Anatomy of a Misfit

by Portes,Andrea

  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 stone-cold 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.

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  ..................................................................

  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 just 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.

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  ..................................................................

  fifty-three

  At 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.

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  fifty-four

  The 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 de 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 de 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 de 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 de 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 de 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.”

  Père. That’s French, for “Dad.” That little French word is the closest we will ever get to affection.

  My mom comes in after I hang up the phone to assess the damage. She knows, by now, that one phone call from the vampire can devastate me for days. If he chooses to turn that withering sense of humor on me. To eviscerate. Which is his skill set. The one thing about the vampire, stay on his good side. But don’t try to get too close. If you do, he’ll bite you.

  My mom sits next to me on the bed.

  “Everything alright?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Did you know I got a letter for you?”

  “What? When?”

  “This morning. It’s from Oakland. Do you know anybody from Oakland?”

  “No, Mom. Definitely not.”

  “Honey, is there something you’re not telling me?”

  “No, Mom.”

  “Okay. Here it is. Now get back to bed, you need your rest.”

  And there it is, a letter from Oakland. Who the hell lives in Oakland? I’ve never even been west of Colorado.

  I snuggle up in my sheets and open it.

  It’s from Tiffany.

  Dear Anika,

  Well, I made it! I’m in Oakland! With my grandma. She was super-happy to see me and her place is really nice, it’s got two floors and everything. Please don’t tell anybody where I am, especially my mom, okay? I just wanted to write to you and say thank you. If it wasn’t for you I never would have made it here. I took the train, it was really pretty. We went through the mountains and it was crazy. You’ve never seen so much snow. I was kind of scared, a little. Like, if we got stuck we’d have to eat each other. Well, bye for now, I just wanted to say thanks.

  Your friend,

  Tiffany

  PS: I feel grateful to you for what you did but I have to admit, I still don’t understand. Why would you take anything when you have everything you need right there in front of you?

  PPS: My grandma won’t let me keep the money, she says it’s bad luck, so here it is. I rounded up, so it wouldn’t jingle in the mail.

  And there, behind the letter: Exactly one thousand two hundred thirty-seven dollars. Goddamn it.

  Even Tiffany all the way out there in Oakland knows better than me.

  What do you think? Do you think I should keep her secret? Her mom’s probably freaking out. I mean, it kind of seems like a girl belongs with her mom but . . . maybe not that mom, I guess. Anyway, anything’s better than that shit-ass place down by the interstate.

  Bullet point number two. What am I supposed to do with this money?

  $1,237.00.

  I could keep it and add it to my college fund. Do I even have a college fund?

  My mom knocks on the door again.

  “Honey, how are you feeling?”

  “Mom.”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you wanna hear something stupid?”

  “I guess, honey.”

  “I stole one thousand two hundred thirty-six dollars and fifty cents from the Bunza Hut and now I don’t even want it.”

  Silence.

  “What?”

  “Mom. I’m a thief. I’m a horrible person and I know that you tried but I’m a thief and I stole all this money, also, I used to scrape up your Valium and put it in Mr. Baum’s Folger’s.”

  “What?!”

  “So he wouldn’t be so mean to Shelli. I mean he was, like, really mean to her.”

  “Honey, you can’t just go around poisoning people!”

  “I know. I know I’m a terrible person and I know I’m going to jail but could you please just forgive me because I did it for a good cause.”

  “You stole for a good cause?”

  “Kinda.”

  “I’m not sure I’m following, honey . . .”

  “I gave it to Tiffany, after she got busted. But she gave it back to me. See. I’m a failure. Even as a Robin Hood�
�like character of redemption, I have failed.”

  “Honey . . . okay. I’m gonna close this door and we are gonna figure this out together, okay?”

  “Okay.”

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  fifty-five

  My mom has me bundled up like a snowman and we are driving up Sheridan Boulevard to Mr. Baum’s house. And by house I mean mansion. It’s almost sunset and the sun is shining through the trees before making its final exit. I guess, for this, she can let me out of the house. With a 103 temperature. Where obviously I will catch pneumonia and die.

  “Okay, you’re gonna sit in the car, okay? Just stay put.”

  I nod.

  My mother has suddenly become a spy in her own personal espionage thriller. Her tone is conspiratorial and, yes, she is wearing sunglasses and a trench coat.

  It suddenly dawns on me.

  Is my mom crazy?

  Maybe all this time I was not the only freak in the family. Maybe the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. And maybe that tree is sitting right next to me in giant sunglasses and a trench coat.

  “Okay, now. On the count of three I am gonna run up there, leave the drop, and then we’ll make a break for it.”

  Drop.

  We’re gonna “leave the drop.”

  Then we’re gonna “make a break for it.”

  Seriously. What is happening? Meanwhile, Frosty the Snowman over here is bundled up to complete immobility. She keeps telling me to stay in the car, completely unaware that I have absolutely no choice in the matter. I couldn’t move if the dashboard caught fire.

  “Okay. Ready now? One . . . two . . . THREE!”

  She scurries out and over the snow, a trench-coated figure in a sea of white. The path up the driveway leads to a cobblestone walk to the front door. A grand affair with two giant wooden doors and a wrought-iron knocker.

  She “makes the drop,” turns around, and scurries back to the car.