Holly Smale - Box of Geek - Geek Girl / Model Misfit / Picture Perfect

GEEK GIRL 1-3 BOOK COLLECTION

Geek Girl

Model Misfit

Picture Perfect

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Harriet Manners knows many things. But she knows nothing about being a glittering supermodel success

And dont miss this brand-new winter special!

A special new Geek Girl story about Harriet and Nicks romance!

Look out for the fifth book in the Geek Girl series. Coming soon

Has Geek Girl overstepped the mark, and is following the rules going to break hearts all over again?

For my grandad. My favourite geek.

Contents

geek /gi:k/h noun informal, chiefly N. Amer.

an unfashionable or socially inept person.

an obsessive enthusiast.

a person who feels the need to look up the word geek in the dictionary.

DERIVATIVES geeky adjective.

ORIGIN from the related English dialect word geck fool.

y name is Harriet Manners, and I am a geek.

I know Im a geek because Ive just looked it up in the Oxford English Dictionary . I drew a little tick next to all the symptoms I recognise, and I appear to have them all. Which and I should be perfectly honest here hasnt come as an enormous surprise. The fact that I have an Oxford English Dictionary on my bedside table anyway should have been one clue. That I keep a Natural History Museum pencil and ruler next to it so that I can neatly underline interesting entries should have been another.

Oh, and then theres the word GEEK , drawn in red marker pen on the outside pocket of my school satchel. That was done yesterday.

I didnt do it, obviously. If I did decide to deface my own property, Id choose a poignant line from a really good book, or an interesting fact not many people know. And I definitely wouldnt do it in red. Id do it in black, or blue, or perhaps green. Im not a big fan of the colour red, even if it is the longest wavelength of light discernible by the human eye.

To be absolutely candid with you, I dont actually know who decided to write on my bag although I have my suspicions but I can tell you that their writing is almost illegible. They clearly werent listening during our English lesson last week when we were told that handwriting is a very important Expression of the Self. Which is quite lucky because if I can just find a similar shade of pen, I might be able to slip in the letter R in between G and E . I can pretend that its a reference to my interest in ancient history and feta cheese.

I prefer Cheddar, but nobody has to know that.

Anyway, the point is: as my satchel, the anonymous vandal and the Oxford English Dictionary appear to agree with each other, I can only conclude that I am, in fact, a geek.

Did you know that in the old days the word geek was used to describe a carnival performer who bit the head off a live chicken or snake or bat as part of their stage act?

Exactly. Only a geek would know a thing like that.

I think its what they call ironic.

ow that you know who I am, youre going to want to know where I am and what Im doing, right? Character, action and location: thats what makes a story. I read it in a book called What Makes a Story , written by a man who hasnt got any stories at the moment, but knows exactly how hell tell them when he eventually does.

So.

Its currently December, Im in bed tucked under about fourteen covers and Im not doing anything at all apart from getting warmer by the second. In fact, I dont want to alarm you or anything, but I think I might be really sick. My hands are clammy, my stomachs churning and Im significantly paler than I was ten minutes ago. Plus, theres what can only be described as a sort of rash on my face. Little red spots scattered at totally random and not at all symmetrical points on my cheeks and forehead. With a big one on my chin. And one just next to my left ear.

I take another look in the little hand-held mirror on my bedside table, and then sigh as loudly as I can. Theres no doubt about it: Im clearly very ill. It would be wrong to risk spreading this dangerous infection to other, possibly less hardy, immune systems. I shall just have to battle through this illness alone.

All day. Without going anywhere at all.

Sniffling, I shuffle under my duvets a little further and look at my clock on the opposite wall (its very clever: all the numbers are painted at the bottom as if theyve just fallen down, although this does mean that when Im in a hurry, I have to sort of guess what the time is). Then I close my eyes and mentally count:

10, 9, 8, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2

At which point, absolutely on cue as always, the door opens and the room explodes: hair and handbag and coat and arms everywhere. Like a sort of girl bomb. And there, as if by very punctual magic, is Nat.

Nat for the record is my Best Friend, and we are so utterly in tune that its like we have one brain, divided into two pieces at birth. Or (more likely) two brains, entwined shortly afterwards. Although we didnt meet until we were five years old, so obviously Im speaking metaphorically or wed both be dead.

What Im trying to say is: were close. Were harmonised. Were one and the same. Were like a perfect stream of consciousness, with never a cross word between us. We work with perfect, unquestioning synergy. Like two dolphins that jump at exactly the same time and pass the ball to each other at Sea World.

Anyway. Nat takes one step into the room, looks at me, and then stops and puts her hands on her hips.

Good morning, I croak from under the covers, and then I start coughing violently. Human coughs release air at roughly 60mph, and without being vain, Id like to think that mine reaches 65mph or 70mph minimum.

Dont even think about it, Nat snaps.

I stop coughing and look at her with my roundest, most confused eyes. Hmmm? I say innocently. And then I start coughing again.

I mean it. Dont even think about thinking about it.

I have no idea what shes talking about. The fever must be making my brain swell.

Nat, I say feebly, closing my eyes and pressing my hand against my head. Im a shell of the person I used to be. A husk. I have bad news. I open one eye and take a peek round the room. Nat still has her hands on her hips.

Let me guess, she says in a dry voice. Youre sick.

I give a weak but courageous smile: the sort Jane gives Lizzie in Pride and Prejudice when shes bedridden with a really bad cold, but is being very brave about it. You know me so well, I say affectionately. Its like we have one mind, Nat.

And youre out of it if you think Im not about to drag you out of bed by your feet. Nat takes a few steps towards me. Also, I want my lipstick back, she adds.