Contents
Cover
Praise for Word Nerd
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
1. Allergy
2. Protect
3. History
4. Ambrose
5. Exposed
6. Unhappy
7. Bonehead
8. Surprise
9. Criminal
10. Murderer
11. Empty
12. Rescue
13. Humiliate
14. Frustration
15. Visitor
16. Breasts
17. Bonding
18. Honesty
19. Narcotics
20. Avoidance
21. Miracle
22. Triumphant
23. Screwed
24. Rumble
25. Testimony
26. Rebellion
27. Runaway
28. Solution
29. Busted
30. Peace
Glossary
Acknowledgements
Also by Susin Nielsen
Extract
‘Ambrose Bukowski is the titular nerd and it’s in his delightful, disarming voice that Word Nerd unfolds … a funny, wry tale’
Globe and Mail
‘Tender, often funny. It will appeal to word nerds, but even more to anyone who has ever longed for acceptance’
School Library Journal, starred review
‘Enlivened by the witty, articulate musings of a hyper-observant and eccentric protagonist, Word Nerd is also chock-full of valuable lessons about being yourself and giving second chances. A page-turner’
Quill & Quire
Winner of the Governor General’s Literary Award and the Canadian Library Association’s Children’s Book of the Year
‘Both disarming and endearing. A realistic, poignant portrait of one teen who overcomes nearly unbearable feelings of grief and guilt’
Kirkus
‘A fantastic narrator, authentic and endearing … a memorable read for all the right reasons’
Booktrust
‘Nielsen writes about the heaviest subjects with the lightest of touches … a truly uplifting, even happy read’
Lovereading
‘Gloriously character driven … poignant and witty’
Bookbag
‘There are many great voices in YA fiction, but Susin Nielsen manages to give us TWO in the same book. I defy you not to fall in love with this book’
Phil Earle
‘There’s so much to love about this story, but what grabbed me most is the humour. Who do I write to to join the Susin Nielsen fan club?’
Christopher Paul Curtis
‘Susin Nielsen is one of the best writers working today’
Susan Juby
‘This savvy, insightful take on the modern family makes for nearly nonstop laughs’
Kirkus, starred review
‘A book to fortify readers against bullies and homophobes’
Sunday Times
‘Nielsen deals with some big issues – grief, loss, bullying and homophobia – but anchors the story with terrific warmth and humour. One to make you laugh, cry and read in one sitting’
The Bookseller
‘Snappy and witty. A really fine YA novel’
Telegraph
‘A sheer delight. That next life-affirming book’
Storytellers Inc.
This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorized distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.
Epub ISBN: 9781448188543
Version 1.0
This edition published in 2016 by
Andersen Press Limited
20 Vauxhall Bridge Road
London SW1V 2SA
www.andersenpress.co.uk
2 4 6 8 10 9 7 5 3 1
First published in 2008 in Canada
by Tundra Books, a division of Penguin Random House Canada Ltd
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form, or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the written permission of the publisher.
The right of Susin Nielsen to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.
Text copyright © Susin Nielsen, 2008
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data available.
ISBN 978 1 78344 460 1
To my mom,
for her unconditional love; and for being
the one person I can always beat at Scrabble.
early, ale, all, gall, gel, leg, real, gear, largely, lag, gale
THE DAY I almost died, the sky was a bright, brilliant blue – a nice change from the rain earlier in the week. A few clouds hung over the North Shore mountains, but they were far away.
I was sitting at a picnic table on the school grounds, eating my lunch. Being mid-October, it wasn’t really warm enough to eat outside, but I preferred it to the lunchroom, which was noisy and crowded and occasionally hazardous to my health if some kid tried to trip me. Sometimes a guy could feel lonelier surrounded by people than he could when he was alone.
I had another bite of my sandwich, then looked down at my feet. I was wearing my brand-new sneakers. Only the keenest eye would be able to tell they weren’t Nikes. Mom could never afford Nikes, but when she’d taken me to Chinatown on the weekend, I’d spotted a knockoff brand that was practically identical and a quarter of the price.
They looked good, my new shoes. Really good. Bright white, with a navy blue swish on the side and matching navy laces. In retrospect, I shouldn’t have worn my neon orange socks with them, but even so, they looked mighty fine. They almost made me forget about my pants, which were getting too short, but as Mom liked to say, she wasn’t made of money. New pants would have to wait.
On the field, Troy, Mike, and Josh were kicking a soccer ball around. For a moment I thought about asking if I could join them, but the last time I tried that they made me the goalie, then kicked the ball at my head over and over again until I had a headache. So I decided to stay put.
The sun felt good, and I closed my eyes. I could feel the warm rays on my face and imagined them zapping the blackheads on my nose into oblivion.
Then the sun disappeared and something bounced hard off my head. I opened my eyes. The first thing I saw was the soccer ball, rolling away from me. The second thing I saw were three sets of big Nike-clad feet.
I looked up. Troy, Mike, and Josh were towering over me, blocking the sun.
‘Oops,’ said Troy. He was the tallest of the three by at least a head and as broad as a tree trunk. He had short, thick black hair and his eyes were too small for his face.
‘It’s OK. Accidents happen,’ I said, even though accidents between their soccer ball and my cranium occurred at least three times a week.
‘What’s for lunch, Spambrose?’ asked Mike, who was what some people would call stocky and I would call fat. He had curly brown hair and a permanent scowl, and his jeans hung way below his waist, exposing a good four inches of his underwear, which I understood was supposed to look not dorky but cool.
‘Ambrose,’ I answered. ‘Cheese sandwich, carrots, apple—’
‘Your lunch sucks,’ Mike said.
I laughed. It came out like a horse’s whinny because, I confess, I was forcing it a bit. ‘Yeah, my mom’s big on nutrition …’
‘Hey, Damnbrose, is it true you’re allergic to peanuts?’ asked Troy.
‘Ambrose. Yeah, it’s true.’
‘I’ve been going to this school for, like, six years. For six years, I’ve eaten peanut butter and jam sandwiches for lunch. Then you show up, and suddenly our school’s declared a peanut-free zone.’
‘Yeah, my mom takes it pretty seriously. Have you ever tried almond butter? Because it’s not a bad substitute …’
‘Look at his shoes,’ said Josh. He was the smallest of the three, but strong and wiry and tough, and his hair was shaved into a kind of Mohawk. For some reason, he scared me the most.
Troy and Mike looked at my feet.
‘Ike,’ said Troy.
‘It’s pronounced Ikee,’ I explained. ‘Like Nike without the N.’
Troy shook his head. ‘You are such a freak.’
The good feeling I’d had about my new shoes started to fade.
‘Close your eyes,’ said Josh.
‘Why?’
‘Because I said.’
Now this made me a little nervous because the last time I’d closed my eyes for them, I’d opened them to find a dead crow in my lap.
But it’s very hard to say no to the Three Stooges. I called them that (only in my head and never out loud because I am not suicidal) because my mom had taken me to a ‘Three Stooges Marathon’ a few years ago and we’d watched their old shows for about four hours straight. Troy was Moe, the leader; Mike was Larry; and Josh was Curly because his hair was cut so short, he almost looked bald.
It didn’t really make sense because the Three Stooges were funny. Troy, Mike, and Josh were one hundred per cent not.
So I closed my eyes, and to pass the time I scrambled the letters from ‘Three Stooges’ in my head to see what new words I could make. I came up with ghettos, together, shooters, shortest, and had just figured out soothers when Josh said, ‘OK, you can open your eyes.’
I did. Nothing was in my lap. I patted my hair. Nothing – no worms, no spit.
‘What’d you guys do?’ I asked.
But Troy just patted me on the back, a little too hard. ‘See you, Peanut-butter-and-Jambrose.’
‘Ambrose,’ I said. ‘See you guys in math.’
They walked away. I picked up my sandwich and took a bite, thinking that, all things considered, my chat with the Three Stooges had gone pretty well. In fact, I was thinking that maybe this was a step forward in our relationship when suddenly I felt itchy all over, followed by a distinct tightening in my throat.
I knew that feeling. It had been eight long years, but I still knew. I peeled back the bread on the top of my sandwich and, sure enough, there it was.
A peanut. Well, to be accurate: half a peanut. The other half was in my digestive tract, and I was going into anaphylactic shock. All the mucous membranes in my throat were swelling up and I could hardly breathe. I reached for my EpiPen, then I remembered that it wasn’t with me. It was in a fanny pack in my locker, where I hid it most mornings, even though my mom would kill me if she knew. When I wore the fanny pack, the Three Stooges called me a fag because it was hot pink – a free sample my mom got at a shopping mall in Kelowna, where we’d lived until two months ago.
So the shot that could have saved my life was inside and two floors up, and I was outside in the schoolyard gasping for breath. I caught sight of Troy, Mike, and Josh doubled over with laughter as they watched me. Just before everything went black, I pictured the headline of my obituary: FRIENDLESS NERD KILLED BY PEANUT. And the byline: DIES WEARING IKES.
pet, poet, rope, pore, opt, top, pot, potter, core, tore
But I didn’t die. Instead, I had what the doctor called a near-death experience, which, I guess, sounds kind of exciting, but I personally wouldn’t recommend it.
I didn’t see a bright blazing light. I didn’t see God, or Allah, or Buddha. My life didn’t flash before my eyes. In fact, after I blacked out, I didn’t remember anything until the ambulance attendant gave me the first shot of adrenaline, which is enough to wake anyone up. After that, I must have passed out again because when I woke up, I was in a hospital bed and my mom was sitting beside me, wearing the floppy hat with the flower on it that I had bought her last Christmas from Value Village. She was clutching my hand, bawling her eyes out.
I wanted to tell her I was OK, that everything was going to be OK, but my throat felt funny and I think I was drugged because I couldn’t get the words out. This bothered me because I could see how upset she was.
I love my mom. She has tried to protect me my whole life, and not just from peanuts. When I was little and we still lived in Edmonton, Nana Ruth used to joke that our place was outfitted like an asylum – all that was missing were the straitjackets. Our outlets were plugged with wall-socket protectors; medicines and cleaning products were locked up; sharp-edged tables were padded with hunks of foam; drawers and cupboards all had childproof locks. We even had big plastic clip-locks to hold the toilet seat down because Mom was worried that I might lift up the seat, fall in, and drown.
She made me watch the ‘Stranger Danger’ video twenty thousand times. I’ve never been allowed to climb ladders or trees, or swim unless she’s in the pool, and she still makes me hold her hand when we cross busy roads. Sometimes it’s a little embarrassing, especially when she swears at bad drivers in a loud voice from the sidewalk, but I know her heart is in the right place.
Because my mom has done such a good job protecting me, I decided, when we moved to Vancouver two months ago, that I was old enough to return the favor. That’s why I’ve told her that everything’s working out well in my seventh-grade classroom at Cypress Elementary; that I have friends, and their names are Troy, Mike, and Josh. I can see how happy it makes her, because in Edmonton, Regina, and Kelowna, I never really had friends.
And what would be the point in telling her that this school was the same as all the rest? That, on a good day, the Three Stooges called me names; that, on a bad day, they threw my lunch into the toilet and, on one occasion, my lunch and my gym shorts.
The thing is, I’ve learned to live with it. It’s not the end of the world. And besides, if I told my mom the truth, she would flip. She would make a big production out of it. The principal would be called, parents would be called … and when it all simmered down, who would be left to deal with the ugly aftermath? Me.
And, to be honest, it made me feel better when I could tell her stories at the end of the day that made it sound like I had a life:
‘Then we all shot hoops at lunch.’
‘I helped Mike with his math after school.’
‘Troy invited me to his birthday party at Planet Lazer.’
That last one almost backfired. I’d chosen laser tag because I knew my mom thought it was violent and dangerous, so I was shocked when she said I could go. We picked out a gift, and Mom took me by bus to Planet Lazer, which took over an hour because it was all the way out in Richmond. When we got there, she wanted to come in and meet Troy’s mom, but I begged her not to, saying it wouldn’t look cool. She finally backed down.
For the next three hours, I stayed in the laser-tag bathroom because it was pouring with rain outside. I read the book we’d bought for Troy – The Thief Lord by Cornelia Funke – and, for a while, I could really believe that I was in Venice, Italy, on an incredible adventure and not in a stinky cubicle perched on a toilet seat.
On the way home, the bus was crowded and people were wet, so it smelled like dampness and armpits. Mom and I had to stand near the front.
‘So? How was it?’ she asked.
‘Great. Our team won. I shot a laser right through Troy’s heart.’
She shook her head. ‘Ugh, it sounds awful. You didn’t eat the cake, did you?’
‘No, Mom,’ I said. ‘I didn’t eat anything except the snack you sent me with.’
After that, we were both quiet. I watched the rain swirl down the bus windows like miniature rivers and snuck peeks at the unsmiling faces around me.
This time, the lie hadn’t felt very good. It hadn’t made me feel like I had a life.
It just made me feel like a speck in the universe.
I must’ve drifted back to sleep because the next time I woke up, I could hear my mom in the hospital corridor, talking to a doctor. Her voice was raised about an octave. I could picture her in her hat, waving her arms around, and I felt a twinge of pity for the doctor. Suddenly I heard, crystal clear: ‘They slipped a peanut into his sandwich? His school friends intentionally slipped a peanut into his sandwich?’
Oh, man. I wondered who had dared to snitch on the Three Stooges. Another kid who’d seen what had happened? Or, perhaps, one of the Three Stooges themselves, in a rare moment of guilt?
Then a hazy memory floated to the surface of my brain, and I groaned. A pretty nurse had been standing over me when they gave me my second shot of adrenaline. She’d asked me what had happened …
And I’d told her everything. It was me. I was the snitch.
In the hallway, my mom was still shouting and, crazy as it sounds, at that moment, I wasn’t thinking about how grateful I was to be alive.
I was thinking, Why didn’t that peanut just kill me?
Because I knew with absolute certainty that the poop was about to hit the fan.
his, hit, sh—, stir, toy, soy, shot, hot, shirt, short, story
WE FOUND OUT I had a peanut allergy when I was three years old. We were living in Edmonton, and my mom decided to take a part-time teaching job at the university because we were running out of money from the life insurance policy. She put me in a home daycare run by a woman named Betty Spooner (snooper, opens, peon, pores, poser, prone, prose, ropes, spore, person). I don’t remember much about Betty except that she was prehistoric – like, she looked ninety-seven, but maybe she was only sixty.
Betty Spooner hadn’t kept up to date on allergies in kids because on my second week there, she served PB&J sandwiches for lunch. I took a couple of bites and, lucky for me, Betty happened to glance up from the soap opera she was watching on the little black-and-white TV she kept in the kitchen and noticed I was swelling up like a puffer fish. She called 911 and then my mom. At the hospital, the doctor told my mom that I had a severe allergy to peanuts and that if I ever ate one again, the reaction could be even worse. That’s when I got the EpiPen and my very own MedicAlert bracelet, which I used to think was cool but which I now hate.
Anyway, I didn’t go back to Betty Spooner’s. I heard my mom screaming at her on the phone that night and calling her a half-wit, which, in retrospect, wasn’t very fair. Betty didn’t know any better, but my mom is – well, that’s my mom. After that, she didn’t want anyone else to look after me, so she quit her teaching job and stayed home with me full-time until I started school.
But even when she was looking after me full-time, my mom still didn’t feel I was safe. I have a vivid memory of going to the playground near our apartment, the one with the rusty red monkey bars, and an old man was sitting on a bench, feeding peanuts in their shells to the squirrels. I picked up a shell and almost put it in my mouth. Mom whacked it out of my hand just in time, then she lectured the old man about peanut allergies, and he wound up calling her a puta (which I found out much later means ‘prostitute’. Which she isn’t. She doesn’t even date).
After that, she bought me one of those kid-harnesses, which I had to wear wherever we went. I still remember running down the street, or through a mall, and being yanked gently back when I ran out of leash. I also remember Mom getting into arguments with strangers who thought putting a kid on a leash was cruel. When that happened, I’d pretend I was a dog and bark, and that usually made them go away. Once I even licked my mom’s hand, but she didn’t like that very much.
Nana Ruth, who still visited us a lot in those days, couldn’t stand to see me wear the harness. She and Mom had heated arguments about it when they thought I was asleep.
‘It’s not right, Irene. I know you want to protect him, but this is going too far.’
‘Get off my back, Mom, please. I’m just trying to keep him safe.’
I loved Nana Ruth, with her powdery white hair and her brightly colored tracksuits, but I also loved my mom, and hearing them fight made my stomach hurt.
Nana Ruth didn’t win that argument. I kept wearing the leash.
Right up to kindergarten.
But in case I’m painting my mom to be a nutcase, she isn’t. At least, not so much.
In fact, she was this close to being a normal mom, and we were this close to being a normal family, with two parents and me, and who knows? Maybe a brother or a sister, or at least a pet.
My mom and dad really loved each other. He was a handsome, tanned Australian who had come to Canada on a work visa. He’d headed straight to Banff to work as a ski instructor and he only meant to stay a year. My mom was a tiny thing, with long brown hair pulled back in a ponytail, and she wore granny glasses, which made her look serious and older than her twenty-five years. She had just finished getting her Ph.D. in English literature at the University of Calgary, where she’d written a thesis called ‘The Effects of an Isolated Upbringing on the Imaginations of the Brontë Sisters.’ It got published in a journal somewhere, even though (no offense to my mom intended) it didn’t exactly sound like a page-turner.
She had gone to Banff for a week with a girlfriend to blow off steam and celebrate, and she met my dad one night at a pub. According to my mom, he shouldn’t have been her type at all. ‘I was all brains, he was all brawn.’ She would smile when I asked her to recount the story, which I did quite often.
And yet, they fell head over heels in love. Within months, my dad moved to Calgary, and soon afterward they got married. They rented a bungalow just three blocks from Nana Ruth’s apartment. Mom got a full-time job at the university, teaching English literature, and she was hoping to get tenure in a couple of years. As far as I can understand, tenure basically means you have a job for life. Dad found lots of work in construction.
Two years later, my mom got pregnant. According to my mom, my dad would talk to me every night and I would ‘answer’ with little kicks.
When she was seven months pregnant, Mom got a call from Dad’s foreman. Dad had collapsed on the job. Just like that – keeled over. He was taken away by an ambulance. Mom drove as fast as she could to the hospital, but by the time she got there, he was DOA.
Dead on Arrival.
Apparently he was already dead on departure too … dead when he hit the ground. All that time, my dad had had an aneurism (seminar, surname, armies, marines, manure, remains) in his brain, a little blood vessel that had been slowly swelling like a balloon. That day it just burst.
So I never met my dad, or any of his side of the family for that matter. His parents died when he was young. He had an older brother back in Australia, but I guess he and my mom lost touch because we never hear from him.
I have lots of pictures of my dad, almost all of them taken by my mom. Mom will talk about him, but only when I ask. Nana Ruth will talk to me about him too, but since we moved to Edmonton, Alberta, when I was two; then to Regina, Saskatchewan, when I was five; then to Kelowna, B.C., when I was nine; then to Vancouver this summer, right after I turned twelve, I have only seen her a handful of times. She has come to visit us, but, at most, once a year because she doesn’t like to fly.
Last time Nana Ruth visited, we were still in Kelowna, where Mom was a sessional lecturer at U.B.C. Okanagan. I heard them arguing on her last night there.
‘Irene, enough is enough,’ Nana Ruth said. ‘You have got to move on with your life and stop living in the past.’ Then Mom told her she was moving on with her life, that she was doing the best she could, and she was sick of Nana judging her all the time.
So, I don’t know. Maybe that’s another reason why Nana Ruth doesn’t visit anymore.
From little things I have heard and little clues I have picked up, I suspect my mom was quite a different person when Dad was alive. But I have only ever known her A.D.D. – After Dad’s Death. This is the only version of her I’m acquainted with, and it’s a version that I love very much.
I also know that she loves me like crazy. So I can’t really imagine what it must have been like for her when she got the phone call this time. Because hearing ‘Your son is in hospital’ must have sounded a lot like ‘Your husband is in hospital.’
And we all know how that turned out.
somber, bream, sober, bare, bear, bore, robes, smear, some
THAT’S HOW I got my name. Ambrose. It was my dad’s name. It comes from the Greek ‘Ambrotos’ and means ‘divine, immortal one.’ I pointed out the irony of that to my mother once. I said, ‘Kind of funny, isn’t it, seeing as Dad clearly wasn’t. Immortal, that is.’
Mom didn’t think it was funny at all.
pox, dope, pod, deep, sex, pee, does, do, posed
‘YOU COULD HAVE killed him.’
My mom’s voice was calm, but in a creepy, just-barely kind of way. She was wearing her best suit, the navy blue one that she’d bought at Goodwill when we lived in Regina. It had gold buttons on the jacket and made her look classy and businesslike all at once. I sat beside her in a straight-backed chair, and because I’d wanted to look businesslike too, I’d worn my brown pants (which were a little tight in the crotch) and a blue-and-white striped button-up shirt that I’d found at Value Village. It was two sizes too big, but it still looked good.
Troy, Mike, and Josh sat opposite us, all squished together on the principal’s couch, which was old and plaid and gave off a funny smell. They hadn’t made any effort to dress up. In between us, at his desk, sat our principal, Mr Acheson. He had the look of a guy who’d been a jock in his day, but now he was kind of flabby and almost bald. He was wearing one of his famous ties (the one with the dancing frogs). I think he hoped the ties would make the kids like him better.
They didn’t.
I’d been released from hospital the day before. Other than still feeling a bit shaky, I was physically OK. But mentally, I was a wreck.
‘It was supposed to be a joke,’ said Troy, gazing at me with his tiny eyes like he wanted to squash me.
My mom stiffened. ‘A joke. So, your idea of humor is to risk a friend’s life.’
‘It was an accident,’ Mike interjected, but Mom just stared daggers at him.
‘An accident?’ Her voice was rising. ‘You three deliberately put a peanut in my son’s sandwich, knowing that he had a deadly peanut allergy. What kind of heartless half-wits—’
‘Please, Ms Bukowski, calm down,’ the principal said.
‘Mrs Bukowski,’ Mom replied. ‘And calm down? My son was almost killed and you’re asking me to f—ing calm down?’
Oh, man. I’d been keeping my fingers crossed that Mom wouldn’t get to the foulmouthed trucker stage.
‘I could file criminal charges against these three punks: assault causing bodily harm, willful malice—’
‘Ms Bukowski,’ the principal said firmly.
‘Mrs Bukowski.’
‘If you’re going to make threats like that, I’ll have to call the boys’ parents as well as the school board superintendent.’
Mom actually shut up. There was an uneasy silence for a moment.
‘Boys, what do you have to say for yourselves?’ asked Mr Acheson.
‘We thought he was exaggerating,’ Josh said.
‘Yeah, how could we know he was serious?’ Mike added.
‘Because he’s your friend!’ Mom shouted.
Troy snorted. I sank a little further into my seat.
Mom stared at him. ‘What was that?’
‘Nothing,’ Troy mumbled.
‘No, I’d like to know.’