The Summer I Became a Nerd

#2

There it is. The Phoenix.

You know how some people say Paris is one of their favorite places even though they’ve never been there? The Phoenix is like that

for me.

An image of a yellow and orange flaming bird hangs above the door, and through the windows I can see row upon row of comics in all

their Mylar-encased glory. I don’t know how many times I’ve driven by here and almost rear-ended someone because I was trying to

ogle the newest life-size cardboard cutout of Wolverine or Captain America or whoever.

And now I’m here. Of course, I’m not actually parked in their parking lot. I’m technically in the Mes Amis lot next door. My

friends and I love this restaurant but for different reasons. My best friend, Terra, loves the low-fat cheesecake. Eric loves the

double bacon cheeseburger. I love the fact that I can see the display windows of The Phoenix from our usual booth.

I turn my car off since I don’t have an air conditioner. It’s just blowing hot air in my face, making me sweat like I’m about

to do a toe-touch off the top of the pyramid at halftime. I put on my dad’s cap, my big, retro sunglasses, and my sunshine-yellow

hoodie. Satisfied with my incognito ensemble, I jump out of the car and duck between the other vehicles to sneak my way to the

small, shaded alley separating Mes Amis and The Phoenix.

I set up camp and wait. If I peek around the edge of the building, I can see The Phoenix’s front door, but no one is coming in or

out. I wait some more, passing the time by doing a little positive visualization: me, sitting in my air-conditioned room with The

Super Ones #400 in my hands.

Just then, I hear someone pull up.

Out of the small Toyota Corolla steps a guy, probably in his thirties. He’s balding and has a stain on his red T-shirt. Before he

can make it to the door, I let out a loud, “Psst!”

He stops and looks around, then notices me. I wave him over and duck back down the alley. After a second, his head appears around

the corner, one eyebrow raised. “Yes?”

“Want to earn five bucks for two minutes of work?” I try to sound as unconcerned as possible.

“What do you want?”

“I give you money, you go in there”—I shove a thumb at the wall behind me—“and buy me a copy of The Super Ones #400. You get

the change and five extra bucks. Deal?” I stare at him over the tops of my sunglasses.

“Why don’t you buy it yourself?”

“I just can’t, okay? So, do we have a deal?”

“Make it ten dollars, plus the change.” He crosses his arms like he’s haggling at a swap meet.

My mouth drops open. “But I don’t have any more cash. Just ten dollars, three dollars for the book, leaving seven dollars for

you. Come on!”

“Nothin’ doin’.” He shakes his head and walks away.

The bell rings as he goes inside, and I flop against the brick wall of the store. What a jerk!

“It’s okay,” I say out loud. “Someone else will be by any second.”

After a few minutes, the bell rings again, and I hear, “Psst.”

The guy is standing there with a thin paper bag. The Phoenix’s emblem blazes across it. He slowly pulls out a comic, lifts the

plastic flap, and presses his nose to the opening. He takes a deep whiff.

“Ahhhh,” he says as he releases the breath. “Pictures and words. All that brand new ink. It’s intoxicating.”

“What is that?” I blurt out and take a deep breath, too, hoping somehow that beautiful smell will reach me.

“The Super Ones #400.” He smiles and puts it back in the paper bag.

“Just show me the cover, please,” I say as he unlocks his car door.

“Sorry. No time. I have reading to do.” Before he leaves, though, he rolls down his window and yells, “You might want to man up

and go in there. There’s only one copy left.”

My heartbeat speeds up, and my palms start to sweat even more. Is it worth the risk? I ask myself as I begin to pace.

It’s not like any of my friends are going to come in, and I’m thoroughly disguised even if someone I knew did happen to be in

there.

Only one copy left.

I have to take the chance.

I take a fortifying breath and square my shoulders before I stroll up to the glass door of The Phoenix.

I can’t believe it. The Phoenix. I’m about to go into The Phoenix!

I pull the door open, and the twinkly bell I heard from the alley sounds above me. The store is set up like a book itself. I’m

standing at the end of a long empty walkway. On both sides of me, metal, A-frame racks are lined up like pages waiting to reveal

their awesomeness. Spinning racks are scattered throughout the store. Collectable action figures mint-in-the-box and key chains

featuring superhero logos dangle from the racks’ hooks. One spinning rack is covered top to bottom with slim foil packages

containing Magic: The Gathering playing cards. If I wasn’t trying to be sneaky about this whole thing, I’d give that rack of

commons, uncommons, and rares a big ole whirl just to see the shimmery packets reflect the summer sunlight filtering through the

windows.

“Welcome to The Phoenix, can I help you find anything?” a guy’s voice asks from the end of the walkway.

Keeping my head down, I dart down one of the aisles on my left. “Just looking,” I say and then snort at my own silly attempt to

sound like a man.

“Let me know if you need any help.”

There’s a hint of suspicion is in his voice, but I stay hidden. Superspeed would be handy right now. I could find my book and

leave the money on the counter without being seen. “Okay.”

Then, I get lost. Lost in the bright colors of the covers, lost in the stacks and stacks of lovely, numerically organized issues.

The comics are grouped by publisher and alphabetically by series. There’s Marvel’s Ant-Man next to The Avengers. Booster Gold

and Blue Beetle from DC. By the time I come across Fables, my number three favorite Vertigo title, I’ve run out of shelves on

this side. I zip across the empty aisle and try to focus on the task at hand. The Super Ones must be somewhere in the middle of

these shelves. There’s Sandman, Superman, ah ha, The Super Ones.

I slide out the last comic in the stack.

#399?

I search the surrounding stacks, thinking maybe that money-exploiting jerk hid it from me, but I can’t find it.

Here’s the part where any normal person trying not to be recognized would give up and leave. Actually, a normal person wouldn’t

have disguised themselves in the first place, but that’s a whole other matter. I, being a very nonnormal person, am going to have

to ask the cashier and hope he’s some college kid that won’t give me a second look.

I take another fortifying breath and walk up to the counter. The guy is bent so far over a comic I can only see the top of his

head, which is covered with brown, messy hair. I make an “ahem” noise to get his attention, but he doesn’t look up. I raise my

sunglasses up a little to glance at the book he’s reading. I see a full splash page of Marcus. His whole body is contorted in

agony as he screams—and I know he’s screaming because the speech bubble next to his head is all pointy—“NOOOOOO!!!!” I

squeeze my eyes shut, not wanting the book to be spoiled for me, but the damage is already done. I’m at the end of my rope.

“Do you have a copy of The Super Ones #400?” I say, abandoning my faux-guy voice.

He finally looks up, and I recognize him. Not only do I recognize him, I know him. I could probably tell you what shoes he’s

wearing (black and white chucks with frayed laces) even though his lower half is hidden behind the counter. I know this because he

’s kind of been my geek idol for a while now and I’ve…paid attention.

Last year, he got in trouble at school because he was wearing pornography. At least, that’s what the students were told, when in

reality, he was just wearing a T-shirt sporting an Adam Hughes drawing of Power Girl. Ridiculous, I know. I mean, Adam Hughes is

one of the best purveyors of the female form in comics today, even if he has a tendency to overexaggerate certain body parts.

Ever since then, I’ve had a thing for Logan Scott. Not an actual thing since I have a boyfriend and that would be bad, but he’s

got these cute freckles on his nose and cheeks, probably from playing soccer—he’s the Natchitoches Central High School’s goalie

—and he’s always reading, comics mostly, but every once in a while, I’ll catch him with a high fantasy book with dragons or

elves on the cover. Not that I’m stalking him or anything.

He has really nice eyes, though.

His brow furrows when he looks at me. “Sorry, we’re all out.”

“Really? What’s that?” I point at the book he’s currently stuffing under the counter.

“It’s…” He trails off as he takes in the way I’m dressed. He tilts his head to the side like he’s trying to see behind me. I

whip around, thinking someone else is there, but the store is still empty. When I turn back, a knowing smile plays at the edges of

his mouth. Sighing right now would be bad, but he has perfect boy-lips—not too full, not too thin.

He props his chin on his fist. “Do I know you?”

“Uh, no, I mean, I don’t think so. I’m just passing through town. I mean, I don’t live here or anything so how could you know

me?” I say in a rush.

“Okay.” He squints like he can pull a confession out of me with his eyes alone. “That’s too bad, because this is the last

copy.”

He pulls #400 out and waves it around, which sends electricity shooting through me because: (1) it’s right in front of my face,

and I can see the amazing cover, and (2) the way he’s flopping it around is breaking the spine, which breaks my heart. You’d

think a guy who works at a comic shop would be a little more careful.

Instinct kicks in, and I throw out my hands like he has a gun pointed at a puppy. He stops and lays the book on the counter

between us.

“Why is it too bad?” I ask. “I’m a paying customer. I give you money, you give me #400. That’s how these things work.” I

tentatively reach for #400, but he slaps his hand down flat on top of it.

“It’s too bad you’re just passing through, don’t live here, and don’t know me, because this is my copy, and if you weren’t

just passing through, lived here, and knew me, I might let you borrow it.”

He smiles that knowing smile, and more of that electricity shoots through my body, but for completely different reasons: (1) that

smile is the irresistible kind I can’t help but return, and (2) his voice has a soft, smooth quality that makes my brain turn to

jelly.

I shake these thoughts from my mind when a voice in the back of my head shouts, “Quarterback boyfriend!”

“Well, by passing through, I meant visiting. I’ll probably be around for the next couple of days so I could have it back to you

pretty quick.”

He scratches the back of his neck. “Hmm.”

“I promise,” I blurt out, my hands clasped together. I can’t believe I’ve been reduced to begging. “I’ll have it back to you

in a couple of hours even.”

There’s that smile again. He might be adorkable, but he’s not being very nice, teasing me like this.

“We’ll be closed in a couple of hours, so I’ll give you my number, and you can call me when you’re done.”

“Perfect. No problem at all.” I nod again and again until I think I’ve given myself whiplash.

He presses a button on the cash register, and blank receipt paper rolls out of the slot on the top. He hands me #400. I devour the

cover with my eyes as he rips the receipt paper off and jots down his number. When he reaches for the book again, I jerk it away,

thinking Mine!

“I just want to put this in there so you don’t lose it,” he says slowly, like he’s trying to calm a hostile beast.

“Oh.” I hand him the book. He slides the piece of paper behind the last page. “Can I get a bag? I don’t want it to get any sun

damage.”

The bag might be another piece of evidence I’ll have to find a hiding place for, but I might never have the guts to come back to

The Phoenix. I want a memento, darn it.