Anatomy of a Misfit (16 page)

“Who was that, dear? Do you at least know that boy?”

“Yeah.”

“Tsh.” My sisters scoff. They're pissed. They want me dead.

I make a personal note to duck out after dinner and lock my door before they catch up with me, pin me down, and spit in my mouth. That's Lizzie's favorite. She's demonic. And worse, now she's pissed.

“So, you
do
know him?”

“Yeah.”

“Know him?” Now Henry chimes in, having observed the social experiment. “Mother, he's essentially the most popular guy in Lincoln, and possibly Omaha. It would be equivalent to Bruce Willis showing up to ask you out.”

At this, the ogre grunts. Out of jealousy? Is he actually jealous of the hypothetical situation my brother has posed?

“Well. If Bruce Willis came round and asked me out I'd tell him I'm married, thank you very much.”

“Oh, Mom. What a crock!”

We all chime in. My sisters throw their napkins at her and we all start giggling.

“I would! I would, I tell you!”

“Yeah, Mom, and I would turn into a pumpkin if Matt Dillon asked me out.”

“Yeah, Mom. If Madonna asked me out, I'd tell her to fuck off!”

At this, we all burst out laughing. Except the ogre. He's super-pissed Henry used the f-word but that's just making everything even more hilarious and none of us can stop laughing now and making each other laugh at our laughs and even my mom is laughing. Really laughing. And that, in itself, makes it worth it.

thirty-five

T
oday is the big day of the super-lame, this-totally-sucks six-hundred-yard dash. Mr. Dushane, aka “Dush-nozzle,” has made it pretty obvious this is do-or-die time for little old me.

He's giving some speech about never giving up and he keeps looking over at me. Either he has tailor-made this speech for yours truly or he has a crush on me. But I doubt it. He's always drooling over Jenny Schnittgrund. Guess he's a sucker for too much mascara and orange skin.

Shelli doesn't give a shit if she gets a B in this class, or a C or an F, for that matter. Her mom doesn't care. Nothing matters because Christ is saving them all anyway so what's the point? She might as well just sit at home eating bonbons and watching
Hogan's Heroes
.

But not me. No.

I have to care.

I have to care because if I get a B in this class either the vampire will come and fetch me out of this school and send me to study under the Catholic Jesuits in a Romanian nunnery, or . . . or . . . I will be damned to a life eating Cheetos in a double-wide with a husband named Bubba and nine kids who look like extras from
Mad Max
. We'll be poor but we'll have love. And guns.

What Mr. Dushane is not counting on is my thespian abilities. This is my plan.

First, start out the race, seeming inspired by his heartwarming speech.

Second, near the four-hundred-yard mark, begin to pant, begin to lose faith, begin to doubt the existence of God.

Also, drool.

Drooling is not hard to do. All you have to do is think of a lemon.

Try it.

I'll wait.

. . .

See. I told you.

Okay, third. The pièce de résistance.

While drooling, and swaying like a rookie on Mount Everest, running out of oxygen and wobbling around with altitude sickness . . . I will look up at Mr. Dushane.

I will look up at Mr. Dushane, because I know he will be looking over at me and wondering if his speech mattered or if the world is just a meaningless place consisting of an endless series of gestures signifying nothing.

I will hyperventilate.

I will practically fall to the ground.

I will cry.

But then . . . then, folks, I will look up at the you-can-do-it eyeballs of Mr. Dushane and I will be heartened, nay, inspired. I will suddenly feel a sense of power, hope, and the triumph of the human spirit. Glory will wash over me.

No, my legs will not give out!

Not here! Not now!

Not with Mr. Dushane and his dumb speech!

Today is the day that Mr. Dushane saved me!

Today is the day that Mr. Dushane changed a life.

Today is the day that Mr. Dushane mattered.

Except that, by the five hundredth yard . . . the one where the triumph of the human spirit has overtaken me, I hit the ground with a thud and black out.

thirty-six

Y
eah, I probably should have trained.

I mean, it's one thing to put on the grand theatrics, but it's another thing entirely to actually do the work. Which, apparently, I never thought of.

Mr. Dushane is standing above me. As is Shelli, Jenny Schnittgrund, and Charlie Russell. There is grave concern.

“Anika, Anika, can you hear me . . . ?”

“Anika, don't go into the light!”

(That's gotta be Shelli.)

Suddenly, the blurry circles around me turn into heads and Mr. Dushane is stooped over me like a terrified turtle.

“Anika. Are you okay? What day is this?”

Oh, this is gonna be fun. . . .

“Wha? What . . . ? Apple.”

Mr. Dushane panics. He turns the kids away. This is too important for Charlie, Shelli, or the Oompa-Loompa. He can't have witnesses.

“Anika. What month is it? Do you know what month it is . . . ?”

I wait. I look at him.

“Taco?”

Mr. Dushane is officially losing his shit.

“Anika, I want you to think. I want you to really think. Where are we? What state do we live in . . . Can you remember what state . . . ?”

Pause.

“Cleveland.”

Now Mr. Dushane is practically crying. I am not kidding. He is seeing his bank account shrink, his house full of moving boxes, and his wife leaving him for the Realtor. Okay, I can't take it. The guy's a dick, but even I am not that diabolical.

“It's Nebraska. We're in Nebraska.”

“That's right! We're in Nebraska!”

Never has anyone been that excited to say that sentence in American history.

“And you're Mr. Dushane. And there's Shelli . . . and Charlie . . . and Jenny . . .”

I'm just copying the end of
The Wizard of Oz
, here, by the way. Just straight up plagiarizing.

“That's right, Anika. We're all here. We're all here for you, okay?”

I can see Shelli over Mr. Dushane's shoulders and she knows exactly what I'm up to. She knows me. She knows and she is doing everything in her power to keep from laughing.

“Mr. Dushane, did I finish . . . ? Did I finish the six-hundred-yard dash?!”

I might as well be asking if I saved the world. If I thwarted the Nazis. If we won State.

“Please, Mr. Dushane. Please . . . tell me the truth . . .”

“Um. Anika. I'm afraid you didn't finish. You passed out.”

“I can do it! Out of my way!”

And with this, I attempt a measly, totally pathetic attempt to rise to my feet.

“No, Anika, NO!”

Mr. Dushane thwarts my noble plan and sets me back down, gently.

“Anika. You don't have to. You've done enough.”

And now it's speech time. Now he's playing to the class.

“I think we've all learned something here today.”

Oh my God, you should see Shelli's face.

“I think Anika has proved to all of us that you never give up, no matter what . . . No. Matter. What.”

The class is looking on, completely apathetic.

“And you know what, Anika. I'm gonna remember this. I'm gonna remember that today . . . today,
you
were the teacher.”

It's really hard for me to keep a straight face at this particular moment.

Mr. Dushane helps me to my feet and walks me over to the bleachers.

I did it. Not exactly the way I had it planned but . . . I did it.

I made him feel important.

And walking back to the locker room with Shelli by my side, I can't help but wonder . . . if it's such a big deal for a middle-aged white guy to feel important . . .

What happens when he doesn't?

thirty-seven

F
riday night at the Bunza Hut equals ghost town. I mean, I could turn into a frog in here and no one would even notice. Six p.m. and only one customer in three hours. And that lady just asked to use the restroom.

No one wants to work now because of the big game. Mr. Baum thinks I'm such a hard worker because I always offer to take this shift but really it's just so I can get out of going to the game without people thinking I'm a communist.

I'm boning up on my AP English. We're reading this book now about this boy that gets kicked out of boarding school and he doesn't really seem to care about anything. I get it. I'm crossing my fingers that nobody comes in now so I can make it to the end. Only thirty pages left.

I've been avoiding Logan since the boathouse incident. I mean, what am I supposed to do? It's not like I don't miss him or anything. I do. Like, I miss the way he slumps his shoulders and hides behind trees and stuff. But I'm also freaked the fuck out. I've been checking the papers and nothing about the incident. Thank God. Kind of makes me wonder if the whole thing wasn't some weird dream. Like maybe I just made it up and I don't have to think about that whiskey-breath ever again.

On the other hand, I can't help but think of Logan's psycho dad and that makes me feel two things at once. The first is . . . I feel for Logan. Think about it. You gotta figure that wasn't the first time the dad slapped him around. And talk about protective? That look he gave his mom? You have to figure Logan's running interference for her and his two kid brothers on a constant basis. Like he's the hero of the house, in a way. But on the other hand, maybe he's also gonna be just as much of a psycho. Like maybe he already is.

It's wrong and I hate it and it is not Logan's fault and it makes me all kinds of angry at the world and the universe every atom in it.

But if I can keep my mind on these pages I don't have to care. I can make this all just go away. Poof. I can stay in this book and then this book gets to be real and everything else gets to be fake and who cares anyway.

But no such luck because of all the gin joints in all the world Becky Vilhauer just walked into this one. With Shelli in tow.

She is not happy. Shelli stands behind her looking like she wishes she could hide in her elbow.

“What the fuck?! Seriously?”

“Um . . . would you like fries with that?”

“Ha-ha. Very funny. What's this about Logan McDonough? Seriously.”

“What do you mean?”

“Don't play dumb. I know all about it.”

“All about what?”

“How about the moped rides . . . after school . . . ring a bell . . . ?”

Becky's leaning in like a vulture. Shelli's getting smaller and smaller with each sentence. The only thing to do is shrug it off.

“It was cold.”

“Tsh. Not that cold. Lemme spell it out for you. You're a half-breed. Without me, you're nothing. You're no one. You're like a misfit. A leper.”

I catch Shelli peeking out from behind Becky, in pain.

“Don't look at her. You think she's gonna stand by you? Who do you think told me?!”

Shelli is literally shaking now. A broken animal. I catch her eye and she looks down at the ground. Guilty.

“Look, Becky, it's really no big—”

“Oh, it is a big deal. It's a huge deal. You're jeopardizing all of us. Do you think I wanna get a rep for hanging out with losers? No thanks.”

“He's really not that—”

“Get it straight. Either drop him. Or we drop you. And then, I can't be responsible for
whatever happens.
”

“That's so—”

“End of story.”

And now she turns, Shelli practically attached to her by a leash. Shelli scurries out, ahead of her somehow. Becky turns. A final say.

“Look, this is up to you, Anika. The choice is yours.”

And with that she goes out the glass door, into the freezing air. The skeleton decorations smile up at me but I can't return the favor. So much for an uneventful evening.

thirty-eight

I
should've known Shelli'd come by at noon. It's Saturday and Shelli is out on the front porch, her cheeks red in the freezing cold. With those red cheeks and saucer eyes it's like Frosty the Snowman is waiting out there for me. My mom lets her in and we go down to the rec room. We've got a pool table down here, a fake bar where the ogre serves root beer (woo hoo!), and a dartboard I can't hit if my life depended on it. Normally, Shelli and I would go to my room and giggle all over the place but it feels too close. Considering she just betrayed me, she gets the rec room.

“Are you mad?”

Shrug. Of course I'm mad. What am I, Jesus?

“I'm really sorry.”

“I know.”

“She just, like, got it out of me. I mean, she just kept asking questions and then questions and questions and pretty soon it just didn't add up and she kept on me and I caved. I just caved. I'm really sorry. I suck. I know. I totally blew it.”

Silence.

The fact is . . . that's how Becky operates.

“Yeah, I can see it.”

“You can?”

“Yeah. I mean. I can picture it.”

“It really was like I didn't know what was happening and then it just like came out.”

“I know.”

“Do you forgive me?”

“Well . . . I'm not gonna lie. I was pretty bummed last night. I mean, when you guys left I felt like somebody punched me in the gut or something.”

“I know. I'm really sorry. I didn't even know we were going in there till we were there. You know Becky. It was like a sneak attack. Wait, I know!”

Shelli is suddenly excited. She has an idea. This is rare.