Anatomy of a Misfit (7 page)

These places are, like, new but are trying really hard to look old with lots of turrets and arched windows and ironwork and stuff. But it's also like you could push them down, like they're a movie set or something.

They're all halfway built or almost done or just the foundation, but there, at the end of a street called Glenmanor Way, there's a three-story monstrosity ready for its close-up.

And that's where we're headed.

Logan pulls up in the driveway, doesn't even try to hide or anything, cuts the engine, and gets off.

“Home sweet home.”

“You're kidding, right?”

“Kinda.”

He walks up the stone path toward the giant front double doors and starts reaching into his pockets, making a squiggly mouth.

“It's my dad's new thing. His latest investment. This is the demo.”

“Demo?”

He finally plucks the key out of his pocket and now we are in a massive faux-marble entry hall, fully decorated with fake plants and everything.

“It's like a model house,” he explains. “So when they go to sell the other houses, people can walk through and ooh and aah until they sign the check and pop the champagne.”

I have to admit, even though it's 100 percent super-fakey in here, it is nice. Like so nice my mom would probably freak out and start bumping into the furniture or something. There's even fake grapes in a fruit bowl and a fake bottle of champagne on ice.

Logan sees me looking at the demo champagne and reads my mind.

“There's beer in the fridge 'cause my dad likes to loosen up the clients if he gets that vibe. Especially the guys. You know,
man talk
.”

In the middle of the house is a giant room that the upstairs looks down on from a railing, and a fireplace with fake plants on each side.

“Here's the best part.”

He reaches next to the fireplace and presto, there's a fire in the fireplace automatically.

“Wow. That was easy.”

“Yeah, I think that's one of the big selling points.”

He hands me a beer, a green German beer with a white label.

Logan explains, “My dad likes to keep it classy.”

I grab the beer and we clink bottles.

“Is your dad, uh, classy?”

At this point Logan spits up his beer all over the rug. It's hard not to laugh.

“Wow. An actual spit take.”

Logan wipes his chin. “My dad is so not classy. He's like a used-car salesman in an expensive suit.”

“Aw, that's not nice.”

“He's not nice.”

Silence.

“He like goes on all these so-called fishing trips and bones everything that moves and then comes back with some stupid mallard decoration and expects us all to believe it.”

“Really?”

“Oh, yeah.”

“That sucks.”

“I know. And my mom totally buys it. So do my kid brothers. It's so lame.”

“Well, how do you know?”

“If I tell you, you're gonna be like so grossed out.”

“Okay, well, now you have to tell me.”

We're sitting on the demo couch now, some faux-suede L shape sunken in front of the fireplace.

“Okay, so one day he told me he wanted to go fishing
with me
. Like you know, father-and-son stuff, and so we went up to Madison together, in Wisconsin, on this big
bonding trip
.”

“And?”

“So then, the first day we get on the boat he's like, ‘There's someone I want you to meet' and next thing you know he's got this little chippie behind him getting in the boat. In heels. Heels, on a boat! It was, like, mortifying.”

I make a note-to-self about boat-appropriate footwear.

“Are you serious?” I ask.

“Yeah.”

“What, like, he didn't think you would care that he was cheating?”

“Guess not.”

“He didn't think you would care
about your mom
?”

“Nope. It was like ‘we're all men here' or something.”

“That's so gross.”

“I told you.”

I am silent. Seriously dumbfounded. “What a dick!”

“I know.”

“Did you tell your mom?”

Logan lets out a sigh and drinks his beer a second.

“No. I'm lame. I can't. I don't know what to say. It'll like ruin her, you know?”

“Really?”

“Yeah, she's like really fragile, and kinda in love with him, and scared of him in a way.”

There's a pause and now it all makes sense, the brand-new moped, the new wardrobe, the new everything, to Logan from his dad.

It's all a bribe.

Something Logan said sits funny with me. “Why do you think she's scared of him?”

“I don't know.” He is silent for a moment.

“He's just kinda weird, you know, like he can't sit still or something. Like we can't go out to dinner without him looking around the room like a thousand times. And all he does is brag about stuff. The things he buys my mom. The places for dinner. Like we should all be so grateful. And when we're not like all falling over ourselves to kiss his ass he gets like . . . I dunno.”

Logan and I sit there staring into the fire for a minute. I guess we both have shitty dads. Maybe everybody does. That would be something. Maybe the single moms everybody gets so apoplectic about are onto something.

I think about my mom, having that ogre snoring in the bed beside her, and I shudder. Seriously.

But at least he doesn't sleep around all over the place. The only thing the ogre cheats on my mom with are his French fries.

“You know, Anika. If this is too weird to be here, I get it. I mean, it's kinda like, a fake house or something. Well, it's exactly a fake house, actually. Some people might find it a little . . . freaky?”

“No. No, it's not freaky. I'm happy we're here.”

“You are?”

“Yeah. I mean I snuck out, didn't I?”

We both sip our beers and stare at the fire.

Silence.

“You're like the prettiest girl I've ever seen in my life.”

He blurts that out. I can't help but gasp. He covers his face with his hands. “Oh my God, I can't believe I just said that. I'm so lame. Please don't leave.”

I recover. “Tsh. What? Why would I leave?” I shake my half-empty bottle at him. “I mean, I think this is kinda like the best bar in town. It's certainly the cheapest.”

He smiles. “Right.”

“Besides, it's . . . Nobody's ever said anything like that to me before.”

“No way.”

I shrug.

“I don't believe you.”

“Well, it's true. What, do you think people just go around telling people they're pretty all the time?”

“Not people.
You
. I think people must say that to you every day.”

“Um. They don't. They say it to Becky . . .”

“She's a cunt.”

“Whoa!”

“She is.”

It's hard not to smile at this. Such sacrilege.

“Come on, you don't think that your dear friend Becky is an A-number-one velociraptor in disguise? I mean, she's a total sociopath.”

“Um. I think I plead the Fifth.”

“She is. You know she is.”

We're both smiling now.

“Come on, admit it.”

“Never.”

There's something in the air between us. Like a magic trick.

“Well . . . I suppose . . . I should take you home now.”

“What?”

“I should take you home. I don't want you to get in trouble.”

“Aren't you gonna try to molest me or something?”

“What?! No! You're crazy, you know that, right?”

“I just thought it'd be sort of funny.”

“Funny?!”

“Okay, okay. I wasn't gonna let you anyway.”

“Well, isn't that like the definition of molestation?”

“Just forget I said it, freak.”

“You're the freak.”

“No, I'm not.”

“Yeah, you are. You're the sexually deranged freak.”

Now the demo couch pillow gets tossed in his face. And, of course, he tosses it back.

I don't want to get on his moped and go home. I don't want to walk out these giant demo doors. I don't want to do anything that makes any single tiny minuscule atom in this room change. I just want
this this this.

fifteen

“A
nika, Shelli, I'd like you to meet Tiffany.” And he whispers, “The
black
girl.”

Shelli and I stand there next to the sundae machine at the Bunza Hut, while poor Tiffany, skinny and incredibly shy, follows Mr. Baum in next to the front counter.

“Hi.”

“Hi.”

Mr. Baum smiles a ridiculous fake smile. He seriously looks deranged.

“You totally pull off that uniform better than me.” I don't know what else to say, so I just say it. It's true, though. A yellow polo and Kelly-green shorts is not an easy look to pull off. Let's face it. I look like a can of 7UP. But this girl? She's kind of rocking it.

“Oh . . . thanks.”

She is rocking it in the most painfully shy way possible.

“Well, Anika, I'm counting on you to show her the ropes!”

“Yes, Mr. Baum.”

Of course he doesn't even look at Shelli. I guess she won't be showing anyone any ropes around here anytime soon.

“Anika, do you mind if I talk to you, in private?”

“Um . . . okay.”

Mr. Baum hustles me into the back office—it's really more like a closet with Post-its everywhere. Violation central.

“Anika, I know you probably are not happy with this situation. For obvious reasons.”

“Really? Like what?”

“You know.”

“You know what?”

“Because . . .”

“Because what?”

“Because she's a . . . negro.”

“A
negro
?”

“Yes, Anika. And I need you there to make sure she understands . . . the concepts.”

“The concepts?”

“Yes.”

“What, like, if you buy a combo special it's fifty cents cheaper?”

“Exactly.”

“Wow. Um—”

“Listen, I need someone up there who's smart. You're a straight A student—”

“That's an accident. I'm only a straight A student because if I'm not my dad won't love me.”

“Is that true, Anika?”

“Pretty much.”

“Well, I'd like to talk to him sometime—”

“You'd have to call Romania, or Princeton. He goes back and forth . . . It's kinda hard to figure out where he is, actually.”

Silence.

“Why don't you have Shelli teach her?”

“C'mon. Shelli's a bubblehead.”

“So, Shelli's a bubblehead and Tiffany's a negro. Geez. You know, I'm Romanian. What weird thing do you think about me?”

“It's possible you might be a vampire.”

“Mr. Baum. I don't mind helping. But, seriously, I think you should maybe give this girl a chance.”

“I am giving her a chance. I hired her, didn't I?”

Poor guy.

He has no idea I'm stealing his profits.

And poisoning him.

But, in my defense, I think this conversation kind of proves he deserves it.

 

Thank God it's a slow night and we get out of there early. On the car ride home with Mom, I can't help but think about Tiffany and how stupid Mr. Baum is. It doesn't seem fair he just gets to think all this horrible stuff right off the bat and meanwhile she's just like this skinny little thing that probably needs a job real bad. I know they say that's the way the cookie crumbles and all. But you can't help but wonder why there's any cookie-crumbling going on in the first place.

We pull up at the 76 gas station.

“Mom, how come we don't go to church?”

“Oh, honey, that's just a bunch of nutjobs.”

“Wull, Shelli's mom goes all the time.”

“Look, if you wanna go, go, but when they start thumping that Bible, talking about right from wrong, who's naughty and who's nice, who's gonna get to heaven and who's gonna burn in hell, you might want to start to look for the exits.”

Beat.

“If you want to talk to God, all you have to do is put your hands together and pray.”

Beat.

“Seeing as he's everywhere and all.” Then, to herself more than me, “Bunch of hypocrites. Sitting around judging all the time.”

Beat.

“Never judge a man till you walk a mile in his shoes.”

Beat.

“That way, you're a mile away and you've got his shoes.”

She winks. My mom's kind of queer but I can't help but smile.

“I better fill up the tank. You stay put.”

She jumps out and slams the car door.

sixteen

I
t's one of those dumb days where nothing's really wrong but nothing's really right either and the sky can't even choose to be white or gray. It's a Monday, of course, which also makes everything stupid. And I don't know why, but I just have this feeling of dread, or depression, or some other word that starts with a
D
that makes you want to just crawl back in bed and pull your pillow over your head.

There are some positives. For instance, I have managed to avoid Becky all morning. I got an A on my biology test. And, according to the cafeteria menu, there will be cupcakes.

But other than that, the whole thing is just drab and pointless.

Also, Logan doesn't pass by at his usual time for us to pretend we totally don't know each other and aren't secret spies who are maybe madly in love or something.

Kind of annoying.

Right now I'm in the only cool room in the school, which is where we have art class. They built this annex way after they built the school with someone who actually seemed to care about what things looked like . . . natural light, the way the ceiling slopes, and, generally, creating an environment where a bunch of artistic teenagers wouldn't want to throw themselves off the nearest bridge.