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musicologist from San Francisco, which probably tells you a lot about her — she doesn't wear makeup, has issues with personal space, and wears a shirt that says "I Love Nerds." She's adorable. Which makes it all the more heartbreaking when she walks into the house, sizes up her bikini-model sisters, and says, "The entire time I'm here, I'm always going to be the ugliest girl in the room." Nicole only need browse this site to realize she might be someone's fantasy, in her Catholic schoolgirl getup and her librarian glasses, but she is marooned on an island of silicone and lip gloss. It doesn't help that her partner, the male "Beauty," is a plastic parody of a douchebag. He practically has a Ph.D. in abs and hair gel. And unlike so many of the women on the show, who have a compassionate side, he's just a prick. "My advice to these guys? Stop being a geek. Be cool," he says, probably flexing his guns for emphasis. As one of the geeks said, not without a dose of resentment, "This changes everything."

I dismissed Beauty & the Geek when it debuted four seasons ago. First of all, it is called Beauty & the Geek. Second, it was produced by Ashton Kutcher. And third? Hmm, don't remember. Maybe I had book club that night. But it wasn't till later, when CW and VH1 began airing marathons of the show practically every weekend, that I began to discover something about it. It's surprisingly sweet. This corny, gimmicky show — pair up a socially insecure nerd and a dim, self-esteem-challenged beauty and ask them to teach each other about life — actually works. Not in a profound way, but in a small, affecting, we're-more-alike-than-we-are-different way. I'm not embarrassed to tell you I've teared up on occasion. It's like every episode is the conclusion of The Breakfast Club.

This season is different, though. The twist does change things, even though I want to throw my remote at the screen every time the announcer reminds us. It has injected a streak of cruelty and discomfort into the mix. Watching a bunch of dorky guys embarrass themselves has always

seemed like relatively harmless sport — the assumption being that the audience, much like the giggling lovelies on the show, finds this somewhat adorable. But watching Nicole can be downright painful. The show's first challenge asks the geeks to write and perform their own rap. Well, it's pretty hilarious to see a live-action role-player try to drop D&D references, but seeing a nervous female musicologist being told by members of Three-Six Mafia to turn around and shake her ass? Uncomfortable.

There is a theory in comedy that female comedians are so rare because audiences are uncomfortable with women embarrassing themselves. (Tina Fey and Ellen Degeneres might have something to say about that, along with about a dozen or so truly talented female comedians.) I don't think audiences are nearly as itchy with this as they might have been, say, back in the day when Christopher Hitchens got his first beer goggles. But I do think audiences are uncomfortable when women are embarrassed without their consent. When they aren't in on the joke. When they aren't controlling the joke. (Unless, of course, that joke is that they're stupid, a joke that is made ad nauseam on this show.) At one point, all the geeks are asked to come out in their underwear. A bunch of fat physicists and pallid comic-book junkies parade out proudly, hands on hips. Then the camera cuts to Nicole, miserable and exposed, wearing a white tank and shorts that look like something from MormonUnderwear.com. "I didn't really want to be standing there in my underwear," she says nervously. "I mean, what would my mom think?" This is a show that features Hooters girls bathing by the pool in string bikinis. How is she supposed to feel?

The female nerd is a tricky beast. Could a female Superbad even exist? I suppose it would look like Ghost World — two not-at-all-unsexy outcasts acting out their rage with cruel pranks. (I liked Ghost World, but it didn't remind me much of my teen years, spent equal parts in honors classes and keg parties.) Nerd girls in Hollywood are usually like Jenna Fischer on The Office — a mousy brunette dipped in drab who can still bring out the glam for award shows. Nicole is a unique creature on primetime, a nerd girl who currently lacks an alternate persona, the one where she drops the tortured ugly-duckling schtick and assures America she's totally fuckable.

But if I know my Beauty & the Geek, then all her solitary suffering will soon be resolved. There have already been hints at a happy ending for Nicole. One of the geeks has a crush on her. She, herself, admits that she is looking for "the alpha nerd." Surely some enterprising Molly Ringwald will take Ally Sheedy into the back room at some point and bust open her MAC collection. Lord knows there's enough beauticians in the house.

And I will have mixed feelings about this, the same way I did when it happened on the original Breakfast Club, and the same way I felt a stab of pain every time some adorable nerd on The Pick-Up Artist showed up wearing black nail polish or guyliner. There is something heartbreaking about taking someone so original and camoflauging them to fit in with everyone else. But if I want to buy into the show's easy lie — and this being television, why not? — then I should trust this is not about image so much as it is about building self-esteem. And for all its superficial shallowness (the gimmicky challenges, the shots of jiggling boobs, the cheap nerd jokes), the show does seem to have a genuine effect on its participants' self-esteem.

On this season's second episode, a medical student named Tony, someone so nerdy he actually wore a bow tie, was kicked off after flaming out in the rap competition. He just couldn't do it. He was too shy, too stranded outside his comfort zone. "I have problems opening up," he explained, wiping his eyes with the cuff of his sleeve.

His partner, an aspiring Playmate, should have been mad at him. Instead, she gave him a hug. "There's not a person in the world who wouldn't benefit from knowing you," she told him.

Good lord. Pass the Kleenex."  

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
	Sarah Hepola has been a high-school teacher, a playwright, a film critic, a music editor and a travel columnist. Her work has appeared in the New York Times, Slate, The Guardian, Salon, and on NPR. She lives in Williamsburg, Brooklyn.