A Catastrophe of Nerdish Proportions
““I hate them. I seriously hate them,” I said as we sat in Beanpole’s bedroom on the Sunday before the Septathlon. “It’s only twenty-four hours, but I don’t know if I am going to make it. In fact, I don’t even know how I made it this far.”
“We should invite them over and pull out their toenails,” Q said, sitting in the corner like a mouse.
“I already did,” Beanpole answered.
“What?” I exclaimed.
Beanpole flipped through the mountaineering section of her closet, seeking out a lightweight polyuret...hane jacket suitable for modest precipitation. “I invited them over,” she repeated, like it was no big deal.
“You invited them here?” I asked. “When?”
“Any minute.”
“Excellent,” Q said. “It’s toenail time.”
“Stop that, Alice,” Beanpole said. “It’s not nice to be not nice. We’re a team, remember?”
I rolled my eyes. Uh-oh, here we go, I thought. Time for another cheer.
“We’re the Aardvarks, The mighty, mighty Aardvarks!
We’re the—”MoreLess
“We should invite them over and pull out their toenails,” Q said, sitting in the corner like a mouse.
“I already did,” Beanpole answered.
“What?” I exclaimed.
Beanpole flipped through the mountaineering section of her closet, seeking out a lightweight polyuret...hane jacket suitable for modest precipitation. “I invited them over,” she repeated, like it was no big deal.
“You invited them here?” I asked. “When?”
“Any minute.”
“Excellent,” Q said. “It’s toenail time.”
“Stop that, Alice,” Beanpole said. “It’s not nice to be not nice. We’re a team, remember?”
I rolled my eyes. Uh-oh, here we go, I thought. Time for another cheer.
“We’re the Aardvarks, The mighty, mighty Aardvarks!
We’re the—”MoreLess
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