Read Anatomy of a Misfit Online
Authors: Andrea Portes
On the other hand, everyone would be looking at Tiffany in the first place because this town is just a bunch of suburban hillbillies in khakis who think,
actually think
, that because Tiffany is black she's genetically predisposed to steal everything in sight. I mean, it's ludicrous.
Shelli's not even here today, 'cause it's Sunday and her nutjob Bible thumper of a mom won't let her work on the Lord's Day or whatever, so it's just left to the sinners Tiffany and me to work on this holy day and burn in hell together.
I am not going to teach Tiffany how to steal. No way. She seems like a really good girl and the last thing I want to do is help anyone in this small-minded town reaffirm their small-minded ideas about skin color and thievery.
But it's tempting.
There was a rush about an hour ago but now the place is like a ghost town. Mr. Baum is downstairs, doing inventory, so it's just Tiffany and me making conversation. Badly.
“Your mom seems really sweet.”
Tiffany has seen my mom come in and wait for me before driving me home. My mom has definitely made an extra effort to be nice to Tiffany in order to not be mistaken for a racist. Although, deep down, honestly, I think she kind of is. No offense, Mom, but you're just supposed to be normal. Not nicer. Not meaner. Just normal.
“Yeah. She's a good mom. A lot better than my dad, that's for sure.”
“At least you have a dad.”
Ugh. I didn't realize Tiffany was just in this thing with her mom and no one else. That might explain why half the time no one comes to get her and my mom and I end up dropping her off. It's kind of a total bummer because her apartment complex on Highway 80 is exactly in the opposite direction of our house so it adds like thirty minutes to the drive home, which is a lot after a day of shelling out Bunzas and French fries to family after family of endless beige people.
I'd be annoyed except you can't help but feel guilty when you see where Tiffany lives. It ain't no country club, that's for sure. There's always a couple of trucks parked out front and one or two beaters that look like they're on their last legs. On those days when her mom doesn't show up, she just kind of runs inside and neither my mom or I ever really know what to say.
I mean, what are you supposed to say? I'm sorry your life sucks so much? I'm sorry your mom never remembers to pick you up? I'm sorry there seems to be no dad involved in this situation?
I have not once got a look at her mom, you know. She always just kind of sits outside in the car and honks the horn. It's a burgundy Pontiac, not a bad-looking car, actually. But I think it's weird how she never comes in or anything. I bet she's pretty, though. Tiffany has really kind of delicate features, like a Kewpie doll. Not to mention her skin is like a dark mahogany with a lightbulb somewhere behind it. I wonder what it's like for her growing up in that crappy apartment complex with no dad and no hurry to get one.
There's about a thousand different questions I want to ask Tiffany but every single one of them seems like the dumbest ever.
For instance: We get a free meal per shift here at the Bunza Hut. Now, Shelli and I never take it because we have had everything on the menu eight thousand times and if I have to eat another Bunza meal in a Bunza I will commit hari-kari. But I have noticed Tiffany eat the free Bunza meal, every time, methodically, like clockwork, including the strawberry shake. She also will eat anything in sight when no one is looking and she weighs about three pounds. This makes me think she's either not getting any food at home, except maybe Frito-Lays and Twinkies, or that she's got the metabolism of a coke addict on crack. Not sure.
In any case, you can't help but wonder if there's something to be done about it. I mean, what if she really doesn't have anything to eat at home? If her mom's consistency at ride-giving has any correlation to her meal-giving, she's in big trouble.
“Hey, you wanna come over Friday night for dinner?”
I say it before I even know I'm gonna say it. Such a stupid idea. What if she thinks I'm feeling sorry for her?
“Sure.”
“We can pick you up and everything.”
“Yeah, okay. Sounds nice.”
And there it is, folks. I have officially invited the only black person in Lincoln, Nebraska, to have dinner with the ogre, my mom, Henry the brooding, Robby the happy, my two slutty sisters, and me this Friday night. I wonder if my mom will make it buffet-style or if she will get out the good china and act like she's Carol Brady.
M
y dad always calls at like 7:00 a.m., because half the time he's in Romania and the timing over there is something like eight thousand hours ahead, so it's night for him and way too early for me. Top this off with it's always a lecture and you have an all-day-ruiner right there.
“Vhat is dis I hear about a B in physical education?”
“I dunno it's justâ”
“Dat is a ri-di-cu-lous class, but nevertheless, it vill count on your transcripts.”
“Well, it's justâ”
“Listen to me. I do not intend to raise a daughter who ends up barefoot and pregnant living in Nebraska of all places. Besides dat, you vould be mi-ser-able if dat vere your fate.”
“I know it'sâ”
“The reason to get good grades is so dat you vill go to an elite East Coast college, vhere you vill increase your social cap-i-tal by networking vith people whose parents are not construction vorkers.”
“I knowâ”
“Do you vant to end up like your mother, vith a one hundred sixty-two IQ and nothink to show for it? One hundred sixty-two, can you believe it? And look at vhere she is. Is dat vhat you vant?”
“No, Dad.”
“Okay, so here is vhat you must do. You find dat een-significant physical education teacher after class. You ask him for advice. People like to feel important. Dis vill make him feel important.”
“Okay.”
“Den you follow his advice to the letter, every detail of his advice, apply yourself. And den, at the end vhen you have improved, you appear grateful and thank him for his vords of visdom. He vill give you an A. Trust me. Because you vill have made him feel like his seventeen-thousand-dollar-a-year job actually matters. You understand me?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Now, put your brother on the phone.”
Walking off back into my room I can now hear my brother pleading for his life. . . .
“Yes, Dad. I got a ninety-eight percent. But I did the extra credit so that makes it a ninety-nine percent. . . . No, he doesn't give a hundred percent to anyone. I am the top of the class. Yes. Ninety-nine percent is the top grade.”
I wonder if my father knows how terrified we are of these 7:00 a.m. phone calls from Romania. I mean, in a way, you have to wonder why my mother even puts us on the phone. I wish she'd just relay the message so we wouldn't have to start the day getting freaked out and shivering into our cornflakes. It's like two hours before my heart stops pounding every time.
By the time I get to fourth period, aka gym class, I've almost freed myself from the shackles of this fear and loathing. But . . . Mr. Dushane walks in.
Yes, that's his name, can you believe it? Dush-bag, Dush-face, and my personal favorite, Dush-nozzle. He's been called them all. Behind his back.
He's in great shape, for an old guy, but the funny thing is, he always wears red short dolphin shorts, like really short. You can practically see his you-know-what sticking out of the front of his dumb slutty shorts. What a freak. You definitely get the feeling this guy thinks he's like God's gift to mankind. And womankind. I'm serious. He acts like he just happens to be some Greek god in short shorts set down temporarily to teach us teenage nuisances the importance of the fifty-yard dash. The problem, and the reason I'm getting a B, is: I don't buy it.
But now, according to my vampire father, I have to pretend to buy it. Hook, line, and sinker. How embarrassing.
“I gotta go talk to Mr. Dush-nozzle.”
Shelli takes this class with me. Thank God. At least we can sit in the back giggling during Mr. Short-Shorts's monologues about team spirit or whatever the hell he's talking about.
“What? Why?”
“My dad says I have to.”
“The ogre or the vampire?”
“The vampire.”
“Oh.”
Even Shelli knows that's serious.
“Do you think I should do it now?”
“I dunno. His shorts look pretty short today. What if his wiener sticks out and tries to bite you?”
“Gross! Do you think he has a girlfriend?”
“Yeah, and her name is Rosy Palm.”
“Okay, here goes.”
The last thing I want to do is talk to this guy, but what are you gonna do? If I don't I'll end up barefoot and pregnant and living in a trailer park with a guy named Cletus.
His office has glass around it, stuck right behind the gym. He's doing something with laminated charts and looking vaguely confused.
“Um. Mr. Dushane?”
He doesn't hear me.
“Mr. Dushane? Can I talk to you for a minute?”
“What? Oh, hi. Yes, what can I do for you . . .” He can't remember my name.
“Anika. My name's Anika.”
“Right! Right. I knew that. So . . . what can I do for you, Anika?”
“Well, I wanted to talk to you about my quarter report. I got a B.”
“Yes?”
“Well, I'm just wondering what advice you could give me, seeing that you're considered like one of the most inspiring teachers and all . . . I'm just wondering, like, what advice you can give me to get better, and, you know, get an A.”
“It's not about As and Bs.”
“Mr. Dushane, I've never gotten a B before in my life. I'm not allowed, okay?”
“I see.”
“And I just want to ask you what I can do to improve myself, here in PE, and I am really just looking for some advice from someone who really seems to have it all figured out.”
All figured out? Who says that? What am I turning into over here?
“Okay. Okay, Anika. You have to apply yourself. You have to think, when it seems hopeless, when you're getting tired in the six-hundred-yard dash, you have to give it not one hundred percent . . . you have to give it one hundred and ten percent. See what I mean?”
What an idiot.
I could get that kind of advice from a Nike commercial.
“Yes. Yes, Mr. Dushane, I do. I really want to thank you for that. It really means a lot to me.”
He nods, making a reassuring but stern face. A guyface. A jockface, also used by politicians, I've noticed. It says, “This is how it's done, and we can do it!”
Guys are so full of shit.
Okay, back to Shelli.
“What'd he say?”
“He said his wiener wants to meet you.”
S
helli's mom picked her up today because she's bringing her straight to Spring Youth. Spring Youth, can you believe it? If you don't know what it is, picture this: Twenty or so kids go over to the leader's house and eat cookies, drink punch, and sing songs. The song lyrics are projected, written out in pen so you can sing along. The leader, or her husband, plays guitar. It's all fun and everyone is having a big old time. Then, the leader, or a guest speaker, gets up and talks about Jesus Christ our Lord and Savior. At the end of each session you are invited, if you so choose, to get up and say, “My name is so-and-so and Jesus Christ is my Lord and Savior.”
Now, how do I know this? Because I have attended one of these Jesus parties and I know firsthand that it is actually extremely enjoyable until Nerdlinger, our particular Spring Youth leader, gets up there and starts talking about Jesus. They should just stick to the songs and the punch.
Anyway, today is Shelli's day to try to be a stand-up Christian but I am pretty sure they don't give out awards for how many guys you've blown by the jungle gym.
The funny thing is, Spring Youth does a better yearly ski trip than the school so I have actually spent one entire week with these people, skiing in Steamboat Springs, Colorado, and listening to the lessons of Jesus Christ our Lord and Savior, from Nerdlinger and other similar yet varied nerd-underlings from across the Midwest. One thing for sure about these guys, they all definitely look like they have nothing better to do.
Basically, if you were casting a film, and you needed to fill the role of a quiet loner, who possibly goes out one day and decides to shoot everybody at the Taco Bell, it would be this guy. And his minions. Thank God they found Jesus, otherwise we'd all be in trouble.
I do have to say, by the end of that week of skiing, and listening to the nerd-minions talk about Jesus, and singing folk songs under that giant wooden hall in the middle of the resort . . . I'm kind of surprised I didn't stand up and find Jesus. I'm sure he was around there somewhere.
But now it's Shelli's turn to be indoctrinated, so this particular afternoon I get to walk four blocks on my own till Logan zips over on his moped and saves me from the brisk October air. And when I say brisk, I mean freezing.
But when Logan pulls up to the curb, he doesn't look happy. He kind of just stares at me with this hangdog look.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“Um, obviously, there's something wrong, so . . .”
“It's just. I dunno. I heard you're with Jared Kline now. Is that the deal?”
“What? No. Are you kidding?”
“It's just, everybody was saying you like left that party with him.”
“Oh my God. That is like a zillion percent not true. Here, can I just . . .”
“Look, it's no big dealâ”
“But it's not even true! Jared Kline is like a total scam artist. Everybody knows that. Do you think I'm gonna fall for that?”
“I dunno.”
“Do you?”