Anatomy of a Misfit (6 page)

Shelli stands back at the sundae machine as the Sorens scuttle off to their seats, a family unit.

“Don't you feel bad for him?” I ask her.

“Yeah, kinda,” she whispers.

“I mean, doesn't it seem, like, unfair?”

Mr. Baum pokes his head out. “Order up!”

Joel's dad comes back to the counter to collect the food. I mean, it's not like this is the Sizzler or anything. You gotta bus your own food at the Bunza Hut.

Shelli checks her hair in the sundae machine.

I stare at the back of Joel's head. “I'm gonna go over there.”

“Why?”

“I dunno. I just feel bad is all. And lookit him. He's mortified!”

“Yeah, but, what are you gonna say?”

“I dunno.”

“You're queer.”

“Shut up.”

Shelli play-swats me.

“Stop making passes at me at work. Lesbo.”

“Hnnn. Lez be friends . . .”

Shelli is seriously like a five-year-old. But I'd rather be stuck next to her any day of the week than Becky Vilhauer.

I walk over to the family unit, eating their family dinner at the Bunza Hut on a Thursday night, and Joel Soren looks like he wants to crawl under the table and turn into a pill bug.

“Hi there, is everything to your liking today?”

“Yes, thank you.” It's the dad talking. The man of the house.

I'm trying to make eye contact with Joel. Smile or something.

“How about some refills?”

“Oh, no thanks.”

“What about some ketchup, do you want some ketchup?”

“Um, no. We're fine, thanks.”

“Mustard?”

“I think we're fine on the condiments, thank you.”

“Okay, well. Enjoy your meal and thank you for coming to Bunza Hut!”

Yeah, maybe that didn't work so well. I think I just annoyed the dad.

Look, all I was trying to do was make Joel Soren feel like a human being for once. I mean, can you imagine going to school every day and getting shoved around, your books knocked down?

God. Becky doesn't even control it anymore. That's how powerful she is. She just started the snowball. And now it's an avalanche. With poor Joel Soren buried underneath.

fourteen

M
y parents are under the distinct impression that it is impossible to sneak out of my room. Wrong! I can understand why they think this. If it were anybody else, and not a criminal mastermind like myself living in this fortress, it would, indeed, be impossible. Here's the thing: I specifically chose this room because it appeared to be impossible. That was my second move. My first move was to figure out that it was, actually, possible.

Anyway, tonight's gonna be easy because all anyone cares about is this weird thing that happened down in Oklahoma. Some guy found out his wife was screwing her boss at the Kmart. That's not much, I know. But then the guy thought the best thing to do was to go to the Kmart, shoot the boss, shoot the wife, and even shoot all the people around who didn't have anything to do with it in the first place.

All in all it was six people dead, including the guy. My mom won't stop freaking out about it. She doesn't have her head on straight, though, because if she put two and two together she'd figure out that number one: That guy was an Okie. Number two: That's two states away. And number three: There isn't even a Kmart in Lincoln; the closest one is in Omaha. So, basically, if she'd just face facts for a few seconds she'd breathe easier knowing that things like that just don't happen here.

I kept trying to get it through her head all night but she's stuck on it. I mean, she was watching the news like it was the
Hindenburg
or something.

Which, in the end, is good for me. And my diabolical plan for sneaking out.

This is how it works. The bedroom is on the second floor, and there are two windows, each a long rectangle that is only about a foot and a half high. Now, add to this that the windows fold out in the middle . . . and you are talking about a space of about nine inches to get through. Also, there's nothing to latch on to. Even if you manage to somehow magically squeeze through that tiny slot . . . what are you supposed to do, just fly away?

Except. And there is always an except. There happens to be an oak tree with a branch that comes about two feet away from the window.

So, here's how you do it: You tell your parents you want to go to bed early so you can get enough sleep for that big test tomorrow, which is imaginary, of course. They smile at you and pat themselves on the back for thinking you are such a good person and that they have done such a good job raising you.

Then, you wait. At some point, they'll go to their room, at the other end of the hall. The TV light may be on, but that doesn't mean anything. That thing could be on all night, and into the next century, believe me.

Once their door has stayed shut for about fifteen minutes, you put on whatever crazy thing they wouldn't let you out of the house in if you were walking out the front door. Except for your shoes. You have to drop your shoes to the ground. You're gonna need your feet. Trust me.

So you crank open the window, drop your shoes to the ground, then breathe a big sigh in and out. You have to make yourself as skinny as possible to get through that sliver.

Now, put your feet up on the bed and reach out of the window, so that you're basically in a Superman position, parallel to the ground.

Now. Reach out the window, stretch as far as you can, and grab the tree branch. Don't be scared. Just grab it. Yes, I know it's weird to be in a Superman position stretched like Gumby out the window grabbing a tree branch but it works, trust me. Okay, now make sure you have a good grip on the tree branch and pull pull pull until you are practically out the window completely.

Alright, now this is the hard part. This is “the move.” What you have to do now is you have to, basically, use the momentum of swinging out the window to get your feet to the nearest lower branch to hook onto it, like a monkey. If you screw this up you'll fall. And possibly die. That's okay though because at least then you won't have to take your SATs.

Once you have executed that last monkey move you are home free. All you have to do is crawl down the tree and voilà! There you go past your annoying sisters, who are probably flirting on the phone with guys who just want to get into their pants, past your brothers' room, where Robby is probably watching sports on his mini TV and Henry's got his face in his chemistry textbook because if he doesn't get into Harvard, he'll die.

Who cares though 'cause outside it's freedom!

Okay, I'll admit it: I'm meeting Logan tonight. Don't tell. Shelli has some idea there is something going on because those moped rides home from school are getting more and more frequent and, to be honest, more and more super-fantastic. Now that we're into fall—and once the sun goes down you start to freeze your boobs off—these moped rides are kinda sorta where it's at.

We haven't been kissing all the time so get your mind out of the gutter. It's more like . . . he'll swoop by, pick me up, and next thing you know we'll be flying over the hill and through the tract housing and the world is our oyster but we don't have to talk about it. Like, we don't have to talk about anything. And sometimes we'll kiss good-bye without even saying anything. And then he'll pass me all sorts of funny little notes, furtively in the hall between bells, but we don't say anything there either. In fact, there's a whole lot of not-saying-anything going on here. It's kind of like we're spies.

The thing is, Logan is a lot smarter than all those dumb no-neck guys on the football team. Especially Chip Rider, the one everybody keeps saying I'll die if I don't like him back. What a rube! He thinks Chekhov is a
Star Trek
character. I mean, like, if you said to him, “Actually, the Chekov you are thinking of, the one from
Star Trek
? Well, that guy was probably named after the more important Chekhov, who is a super-famous playwright and basically like the Shakespeare of Russia.” If you said that, he would just stare at you with a blank face and then his teeth would fall out.

Meanwhile Logan has probably written like five plays secretly that are obviously brilliant but no one will know because they're just sitting there in his Trapper Keeper.

Since all you can think about is kissing, here's a point of interest: Logan is a really good kisser. Not that I've kissed a lot of guys. And by “a lot of guys,” I mean “anybody.” But I have seen a lot of movies and I think I get the general idea. Also, and I may be wrong about this, I think there's a direct correlation between how much you like someone and how much you like kissing them.

For instance, if Chip Rider was the number one kisser in the universe, world champion five times over, and he kissed me . . . I bet I wouldn't like it as much as I like kissing Logan. See? That's my theory. I haven't put it to the test, though. And I can't ask Shelli because, well, first of all, she bones anything that moves and, second of all, then she'll figure out that Logan is more than just a moped ride-share. Becky is out of the question, for obvious reasons. And, of course, I can't ask my mean sisters because they will just harass me endlessly, tease me, tackle me, pin me to the ground, and then spit on me. I know. They totally suck.

Henry won't know either because the only girl he's ever made out with is Princess Leia in his dreams and, possibly, his
Sports Illustrated
swimsuit issue. Now, Robby, on the other hand, probably has kissed a few girls but I'm pretty sure there is absolutely no useful information he could give to me on the subject because he's a boy and I'm a girl. He'll probably just say something stupid like, “Yeah, it gives you boner.”

Anyway, it's pretty cold out. There hasn't been any snow yet but tonight the grass is freezing over and you can see your breath. None of this has stopped me from wearing a completely weather-inappropriate outfit and yes, that's a miniskirt. But I'm used to the cold and I'm wearing tights anyway. Besides, I've got thermal socks under my boots so by the time I meet Logan I'll only be half-frozen to death.

He says he has a surprise for me and I know that's the kind of thing serial killers say before they haul you off to a hole in their basement somewhere and start dressing you up like their mom before they strangle you. But, considering that we've been on over thirty after-school moped rides together and not once has he asked me if he could cut off my scalp and use it for a bonnet, I think I'm in the clear.

Besides, tonight is one of those nights when I'd really like to stick it to the man. And by the man I mean Count Chocula. See, my dad's pissed because I'm getting a B in PE. But I'll tell you why. Every time we have to do something big like run a six-hundred-yard dash, or climb the ropes, or leap tall buildings in a single bound, every time, like clockwork, it's the day I've got my period. And not even a small day like the fourth day or fifth day, but like the first or second day, when it's like you might as well be in the emergency room.

I mean, who wants to run the six-hundred-yard dash when you're bleeding like a stuck pig and it feels like everybody's punching you in the back?

And the ropes? Forget it. Can you even imagine that?! There was this girl in eighth grade, Carla Lott, who got her period the first time in white shorts and it leaked and everybody knew. Everybody. From then on it was just Carla Lott! Period Spot! Carla Lott, Blood Spot! For
years.

And I'm gonna tell you something. Every girl, every girl you've ever met, dreads, DREADS, that ever happening to her. Every one. Even Becky. It's no fair. Guys don't have anything like that. I mean, if there was any justice in the world you wouldn't even have to go to school during your period. You'd just stay home for five days and eat chocolate and cry.

Anyway, what's gonna happen is Count Chocula is gonna call any day now, super-early, like 6:00 a.m., and explain to me that As are better than Bs and that if I want to get out of this one-horse town and go to a good college on the East Coast, I have to be a straight A student, no exceptions, no excuses. And, if I don't, then obviously, I will end up a full-fledged loser, living barefoot and pregnant and married to some guy named Cletus, in the middle of nowhere, with all my hopes and dreams dashed.

Like my mom.

He won't say that part, but that's what he means. Believe me.

So tonight it's time to say fuck it.

I'm about two blocks from Holmes Lake when I see Logan parked on his moped behind a weeping willow. He doesn't see me yet so I get to take a good look at him and decide if I still like him, despite the fact that if anybody finds out about our torrid affair, I will be ousted, blacklisted, and shunned.

I'm trying so hard not to like him. It would be so much easier not to like him.

But, unfortunately, he's not making it any easier on me because he's just sitting there with his dirt-brown hair looking like some beautiful-but-grimy-but-tough-but-heartbroken-but-earnest-but-guarded fallen angel or something. I mean, he might as well have his own theme music. Something dark. With lots of keyboards. And some violins.

Ugh.

Why can't he just be a dork?

I walk toward him and his eyes catch me. “You ready for a night of spontaneous super-specialness?”

That's the other thing that's hard to stop liking about Logan. He doesn't say anything the way anybody else says it, or maybe even think anything the way anyone else thinks it. Like, if this were Chip Rider, he'd be like, “Hey, yer hot!”

But there is Logan, standing now, in all his misunderstood, complicated glory with cool turns of phrase and cooler thoughts behind them.

I really can't take it.

I hop on the back of Logan's moped and all of a sudden we are flying past Holmes Lake and down, south south south, past the outskirts of town and into this weird new mini-world of new and practically new and half-built houses. There's a turnoff with a sign in cursive, like something off a bottle of wine, that says, “Hollow Valley.” We take it and inside the development the houses are three times the size of the ones on my block. They're bigger, even, than the house down on Sheridan where the mayor used to live.