Anatomy of a Misfit (21 page)

Becky keeps trying to elbow Shelli out of the way in order to be my new BFF. So far this morning she's offered to have me over after school, have a sleepover Friday, and go together to Chip Rider's Homecoming party, which is basically THE place to be for Homecoming. Never mind that I've only been to her house like twice, she's never even uttered the word
sleepover
, and usually is one of the hosts of that Homecoming party.

It's okay, Becky. I forgive you. It's not your fault you were born with the inner cortex of a velociraptor.

Yes, somehow the keys to the kingdom have landed on my lap and now the whole school is acting like I'm Princess Leia or something. Just to make sure I didn't wake up in a parallel universe, I duck into the bathroom, where Stacy Nolan is fixing her makeup. When she sees me she drops her lip liner in the sink.

“Is it true?!”

“Is what true?”

“That you're Jared Kline's girlfriend?”

“I think so.”

“Whoa. That's crazy.”

“I know, right?”

But now Becky and Shelli make their way in to find me, and Becky starts in on Stacy.

“Hey, Stacy, have any babies lately?”

Stacy looks at me for help.

“Um . . . she was never even pregnant. Remember?” That's the best I can do, on the fly.

But Becky's not letting this go. She's just sharpening her knives.

“Oh, right. Who would wanna fuck
her
?”

And now Stacy's gonna have to redo her eyeliner because her eyes are starting to well up. Shelli ducks out, not wanting to deal with any of this, and honestly, I wish I could duck out, too.

“Seriously? Like what's the point?” I ask.

And now Becky turns on me.

“What?!”

“I mean, what's the point? You got what you wanted, she's in tears now, I mean . . . just . . . can't you just leave it alone?”

“Wow. I guess someone's getting too big for her britches.”

And I know it's coming. I know it is. Here it is.

“Immigrant.” She says it like a curse.

Stacy's given up on her makeup now. Shelli's peeking in from the hall. This is not good.

“Look. All I'm saying is sometimes these things you say hurt people like a lot more than you think, okay?”

Ugh. That didn't come out right.

And now Becky looks at me. Her eyes turn into two little slits and I can tell she's plotting her attack. I'm so dead now. Stone-cold silence.

And then, out of nowhere, Becky lets out a laugh. But it's not a funny laugh and it's not a happy laugh. It's a laugh with daggers in it.

“Ha-ha! Ha-ha-ha! So you're like Mother Teresa now?”

She walks out of the bathroom, swiping Shelli out of the way, right before the bell.

fifty-two

I
don't want Jared Kline to pick me up from school today even though that means I'm crazy because everybody worships him and he sent me the largest flower bouquet in history. I don't know what I want. But it's not to get driven out to God-knows-where and have him slobber all over me, apologize, and then ask if I'm a virgin, that's for sure.

There's an open patch in the chain link off the track field that some heshers ripped apart so they could go out and smoke during gym. After seventh period I make a beeline to the bathroom and duck out the back; not even Shelli sees me.

I can look out, by the side of the school, and see Jared in his trucker hat, parked in front. Becky and Shelli are standing there and everybody looks slightly confused. I know I'm supposed to be there. I know I am. That's the deal. But I just can't. I just don't want to be in that position. Like ever. Out in the middle of nowhere with nowhere to go and completely at the mercy of someone who, quite frankly, I don't trust, or do trust, or maybe trust a little.

Sure, last time he just jumped me and then turned around and gave me flowers but what's he gonna do next time? Rape me and then turn around and ask me to marry him? I mean, the guy's kinda like a loose cannon.

I know, I know. Without him I'm screwed. Now that Becky has it out for me, without Jared Kline I'm dead. Like, over.
Switch schools
over.

Even Shelli won't be able to save me. She'll have to save herself. And she will. I know it. I don't hold it against her or anything. All's fair in the mean streets of tenth grade.

Ducking out from behind the track field I feel a sense of exhilaration, even though I'm probably blowing it big-time. Something about leaving Jared, Becky, and everybody else just waiting there at the altar feels like that song John Lennon made with that Asian chick when he left the Beatles.

I'm about five blocks down the street toward my house, a different route than Shelli and I take 'cause right now I just wanna be alone. And this is when I hear it. Logan's moped. I'd know that sound in my sleep. He's coming past me fast and he stops at the curb and takes off his helmet.

We both just stand there looking at each other. There's a thousand miles in between us but also it's kind of like an electromagnetic field you could power a city with.

“Jared Kline, huh? I shoulda known.”

“Look, Logan. I dunno . . .”

“Look. Just . . . here . . . I was gonna give this to you the other night . . . just take it.”

He hands me a piece of paper, folded up into a triangle.

We catch eyes and it's like getting punched in the gut. Every single part of me wants to get on that moped with him and ride off into the sunset but that's like a world that doesn't exist anymore, with rainbows and unicorns and fairy dust.

He's just about to put on his helmet and ride off.

“Hey, wait.”

He stops.

“How are you? How's your dad? How're your kid brothers?”

He looks at me like I might as well be wearing a dunce cap.

“You really wanna know?”

“Yeah.”

“My dad's weird. Like really weird. My brothers are cute. And my mom's a drunk.”

And with that he puts on his helmet and rides off over the hill, past the skinny freezing trees.

There's no way I can wait till I get home to read this. I open up the little triangle and inside, across the top: “A HAIKU.” Then underneath is the haiku. Five-seven-five. This is what it says:

 

Ceaseless. Almost too

much for this small frame. You make

me part of the sky
.

fifty-three

A
t dinner all I can do is think about Logan. I've got that crazily beautiful haiku playing over and over in my head on repeat. Ceaseless. Almost too much for this small frame. You make me part of the sky . . . Ceaseless. Almost too much for this small frame. You make me part of the sky . . . over and over again on repeat and everybody around me, Lizzie, Neener, Robby, Henry, Mom, the ogre, are just sitting there eating their mashed potatoes as if everything's great and the world is not ending and it's all I can do not to pick up the bowl of mashed potatoes and throw it across the room.

Jesus Christ.

Did I make the wrong decision did I make the wrong decision did I make the wrong decision?

Ceaseless.

Almost too much for this small frame.

You make me part of the sky.

Fuck!

It doesn't help that right smack dab in the middle of the table are those goddamn flowers.

My mom is the only one to notice that I'm basically going insane. She keeps trying to catch my eye and I keep avoiding it. She knows me. She can read my thoughts like a Jedi. But I avoid her. And after dinner, I avoid her some more. I duck into my room, where I take the piece of paper out and look at it again.

Here's the equation. Pure and simple. If I break up with Jared Kline I am dead. Dead to Becky. Dead to Shelli. Dead to Pound High and everybody in it. Becky will make my life worse than hell. She will make my life Oklahoma. She will go after me worse than Shelli, worse than Stacy Nolan, worse than Joel Soren.

If I stay with Jared Kline, even though I'm not sure if he's full of shit or the greatest thing ever, none of that will happen. I will rule the school for the rest of my career there and maybe even beyond.

The problem is Jared Kline may actually be the scam artist everyone says he is. A really good one who is just really, really convincing and then, once he convinces me to fall totally, completely, 100 percent in love with him and gets me to bone him, he'll dump me like an old bag of Fritos.

And then there's Logan.

Logan is a sideways, brilliant, honest guy who does the coolest stuff ever, and everybody hates, but who I am basically in love with.

But Logan is damaged, broken. And, let's not sugarcoat it, that ain't gonna change.

Even though it isn't his fault, even though his shitty father caused it, even though it's not fair . . . that kinda thing cuts deep. That kinda thing sticks.

Wouldn't a good person stick with
him
? Wouldn't a good person try to help somehow?

Dear Lord above tell me what to do tell me what to do tell me what to do.

Yes, I'm on my knees now, praying. Don't judge me and don't call me a weirdo. The fact is I need help and I need it fast because I feel like I'm gonna pull my hair out in pieces and tear my skin off my face.

I am such a shitty person. I'm an idiot.

I am lost.

Dear Lord above tell me what to do tell me what to do tell me what to do.

My mom is knocking on my door, has been knocking on my door, but I'm not hearing. Finally, she peeks in.

“Honey, your friend Jared's on the phone.”

Oh God. Not now.

“Um, tell him . . . tell him I'm dead.”

“Honey . . .”

“I dunno, Mom. Tell him I'm asleep or something.”

“Anika, it's six o'clock.”

“Mom, just make something up. Please?”

“Okay but . . . you wanna tell me what's wrong?”

“No, Mom. I'm just. I'm just . . . tired or something.”

She looks at me and I can tell she wants to make it better. Just like every time she's made it better since I was born. Crying. Make it better. Colic. Make it better. Got a boo-boo. Make it better. Scraped my knee. Make it better. And there are a million things my mom could do, and has done, to make it better. But none of those things will reach up under my skin and make me a different person. None of those things will reach up under my skin and make me good.

fifty-four

T
he next day I wake up with a 103 temperature and my mom refuses to let me out of the house. Not that I put up much of a fight. The last thing I want to do is go to school today, or tomorrow, or ever again. Really all I want to do is fly up into the stars with Logan. But it's simple. I can't have what I want. That's it.

Well, it wouldn't be the first time in the history of mankind that a fifteen-year-old girl in the middle of nowhere didn't get what she wanted. I'm sure there are thousands of fifteen-year-old girls who had exactly the opposite of what they wanted. Like getting burned at the stake, for instance. Or getting married off to an eighty-year-old man in a trade for some sheep.

No, this is a “first world problem,” as the vampire would say. The answer, he would say, is getting good grades.

The vampire must be reading my thoughts now because, as if on cue, he calls and demands to speak to me.

“I have spoken to your mother and she says you are sick, is dat true?”

“Yes, Dad. I'm sick.”

“Is dat all?”

“Yeah.”

“Dere is something wrong vith you. Vhat is the matter?”

“I dunno, Dad, I'm just upset about something.”

“Is it a boy?”

“Kinda.”

“Are you pregnant? You are not allowed to get pregnant.”

“No, Dad. God. No. I'm not, geez, how embarrassing.”

“Okay, good, because dat vould ruin your life, you understand?”

“Yes, Dad.”

“Is it interfering vith your grades? You cannot let any of these een-significant dramas get in the vay of your grades. Dat is the most important, you understand?”

“Yes, I do.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, Dad. My grades are fine. I'm even tutoring the other kids in computer programming.”

“Dat is good. Although I'm not sure you vant to be a computer geek.”

“Dad, where did you even learn that word?”

“Oh, come on. I do not live in the Dark Ages. Contrary to popular belief.”

“Okay, Dad.”

“If I think dere is any een-dication dat you are jeopardizing your future in that godforsaken place, I vill not hesitate to bring you back here to Princeton, vhere I have unlimited resources to educate you at the best private schools thees country has to offer. In fact, it may be more appropriate—”

“Dad. It's not hurting my grades. I promise.”

“Even dat overinflated physical education instructor? Has he seen fit to give you an A? Or is he under the deluded impression that his meaningless little life vould be given gravitas by giving a tenth-grade, straight A student a B for not jumping rope to his liking?”

“No, I think I turned him around, Dad.”

“Good. Okay, vell I have to catch a plane to Geneva. I am doing a conference dere. I vill send you a postcard.”

“Okay, Dad.”

“Remember. I have the means, here, to give you a first-rate education. If you ever decide you vant to leave dat horrible place, I vould be glad to assist you in dat endeavor. Plus, dere might be something to be said for having quality time vith your father before you die. Now, good-bye.”

And with that, my father, the vampire, is off the phone and off to Switzerland. And then Prague, then maybe Leningrad. You'll never know where he is until you get the postcard. Spires and turrets and gargoyles staring down from somewhere in the middle of Europe and a note. “Anika, here is a picture of Vienna. I have a speaking engagement here. Big kiss, Père.”