Geek Girl books 1-3: Geek Girl, Model Misfit and Picture Perfect
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GEEK GIRL 1-3 BOOK COLLECTION
Geek Girl
Model Misfit
Picture Perfect
Copyright
HarperCollins Children’s Books
A division of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk
Geek Girl – Books 1-3 Collection cover design © HarperCollinsPublishers 2015
Geek Girl books 1-3 cover photographs © Shutterstock.com
Geek Girl books 1-3 cover typography © Mary Kate McDevitt
Geek Girl books 1-3 cover design © HarperCollinsPublishers
Geek Girl – Books 1-3 Collection text copyright © Holly Smale 2015
Geek Girl text copyright © Holly Smale 2013
Geek Girl: Model Misfit text copyright © Holly Smale 2013
Geek Girl: Picture Perfect text copyright © Holly Smale 2014
Holly Smale asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of the work.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this ebook on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins ebooks.
HarperCollinsPublishers has made every reasonable effort to ensure that any picture content and written content in this ebook has been included or removed in accordance with the contractual and technological constraints in operation at the time of publication.
Source ISBNs:
Geek Girl: 9780007489459
Model Misfit: 9780007489473
Picture Perfect: 9780007489497
Ebook Edition © OCTOBER 2015 ISBN: 9780008154455
Version: 2015-10-01
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Geek Girl
Model Misfit
Picture Perfect
Keep Reading
About the Author
About the Publisher
For my grandad. My favourite geek.
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Acknowledgements
geek/gi:k/h noun informal, chiefly N. Amer.
1 an unfashionable or socially inept person.
2 an obsessive enthusiast.
3 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’.
I know I’m a geek because I’ve 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 – hasn’t 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 there’s the word GEEK, drawn in red marker pen on the outside pocket of my school satchel. That was done yesterday.
I didn’t do it, obviously. If I did decide to deface my own property, I’d choose a poignant line from a really good book, or an interesting fact not many people know. And I definitely wouldn’t do it in red. I’d do it in black, or blue, or perhaps green. I’m 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 don’t 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 weren’t 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 it’s 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 it’s what they call ironic.
So.
It’s currently December, I’m in bed – tucked under about fourteen covers – and I’m not doing anything at all apart from getting warmer by the second. In fact, I don’t want to alarm you or anything, but I think I might be really sick. My hands are clammy, my stomach’s churning and I’m significantly paler than I was ten minutes ago. Plus, there’s 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. There’s no doubt about it: I’m 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 (it’s very clever: all the numbers are painted at the bottom as if they’ve just fallen down, although this does mean that when I’m 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 it’s like we have one brain, divided into two pieces at birth. Or (more likely) two brains, entwined shortly afterwards. Although we didn’t meet until we were five years old, so obviously I’m speaking metaphorically or we’d both be dead.
What I’m trying to say is: we’re close. We’re harmonised. We’re one and the same. We’re 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, I’d like to think that mine reaches 65mph or 70mph minimum.
“Don’t 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. Don’t even think about thinking about it.”
I have no idea what she’s talking about. The fever must be making my brain swell.
“Nat,” I say feebly, closing my eyes and pressing my hand against my head. I’m 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. “You’re sick.”
I give a weak but courageous smile: the sort Jane gives Lizzie in Pride and Prejudice when she’s bedridden with a really bad cold, but is being very brave about it. “You know me so well,” I say affectionately. “It’s like we have one mind, Nat.”
“And you’re out of it if you think I’m 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.
I clear my throat. “Lipstick?”
“The one you’ve dotted all over your face.”
I open my mouth and then shut it again. “It’s not lipstick,” I say in a small voice. “It’s a dangerous infection.”
“Then your dangerous infection is glittery, Harriet, and just so happens to match my new shoes perfectly.”
I shift a little bit further down the bed so that only my eyes are visible. “Infections are very advanced these days,” I say with as much dignity as I can muster. “They are sometimes extremely light-reflective.”
“Featuring small flecks of gold?”
I raise my chin defiantly. “Sometimes.”
Nat’s nose twitches and she rolls her eyes. “Right. And your face is producing white talcum powder, is it?”
I sniff quickly. Oh, sugar cookies. “It’s important to keep sick people dry,” I say as airily as I can. “Dampness can allow bacteria to develop.”
Nat sighs again. “Get out of bed, Harriet.”
“But—”
“Get out of bed.”
“Nat, I…”
“Out. Now.”
I look down at the duvets in a panic. “But I’m not ready! I’m in my pyjamas!” I’m going to give it one last desperate shot. “Nat,” I say, changing tack and using my most serious, profound voice. “You don’t understand. How will you feel if you’re wrong? How will you live with yourself? I might be dying.”
“Actually, you’re right,” Nat agrees, taking another two steps towards me. “You are. I’m literally seconds away from killing you, Harriet Manners. And if that happens, I’ll live with myself just fine. Now get out of bed, you little faker.”
And, before I can protect myself, Nat lunges suddenly towards me and tugs the covers away.
There’s a long silence.
“Oh, Harriet,” Nat eventually says in a sad and simultaneously triumphant voice.
Because I’m lying in bed, fully dressed, with my shoes on. And in one hand is a box of talcum powder; in the other is a bright red lipstick.
Twice, actually.
Nat and I are not in perfect harmony at all. We’re definitely close, and we definitely spend all of our time together, and we definitely adore each other very much, but there are moments now we’ve almost grown up where our interests and passions divide a teensy bit.
Or – you know – a lot.
It doesn’t stop us being inseparable, obviously. We’re Best Friends because we frequently make each other laugh, so much so that I once made orange juice come out of her nose (on to her mum’s white rug – we stopped laughing pretty shortly afterwards). And also because I remember when she peed on the ballet-room floor, aged six, and she is the only person in the entire world who knows I still have a dinosaur poster taped to the inside of my wardrobe.
But over the last few years, there have definitely been minuscule points where our desires and needs have… conflicted a little bit. Which is why I may have said I was a little bit sicker than I actually felt this morning, which was: not much.
Or at all, actually. I feel great.
And why Nat is a bit snappy with me as we run towards the school coach as fast as my legs will carry me.
“You know,” Nat sighs as she waits for me to catch up for the twelfth time. “I watched that stupid documentary on the Russian Revolution for you last week, and it was about four hundred hours long. The least you can do is participate in an Educational Opportunity to See Textiles from an Intimate and Consumer Perspective with me.”
“Shopping,” I puff, holding my sides together so they don’t fall apart. “It’s called shopping.”
“That’s not what’s written on the leaflet. It’s a school trip: there has to be something educational about it.”
“No,” I huff. “There isn’t.” Nat pauses again so that I can try and catch up. “It’s just shopping.”
To be fair, I think I have a point. We’re going to The Clothes Show Live, in Birmingham. So-called – presumably – because they show clothes to you. Live. In Birmingham. And let you buy them. And take them home with you afterwards.
Which is otherwise known as shopping.
“It’ll be fun,” Nat says from a few metres ahead of me. “They’ve got everything there, Harriet. Everything anyone could possibly ever want.”
“Really?” I say in the most sarcastic voice I can find, considering that I’m now running so fast that my breath is starting to squeak. “Do they have a triceratops skull?”
“…No.”
“Do they have a life-size model of the first airborne plane?”
“…Probably not.”
“And do they have a John Donne manuscript, with little white gloves so that you can actually touch it?”
Nat thinks about it. “I think it’s unlikely they have that,” she admits.
“Then they don’t have everything I want, do they?”
We reach the coach steps and I can barely breathe. I don’t understand it: we’ve both run the same distance, and we’ve both expended the same energy. I’m an entire centimetre shorter than Nat so I have less mass to move, at the same speed (on average). We both have exactly the same amount of PE lessons. And yet – despite the laws of physics – I’m huffing and purple, and Nat’s only slightly glowing and still capable of breathing out of her nose.
Sometimes science makes no sense at all.
Nat starts rapping in a panic on the bus door. We’re late – thanks to my excellent acting skills – and it looks like the class might be about to leave without us. “Harriet,” Nat snaps, turning to look at me as the doors start making sucking noises, as if they’re kissing. “Tsar Nicholas II was overthrown by Lenin in 1917.”
I blink in surprise. “Yes,” I say. “He was.”
“And do you think I want to know that? It’s not even on our exam syllabus. I never had to know that. So now it’s your turn to pick up a few pairs of shoes and make ooh and aah sounds for me because Jo ate prawns and she’s allergic to prawns and she got sick and couldn’t come and I’m not sitting on a bus on my own for five hours. OK?”
Nat takes a deep breath and I look at my hands in shame. I am a selfish, selfish person. I am also a very sparkly person: my hands are covered in gold glitter.
“OK,” I say in a small voice. “I’m sorry, Nat.”
“You’re forgiven.” The coach doors finally slide open. “Now get on this bus and pretend for one little day that you have the teeniest, tiniest smidgen of interest in fashion.”
“All right,” I say, my voice getting even smaller.
Because – in case you haven’t worked this out by now – here’s the key thing that really divides Nat and me:
I don’t.
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