The Bookworm and the Geek

Chapter One: John

Well, I started university today. It’s not that great, and I’m only in for two days a week, but it’s something for me to do now that I don’t need the wheelchair. I’m studying English Literature, and I suppose that’s extremely useful given my living situation. I’ve moved in with Harry, since the memory of what went on in my parent’s neighborhood still haunts me. I wake up, screaming in the cold, dark London night, until Harry hears my cries and comforts me with a hot chocolate and a hug, just like when we were children.

At least I have plenty of books to immerse myself in if I can’t get back to sleep. Harry’s shop specializes in romance and drama, but occasionally I’ll find myself a nice fantasy or non-fiction. That’s an odd combination, but it’s what I’ve loved since I was four years old, learning to read late at night by the dim light of Harry’s torch.

To be fair I’m only here by chance, because if Harry and Clara hadn’t split up, Harry never would’ve agreed to having me in the house. Clara hates “children,” even though I’m nearly nineteen and she’s twenty-three. I think Clara wishes she was older, so she could have even more respect and authority. But what’s the need, anyway? She’s over the age where she becomes an official adult, she works for the council and she’s practically rolling in money. And it’s only going to get better (or worse, depending on how you look at it) as she gets older, so I don’t know why she’s in such a hurry.

Anyway, I was talking about university. It was alright, actually. My professor is nice; he’s probably in his late twenties and seems very, very intelligent. Just like my whole family. We started with a new, six week long project, entitled “Getting to Know You.” That itself seems very limp and sappy, even the professor rolled his eyes. He told us that even though it’s childish and most of us hate it, we have to do it. In pairs. He read out the list with who had been assigned to each other. I was slated to start my project with a guy called Sherlock Holmes. My professor is called Holmes, so I instantly jumped to the conclusion that the university, probably taking pity on me because of my poor hearing and limp, had thought I would be better off having a grown-up to help me. I’m being sarcastic of course.

I, of course, turned bright red and walked up to the front desk where the professor sat nonchalantly, twiddling his thumbs. I managed to squeak out a very quiet enquiry about the arrangements for my project. He blinked, and then smiled warmly at me. “Oh, so you’re John Watson? Apologies my good man, you’re paired up with my brother, who is…” he looked around the room, thinning his eyes when he saw the empty seat near the back of the large room and turning his gaze onto me again, “apparently late at the moment. Trust him to not even show up on the first day. He’s never been punctual, that boy.” He shook his head. “No matter. For the time being, we’ll wait ten minutes. And if he doesn’t arrive, I’m sure we can put you into a group of three with one of the pairs we have already.”

An old saying my mother used to say occurred to me then. “Two’s company, three’s a crowd.” She said that once when I asked her why she wasn’t having any more children other than Harry and I. Coincidentally, I’ve never really liked groups of an odd number. Especially when they probably know each other already from their posh boarding schools and they share their little inside jokes. I didn’t go to a private school, and I definitely don’t even remotely recognize anybody in this classroom. They do sort of appear a little bit friendly, but I’m still shy anyway.

Thankfully, my ever-so-fashionably-late partner burst through the doors, complaining about London cabs and the rudeness of tourists. His jet black bird’s nest hair was a mess, I doubt he’d even bothered to comb it this morning. His casual clothes were crumpled in a similar fashion, and I could pretty much hear some of the more stuck up classmates complaining about having to share a room with “that.” Personally, I thought he looked quite cool, but then again I went to my local comprehensive secondary, where most of the students didn’t wash and left at fifteen. I showered daily and was reasonably well-groomed, but only because my family was in the uncomfortable space between working and middle class, and my older sister had a reputation of what the rich kids in the school called a “minger.” My parents probably couldn’t bear being shamed in such a way again, having both went to a private school in Edinburgh. My dad is still a secret peasant, though. He puts tomato ketchup on macaroni cheese.