“No, you’re not. You saved my ass!”
“Well, maybe, but mostly just ’cause I felt guilty. Anyway . . . here.”
I hand Tiffany the money, wrapped up in a Bunza Hut wrapper. She looks inside and then looks closer and closer and her eyes are practically popping out. Right into that Bunza Hut wrapper where we could serve them up with fries.
“Holy shit!”
“I know. It’s a lot.”
“How did you—”
I shrug. “We had a system.”
Tiffany looks at me. I can tell her opinion of me is changing rapidly by the millisecond.
“I thought you were perfect.”
“Um . . . no.”
“Well, you’re pretty clever. Maybe that’s it.”
“Thanks. When I was little they thought I was retarded and then they tested me and I had like a high IQ so I’m kind of like a smart retard.”
“How much is here?”
“Like about . . . one thousand two hundred thirty-six dollars and fifty cents. But who’s counting?”
Tiffany looks around. God, I hope her mother’s not home.
“I can’t take this.”
“Yes, you can. And you will. You have to. I can’t live with myself if you don’t. I really can’t.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yup.”
“Well, what am I supposed to do with it?”
“Don’t give it to your mom. That’s for sure.”
“No shit.”
She and I have a moment of silence. What do you do with money? Everybody’s so crazy about it but then, once you get it, what do you do with it? Hug it?
“Maybe put it in the bank or something?”
“Yeah. That’s a good idea. Thanks. Thank you so much.”
“No. Don’t. I’m a jerk. Don’t thank me.”
“Did you give this to me because you feel sorry for me?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Good.”
We hear someone’s feet on the stairs outside and both of us freeze in fear. Please don’t let it be her mom. Please don’t let it be her mom.
“Okay, I better go. Call me, or come by, whenever. I’m around.”
“Yeah, I will. I’ll call you.”
And I know when I’m shuffling down those stairs, past the stucco and wrought-iron gates, I know she’ll never call. I know she’ll never call and never come by—ever again.
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
..................................................................
forty-four
So far today the sun is playing a trick where it’s shining so bright it looks like it’s supposed to be seventy degrees but then you go outside and it’s thirty.
It’s almost the end of the week. Thursday. The best day. All the anticipation of the weekend but none of the dread.
I’ve pretty much been skipping out on everybody, including Shelli, taking different routes to class. . . . I dunno. I just don’t really seem to know what to do about anything anymore so I’m hiding. If I could turn this ceiling into a blanket and crawl under it, I would.
We’re on seventies installations in Stoner Art Teacher’s class and, so far, all I’ve got is a bright white diorama shoe box and no clue what to do with it.
I guess the general idea is you’re just supposed to create a space where everybody walks in and has an emotional reaction.
I resolve to make a space where everybody walks in and is terrified.
Mostly right now my brilliant idea is sitting somewhere inside my head, hiding from me, and the only way to get it out seems to be to sit here and stare out the window.
Praise Jesus! The alarm bell goes off and once again we are all shuffled off outside, into the freezing cold, and everyone is looking at me expectantly.
“What? I didn’t do it!”
Just like last time we wait, stare at each other, make chitchat, watch our breath come out in dragon puffs, and go back inside, finally, before we are all taken to the hospital for hypothermia.
I guess I won’t have to work too hard to think of an installation because once we get back inside, there’s . . . um . . . an installation.
This is what it is:
The entire room is filled with, teeming with . . . butterflies.
And not just any old butterflies . . . but the most beautiful butterflies you’ve ever seen.
Bright blue butterflies, almost purple in the light, flying all over the place, catching the bright blue light in their wings. Hundreds of them.
Just so you know, I’ve heard of this before. My mom said my aunt did this at her wedding out in Berkeley, where everybody’s a socialist but kind of a hippie but kind of rich, too, and interested in butterfly extravaganzas, I guess. She said they released these butterfly packets after the ceremony and everybody sighed and whistled but then all the butterflies immediately died and it was really awkward and sort of depressing. But these butterflies aren’t dying. In fact, they seem to be thriving in this artistic environment.
Now, of course, everyone is freaking out. There are oohs and aahs, and dudes and no ways, and the heshers are tripping out. Some of the girls are actually scared of the butterflies or something. Or maybe they’re just pretending to get attention. Yup. That’s exactly what they’re doing. I mean, since when are butterflies scary?
If you were going to make a movie about a rabid butterfly everyone would just laugh in your face. Although, I guess this imaginary scenario would take place in Hollywood so who knows what would happen? Maybe they would just laugh in your face and do a line of coke off the nearest starlet.
Note to self. Never go to Hollywood.
PS: Everyone is looking at me.
I guess this qualifies as a successful installation.
My white shoe box diorama is still at my workstation and there’s no amazing painting there to replace it or anything so I am officially off the hook for this.
But that doesn’t mean that this isn’t 100 percent, completely, a zillion percent, the work of Logan McDonough. If there was any doubt, I notice there’s a little fake blue butterfly pinned to the side of my Trapper Keeper. I know this because there has never before been a little fake blue butterfly pinned to the side of my Trapper Keeper.
And if you think this makes me fall totally completely in love with Logan well you are wrong. I refuse to do it, no matter what, so just stop it.
Also, if you think that I have been sitting around missing Logan and wishing that I’d turn the corner and see him hiding in the bushes and then he’d just come up and grab me and knock my socks off with a kiss that erases everything that happened and this weird Jared voodoo spell would be lifted, well, that’s not true either. I swear.
Stoner Art Teacher turns to me.
“Anika? Was this your project?”
I know, I know. I am supposed to be a good person and always say please and thank-you and never say anything mean and always tell the truth.
I pause and then —
“Do I get an A?”
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
..................................................................
forty-five
Bet you’re wondering what I’m gonna do about Logan now, huh? Well, you’re not the only one. Seriously this is not how I thought this was gonna play out. Like AT ALL. How was I supposed to know that out of nowhere this seeming Prince Charming in a Led Zeppelin T-shirt who everybody worships was gonna come at me with all guns blazing?
It doesn’t help that everybody thinks Jared is a super-god and Logan is a super-dork, even though he’s kind of like an artistic genius maybe. I know, I know. I shouldn’t care about the dork part. Why should I? But the truth is . . . I do. Like, I really do. Let’s just call it like it is, no need to pretty it up. I care what other people think of me. I’m not Jesus Christ. I’m just a girl in the world.
Also, I won’t even spe
ak about . . .
You know, that guy at the boathouse was a whiskey-breath scuz-bucket who was probably going to kidnap me and bury me alive in his trailer park.
And Logan has set off not one, but two, count ’em, two, fire alarms to impress me. Although, to be quite honest, I’m not sure if that fake fire alarm thing puts him in the crazy column or the genius column. Jury’s out. I mean, listen, the whole thing just swirls around and around in my head and never lands.
It’s maddening.
All of this is why I went to bed early tonight, locked myself inside my room, so I could just stare at the ceiling and ask God what in the world to do. I know a lot of people think that whole God thing is a joke but I just get a feeling he’s up there somewhere. There’re too many things for him not to be. Like, for instance, everything. Like, where did it all come from? Of course there was a big bang, no shit. But what was before that? Who made the big bang in the first place? Anybody ever wonder about that part? Look. He’s there and I just know it. Anybody who thinks we are the most intelligent life in the universe has obviously never been to Nebraska.
Trust me.
My mom got me this night-light thingy that projects the cow jumping over the moon, spinning around in little circles above me on the ceiling. Happy, smiling stars surround the moon and it plays a little lullaby, which I turned down, but I did realize, at some point, this is a night-light for babies. I guess my mom thinks I need a lot of coddling. Maybe she’s right. If I don’t have the night-light I can’t get to sleep. Like ever. It’s like a curse if I don’t have it and it’s a sign of certain doom. We left it once when we went to visit my aunt and my mom had to drive back and get it because I couldn’t sleep for like two days. Again, this is the part where everybody in the family refers to me as “special.” It’s not a compliment. It means there’s a screw loose.
So right now I’m just staring at the cow jumping over the moon and wondering what I’m gonna say to Logan. I was thinking I could say something like this:
“Logan. I’m an idiot. I don’t know what to do but you should probably stay away from me because I’m confused and have no self-esteem and, also, I think you might be a sociopath. But look, you are amazing and cool and sometimes I think about shrinking myself down and fitting myself into your pocket so I can live there forever, but, then, I worry that maybe you are not exactly playing with a full deck and you might turn on me and take me out of your pocket and squash me like a bug next to the boathouse.”
That’s what I’ve got so far.
I, also, was thinking I could try to say it with flowers.
That thought, which makes no sense, is running through my head when there’s a thud on my window, right above my head. Then another thud. Then another. If the ogre hears that I’m gonna get it, so I look out the window and there he is, through the trees from below. Logan. Standing under my window like some mod Romeo.
Guess I won’t be saying it with flowers.
The window creaks when I open it. Not good. This whole thing could lead to at least a two-week grounding if the ogre wakes up.
“Logan! Shh! What the—”
“Okay, I know you’re mad at me. I get it . . . but I wanna show you something—”
“—I can’t. Are you kidding?!”
We’re both whisper-screaming at each other. All I can think is this is the worst possible way to break up with somebody.
“C’mon. Please? It’s supercool. Seriously.”
“No, I can’t. I can’t risk it. Lemme call you tomorrow—”
“Pretty please?”
“No.”
“No? Anika, c’mon. Seriously.”
Ugh. I’m really gonna have to do this, aren’t I? Like right now, in the middle of the night through a freezing cold window.
“Logan, just lemme call you later, when—”
And now there’s a moment when something in the air changes. All the puppy love turns prickly and Logan straightens up.
“What the fuck, Anika?”
“What?”
But, of course, I know what he means. I’m blowing him off. I’m blowing him off because he did that psycho thing and even though he did all that other cool stuff it doesn’t matter now ’cause Jared Kline has swept me off my feet and even though I feel bad and feel like I’ve led him on and we did have all that romance and fake fire alarms and sneaky moped rides, even though it felt, for a little while, like we were in our own private movie, now all that is changed, all that is changed and he didn’t know it and now he knows it and he’s fucking bummed.
And he’s looking up at me like a sinking ship.
“Logan, it’s just. I just . . . well, I think we should slow down or something.”
Slow down? You mean stop. You mean stop and he knows it and you know it and he’ll really know it any day now ’cause practically everybody knows that you’re Jared Kline’s girlfriend.
“What? What do you . . . what the fuck, Anika?!”
“Logan—”
“What? The boathouse? Is that it? Look, I told you, I lost it! But I was protecting you.”
“I know, it’s just. I don’t know what to say. I—”
“’Kay, I’ll say it. How ’bout I say it for you? You’re a coward, how ’bout that? You’re a fucking coward who can’t stand up to your dumb friends.”
And he’s right. In a way. He is.
“No, it’s just—”
“Anika. I get it. Alright? I fucking get it.”
He starts to walk away.
Now the cold air is sweeping in and I can’t tell if it’s the cold air or me that’s making my eyes water. Must be the air. I can’t care about this. I can’t.
He turns around.
“Just so you know. I fucking loved you. I fucking loved the daylights out of you.”
And now the tears slide down and he’s off, through the trees and down the sidewalk. And now I’m sitting there, closing the window and staring into my reflection and I don’t mind telling you, ladies and gentlemen, I don’t like what I see.
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
..................................................................
forty-six
The next day something happens that I’d like to call The Greatest Moment Ever Told. Keep in mind that my whole life I’ve kinda like been a second-class citizen in this place. You know, it’s always been like a feeling of “don’t get too ahead of yourself” or “know your place.”
You’re not one of us. That’s really what it’s always been underneath. So, this day, this day here, is basically a moment I never thought was reserved for a girl like me. This is a moment for Becky or Shelli, or someone else with a normal last name. Not a freak with a vampire dad and a name you have to say three times before anybody gets it.
The sun decided to make a comeback after school so this is one of those fall crisp days where the sky is the color of a bright blue marble and you can walk outside without seeing your breath. Becky and Shelli are walking ahead and I’m behind Shelli like a poodle but there’s something up ahead and I know it’s big because when we walk out there might as well be a record scratch. It’s like crickets out here, not a sound, even though there’s a zillion people and even though they are seeming to part like the Red Sea, leaving Becky, Shelli, and me in the middle like Moses. Except now Becky and Shelli step aside and it’s just me. Now I’m Moses. And Shelli whispers something, I think she’s whispering to me but I can’t hear it. And Becky whispers something, and I think that’s for me, too, but I can’t hear. I can’t hear because all I can do is see and all I can see is Jared Kline.
He’s standing there, leaning against his Jeep like Elvis.
And he’s looking at me.
He smiles when he sees me, like the cat that ate the canary and then ate all the canary’s little brothers and sisters and the canary’s grandma, too. He’s smiling the only way you get to smile if you’ve got every single person in the town, cou
nty, state in love with you.
And everyone, everyone you’ve ever even thought about is out here to witness. Jenny Schnittgrund. Chip Rider. Stacy Nolan. Joel Soren. Charlie Russell. The whole ensemble.
But you should see Becky. It’s like she’s having an allergic reaction. It’s like she’s about to break out in hives. She can’t believe it. Right in front of her face, it’s happening. But she can’t believe it’s happening and doesn’t want to believe it’s happening and is terrified because she knows it is. But there’s something else in it, too, a calculation.
And as Jared Kline comes up the steps, yes, folks, comes up the steps to meet me, and kiss me on the cheek, in front of everybody, and grab my books out of my hands, in front of everybody, Becky leans in and gives me a whisper.
“We should hang out more.”
Seriously, that’s the best she’s got. Just an obvious, unabashed change of tune. No more “half-breed,” no more “immigrant.” Just a desperate, pathetic, shameless attempt. We should hang out more.
Yes, Becky. We should hang out more. You should hang out with a half-breed, immigrant like me and tell me what to do more.
And then there is Shelli. I don’t even have to look at her but I can feel it. She’s like a proud parent or something. She’s practically leaping out of her dress.
But now there is no such thing as Becky and Shelli. Now there is only Jared Kline. Now there is only walking down the steps with Jared Kline carrying my books. Now there is only Jared Kline opening the passenger side and making a gesture like he’s some knight or something. Now there is only Jared Kline hopping in the driver’s side and gunning the engine and driving off like we might as well be flying into space.
And what about the rearview? In the rearview the entirety of Pound High School is a student body of open mouths, and front and center, jaw dropped, is Becky Vilhauer.
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
..................................................................
Anatomy of a Misfit Page 15