Anatomy of a Misfit (18 page)

I mean, never in the history of time have two girls been sucker punched thusly.

God, I wish my eye were a camera.

Becky tries to pull it together.

“I-I just. Hey, Jared.”

“Hey,” Shelli squeaks.

But now, Becky won't be satisfied. She must have her day. She must win.

“What are you doing here with him? I thought you had a
boyfriend
?”

And there it is. My night of a thousand wonders comes to an end. No more sweet words in the pumpkin patch. He'll probably just leave me here. Becky would just love that. She'll make me beg for a ride home. Seriously. Oh well. I guess I'll just call my mom.

Except that Jared says this:

“She does have a boyfriend.”

And then he picks me up like he's carrying me over the threshold or something and looks Becky straight in the eye.

“Me.”

And with that, he swoops me off into the night of a thousand goblins and lets the tickets fall to the ground because who cares about that Halloween house ride when you've got Jared Kline carrying you and you might as well be on a rocket ship.

forty-one

W
e're in Jared's Jeep now, speeding home. He turns to me.

“Sorry we didn't get to go on that ride or whatever. But I think we both know what was the scariest thing at the Halloween Spookfest.”

“Hm?”

“Beeeeecky Viiilhaaaauuuueeer.” He makes his hands into claws and pretends to claw me.

I really never would've thought Jared Kline would be this witty. I thought he was just like maybe of average intelligence, kind of a burnout at best. I mean, his kid brother, Brad, once raised his hand in biology and asked if trees were alive. That's a true story, by the way.

“So, what are we doing now?”

“Well, since I'm such a total scam artist, I'm taking you home now so your mom doesn't freak.”

“Touché.”

“Oh, so you speak French?”

“
Je ne parle pas français.
That means I don't speak French.”

“Ooh la la. Who taught you that?”

“My brother. Henry. Sometimes we nerd out together. He loves everything French.”

“I see . . . French toast, French dressing, French fries . . .”

“ . . . French's mustard.”

Jared smiles at me and now we're just total goofballs. But I'm terrified when we get to my house. I'm dying when we get to my house. My heart is leaping out of my sweater when we get to my house. What will he do? Will he kiss me? Do I want him to kiss me? Yes, I want him to kiss me. No, I don't want him to kiss me. What if I'm not a very good kisser? Why should I be? The only person I've ever kissed before is my not-not-not boyfriend Logan.

We pull up to the driveway and he turns off the engine. I guess he thinks this is make-out city.

“Here, I'll walk you to your door.”

“Oh, you don't have to—”

“C'mon, you never know what kind of skeletons might be waiting in the bushes. You saw those kids. They're out for blood.”

I hop out of the Jeep and head for the door. Most of the lights are off in the front of the house, so I guess no one can see us. Maybe. You never know.

“So, um, Anika. You made my night kinda.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, you did. I like being with you, standing next to you.”

“Wow. I don't know what to—”

“That thing I said about you being my girlfriend? Anika, I want you to be.”

“But this is crazy. You don't even know me! Don't you have like a million—”

“No. I don't.” He sighs. “Look, I don't know what you've heard about me or where you heard it or whatever but I'm not
bad
. I'm just a guy. You know? All that stuff you hear is just . . . noise.”

“Okay.”

“So, you're my girlfriend now?”

“I guess?”

Every time I talk it sounds like I'm speaking from under a rock. I just can't believe any of it and I feel like if I talk too loud I'll break it. I'll wake up and realize it was all just a dream.

I touch the gold necklace hanging from my neck.

“I'm not gonna kiss you, Anika.”

“What? Why not?” That sounded bad. “I mean—”

“Because I know there's a part of you that still thinks I'm a scam artist. And I wanna prove to you I'm not. I'm just a guy. Who likes you.”

A light goes on in the living room up above us.

“I guess that's my mom.”

“Good night, Anika.” He squeezes me on the shoulder, reassuringly.

Okay, no one's ever squeezed me on the shoulder reassuringly before.

And then he goes, back to his Jeep, back into whatever cloud in the sky he came from. He turns before getting in.

“Sweet dreams.”

And then he's off, and there I am standing on the front porch, wondering what just happened. And he's right. I will have sweet dreams because this was all a sweet dream and I feel like I'm the girl whose sweet dreams never come true and I wonder how long this sweet dream can possibly last.

forty-two

P
edaling fast fast fast, the back wheel, rusty, goes squeak squeak squeak. This is the moment, this is the moment and now the trees and the leaves and the sidewalk give way and now there's blue and red circles and sirens and red-and-white trucks and the trees and the leaves and the sidewalk whisper they tried to stop me they tried to stop me they did.

Pedaling fast fast fast, don't see it. Try not to see it, don't see it but there is no way not to see it, there is no way to go back now.

Pedaling fast fast fast, this is the moment. You thought you could change it, remember how you thought you could change it and you want to laugh out loud you thought that but there is no laughing, there is no laughing now.

forty-three

I
know what to do now about Tiffany. I've been racking my brain since the night she got fired and now I know the only way to make it better. Or even get close to making it better. I have to give her the money. I bet you're wondering how much it is. How much did little miss front clerk and her sidekick Shelli steal from the Bunza-a-meal-in-a-Bunza?

Answer:

(Drumroll, please . . .)

Exactly one thousand two hundred thirty-six dollars and fifty cents. Yes, ladies and gentlemen. That looks like this: $1,236.50.

And Tiffany is gonna get all of it.

Don't try to talk me out of it, I've already decided. I'm halfway over to her house and my nose has already frozen off my face, thank you very much. This is one of those crappy almost-winter days where the sky is the color of oatmeal and the ground is frozen white, not even any snow to give it character. Just cold and suicide-inducing.

My dad, the vampire, likes to say, “Dees veather. Eet punishes you.” And he's right. You do get the feeling you're getting punished for something. But what? Maybe punished for living in such a crappy place and not doing anything about it, that's what.

Let's talk depressing. This stucco apartment building might as well have a sign out front reading “WE KIND OF BLEW IT.” I mean, anybody who isn't in college or going through a horrible divorce has got to be feeling pretty lame calling this place home. It doesn't help that there's a Burger King right across the street. I mean, the whole place smells like cheeseburgers.

When I get to the door I decide this is a stupid idea anyway and I'm leaving. What if she's not home and her mean mom answers? I can't give
her
the money. She'll probably just spend it on stuff to make her meaner. Whatever that is. I guess I'd be grumpy, too, if I had to live in this shit-basket.

The door opens before I even knock and it's Tiffany. She stands there looking at me, and it's like she's shrinking somehow right before my eyes.

“Hey.”

I know. I have a way with words.

“Hey.” Still shrinking.

“Listen, um . . . Hey, can I come in? It's kinda cold. . . .”

“Um, really?”

Oh. I get it. Tiffany doesn't want me to see this place. That I understand. I didn't really want Jared to see my place either. Not after seeing that library with nautical oil paintings.

“Yeah, I mean. It's kinda like freezing out here.”

“Okay.”

I step in and it's not all that bad, actually. I mean, it's not like you could eat off the floor, like our house. The corners are grimy. But there's an effort at sweeping and dusting that ends up somewhere between yeah-that's-enough and who-cares-anyway.

So far, no sign of Mom. Thank God.

“So, I felt kinda bad that, um, you got busted, so—”

“I know. It was stupid. I dunno what—”

“No, you don't have to say you're sorry.”

“No, I am—”

Oh my God, am I gonna tell her? She could so bust me if I do. And Shelli. Mr. Baum would press charges, too. $1,236.50 worth of charges. Probably more for his wounded pride. And the fact he's short. And fat. And that I've been poisoning him.

“Look, Tiffany, we stole, too.”

“What?”

Oh Lord. Tiffany looks like I just told her aliens landed in Topeka. This is gonna suck. Please God, don't let her tell on me.

“Yeah, we did. I had a whole system—”

“But why?”

“'Cause I'm an idiot.”

“But you're rich.”

“I guess, not rich enough?”

She and I just stand there looking at each other. Maybe it dawns on both of us that you can never be rich enough. Maybe that's the problem.

“Look, we were idiots.”

“Shelli, too?”

“Yeah.”

“But her mom's a Christian.”

“Exactly.”

Tiffany smiles.

“Look, there's just no reason why. I'm kind of a shitty person, I guess that's why.”

“No, you're not. You saved my ass!”

“Well, maybe, but mostly just 'cause I felt guilty. Anyway . . . here.”

I hand Tiffany the money, wrapped up in a Bunza Hut wrapper. She looks inside and then looks closer and closer and her eyes are practically popping out. Right into that Bunza Hut wrapper, where we could serve them up with fries.

“Holy shit!”

“I know. It's a lot.”

“How did you—”

I shrug. “We had a system.”

Tiffany looks at me. I can tell her opinion of me is changing rapidly by the millisecond.

“I thought you were perfect.”

“Um . . . no.”

“Well, you're pretty clever. Maybe that's it.”

“Thanks. When I was little they thought I was retarded and then they tested me and I had like a high IQ so I'm kind of like a smart retard.”

“How much is here?”

“Like about . . . one thousand two hundred thirty-six dollars and fifty cents. But who's counting?”

Tiffany looks around. God, I hope her mother's not home.

“I can't take this.”

“Yes, you can. And you will. You have to. I can't live with myself if you don't. I really can't.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yup.”

“Well, what am I supposed to do with it?”

“Don't give it to your mom. That's for sure.”

“No shit.”

She and I have a moment of silence. What do you do with money? Everybody's so crazy about it but then, once you get it, what do you do with it? Hug it?

“Maybe put it in the bank or something?”

“Yeah. That's a good idea. Thanks. Thank you so much.”

“No. Don't. I'm a jerk. Don't thank me.”

“Did you give this to me because you feel sorry for me?”

“I don't think so.”

“Good.”

We hear someone's feet on the stairs outside and both of us freeze in fear. Please don't let it be her mom. Please don't let it be her mom.

“Okay, I better go. Call me, or come by, whenever. I'm around.”

“Yeah, I will. I'll call you.”

And I know when I'm shuffling down those stairs, past the stucco and wrought-iron gates, I know she'll never call. I know she'll never call and never come by—ever again.

forty-four

S
o far today the sun is playing a trick where it's shining so bright it looks like it's supposed to be seventy degrees but then you go outside and it's thirty.

It's almost the end of the week. Thursday. The best day. All the anticipation of the weekend but none of the dread.

I've pretty much been skipping out on everybody, including Shelli, taking different routes to class. . . . I dunno. I just don't really seem to know what to do about anything anymore so I'm hiding. If I could turn this ceiling into a blanket and crawl under it, I would.

We're on seventies installations in Stoner Art Teacher's class and, so far, all I've got is a bright white diorama shoe box and no clue what to do with it.

I guess the general idea is you're just supposed to create a space where everybody walks in and has an emotional reaction.

I resolve to make a space where everybody walks in and is terrified.

Mostly right now my brilliant idea is sitting somewhere inside my head, hiding from me, and the only way to get it out seems to be to sit here and stare out the window.

Praise Jesus! The alarm bell goes off and once again we are all shuffled off outside, into the freezing cold, and everyone is looking at me expectantly.

“What? I didn't do it!”

Just like last time we wait, stare at each other, make chitchat, watch our breath come out in dragon puffs, and go back inside, finally, before we are all taken to the hospital for hypothermia.

I guess I won't have to work too hard to think of an installation because once we get back inside, there's . . . um . . . an installation.

This is what it is:

The entire room is filled with, teeming with . . . butterflies.