Short Stories from Yours Truly

Nerds and Prom Don't Mix

I couldn't get a date to the prom.

I asked every popular girl I knew (not many) and even a couple of junior girls who looked cute. But they took one look at me and turned around, disgusted beyond even a sneer.

I'm not quite sure how people can instantly label me as "super-smart nerd" from miles away. It could be the way I comb my hair back neatly, or my giant, thick glasses, or the braces I've worn since the third grade because my teeth are really bad. But I know one thing: it can't possibly be my pocket protector. Not in a million years. Pocket protectors are sexy; my girlfriend tells me every day.

Confused? I expect. But I had to establish the facts before I started: that I am a nerd, and, as I said, I did not get a date to the prom.

I made one.

The inspiration really struck me, I think, on the way home from work that day. I work at a video rental shop, in the back sorting DVDs and CDs into neat piles. The guys who work up front, who are jocks and stupid and basically everything I never want to be and never could anyways, came back to visit me just after closing. They teased me mercilessly about not having a date and left. I walked shamefully back home. En route, I encountered the Formal Dresswear shop, where girls were lined up, ready to buy beautiful dresses for their prom evening. The prom's theme that year was "ballroom extravaganza" I recall, where everyone dressed up like royalty. I looked at the dress form in the shop, wishing that I could have a girl who would love me unconditionally, no matter what. 

Then I wondered, what if I could make that happen? The Frankenstein novel I'd been reading popped into my head. I could make a girl for myself- after all, being the biggest nerd in the high school does have its perks. One of them is writing code. I could write a program- a program for the perfect girl. All that afternoon, my head spun with ideas. That evening, I bought a life-size doll online. It would come in a few days. Then, I got out an old hard drive. Purchased from a pawn shop, it was imperfect and did not function at first. But I had cleaned it up a bit, so it should run my bride just fine.

I built her brain in the dark of the night, writing code and taping together strands of copper wire. I connected everything electronically- I made nerves for her to move, and purchased spy cameras to go in her eyes. Everything had to be perfect. My date would be the best around. Everyone would be jealous.

I maintained this delusion throughout the week, while I built her. Naming her was the most fun. I though of all my favorite names: Fiona, Jill, Amber, Aubrey, Genevive, but none seemed to fit the button-eyed beauty that stared unblinkingly at me every night as I installed the circuitry.

It hit me at one AM in the morning, while I was testing out the small microphone installed near her throat. I could ask her! I had programmed my counterfeit date with the highest from of thinking that I could give to her. She could hear and see me, and her gorgeous self (I had bought a mirror so she could see what she looked like. She said she liked the hair- I liked it myself. She had purplish-black hair that went in ringlets to her shoulders.)

"My name?" She responded to my inquiry. "Well, master," (I did not design that part of her, though I quite liked it) "I do believe my name is my creator's desicion, namely, you."

"I cannot decide," I assured her. "I think it would be adequate for you to name yourself."

"Searching names. Searching names," my delightful doll said. Her voice turned flat as her computer-brain went to work. "Name found," she added a second later. Her voice returned to its semi-human state. "I would be named Suzetta."

"Suzetta!" I replied. I would have shouted, but I was already in trouble with Mother for staying up too late. "Suzetta is a wonderful name."

"Indeed," Suzetta responded.

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The day of the prom, the whole school buzzed with excitement. Everyone seemed to be with their date- it was more of a lovefest than Valentine's Day. Yet, unlike Valentine's Day, I felt self assured and superior. I had a date, too. I was going to be happy and dance the night away.

That evening, I hauled Suzetta out of the basement and left a note to Mother about going to the park. She liked it when I went to the park....

But back to the story. I booted Suzetta up and held her hand as we walked out the door and to the nearby park. It was mostly empty, which was nice. Suzetta really gets me. We had talked for half the evening about things I could never dicuss with my more jocular classmates. Every moment, I felt as though I were in heaven.

When it was finally time for the prom, I went home, grabbing my tux and bow tie.

We arrived there fashionably late, as the movie ladies say, and made a grand entrance. I saw all of my peers' faces, their mouths each a perfect O of surprise. I beamed at them all, expecting the wave of envy and jealousy to come any second.

But all they did was hurl their laughter at my face like rotten potatoes. Shocked, I stood there for a full thirty seconds before fleeing to the safety of an empty chair, near the punch. I sat there, head in my hands. Why? Was all that I could think. How could they laugh at me...?

Cold, dress-form fingers fell onto my shoulder. "Master," Suzetta said softly. "It's okay." I looked up at the blue buttons that served as her eyes and gave a wavering smile.

"Oi, nerdling!" It was Preston, the leader of the football goons and big-time bully. I have tried to report him, but he is a very good liar. "Is that your date? Really? You had to get a robot 'cos no other girl could ever remotely like you?"

"Yeah," echoed Gordon. "You so stupid, yo momma was like, 'dang!'" The surrounding high-schoolers laughed and high-fived the incomprehensible buffoon. I was so stunned by the florid stupidity of this insult that I was struck speechless.

The laughing hurt. It hurt more than the insults, really. It was like a bee sting for each snicker and gufaw. And I was covered in bee stings.

I felt the grip on my shoulder tighten. "Do these dung-rollers displease you?" A surprisingly tight voice behind him asked. It was then that I remembered my dignity.

"Yes," I replied.

"Then let me see to them," Suzetta responded. In her stiff, robot-walk, my beautiful date held out her finger and touched the nearest jock. He collapsed to the ground. "All who bring the wonderful man I love pain," she said loudly, "Will be shocked to find yourselves in a hospital." As the goon at my feet moaned in pain, the teenagers scattered. "Come, master," she said, beckoning, "We have better things to do."

**********************

I still love my Suzetta. Even though I am nearly eighty, with three adopted children, she is still beautiful and still believes me to be handsome. And thanks to my billion-dollar robot software patent, the world does not have a problem with this.