“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.
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fifteen
“Anika, 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.
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sixteen
It’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.
To their credit, it worked. You do get the feeling when you walk in the room that something vaguely interesting could possibly happen here.
But that also might be because our teacher is stoned.
Did you know there’s something called marijuana? Yeah, you smoke it and all of a sudden you grow long hair, eat Cheetos, and listen to Pink Floyd till your mother knocks on the door to tell you to clean your room, or at least wash your hair, or possibly consider doing something with your life.
There’s no question in my mind that Sto
ner Art Teacher had other plans.
I know I should probably know his name by now but I can’t remember his name and that is probably because he can’t remember his name.
I bet he thought by now he’d be riding a motorcycle across the country like Che Guevara or Jack Kerouac or something but so far his stoner habit has only led him to teach a bunch of sulky teenagers how to paint trees.
That’s what the sixties were for, I think. To turn everybody into losers. Also, to make sure everybody wore socks with sandals.
Whenever old people tell you “you had to be there” and the “sixties were groovy” or whatever, just listen to the words of my mother: “Oh, honey, most of those people were just idiots. Sheep, following along. Remember that. Whenever you see everybody clamoring in one direction, do yourself a favor, go the other.”
But right now we’re in class, learning about legendary Pop Art icon Andy Warhol. I am creating a masterpiece involving a series of identical ice-cream cones in a perfect pattern, with different ice-cream colors. Stoner Art Teacher is impressed so it is clear I will be running off to New York after graduation in a beret.
All this hot art action is brought to a screeching halt by the fact that the fire alarm goes off and next thing you know we are all scuttling out the door.
Outside on the lawn we’re the only class huddled together because our little architectural outpost is set off from the rest of the school. It’s freezing but everybody seems elated by the novelty of being outside. OUTSIDE! IN THE MIDDLE OF THE DAY! Never mind that we were just outside, like, two hours ago.
After about fifteen minutes of elation leading to amusement leading to boredom, we are dutifully hustled back in and there is nothing really to report.
Except.
Remember my ice-cream Pop Art I was telling you about?
Well, that’s been replaced.
Well, it hasn’t been replaced, actually, just set aside.
For a greater work.
I know. You’re dying to know what it is.
You and everybody else in the class. Including Stoner Art Teacher who I do believe is freshly stoned.
This is what is currently gracing my easel: Imagine, if you will, a painting made of white, oil, glass, mirror shards, more glass, more white, even some newspaper and magazine scraps painted over white. All of this stuff is on the canvas. And so, when you first look at it, it kind of just looks like a bunch of white stuff that catches the light and sparkles and is sorta kinda dazzling.
But then, look closer, now you see what the picture actually makes. The shards and the glass and the painted newspaper and the oil all come together to make an image, a very faint image, of a girl. Of a girl with jagged cheekbones and a square boy-jaw and purple raccoon eyes with white-blonde hair and gray-blue eyes who looks kinda sorta like . . .
“It’s you!”
It comes out from the hesher section of the mob.
“Hey, Anika! That’s you!”
“It totally is!”
“Did you make that?”
And now everybody’s looking at me. And now I’m just shaking my head. I mean, what am I supposed to say? (1) I’m not that talented, and (2) Yeah, I just made that when we were all standing outside together freezing our faces off—with my mind.
Now comes Stoner Art Teacher.
“Hm. This is actually kind of interesting . . . Mixed Media. Monochromatic. Yet, there’s something almost frenetic about it, kind of like a Jean Dubuffet . . .”
Wow. I guess Stoner Art Teacher actually read some books along the way between bong hits.
And now he turns to me.
“Well, Anika, looks like you’ve got yourself a secret admirer . . . A very talented one, at that.”
I say a silent prayer in which I thank God Becky’s not here. If she were there would be swift and immediate punishment. Both for being the subject of this tribute and for the tribute being, I’m certain, made of trash in Becky’s eyes.
But it isn’t trash.
And when I think of the diabolical way in which its author ensured its delivery, I feel that magic in the air. Electric. Like there is a live wire nearby.
No one knows the artist’s name.
But I know the artist’s name.
I smile.
Logan.
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seventeen
I know you probably think Shelli bones all those guys because she’s in love with them, but here’s the funny thing, I don’t think that’s it. I think she just does it to spend time with them. Like, they all go out and all the guys are wondering the whole time, which one of them gets to bone Shelli. So, it’s like she gets all this crazy attention while they hope they’ll be the one. She bones down with one of the guys, then just leaves him, like doesn’t say good-bye or kiss him or anything. She just jets out of there like a house on fire and never talks to the guy again. Ever. Doesn’t call. Doesn’t write. Doesn’t stalk.
What’s funny is that this makes them like her more. Like she just has this superhot sexy sex with them, ditches them, and then all of a sudden they’re in love with her.
I gotta hand it to her, it’s kind of genius.
I know I couldn’t do it. Especially ’cause I’m totally petrified of contracting some grody disease. You never know with these guys. Some of them look like they are like straight out of juvie. I don’t know how Shelli keeps ’em straight, but they do all keep trying to fondle her—all the time.
Shelli’s weird racist Christian mom made her work at the Bunza Hut to keep her out of trouble. The irony of this isn’t lost on me, considering that I’m rapidly turning her into a first-class saboteur.
But tonight she can’t even go out to Brad Kline’s birthday party because her mom has suddenly decided she has to stay home and study the Bible or something.
One of these days her mom is gonna get taken away to the funny farm, I swear to God. Her mom makes her burn her hair after she gets a haircut, so no one tries to cast a spell on her. I’m serious. That’s the level of loony tunes we are talking here.
So, tonight it’s just Becky and me, which may sound like torture except for two important factors:
Number one, Becky is completely different when she’s in party mode. It’s like she’s just copying all those girls from teen movies and her goal is to be the life of the party, the belle of the ball, the shiniest of the shiny, the super-happiest!! So she’s making Jell-O shots and smiling it up and acting like she’s just the coolest raddest hottest girl in the US of A.
I know. It’s surprising. But even Darth Vader has a few red buttons.
As much as I normally wish Becky would get swallowed up into the nearest sinkhole, the fact is, when she’s in this mode, you kinda can’t help but like her. She’s charming and funny and she’ll get the party started and bring you in under her wing and make you sing out loud to the cheesiest songs and laugh like nobody’s business.
This solidifies her reputation as the Number One, Super-Fantastic Becky Vilhauer that everyone just HAS to be around—just HAS to make their friend.
I couldn’t hold court like that. I’d totally punt it. But Becky does have something. She just only takes it out on special occasions. And this, my friend, is a very special occasion.
That’s the second thing.
The party is at Brad Kline’s house. This means a Jared Kline sighting is imminent.
Yes, THE Jared Kline.
I swear every girl here is just waiting to see if they will see a glimpse of The Great One, and maybe, just maybe, get to talk to him. Or even blow him. That’s like a goal.
I know. It’s hard to believe the guy is that kind of a rock star. But he is. It’s epic.
Even I, with my disdain of all mankind, cannot resist a peek at Jared Kline. I’m not standing in line to defile myself with him like all these other girls . . . but . . . I don’t mind
looking at him. It’s kind of like seeing Jesus in a tortilla or something.
The Klines live in this huge Tudor house on Sheridan Boulevard that looks kind of like they should be selling chocolate in Bavaria. And, of course, Becky is here because Brad Kline is her boyfriend. There is one serious damper in their relationship at present, which is that Becky is in the back room, right now, having sex with Brad’s brother.
Like I said, no one can resist Jared Kline.
Not even Becky.
My job right now is to make sure no one, particularly Brad Kline, goes anywhere near the back room. It’s not an easy job, but somebody has to do it and considering that Shelli is probably at home reciting the New Testament with Mama Crazy-Pants, this duty has fallen on yours truly.
To say that there is a lot of puking at this party is an understatement. Lucky for me, the two upstairs bathrooms are near the front of the stairwell, so I just have to stand here and sway like I’m drunk but not really in a hurry to go anywhere while Becky gets herself inducted into the hall of fame for Kline brother fucking. I hope there is a condom involved. That could be one tricky DNA test if something went wrong. . . .
Mostly I just wish Logan would magically appear in the window, possibly in the form of a bat, and then we could fly away to some dark and spooky mountain where he would have to make out with me just to keep me from crying.
But that doesn’t seem to be happening.
What is happening, right this second, is much worse. Brad Kline is stumbling up the stairs drunkenly looking for his girlfriend, who is ten feet away, boning his brother.
What to do, what to do?
Brad Kline is captain of the football team, so tripping him on the stairs might actually result in the varsity football team never making it to State. Such an event would be the closest thing to the nuclear holocaust in these parts, owing particularly to everyone’s vicariously living lame parents, and would probably end up with me being sent to a high-security prison where I would be constantly violated by girls with names like Spike.
So, I can’t trip him.
Also, it’s his birthday.
Now he is lumbering straight toward me and is about to crash right into that room and, ladies and gentlemen, that is not going to be a pretty sight. Or maybe it would be a porny sight. But whatever sight it is it’s probably going to lead to a Cain and Abel fight to the death, using knives, rapiers, or perhaps just fisticuffs. They were both on the wrestling team at one point so there is a good chance it will look a little like Homo City, whatever happens.
Anatomy of a Misfit Page 6