CHAPTER 4: CLOSE ENCOUNTER OF THE NERD KIND

Pausing in my tailing of the girl at a crossroad between two hallways and a staircase, I cast a rapid glance in each direction and sniff the air before taking a resolute turn left, ignoring the stairs. Those lead to the canteen kitchen by the way. That’s why it stinks here. The stuff they serve at this school’s canteen is the same to cooking than what this building is to architecture.

Murder.

I’d rather eat my Friskies sandwiches. 

…What? You thought I was tracking Miss Turtleneck by scent?

What do you take me for, a dog?

…

I don’t need to track her anyway. I’ve got my idea of where the girl is heading to. There’re only so many locations where someone would go instead of class—while still bothering to come to school. And if my first impression of the girl is correct, there’s only one place where I’m likely to find her.

…

……

………

The library.

“Dun. Dun. Duuuuuuun.”

Did you just say that out loud?

You heard nothing.

Now. I have a destination—which is all well and good—but getting to that library from where I presently am can be a little tricky. It’s easy to get lost in the maze created by the dozens of “renovations” committed against this building.

Fortunately, I’m inquisitive by nature. From day one of the last term, this place has tickled my fancy for exploring. Several months of randomly wandering the premises of this insult to buildinghood have drawn a pretty accurate map of it inside my mind. In no time, I have devised the fastest route to my target.

Pivoting, I turn down another corridor. Here, the walls look like they are melting into the linoleum floor. It’s…an…acquired taste? The mixture of purple and green is a nice touch I’d say.

At least it is as long as you’re not prone to nausea.

A door to my left leads me into another hallway.

Soon I reach the lobby. There, I spot the elderly janitor busy repairing an even older radiator. I’m convinced the man is the only reason we still have heating in this school.

No doubt hearing my footsteps, the man looks up and casts me a puzzled glance. I respond by successively lifting one hand horizontally at about chest level, miming glasses, and raising both palms up horizontally in a “don’t know” gesture. He smiles in understanding and points at a spiral staircase rising in a corner of the room, which confirms my hypothesis—that’s where I was going.

I shoot him two thumbs up and take off in that direction.

Always befriend the staff. “Mwahahahaha—cough-cough…Ugh. No evil laughs.”

As per my habit, I climb the steps two by two. This stair—in the purest Saint Rose style—only links the ground level to floor one and three, completely disregarding the existence of  a second floor because…reasons…I suppose.

There’s actually a door on floor two, but it’s condemned with cement. Don’t ask me why. You can also reach the cemented doorframe from the other side so it’s not like there’s any logic behind this. As for the library, it’s on the third and top floor—well, “top” floor. The west wing actually has four floors, and the south wing five and a half. But let’s leave that aside for now.

At the top of the stairs, I enter an absurdly narrow passageway decorated with pink flowers and sculpted bird heads, and finally I reach my destination.

The library.

…as it is written on a metal tag nailed to the door. If I’m correct, Turtleneck Girl should be in here somewhere. “Mwahahahahaha—cough! Hahaha. Soon! Soon, you will be mine!

…or something.

You have issues.

Being told so by a voice in my head isn’t helping.

Grinning madly, I push the door open and I tiptoe inside with all the silent grace of a stealthy hunter…or a very, very evil ballerina. DO NOT UNDERESTIMATE BALLERINAS!! They can stand on the tips of their feet. That is not normal.

I stop briefly by a desk at the entrance and nod a greeting at the library employee sitting behind said desk. The smile he returns me looks a bit cramped, but who cares? I continue my deft skulking. Politeness is free of charge and always a good investment—remember this, kids. From behind, I hear a soft whisper sounding like “ooo-kaaay”, but I ignore it.

The library is divided into two sections. The first one is more of a computer and self-study room. A short hallway opens left and right to ten alcoves, five of which contain eight computers each and five others only which contain tables and chairs. A couple of printers are in here somewhere too if I remember correctly.

My interest lies in the second section, and so I quickly make my way towards a door at the end of the hallway. I only briefly check the alcoves as I pass by. As expected she’s in none of them. Found those printers, though.

The door I stop in front of is old and heavy, and made of wood—and I suppose rarely used. I bet most of the students don’t even know—or care—that this library has a second room. Even though it’s not hidden or anything, but the content wouldn’t interest most young adults, not in this day and age where every possible information is available on the internet.

Then why do I think my target came here?

Simple.

If you’re looking for a cook, you go to the kitchen. If you’re looking for a frog, chances are you’ll find one in the nearest pond. If your quarry is a bespectacled, cute but creepy, timid and skittish nerdy girl with OCD, a place with books is your safest bet.

Baseless assumptions? Certainly. But clichés exist for a reason, don’t they?

That’s racist.

How?!

Jokes aside, every time I come here I feel a sort of reverence. A bit like when I explore old forgotten ruins inside Untold Tales. There’s this…weight to ancient things. If you ever entered an old library or a museum, you’ve probably noticed people start whispering for apparently no reason, as if speaking too loudly would rouse some angry being of yore. Like you’re intruding somewhere bigger than yourself.

Taking a deep breath, I solemnly push the door and…nothing happens. I push stronger, but to no avail. The door refuses to budge.

IT'S A CURSE!!

Pull, you moron.

…

……

………

Right. Pull. Silly me.

Idiot.

Taking a deep breath, I solemnly pull the heavy door. My eyes are half-closed, as I almost expect blinding heavenly light to surge out.

You’ve got such a vivid imagination.

Thank you.

It wasn’t a compliment.

However, witnessing no such divine phenomenon, I step through the frame, carefully closing the door behind me.

And hither I behold, scores of shelves, heavy with hoary dense volumes fashioned out of genuine paper. Such a wondrous sight.

Although a little pointless.

I bet you can take any of these books, google its references and find a version in PDF or EPUB format.

Not so dreamy, but that’s the modern world for you. You’re grateful for the convenience when you’re not busy wallowing in the nostalgia of an era ended way before your own birth. Or maybe that’s just how I feel.

This part of the library, albeit not that large, is pretty much the only portion of this absurd building having escaped the renovation madness—and the only portion to still hold the charm of age. The floorboard creak under my feet as I calmly walk further inside, finding a strange sense of contentment in being surrounded with wooden furniture, without a single flashy colour or repulsive plastic sculpture in sight.

Idly looking around, I’m almost surprised not to catch sight of a wizened, wizardly, white-bearded old man hunched over a huge grimoire and slowly dipping a large quill into ink. There’s a grandfather clock standing along a wall, but its hands and pendulum are still. An apt metaphor, as time seems to have indeed stilted inside this room. The only movement comes from speckles of dust floating sluggishly through rays of light pouring from the windows. The silence is close to oppressive, but not in a bad way. More like a heavy but soft blanket.

The faint, characteristic sound of paper rubbing against paper snaps me out of my contemplative daze. I was right. Someone’s in here.

Leaving it to my ears to guide me, I quietly move in direction of the noise. I know there is an area at the centre of this room with tables that students can use to read and study. The noises seem to be coming from there.

I am about to step out from behind a bookshelf and into that central space—when I suddenly stop and take a step back. I can definitely hear someone turning pages, but if this is indeed the girl, I don’t want to startle her—again—and have her running away—again. Once is enough for me.

Turning to the shelf on my left, I bend down and peer between two books, namely Einstein’s “Relativity: The Special and the General Theory” and “On the Origin of Species by Means of Natural Selection, or the Preservation of Favoured Races in the Struggle for Life” by Charles Darwin. I need to have a word with whoever is in charge of sorting the books in this place. Those two shouldn’t have ended up side-by-side. And, seriously Charlie, that title is waaaaaay too long. Also, why even keep a book on zoology in a polytech institute? It’s just odd.

As usual, my thoughts are firing off in every direction they feel pertinent. However, as soon as my gaze falls on the profile of the girl I’ve been looking for, my mind quiets down.

There she is.

She certainly is. And I also wasn’t mistaken earlier, in class. This is indeed the same girl who gave me the empty-eyes-silent-creepy-smile-and-running-away-screaming-for-no-apparent-reason treatment a few days ago at Tommy’s Record Store.

I recognise this small and slim frame, those shoulder-length silken black hairs and long bangs covering her forehead, and these precise and fast gestures as she turns pages. Her efficient movements already struck me the first time I saw her. Or maybe it was the fact she was nervously reorganising the shelves of the store by alphabetical order. Either way, she left a distinct mark in my memory—which knowing me is no mean feat.

Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

I can’t burn you if you do it yourself, you know?

Then don’t.

The outdated grey turtleneck and faded pair of jeans she is wearing are also the same as that time. Does she have a wardrobe full of identical outfits or something? That’d be weird.

Awesome, but weird.

One notable difference, however, is that her thick rectangular glasses are off. Underneath, she has pure hazel eyes, I notice. It’s a pretty shade. I don’t think I ever saw anyone with quite that eye colour. And her eyelashes sure are long. She blinks. Her eyes move left and right as she reads through the voluminous tome she’s holding. She turns another page. That’s one fast reading speed she’s got there. I’m jealous.

Now that I think about it, she removed her glasses to read? That sounds counter-intuitive…

Maybe she’s short-sighted?

Well, she’s sure quite a short sight. Hehehehe…

That joke was awful.

I don’t care. It’s out and I’m proud.

That’s not how it works…

Like that time at the record shop, she’s smiling absently—like lost in her own little universe.

Back then, I thought her vacant smile was rather creepy, but right now I don’t feel the same for some reason—well, no. Okay. I do. I still find it a bit creepy, but at the same time, I can see the quiet joy it contains, and unconsciously, I find myself mirroring it.

There’s just something picturesque in this scene, this tiny girl, dressed in old-fashioned clothes, reading by herself in the middle of a—mostly—deserted library, surrounded by old dusty books and silence. She appears like she belongs to another reality, so it only makes sense for her to look lost in a separate world.

That she isn’t staring right through me is probably helping too. That was seriously disturbing. Or maybe I’m developing a fetish for cutely creepy girls. Who knows? I’ve been thinking for a while that I need to seriously re-evaluate my preferences.

If you know your enemies and know yourself, you will not be imperilled in a hundred battles. If you do not know your enemies nor yourself, you will be imperilled in every single battle.

…Why Sun Tzu?

Beats me.

Alright. Enough of that. I’ve found her. So…what do I do now?

…

……

………

Good question, isn’t it?

I really should start planning a bit more ahead.

Yep. Look at you. You’ve stalked a girl who’s maybe half your body mass in a secluded place where both of you are alone together. Who’s creepy now?

Me, a stalker? Naaah…am I? Argh. What am I turning into?—No. Wait. I don’t think I want the answer to that one.

So, more concretely, how does one goes about talking to a girl in this situation? I can’t remain hidden behind this bookshelf forever. Grrrr. Damn you, my lack of social proactivity!

That’s what you get for being a recluse jerk these past few years.

Okay…I could probably just walk up to her and strike up a conversation. But wouldn’t that be unnatural? People who frequent this part of the library usually do it for the quiet. They wouldn’t talk to each other. Or would they? Something like “Hey, do you come here often? It’s my first time. I didn’t even know our school had a library! Hahahaha.” Hahaha. Nope. Waaaay too forced. I don’t want her to think I’m a suspicious person.

I’m not.

…

……

………

I’M REALL NOT!!

...sigh. When did my life turn into a shoujo manga?

Are you the girl with a crush in this setting?

Hahaha. Notice me senpai—NO!!

First of all, let’s assess this situation. Who is she exactly? Is she a student? Considering she came to talk to Mrs Givre before our class, is she a freshman too, like me? How come I never noticed her before?

Oh! Oh! I know that one. You never paid attention.

I’m good at ignoring people.

…and he’s proud…

Well, no use dwelling on it too much. I’ve as much right as her to be here. Why would I feel embarrassed at all? Hah! Right. There’s no reason.

My mind made, I finally step out of my improvised peeping spot—I mean hiding place—I mean, from behind the bookshelf, and I walk up to the girl. If she notices my approach, she shows no sign of it. I take the chair next to her and she still doesn’t react. She really does seem disconnected from reality. Or maybe her focus power is just too great? Hahaha. Being too focused. That’s not something I can understand.

“Err… Hello?” is my tentative greeting.

Again, it elicits no reaction from the strange creature.

After one long and lonely minute of increasingly awkward silence, waiting for her reply, I try poking her shoulder.

*poke*

Well, that makes her react. In fact, I don’t think a lightning bolt would have had much more of an effect. Her whole body suddenly tenses and her head jerks up like a startled small animal. It’s kind of cute.

Finally, she turns in my direction.

“Hello?” I repeat. “We meet again.” Not willing to end it there, I add, “So, in the end, did you remember to go back to the shop and pay for that record?” Not the best opener, I know. But it’s still better than my first choice: “I’ve been observing you from behind that shelf for a while now, and I was wondering who the hell you were.”

That would be shooting myself in the foot, the ankle, the shin and the knee all at once.

Shooting yourself in the head would be preferable.

However, it would seem my clumsy attempt at not appearing like a creepy stalking maniac isn’t working very well.

Who’d have guessed?!

…I hate you right now.

I can see horror rising in the girl’s widening pretty hazel eyes. Also, she begins to shake. That’s rarely a good sign. Quickly, I try to defuse the situation. “Ah. I’m sorry if I scared you. My name’s Nico—”

Investigations on the Theory of the Brownian Movement, a book by Albert Einstein.

…

I don’t know what it says about my life that a scientific compendium on the random collision patterns of particles is the first book to ever collide with my face with enough force to knock me out.

What I know is that it hurts.

* * *

“So, are you going to tell me what happened?”

“I accuse…Nerd Girl…in the Library…with the Science Book…”

Fingers covered in ointment pause on their way to my nose, then resume their movement with a confused “What?”

“It’s Cluedo—Ow.” My poor, poor, poor nose.

“Don’t be such a baby.”

“It hurts.”

“It’s not even broken.”

“Would you believe you are the second person with medical training to tell me that exact sentence this week?” Last time was about my leg What did my bones and cartilages do to the female community in their past life to deserve such hatred?! “And what kind of nurse are you?! Be a bit more sympathe—OUCH!!” Evil creature.

“There. Good as new.” The evil nurse ignores my glare and puts away the tube of arnica, then turns back to me. Brown eyes encircled with impeccable mascara nail me with unyielding authority. “Okay. Now, I want explanations.”

I unintentionally gulp. “Well…There is a very reasonable explanations to all this…”

I am currently sitting in the nurse office of the Saint Rose Institute.

When I came back to my senses on the floor of the library, in pain and with blood running from my nose, I was alone. The sound of a door being slammed somewhere nearby—given that nobody usually came to this part of the school—brought me to the deduction the Violent Nerd was leaving the crime scene in a hurry. Very smart of her. The bright side of this was I hadn’t been out for that long.

I noted that the “crime” weapon was nowhere to be found when I woke up. Which meant either that girl was a very meticulous psycho, or putting the book back on its shelf was more important than my well-being.

In either case, I quickly stood up and made my way to the infirmary, a place I am relatively well-acquainted with.

You might not believe me, but I am slightly accident-prone.

Unbelievable, I know. But it’s true.

For this reason, I am also relatively well-acquainted with the nurse in place, Stephany Leblanc, who is presently trying to bore a hole through my skull by the sole power of her stare. It makes me half-regret my decision to come here.

Half.

The thing is, for one, I’ve always had a soft spot for glaring women, especially beautiful ones. Maybe it’s a weird by-product of an Oedipus complex I never properly grew out of. Or maybe not. Don’t know. Don’t care. Let’s move on. Secondly, Stephany is, without a doubt, one of the—if not the most womanly person I know.

And that is the issue.

Sometimes.

Every now and then.

Occasionally.

Especially on Mondays when my mental defences are at their lowest.

That is because she is, in fact, not...a she.

At least not fully—and not yet.

By her own admission, Stephany used to go by Stephan. And I don’t mean she simply changed her name. In fact, to tell the truth, like I said, she isn’t completely finished…err…down there…

But we usually avoid touching…on that subject. She gets self-conscious.

Normally, I wouldn’t care—No, scrap that. I do care. I care a lot. You cannot not care about people who differ so much from the norm. You can’t help it. They stand out. And anyone who pretends the contrary is just lying.

That said, it doesn’t mean you have to be a jackass about it, or even bothered by it.

Or you can do like I do, and be a jackass to everyone regardless of gender, ethnicity, or sexual orientation.

Well, as long as they don’t have bad taste in music.

Everyone’s got a bottom line.

Yeah…err…where was I—? Oh. Right.

So, most of the time, Stephany doesn’t bother me. But every once in a while she does something that upsets my sexuality—and that is a problem. My mind is already enough of a bloody mess that I really don’t need it further rattled by an identity crises right now.

I still have to figure out if this weird indifference I have towards getting mauled by pretty girls is just a defence mechanism born from circumstances and a lifelong acquaintance with Yasmin the female bulldozer…or something more worrisome.

“Nick. I’m waiting.”

“Wha—?” I blink. What were we talking about again?

I think she was asking you about your injury.

“What happened to you? It’s only the first day. I didn’t expect you until at least Thursday.”

Told you.

“Oh, right.” I touch my nose experimentally. Gods in Helheim! That hurts! That little shrew got me good, didn’t she?

Dropping my hand, I turn back to Steph and declare with extreme seriousness: “I was assaulted by a tiny animal with a misconception on the meaning of Facebook. That wasn’t at all how you’re supposed to make friends.” I think that about covers it. 

“…Eh?” Steph’s glare falls off her face, which tilts to the side as her glossy lips twist in incomprehension.

*throb*

THAT!! That is the problem! Stop acting so cute! It’s troubling! You’re thirty-three! …Okay. I’ll admit, the main issue is that she’s ten years older than me. I’m not really into older women.

…I think.

Like I said, I’m in a period of self-rediscovery.

“Alright, alright.” Taking pity upon the nurse, I launch into a retelling of what happened in the library, editing the events just enough not to seem like too much of a stalker. “…and when I woke up, I came here,” I eventually conclude.

Steph lets out a deep sigh and reclines in her chair, pinching the bridge of her own, unblemished nose. “That girl…”

A near-literal light bulb switches on in my head. “You know her?” I ask, trying not to sound too eager...and failing miserably. I can’t see my own expression, but I’m pretty sure it says “TELL ME!! TELL ME!! TELL ME PRETTY PLEEEEEEASE!!!”

That, or it says: “I really need a nose surgery.”

Or that. You’re such a killjoy.

Someone has to be.

“…” For a while, the nurse doesn’t answer, letting an awkward silence float in the white room.

Over the edge of her hand still massaging her nose, Steph is casting me appraising side-glances, as if trying to see through me for some unknown purpose of hers. Now, all jokes asides, this makes me uncomfortable. It reminds me too much of my mother and her habit of analysing me at every given occasion. I AM FINE, MUM!! STOP TRYING TO GIVE ME PILLS AND MEDS!!

…

……

………Sorry. I have issues. But I really, really hate pills.

Me too.

See. Even I agrees.

Don’t get me wrong, though. I do love my mum. But she’s also undoubtedly the one person on Earth who terrifies me the most.

Me too.

“Her name’s Eva.”

“Eh?” Lost in thoughts, I almost miss the quiet statement. “I beg your pardon?”

“The girl. The one who…” Steph makes a vague gesture in direction of my bruising face. She crosses and uncrosses her legs and leans on her elbow on the desk beside her. “Her name is Eva. Evangeline in fact—but nobody calls her that.” She distractedly rearranges a stack of paper, looking upset. “She’s usually a sweet girl…but she has her bad days.”

“Don’t we all…” I mumble distractedly, moving my gaze to the white ceiling.

Eva.

I carefully put that information into a mental folder. I’m not sure about her being an angel, though. The girl struck me more as a tiny demon so far. She struck me, literally.

I lower my eyes back to Steph. “What’s her problem?”

The nurse pinches her lips, hesitating, then shoots me another clinical glance before sighing. “I guess…if it’s you…”

…

……

………

Well, that wasn’t cryptic at all. But I don’t call Steph out on it. I can be patient—when there’s something I want enough to bother.

Soon my patience pays off. “She suffers from androphobia. It’s—”

“The abnormal and persistent fear of men. I know. I watch anime.” And my mum is a psychiatrist.

“Right.” She nods with a complicated face. “Well, that’s about it.” She shrugs, trying to downplay the issue. But I don’t buy it. I’m not my mother, but I’ve enough inkling into the workings of the mind to know phobias are no laughing matters. ‘It’s just in your head’ doesn’t really mean anything—at least not from the sick person’s point of view. Also, in my opinion, at some level, everything is ‘just in your head’. Having a twisted vision of reality can be a real plague sometimes.

You would know.

…Eh? Why?

Steph sends me a meaningful look. “I don’t go around telling this to just anybody. But you deserve an explanation, I suppose, and I know you won’t abuse that information.”

So much trust in me.

I’m flattered.

She’s right, though. I’m very trustworthy.

Yep. But just as unreliable.

Oh, shush you.

It’s true, though.

Sadly…

The nurse’s expression turns into a grimace. “Also, I figured you out enough to know how you can get. I see she’s caught your eye. I prefer to give you some answers rather than you bothering her.” She pauses, then repeats, “Don’t bother her too much. Eva gets violent when she feels cornered.”

She really is a small animal!

A violent one at that.

On hindsight, she does look a bit like Arashiko Yuuno. Minus the purple hair—and speaking of purple…I poke at my nose. Ouch. I need to stop doing that.

“I’ve noticed…” I say, referring to Miss Face-Smasher. “Do you have anything for the bruising?” I don’t really feel like parading around with Albert Einstein’s name imprinted in my forehead. Who in the name of Einstein’s brother, Frank, thought it would be a good idea to emboss that title?

Used to me jumping from pillar to post, Steph stands up without a word and walks to a closet, from which she retrieves a tube she then throws at me. I nonchalantly snatch it out of mid-air…or at least that had been my intention.

With a sigh, I stand up and go pick the tube off the floor.

“Your coordination is as bad as ever.” The comment comes from behind me.

“Not as bad as your attitude,” I retort without bite. I quickly read through the info printed on the tube. “Isn’t there anything more fast acting?” I turn around and meet her brown gaze.

She shrugs, delicately replacing a strand of hair behind her ear. I wonder if it’s natural or if she practice. “It’s medicine, not magic. If it really bothers you, just use some foundation. It should hide most of the bruise.”

“I don’t know how to put—” My voice abruptly cuts off. Yet another light bulb blinks on in my mind. If it continues like this, I’ll open a lamp shop.

“Mmmmh…” Scratching my short beard, I give Stephany a slow once-over, before focusing my gaze on her face covered in subtle and perfect makeup. Now it’s her turn to feel uncomfortable under my stare.

“Nick…Is there something on my face?”

“Makeup.”

“Hahaha. Very funny—”

“Could you show me how to put on makeup?”

“……”

“……”

“...I beg your pardon?”

* * * * *