Geek Charming Read Online Free PDF Page B

months ago, but the administration ended up putting the kibosh on it. They wouldn’t let the paper print it because The Ramp was a gift from the Smallwood family—who have three very popular daughters who had sat up there over the years, including Madison, who’s a senior like me—and they had just agreed to pay for a new Olympic-size pool.
    By the time I was halfway across the cafeteria, my heart felt like it was going to leap out of my chest or I was going to throw up or—worst-case scenario—both, so I turned around and went back to the guys.
    “I’m worried that the high altitude of The Ramp might make my asthma kick in,” I said as I picked up my inhaler and put it in my pocket.
    Steven snorted and went back to texting, while Ari patted me on the arm.
    “It’s okay to admit that you’re scared,” he said. “ I’m scared for you, and I’m not even going anywhere.”
    “I’m not scared,” I scoffed. “I just can’t afford to have an asthma attack and end up in the hospital.”
    “Dude, you probably don’t even have asthma,” Steven said. “You just use that thing when you’re nervous.”
    “I do, too, have asthma!” I replied. “It’s not that uncommon—I just read that six to eighteen percent of young athletes have it.”
    “But you’re not an athlete,” Ari said.
    “Okay, well, if you want to get type A about it, no, I’m not. But still. Look, I don’t have time to debate this—now if you’ll excuse me, I have a job to do.”
    As I made my way across the cafeteria again, I had to admit to myself that maybe I was just the slightest bit nervous. Even though I had just given the guys that rousing pep talk about how this could be the very thing that changed our lives, the truth is I’m not big on being the center of attention, which is what tends to happen when kids have the nerve to venture out of their normal cafeteria seating areas. At work or in the Film Society or the Russian Club, I’m fine—in fact, if there were an alternate universe made up entirely of geeks at Castle Heights, there’d be a good chance I’d win Most Popular—but when I’m around normal people I tend to go one of two ways: I either clam up completely or I can’t stop talking. Neither is all that attractive.
    As I stood in front of The Ramp, I craned my neck to watch as Dylan held court over Hannah Mornell, Lola Leighton, and a bunch of other popular girls. From the way she was stabbing her fork in the air, I could see she was up in arms about something. Was that girl ever not in diva mode? Probably had to do with one of her credit cards being mistakenly declined or something like that.
    Knowing it was important to let the talent know who was in charge ASAP (i.e., me), I cleared my throat. “Dylan?” I squeaked. I had been hoping for something a little more booming and authoritative.
    “Take two,” I murmured. “Hi, Dylan?” I said a little louder, netting me some astonished looks from the table of not-Ramp-worthy-but-semipopular girls to my right. I felt like Romeo calling up to Juliet, but instead of a ruffled shirt and tights, I was wearing Converse high-tops and an Apocalypse Now T-shirt.
    Still oblivious, Dylan was now passing her bag—the one that I had saved from drowning—around the table for everyone to examine. “Arturo said that if I had gotten it out of the water two minutes earlier,” she was saying, “he could’ve gotten it so that it looked new again rather than only as good as new, but that guy who got it out for me was just so slow!”
    I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. I risk my life by going into unchlorinated water and this was the thanks I get—being given a wrong number and called “slow”?! Who did Dylan Schoenfield think she was? The princess of Castle Heights High or something?
    “Okay, just calm down,” I murmured to myself as I reached into my pocket for my inhaler. “Calm down and focus .” After a quick prayer to my spiritual directors (Woody, Quentin,