Anatomy of a Misfit (5 page)

“Really?”

“Yeah, for like a month.”

“No way.”

“Way.”

Now we all sigh, a collective sigh against the injustice of moms.

“It was SO queer.”

“Sounds like it.”

Thank God Brad Kline comes barreling up. He puts his arm around Becky, who would look smug that she's bagged the most popular guy in the school, if she didn't look annoyed he was wrinkling her dress.

“Dude. Party at my house. Friday night. Be there.”

And now he nods at me.

“'Specially you. Chip likes you. You know that?”

Chip Rider is the second potato on the popular guy front. He's blond and blue-eyed and looks like a Ken doll had a baby with a Cabbage Patch Kid.

“So, you coming?”

“I guess so.” This guy Brad, seriously, has the IQ of a toaster oven.

He's got twenty dolt friends calling him over, so, praise the Lord and pass the cornflakes, he and Becky steer off into the abyss of jocks. Becky says something that has the jocks and all of their would-be girlfriends/hangers-on in stitches.

Shelli and I duck out to our long days' journey into the sidewalk. We are halfway down the block before we each let out a huge sigh of relief.

“Dude. That was close.”

ten

W
hat our folks are thinking, making us do this annoying long walk home every day, is beyond me. First of all, it's starting to get cold. Late September is about to grab ahold of all that sun and fun, shake it up, and turn it into fall harvest fest, fright night, Homecoming, turkey day, and then the big Christmas explosion. But what that means right now is: cold and getting colder.

It's only like forty degrees today, the sun starting to set and Shelli and I forgot our coats. By “forgot” I mean we rolled our eyes when our moms asked where they were.

Shelli's mom is a real freak. Like, she's a total Christian and is always talking about what would Jesus do, and the real meaning of Christmas, and how to hate gay people. If she only knew that before her very eyes she was raising her own personal Mary Magdalene, her eyes would probably roll into the back of her head and she'd start speaking in tongues.

Here's another thing: She calls me Mexican. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, according to Shelli's mother I am her Mexican friend. Never mind that Shelli has told her a million times I'm half
Romanian
, and that I never see my dad anyway. No, sir. I'm still a señorita from south of the border. I guess an immigrant is an immigrant to her but it gets not so amusing because Shelli actually had to beg to be friends with me after her mom found out. I'm not kidding. Shelli had to actually beg her weirdo mother for days to let her be friends with a half-breed like me. Her mom had literally said, and I quote, “I don't want no daughter of mine hanging around with a beaner.” End quote. Can you believe that horse manure?

Shelli was loyal, though. She went on a hunger strike till her mom had to give in. Still, I don't exactly like sticking around when she comes home from work.

Before then, though, Shelli and I have a whole tradition. When we get to her house, since it's halfway between school and my house, we plunk down, eat cookies, drink hot chocolate, watch MTV, read magazines, and gossip about guys she likes. We should probably lay off the cookies but don't forget it's getting cold out, so that makes it impossible, really.

Cookies are not meant to be today, though. Once Becky went off with Brad Kline and his festival of jocks, Shelli and I thought we were in the clear. We got about five blocks from school and guess who came riding up on his moped?

Logan. McDonough.

Shelli looks at me like it's the Hells Angels.

“
What do we do what do we do?”

“Act casual.”

He pulls up on the corner in front of us, so it's not like we can ignore him. He takes off his helmet, squints at the visor.

“You wanna ride?”

Shelli and I look at each other. Which one of us?

“You. Anika.” Then he says it again, to himself kinda. “Anika.”

Shelli looks at me, whispers, “Um. Freak?”

“I'm gonna,” I whisper back.

“No, you can't!” Now Shelli seems actually scared.

“Why?”

“You know why.”

“Do you think I'll burn in hell?”

“No. I think Becky will torture you, slowly, and you know it.”

“Well, don't tell her.”

“She'll find out.”

“No, she won't.”

“She'll totally find out.”

“It's just a ride. It'll be . . . our little secret.”

And now I'm off to get on the back of Logan McDonough's moped. Can you believe? He looks like he can't either. He stares at me like he never thought in a million years this would work, but also like his chest just got inflated.

I look back at Shelli.

She's in some kind of catatonic state. I wave. Even though she wants to be mad, I know she can't be. There's a part of her, no matter how small, that kind of loves this. Drama!

Logan hands me his helmet and guns it off the corner. If I told you how many times my mom has lectured me not to get on the back of a motorcycle, which I'm assuming correlates directly to a moped, you would think I'm the world's worst daughter for not giving it a second thought. But then you'd be forgetting that (1) It's cold, (2) It's almost two miles home, and (3) Logan seems to have suddenly, overnight, turned into that guy in that old black-and-white movie, down by the docks, the one with the funny mouth, saying, “I coulda been a contender! I coulda been somebody!” Or that other one, where he just yells “Stella!” all the time.

eleven

H
ave you ever flown through the air with the greatest of ease? Have you ever had the trees and the wind and the houses and all the noise in the world you've ever heard just whiz by and off and up above you and next thing you know it's like you could whoosh up into the evening sun and maybe past that, too? Up, up, up into the bright orange sky and off this stupid, everyone-talking-at-the-same-time earth? Well, that's what it's like on the ride home with Logan. We are flying through and past and over and around, zooming zooming past everything and everyone that does and doesn't matter. My mom was right to tell me not to get on one of these. I am hooked.

Poor Mom. She tried.

By the time we make it to my house, the sun is dipping down into the trees and everything's turning orange orange orange. Logan stops about two blocks past my house, so my mom doesn't ground me until college. If my stupid sisters were home they'd torture me for the rest of my life for this, and call me a slut. Mostly because, you know, goose/gander and all that.

I get off the back of Logan's moped and expect him to ride off into the sunset but he gets off, too.

“Walk you to your door?”

“What?! NO!”

“Why not?”

“Are you kidding? My sisters will ambush you.”

“You have sisters?”

“Uch. Yes. Two of 'em. And they're super-annoying.”

“I have two kid brothers. But they're kind of cute, actually.”

“Oh, I have two brothers. They're older. They're not so bad, either. They leave me alone at least.”

“Your sisters are probably just jealous. You know that, right?”

“I don't know. I just wish they would ignore me or something.”

The sun's coming in rays through the trees and I'm terrified someone will see me. Maybe even Stacy Nolan. Now that would be a reversal of fortune.

“You know what I think?”

He's got a sly smile now. I should hurry back but something is making my feet disregard this command from my head.

“I think you're hard to ignore.”

“
Tsh.
What is that supposed to mean?”

“I think you're beautiful.”

“Shut up.”

He smiles and I am just about to obey that command from my head to get out of Dodge, but then something happens. Something that's supposed to not happen and is not the reason I stepped on that moped. No way.

“I'm gonna kiss you now and you're gonna like it.”

And he does. And I do.

!

Right there two blocks from the house, Logan McDonough is officially my first kiss (yes, I know, late bloomer) and I don't really know how this is supposed to go even though I have seen a lot of movies that could act as reference. But none of that matters now because, essentially, I'm having an out-of-body experience where I can't believe, can't believe this is happening but I can't stop don't want to stop no way nohow.

Before I know it, or know which way is up or what year it is, anyway, Logan leans back and smiles at me like he knew it all along and he's glad I know it now, too.

He dips his helmet like it's a cowboy hat.

“Happy trails.”

And now that helmet is back on his head and now the moped is up and running and he's halfway down the street and I am left to stand there and wonder what the hell just happened. And I may be just fifteen and don't know very much, like maybe it's kind of like I don't know anything, but I know this—

I am in serious trouble.

twelve

P
edaling fast fast fast, this is the moment. This is the sky turning from black to purple to pink and now the sun coming up and I am still not fast enough. Not fast enough to change it.

Pedaling fast fast fast, this is the sun coming up through the trees and there's nobody, nobody on the streets, nobody on the sidewalks, nobody but me and the light coming off the pavement. Nobody for miles around, the entire universe holding its breath in silence, but in my head a thousand voices, in my head, a chorus, an orchestra, a stadium.

Pedaling fast fast fast, this is the moment and there has to be a way to change it, there has to be a way to stop the earth from turning, there has to be a way.

thirteen

“I
just want you to know, I hired a black girl. Don't be scared.”

It's late afternoon at the Bunza Hut and Mr. Baum drops this news like he's telling us the Rapture has begun. Shelli and I stand in silence at the soda machine.

“Why would we be scared?”

Nothing.

“What's she gonna do, eat us?”

Mr. Baum, and every other adult I know, seems to actually think this stuff makes some kind of difference. Even smart people. It's weird. And you can never get them to talk any sense about it because it's like it's important to them, having something to hold themselves over. Some
one
to hold themselves over.

Usually it just comes across as something ridiculous Shelli and I laugh at later over hot chocolate. Except when it's not funny. Except, for instance, up in Omaha, there was this kid from halfway across the globe that hardly spoke any English and got transferred here from some refugee program where I guess no one was really thinking. He was in school at Omaha Northeast for two days before he had the shit kicked out of him and every bone in his body practically broken. When he recovered, which thank the Lord above he did, they transferred him out of this white-bread state and back east somewhere. You could never believe the pictures they showed of him on the news. That purple face and those eyes. God, that was the worst. Looking into those eyes. They might as well have just said, “Why me?” on the top of each lid. It made your skin crawl.

That's why I gotta keep a low profile about my half-breed roots, which, thank God for Becky Vilhauer, I can. That is what she is good for. Protecting me from getting spit on in the hall on a daily basis. Or worse. A purple face and a “why me” written across my eye sockets.

But now the kid who
does
get spit on at school, on a daily basis, comes into the Bunza with his mom, his dad, and his baby sister.

Joel Soren. He's nice enough and just looking at him it's hard to tell why he, particularly, has been singled out for such daily ridicule.

It started with Becky, of course. The whole thing was so stupid. She asked him for a piece of Hubba Bubba, watermelon flavor. He only had one left and he was giving it to some pep squad girl. Like, he was literally handing it to her when Becky asked for it.

So Joel Soren ignored her.

And didn't give her the gum.

So Joel Soren had to pay.

He pays with his books getting tossed out of his hand. He pays with his ankles getting tripped down the hall. He pays with his locker getting “Nerd-face” or “Super-gay” or “Fag” tagged on it every other week. Not that he is gay. And not that it matters. They just write it. The jocks. Becky doesn't even bother. The whole thing has taken on a life of its own and he's just everybody's punching bag for no reason other than a five-cent piece of Hubba Bubba.

The lesson is not lost on me.

Shelli nudges me as Joel and his family come to the register. I swear to God she's rung up like three customers in the eight months we've been working here. To be honest, she may be kind of scared of the register. Or maybe she can't add. She
is
a Christian. I don't think they believe in math.

“Three number threes, with fries, and a kid's meal, for the little one here.”

I look over the counter at Joel Soren's little kid sister. She's a three-year-old towhead with big blue eyes and a giant pink pacifier.

“What a little cutie! What's her name?”

“Violet.”

“Aw, what a pretty name.”

Joel Soren isn't even looking at me. He's hiding behind his parents, pretending to look at the glass door, which is about as interesting as a cement block. I feel bad for him. Does he think I'm gonna spit on him, too? Does he think I'm involved in this constant humiliation?

Am I?

“Well, thanks. Oh, and three Cokes, please.”

“Yes, sir. That'll be nine dollars and fifty cents.”