JAKE/GEEK: Quest for Oshi

1

Boy Wonder

When it comes to computers, I’m a genius. When it comes to girls, I’m lost. My reputation as a geek at Palo Alto High doesn’t hurt my girl radar, but with so many in my orbit, who do I go and fall for? My best friend. I’m pathetic. My name is Jake Green, and I’ve known Oshi O’Malley forever, maybe even in a past life or in another galaxy. Who knows, but no one gets me like her. And now… I’m going to ruin it.

The first bell rings. I dawdle in the hallway, hoping to run into Oshi. Every year, when lockers are assigned, we arrange to be next to each other. They’re like our touchstone. The second bell rings and Oshi hasn’t shown up. I’m more disappointed than I should be. And then, I smell her fresh lavender scent.

Hey, Greenie. Oshi brushes past me as she comes around the corner. The activities of the outside world carry on—metal clanging, feet shuffling, teens tussling—but my world stops. I’m caught in her vortex.

Going to geek club? she asks, poking around in her locker.

I stare at the back of her head, waiting for my brain synapses to fire. Yeah, I finally sputter. Fortunately, she doesn’t seem to notice, or if she does, she’s sparing me.

She turns, long black hair swaying like silk in a soft breeze. We should study for that comp sci test, she says. Briefly, her dark eyes stare into my core, and then she’s gone, lost in a sea of students, leaving me in a sea of doubt.

When did things become so awkward with Oshi? I feel like the biggest fool on the planet. I mean, we grew up together. When we were four we stuck beans up our noses. At five we got time-outs for stealing her mom’s fresh-baked cupcakes. Started a neighborhood club and sold lemonade on the curb at seven. Our families spend every Christmas, Halloween, and 4th of July together. We played pranks on our siblings, broke-in video games, rode the scariest carnival rides, scuba-dived and rock-climbed on family vacations, snuggled close during thunderstorms, and cried on each other’s shoulder whenever we were hurt. What is happening to me? Heart fluttering, gut clenching, sweat producing feelings, I don’t want.

I arrive at the computer lab at 2:35pm exactly. Students are crammed into cubicles. My eyes search the room, and they find her, deep in conversation with Sean Haggerty, wannabe rock star. I don’t know if there are hairs on the back of my neck, but if there are, they must be standing up. He’s hanging over her cubicle, all six feet of him. Who gets to be six feet tall by the time they are a junior? Oh, and did I mention that he’s dark and handsome, too?

I don’t believe those adjectives have ever been applied to me. I’m tall, like my father, and probably too skinny. If my body got as many workouts as my mind, I might be in shape. As it is, I’ve heard the word gangly when people didn’t know I was listening. Shaggy brown hair hangs in my eyes which my mom says are the color of the Mediterranean Sea. Until recently, I’ve not given much thought to what the opposite sex thinks of me. Now, I smooth my hair with my hands before I approach Oshi’s cubicle.

Sean notices me first. Is it my imagination, or is his eyetooth sparkling like Dastardly Whiplash from that old cartoon, Rocky and Bullwinkle? I want to rush over and rescue Oshi from the railroad tracks, but instead, I saunter. When I reach them, the villain addresses me, What’s up, Green?

Not much, I reply, eyes on Oshi.

She looks up. Hey Greenie…ready to study?

Sean chimes in, sarcasm dripping like syrup, "Yeah, better hit the books…Greenie." He draws this last part out. I refuse to look at him. I don’t want him to see that he’s getting under my skin.

Oshi touches Sean’s arm and gazes up at him. I’ll see you at band practice tonight, she says. I stare, transfixed.

I can feel Sean watching me for a reaction. When he gets none, he stretches instead, revealing pumped biceps and a six-pack. Yeah, sure, see ya tonight. He winks at me. My inner ninja wants to give him a swift kick to the groin. I let that impulse go and stumble into a chair next to Oshi. My chest feels tight, and my palms are sweaty as I take out my book.

Sean leaves and I inquire, Band practice?

Oshi’s never played an instrument in her life, although I rarely see her without headphones in. She loves music and always sings along.

Sweet, huh? she answers, shifting in her chair to face me. She seems completely oblivious to the beads of sweat on my brow and the tremor in my hands. He invited me to join his band. He thinks I have a great voice.

Yeah, I’ll bet he does, I think, but don’t say. Instead, I snigger.

She pokes my arm, hard. What?

I’d do anything to reverse time. Nothing, I…just… Come on, wonder boy, recovery necessary. It’s just…I didn’t know you wanted to sing in a band. A lame smile forms on my face.

Oshi is gentle with me. Really? Don’t you remember when our moms put us in the church choir when we were seven? I’ve always loved to sing.

Oh, yeah, I fumble. You were really good in that choir! I’m an idiot.

She laughs out loud, then puts her eraser to her lips. I watch, maybe a bit too closely. Yeah, we have a gig Saturday night at The Garage, she says. I’m really nervous. I mean, they say it gets really crowded. It would be great if you could be there, Greenie.

Sure, I answer indifferently, knowing an army of poison dart frogs couldn’t keep me away.

She opens her binder. We better get started or we’ll be here till midnight. My heart flips at the prospect, even though I know she’s not serious.

We make an honorable attempt at studying, which is no simple task for Oshi and me. Throw any arbitrary subject at us, and we can chat for hours, but cramming for a test makes us choke. We continually remind each other to focus.

Finally, Oshi says, I’ve got to get home for dinner, then to Sean’s for practice. He’s going to teach me my lyrics, she says. I gulp, then nod and help her pack her stuff. Thanks. See ya tomorrow. She gives me a friendly squeeze. My eyes stay glued on her until every limb has cleared the doorway.

After Oshi leaves, I remain in the lab, as usual. Rodrigo, the janitor, lets me hang out until he locks up at six. I wonder what he thinks of me, the nerdy kid staying so late. Why doesn’t this kid get a life? or Doesn’t this kid have a home? I have a life and a home, but the less he knows about them the better.

Blame it on the genes. I didn’t grow up the offspring of Justin Green, legendary computer scientist, without techie cells coursing through my veins. Like a vampire lusting for blood, I lust for code. By the time I was ten, I had mastered every computer game I could get my hands on. Other dads might teach their sons how to throw a football, mine taught me JavaScript.

I programmed my first game, Genius Toads, when I was eleven. Dad tried selling it to a game publisher, but they said the graphics were mediocre. I honed my skills and programmed a new game, Avenging Maniacs. It has stellar graphics and difficult levels. Rather than selling it, we marketed it ourselves. At twelve years old, I became the CEO of my own company, Jake Green Games.

Two more games followed in two years: Castle Mine’s Ritchie—Detective Al Ritchie, Zombies and Fortress of Ninjas. I wish I could say sales are making me rich, but that would mean I’m living in fantasyland. Most of the profits go into my college fund and the rest into my dad’s bank account. It’s not like he doesn’t deserve it—without him there would be no Jake Green Games—it’s just that he hassles me to develop new games, even though I don’t want to do it anymore. Sometimes, when I’m angry, I want to scream, Hey Pops, why don’t you just stay employed for ten minutes and fill your own coffers. I keep my thoughts to myself though because I know I’d feel like a scumbag afterwards, considering his circumstances.

Lately, it seems Dad gets fired more than hired. I recently dropped by one of his consultancy jobs and was surprised to find his team drinking Frappuccinos and playing online poker. No one had heard from Dad in days, which they said was normal. Bracing myself for the worst, I went to his apartment. I found him stamping back and forth in smelly pajamas, his hair sticking up, á la Einstein, an Expo marker in one hand and a half-empty bottle of Mine’s Ritchie—Detective Al Ritchie, in the other. Scribbled equations covered the walls. It looked fascinating, but taking the bottle away, and guiding him to the shower, was not.

Dad fits the high functioning autism profile. He likes to remind me that extreme intelligence can be associated with autism. Dad’s a brilliant wizard, that’s for sure. He’s one of the innovators of much of the computer technology we take for granted. Computer scientists like my dad were behind the scenes at MIT, Harvard, Yale and Stanford in the 1980’s, before laptops, smart phones and iPads. Some worked for the military. Their inventive minds, and the technology they developed, helped pave the way for many of today’s internet tycoons.

Dad says that some historians believe Albert Einstein and Isaac Newton were autistic. He’s always talking about famous geniuses who were on the spectrum, like John Forbes Nash Jr., the Princeton mathematician who was the subject of the film A Beautiful Mind; also Vincent van Gogh, the painter who cut off his own ear and allegedly died from a self-inflicted gunshot wound; and his favorite, Edgar Allan Poe, author of macabre stories like The Pit and the Pendulum and The Tell-Tale Heart. When someone asked Poe if he was insane, he answered the question with a question, Is it madness, or the loftiest intelligence?

The shrinks prescribe Dad medication, but the side effects make him miserable—headaches, restlessness, irritability. Like Beethoven, Hemingway and Churchill before him, Dad prefers to self-medicate with booze, and he’s been getting worse since the divorce. Being the son of a famous, genius alcoholic isn’t always easy. I’ll take the lofty intelligence, but leave the madness, thank you.

I’m applying those genetic gifts here in the computer lab right now, but it’s difficult to concentrate with Rodrigo whistling his upbeat Mexican tune.

Uh, perdón? I say in my best Spanish accent.

¿Qué? he responds.

I’m trying to study here.

He goes back to sweeping. Empollón, he mumbles. I Google the meaning: Nerd. Ignoring Rodrigo, I focus on what I do best, creating computer viruses.

2

Pink Home Life

Tall elm trees form an arch over our shady lane. It’s a desirable neighborhood, close to Stanford University and the old downtown. This time of the evening I rarely see anyone, except maybe an eco-conscious professor on a bicycle. The neighbor’s dog knocks over a trash can. I barely hear it. I’m listening to Spotify and fuming over Oshi at band practice with Sean. My mom’s car is still in the driveway. I enter quietly because I want to get to my room before the inevitable encounter.

Jake? Is that you? My mom’s voice calls from the deep recesses of our home. Who else?

Computer lab, again? she asks, obvious irritation in her voice.

Uh-huh.

I wish you would have called. I have to go. Mrs. Bailey’s baby is breech!

Whoa! Better hurry. I feign enthusiasm. I want her to think I care, but it probably doesn’t matter anyway. She’s distracted, as usual, focusing on getting to the hospital in time. Her record as an obstetrician is flawless; she’s never missed a birth.

Pizza’s on the way. Money’s in the cookie jar, she says, grabbing her keys.

Thanks.

Make sure your sister does her homework, she calls out, closing the front door.

My sister, Sara, comes out of her room. Pizza again? she complains. I’m so sick of pizza I could puke.

What eleven-year-old kid doesn’t like pizza? Go do your homework, I say, hoping to deflect her. She sticks her tongue out and does an about-face.

During the divorce proceedings, the judge called us into her chambers separately. She gave us the choice of which parent we wanted to live with. We both chose our mother, Dr. Monica Green, aka Mumsy, an affectionate endearment which stuck when Sara couldn’t get enough Scooby-Doo. Scooby-Doo fans may recall that Mumsy-Doo is Scooby-Doo’s mother, and they all live on the Knittingham Puppy Farm.

It was a tad awkward that day, outside the judge’s chambers.

The conversation went something like:

Sara: Who’d you pick?

Jake: Dad.

Sara: Oh, whew.

Jake: What’s that supposed to mean?

Sara: I was scared you were gonna pick Mumsy.

Jake: Well, actually, I did pick Mumsy, I was just B.S.ing you to see what you’d say.

Sara: (who at this point began punching me) What? You shoulda picked Dad. I’ve searched the statistics—teenage boys are better off with their fathers. And on and on like that for ten minutes. She painted a pretty little picture of life with Mumsy, tucked away in the expensive tract home, with matching pink bedspread and curtains and no big brother to deal with. Sara and Mumsy, curled up on the couch together, munching pink popcorn and watching Scooby-Doo.

I had a different vision, and it did not include living with an alcoholic father in a tiny one-bedroom apartment five miles from school. Babysitting Sara sucks, but having the house to myself doesn’t. Mumsy’s dedication to her patients is renowned and her notoriety keeps her away from home more than the average parent. I’m lucky, I guess. All Mumsy requires from me is to babysit Sara, take out the garbage and stay out of trouble. It’s an arrangement I can live with, and a heck of a lot better than having to parent a parent. Having a tech genius for a father gives me kudos with the geek squad, but I sometimes wonder what it would be like to have a dad who loves baseball and working out at the gym—not that I particularly like either of those. They say the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. I’m probably more like him—at the core—than I care to admit.

With Sara tucked neatly in her room, I can get back down to business. The KEEP OUT sign on my bedroom door says it all—do not enter my sacred space. One huge bonus of being Justin Green’s kid is getting tons of computer stuff. Before my dad’s colleagues introduce new products, they are tested by geeks who work out the kinks. I’m a hi-tech guinea pig.

Currently, I’ve got three gaming CPU’s, two 40 monitors and a 60 monitor, five laptops in various stages of reconstruction and tablets from three different manufacturers. I’ve got apps coming out my ears. I need back-up drives to hold my back-up drives.

Once I run a program through the tests, I hack it for fun. About a year ago, I started messing around with coding viruses to destroy programs after I tested them. What a rush! When that got boring, I began putting viruses out on the net. I get to watch security companies try to crack my viral code. It’s a risky chess game between me and the virus-busters. When I get the inevitable inkling of guilt, I quell it by telling myself that I’m gaining valuable experience. Too bad I can’t include it on a resume. The thought makes me laugh out loud. I’m jolted out of my levity when Sara bangs on my bedroom door.

Irritation spikes my tone. What? I ask, flinging the door open.

Sara stands there, waving a mascara brush in my direction. The pizza guy is here, she says, unaffected by my mood. A kaleidoscope of colorful make-up adorns her face, and she’s wearing a costume that includes a fake fur wrap and a tutu.

What the…?

I’m practicing lines for the play I wrote, she says. I’m the lead, you know.

I shake my head and walk down the hall. The pizza guy is standing in the foyer, holding a plastic warming bag.

Hold up, dude, I say as I go to the kitchen to grab the money from the cookie jar. Just as I’m exiting the kitchen, my phone beeps.

Be right there, I yell to the pizza guy.

It’s a text from Oshi: Band practice is amazing. Sean’s so helpful. I love it!

I want to text back: Why do you like that poser?

Instead, I text: Great! Have fun!

The pizza guy waits in the foyer, holding up the pizza bag. His arms must be tired, and his logoed shirt and baseball cap really make him look like a goob. I feel sorry for him. I don’t want to be in his shoes when I’m eighteen. He takes the medium pizza box out of its warmer and hands it to me. I give him thirty bucks. I’ll get your change, he says, reaching into his pocket.

Keep it, man.

His eyes grow big. No way, he says. Seriously, dude? Thanks!

Whatevs, I say, to cover my embarrassment. It’s my mom’s anyway.

He chuckles nervously, backing out the door. Yeah, whatevs.

I don’t know if I gave him the big tip because he looks like he could use it, or because, if I’m ever in his position, I’d want someone to do that for me.

Sara comes into the kitchen as I’m setting the box down on the counter, "Here