled in the stairs, my arms flailing around as I yelled for help. It happened the first week of seventh grade and resulted in a nickname that still haunts me.

  The name-calling hurt me back then, but now I tune out the insults and teasing and bury my head in my books, counting the days until I'm finally out of the hell that is high school. I'm a junior, which means I still have a lot of days to go. But this year, rather than focus on the number of days until I graduate, I've decided to count down the days until summer break. Today that number is 180. It's the first day of school so I have to endure 180 days here before summer break. It sounds insurmountable but I tell myself it'll go by quickly. It won't, but telling myself it will is the only way I'll get through the day.

  The first day of school is always the worst. New teachers. New classes. A new schedule to adjust to. New classrooms to find. I go to a big school with two levels and two separate buildings connected by an enclosed walkway. Finding the right classroom should be easy but it's not when you're visually impaired. It's hard enough to see the tiny number on the door when nobody's around, but it's nearly impossible when crowds of people are going in and out of the classroom, getting in the way of the number.

  "It's the next one," Stella says as she nudges my arm. "You have chem first, right?"

  "Yeah." I realize I've been standing in the middle of the hall not moving. I probably looked like a total freak, standing here when everyone else was bustling around me. I'm surprised someone didn't make some stupid remark and swing their backpack into me. Maybe the fact they didn't is a good sign. Maybe this year will be different.

  "Hey, Tuna," a voice calls out and my hope that things will be different is instantly crushed.

  I know exactly who said it, and when I look back, I see he's already halfway down the hall. He's the idiot who originally gave me the name and he refuses to give it up.

  His name is Hunter. Hunter Douglas, same name as the company that makes window treatments. Why on earth his parents named him that is beyond me. One would think naming a child after a major brand would be setting him up for nonstop teasing, but did that happen to Hunter? Of course not. He's been one of the most popular kids in class since kindergarten. Then again, kids don't know anything about window treatments so maybe that explains it. Maybe the name will hinder him later, when he's an adult and applying for jobs and nobody believes that's his real name so they toss out his resume and he never gets hired.

  It's possible but I doubt it'll happen. Hunter is one of those people who is blessed with good luck. He lives in a world of four leaf clovers while the rest of us can't even find one.

  "Ignore him," Stella says as she steers me through the crowded hall to the classroom. "He only says it because he's jealous you're so much smarter than him. I heard he flunked two classes last year."

  "If that were true, they wouldn't have let him move on to the next grade."

  "They only let him because he plays football. Everyone knows the teachers bump up his grades so he can play."

  I shrug. "Whatever. I don't care."

  Actually I DO care because it's not fair that someone like Hunter gets to breeze through high school without even having to open a book while I'm working my butt off to get average grades.

  School used to be easy for me, but then my vision started to get bad and it became harder to do my homework. The past couple years, my grades have been slipping from all A's to A'
s and B's and the occasional C. Before my diagnosis, that freaked me out, but now? I honestly don't care. Given where my vision is headed, what's the point of putting in all that effort to get good grades?

  "Do I really have to do this?" I ask.

  "Do what?"

  "Go to class. I'm thinking retirement sounds pretty good right now."

  "You have to work before you can retire, and you have to finish school before you can work, so yes, you have to go to class." She stops at the classroom door. "It's this one." She glances inside. "Ooh! You got Mr. Henderson. He's awesome."

  "He's not awesome. You're only saying that because you think he's cute."

  "He IS cute, but he's also an awesome teacher. And he never gives pop quizzes. He hated them back when he was is in school so he refuses to give them to his classes."

  Three girls file past us into the room.

  "I better go find a seat," I say.

  "Yeah, I have to get to English. It's in the other building. I'm going to have to run to make it there in time. See ya later!"

  "Bye!" I watch her race down the hall. The bell's about to go off. She's not going to make it in time.

  She wouldn't be late if it weren't for me. I keep telling her I don't need her help but she doesn't listen. She's my best friend and I love her but sometimes I wish she wouldn't treat me like this. She acts like I'm sick but I'm not not. I just have a condition that affects my eyes. I've always had it but didn't know it until last year. Before I was diagnosed Stella treated me normally, but after the diagnosis our friendship changed. She started watching me, following me, holding onto my arm as I walked. She thinks she's helping but she's making it worse. Treating me differently is just a constant reminder that something is wrong with me.

  "Luna," I hear a man say as the bell goes off. I turn and see Mr. Henderson walking toward me. "You need to take a seat."

  I nod, and wait for him to direct me where to go. All the teachers know about my declining vision and treat me differently because of it. Last year on the first day of class, every teacher directed me to sit in the front row, where they had an open seat waiting for me. They didn't understand I don't need to be in the front row. The second or third is just fine. I'm not blind. I don't even wear glasses. I can read things up close or far away. It's the other parts of my vision that are a problem, like my ability to see in different types of lighting. The classroom lighting is very bright and creates a glare depending on where I sit, making it hard for me to see. Right now, it's not that bad but the doctors says it'll get worse over time. And I can't see at all in the dark. I haven't been able to for years.

  And then there's my peripheral vision, which is getting more impaired as I get older. I noticed the change a couple years ago. Last year I finally told my parents. That's when I ended up at the eye doctor and got my diagnosis. It's at the point now where I can't see what's on either side of me. It's like walking around with blinders on.

  Glancing in the classroom, I see the room is full, including the front row. Since this is chemistry class, there aren't desks but tall tables with stools around them.

  "Where do you want me to sit?" I ask Mr. Henderson.

  "Wherever you want, although I think the only seats left are in the back."

  In the back? I've never sat in the back. I've always wanted to because it seems like something the cool kids do, but I'm not one of those kids so I've always sat near the front, even before my vision problems began.

  "Could you go sit down?" he asks. "I need to close the door."

  I look at him a moment. He is good looking. Tall with dark swooped-back hair. But he's also old, probably almost forty, so way too old for Stella to have a crush on, although she does like older men. Her boyfriend's 18.

  Making my way to the back of the room, I see two open stools at the very last table, which is wedged between an old desk and a white board that's sitting on an easel. I'm guessing that's why nobody wanted this spot. It's cramped and so far away from the front that even someone with perfect vision couldn't see the board. Why didn't Mr. Henderson reserve me a spot up front like every other teacher does?

  "Quiet down," I hear him say from the front of the room. At least I can hear him. He has a loud deep voice that carries. "For those who might have ended up in the wrong room, this is Introductory Chemistry. If that's not what you're here for, feel free to go."

  Nobody moves.

  "Alrighty then. Let's begin." He walks to the back of the room, stopping right beside me. He goes to the rusty metal desk that's next to my table and pulls out a green marker. Then he goes to the white board and starts writing.

  "Aren't you going to call names?" Jolene asks. She moved here last year from Atlanta. She's all about rules and gets upset when they're not followed.

  "No, Jolene, I'm not," Henderson says, as he continues to write. He didn't even see who asked the question. He just knew.

  "But attendance is mandatory and if someone—"

  "Doesn't want to attend," he says, finishing her statement as he faces the class, "they shouldn't have to. I only want people here that want to be here. People who want to learn. If someone chooses to squander the opportunity for an education, that's their choice." He smiles. "Now I'd like everyone to look at the person next to him or her and introduce yourself. This person will be your lab partner. You'll do the experiments together and will need to meet outside of class to do the homework assignments."

  Someone must've raised their hand because Mr. Henderson says, "Go ahead."

  "Can we change seats?" a girl asks.

  "No. Where you're sitting now is where you'll remain. I'll give you a moment to meet your lab partner." He turns back to the white board where he's scribbling down equations.

  I hear people mumbling and some groans from people who obviously don't like their partners. At least they have one. I'm stuck all alone. I'll have to do all the work myself.

  As if he heard my thoughts, Mr. Henderson says to me, "Your partner will be here shortly. He got hung up in the office, filling out paperwork."

  "He's new?" I ask.

  Henderson doesn't answer and just continues writing on the board.

  I look back at the class. Everyone's either talking or doing stuff on their phones. Then a guy appears at the door. He looks back at it, like he's double-checking the room number, then says something to a girl up front. She nods and he closes the door.

  Everyone looks up and stares at him. He's tall and thin, wearing jeans and a button-up white shirt with a blue blazer over it. And he has on a tie that's blue and green plaid.

  Who dresses like that for class? A blazer and a tie? Maybe he transferred here from a prep school.

  "Greetings, earthlings," he says in a deep voice. He smiles and a few people chuckle.

  "Wesley," Mr. Henderson says. "Welcome."

  "Thank you," he says in a cheery tone, not seeming to care that people are staring at him.

  "We have a seat for you back here," Henderson says.

  The new guy sees me and smiles. "Guess it's my lucky day."

  Lucky day? What is he talking about?

  Everyone watches as he makes his way to the back. As he approaches my table, I notice he's carrying a briefcase. Like one of those hard covered briefcases men used to carry to work. He sets it down and opens the metal hinges. The briefcase pops open and inside is his laptop, a notebook, and some pens. He takes out the laptop, then closes the briefcase.

  "Everyone, this is Wesley Deckle," Mr. Henderson says. "He moved here last summer from Sacramento, California. Please welcome him to Wisconsin by introducing yourselves after class." He walks over to his desk. "I want phones put away and books out. We'll begin shortly."

  Wesley holds out his hand to me and smiles. "Hi. I'm Wesley. And you are?"

  "Luna," I say as I get a better look at his face. He's kind of cute. His eyes are a swirly mix of blue that reminds me of those pictures of Earth taken from space. He has dark brown hair that's a little long with curly waves that make it look
messy but in a good way. And he has good skin. Not a single zit, which is rare for people our age.

  "Luna," he repeats, and I wait for him to follow that with whatever rude comment he's going to make about my unusual name. But instead he says, "That's the coolest name ever."

  I stare at him, skeptical of his words. It's quite possible he's being sarcastic. He looks like someone who uses sarcasm.

  "Are you being serious?" I ask.

  "Luna. Roman goddess of the moon," he says, smiling. "You were named after a goddess. That's cool, don't you think?"

  "Not really." I look away from him. "I've never liked my name."

  "Why don't you like it?"

  "Let's start by reviewing the syllabus," Mr. Henderson says.

  I open my laptop, not answering Wesley's question. Because answering it means telling him the history of my name and how it's been used to tease me, ridicule me, make me an outcast. There's no need to explain all that. He'll find that out soon enough.

  Chapter Two

  When class is almost over, Mr. Henderson says, "I want you all to take a few minutes to review the assignments with your partner and discuss how you'll be getting the work done. Keep in mind I expect you and your partner to share the workload. I don't want it done by one person. If I find out that's happening, your grade will suffer." He walks to the front of the room and sits down at his desk, which is newer and nicer than the rusty one at the back of the room.

  "What do you think?" Wesley turns his laptop toward me, showing me a spreadsheet.

  "What's that?"

  "Our assignments and labs. I put them in a spreadsheet so we could keep track of them better. If you're good with it, I'll upload it on a shared drive so you can access it and update it as needed."

  I point to it. "You made that during class?"

  "Yeah. Why?"

  "I just didn't notice you doing it." I didn't notice because he's beside me and I have no peripheral vision. But I'm not telling him that. I don't want my classmates knowing about my eye condition. Only the teachers know. And Stella, but I made her promise not to tell anyone.