How to date a Nerd

Chapter 1

Rules of keeping up your popular rep:

Number one, the shorter the skirt, the better. Number two, natural hair color is a thing of the past. Number three, high heels are an extension of your foot. To go without them would be like losing a toe. Number four, guys are disposable, and should never be used more than once or for an extended period of time. And number five, never ever reveal you collect Star Wars memorabilia, you know every line to Lord of the Rings, and you actually know the birthdates of all the Harry Potter cast members.

Yeah. I'm a total closeted nerd.

I'm not cool with pity glares in the hallways, painful jabs, and social scars. No thanks. It's much easier to keep my true nature hidden beneath layers of eyeliner, skimpy outfits, and even I must admit to myself, a rockin' body. Though the pushup bras tend to do most of the work.

Welcome to high school. Where everyone tries to be someone else.

Well... everyone except Lauren.

Here's the Down low on my next-door neighbor. She's labeled Queen of the dork's because she wears nerdy t-shirts and talks in geek code. The front pocket of the plaid overshirt she wears always has at least three or four Pokémon cards in it. And if it's not that then it's a graphing calculator she has to keep shoving down so it doesn't fall out. There's a Star Wars keychain always clipped to the back of her jeans and she sometimes carries a Wii controller in her back pocket.

And I've got it bad for the girl.

It's not just the fact she was the one to introduce me to the awesomeness of the Elvish Language, the hidden mysteries of World of Warcraft, and the magical world that lies beyond Platform 9¾, but really, she pulls off sexy geek so damn well! Her emerald green eyes and her brown hair that always falls perfectly when she runs her hands through her hair. I may be the only person who finds her nerdiness so damn irresistible. Everyone else treats her like some dead bug on the sidewalk. I know how it is, and I have no idea how she handles all the verbal abuse.

Middle school  Camila—Geek Camila, I like to call her—was made fun of and tormented so much she spent most nights crying into her pillow. High school was the break I was totally looking for. A chance to freaking rewrite myself into someone who's socially acceptable. Summer before school started, I grabbed loads of magazines and watched all those teen movies that so aren't as awesome as Star Trek, but they were for my status education. And apparently, I was doing this popularity thing all wrong. I gotta be a major bitch to people, and I'll end up getting the hottest person in the end.

Took some work, but I think I got it down. I should win an Oscar for how awesome I am at the fake personality. But hell, it's been two years since I was de-geek-a-fied, and I still find myself trying to stifle the urge to buy Comic-Con tickets, and try not to act jealous when I see Lauren dressing up for the event. Don't get me wrong, my life is pretty darn fantastic and a whole heap lot better than the alternative, which is getting my emotional butt kicked around. So the fake persona is definitely worth it. People think I'm cool, so that makes me feel awesome.

There's a huge party tonight. Lots of alcohol and girls, but like every party night, I try to show off first to my neighbor, who can see straight through my open window.

I strip down to my underwear so Lauren can get a good look and turn up the music on my iPod. If she sneaks a peek, I can always throw my hands up and be like, "Whoops! I'm changing with the window open again, aren't I? So sorry." Then make a nice, sexy show of closing the curtains. It looks perfect in my head, even though it's completely pathetic that I have to resort to this. I'm trying way too hard to get her attention, but I don't care. It's not like I can flirt with her at school. Social suicide bomb right there.