Anatomy of a Misfit (4 page)

“Honey, is something bothering you?”

Peel. Cut. Slice.

“No, not really.”

“Are you sure?”

My mom is such a little muffin about everything. Most girls pretty much hate their moms right now, like, you should see Becky. But my mom kind of knows just the right amount of distance. She never squashes me with affection, and she never takes me shopping. And, come to think of it, she never really gives beauty advice, like Shelli's mom. Shelli's mom is big on beauty advice. She'll talk to you so long about Color Me Beautiful, this makeup she wears, it'll make your eyes roll back. But not my mom. She just kinda shuffles us off to school after breakfast—eggs, pancakes, sometimes French toast—comes home at five, and starts with the dinner rotation. But, you know, she checks in kinda. It's like she cares or something.

“Okay, maybe there is one thing.”

Peel. Cut. Slice.

“Well . . . do you want to talk about it?”

“Stacy Nolan is pregnant.”

“M-hm?”

“And everyone knows it.”

“M-hm?”

“And everyone's talking about it.”

“M-hm?”

“And Becky did something kinda like really mean.”

“M-hm. What did she do?”

“Well, she kinda like . . . went up in front of everyone and asked her if we could come to her baby shower.”

“That's not very nice.”

“I know.”

Peel. Cut. Slice.

“You shoulda seen her face. It was like we punched her.”

“We?”

“Well . . . Shelli and I were right behind her.”

“Behind Becky?”

“Yeah.”

“And you didn't say anything?”

“Nope.”

“Hm. Well, how does that make you feel?”

“Horrible. I feel horrible, Mom.”

Peel. Cut. Slice.

“Well, maybe there's something you could do to feel better. Could you call—what was her name? Stacy?”

“No way. Becky would freak.”

Exhale. My mom is so sick of hearing about Becky. Shelli she likes. She doesn't mind it when Shelli comes over. But she knows Becky is the dark side of the force.

“Well, I'm not going to tell you what to do but . . . I think you should say something to the girl. She's going through a hard time and maybe you could even—”

“That's it!”

“Excuse me?”

“That's it! You have to TELL me to go apologize. If you tell me to, or I'll be grounded, Becky can't say anything because it's your fault.”

“My fault?”

“Yeah. If I'm gonna get in trouble if I don't, that can be my excuse.”

“Hm.”

“Okay, so say it. Tell me I have to go apologize.”

“Dear daughter, you have to go apologize.”

“Or I'll be grounded.”

“Or you'll be grounded.”

She's putting the rump roast in the oven now, those funny little grandma-mittens with burn stains all over the place covering her hands. The print is mice on a farm. Whose idea was that?

“Mom, thanks! I'll be home for dinner, I promise.”

The pot roast goes in and I go out. Out into the evening sky, the sun starting to turn the trees into gold dust.

It's about five blocks to Stacy Nolan's house. My plan consists of going up and knocking. I wish Shelli could see me. She would totally die.

seven

S
tacy Nolan's house is bricks painted white, with black shutters and a red door. It's a nicer place than our pizza house, that's for sure. Her dad's an eye doctor or something. Normally, I would be jealous. But not now.

I should probably think of a better plan than this. But lo and behold, I'm here on the steps and before I can stop myself my hand goes up to the gleaming brass knocker and—

Knock knock knock
.

The door opens quicker than I thought. Like maybe they saw me coming up the step or something. It's her mom. I can tell, when she opens the door, she knows something's wrong with her daughter. Maybe not what. But something. She's hesitant. Protective. Mama bear.

“Yes?”

“Hi, um, I'm . . . I go to school with Stacy and I wanted to talk to her.”

“You do?”

“Yeah, I wanted to . . . apologize kinda?”

“I see.”

She disappears and then Stacy peeks out from the end of the hall. Boy, she does not look happy to see me. It's like I'm the cops or something.

“Stacy, honey, this girl's here to see you”—now she whispers—“to apologize.”

Stacy looks up, puzzled. She steps to the door wary, like,
is this a trap?

Now she's in front of me.

“Hey, um. Hi.” God, this is painful.

“Hi.”

“So, um, I feel really bad about what Becky said today. Both of us do. Shelli and me. Like really bad. Especially 'cause”—whisper—“you know.”

“It's not true though!”

“What?”

“It's not even true! That's the thing!”

“It's not?”

“No way.”

“Are you sure?”

“Uh, yeah. I don't even know Jared Kline. I mean, he's hot and all. But I don't know him. Like, he doesn't even know who I am. Unfortunately.”

“I know he's hot, right?”

“Yeah.”

We smile. I bet this is the first time she's smiled today. Poor girl. It sucks because all anybody has to do is just say something once, and then everybody just assumes it's true. Like, guilty until proven innocent.

“Well, so you think someone just started it?”

“Yeah, I do.”

“Well, do you know who, or like, is somebody mad at you or something?”

“I don't know. I mean, not that I know about.”

“Hunh.”

Looking at her closer, I can tell she's been crying her eyes off.

“You know what? I can fix it. Like, I'll start in first period.”

“You will?”

“Yeah, I know what to do. You'll see.”

Her face, which was tiny and turned in on itself, now gets big and glowing. Then there's a big smile on it. She's looking up at me like I'm Mother Teresa or something.

“See you tomorrow,” I say. I give her a confident nod, then turn and walk down her steps.

Dang,
I think as I hit the sidewalk
. I sure hope I can figure out what to do.

eight

T
here's a way to do this and this is how it goes. First, confirm that Becky is out in the morning because of some kind of orthodontist's appointment. Then, walk up the school steps. It's a crisp morning where summer is giving up to fall. Gaze at the foliage contentedly until Jenny Schnittgrund comes up panting.

“Did you hear?”

“Hear what?”

Jenny Schnittgrund has been trying real hard for the past two years to move up a couple of notches in the social hierarchy. Little does she know it's never gonna happen because Becky smells her blood and desperation, and that right there is the reason she's doomed. Despite the new clothes, trips to the mall, and season pass to Tans-R-Us, Jenny Schnittgrund will never be anything other than a minion at best.

“Stacy Nolan is pregnant!”

You stop, you consider. Wow. Jenny really is the color of an Oompa-Loompa.

“And Jared Kline is the dad!”

Here goes, folks. Let's hope this works.

“You didn't hear? That's this other Stacy girl, from out in Palmyra.” And this is the part where I lean in, confidential. “And it's not even Jared Kline's. I know 'cause I know the guy. He's a total dog.”

Jenny Schnittgrund leans back. It's like I told her aliens are landing after sixth period. Her feet are five minutes behind her brain, which is already racing to tell everyone and anyone the news. A scoop!

She looks at me, nods her head, grateful for the confidence. I can tell that maybe she even thinks she's popular now.

We swoop into the school and the rumor is coming along beside us. Jenny and I part ways and I get to go straight, in a line, to my locker, but the rumor goes this way and that way, from Jenny's mouth to that girl's ear, to that group of guys by the bike rack, in through the door, to those two girls at their lockers, past the principal's office, past the teachers' lounge, through the rocker guys, and into the ears of Pep Squad Girl, who heads me off on my way to homeroom.

She practically bowls me over, books in hand.

“Did you hear?”

“Hear what?”

“It's not Stacy Nolan who's pregnant. It's this other Stacy. This girl from out past Palmyra.” She leans in, an expert. “I know, 'cause I know the guy, and he's a real dog.”

“Really?”

“Oh, yeah. Total. Dog.”

Wow. My exact words. Verbatim.

Now that is what I call success.

I nod and duck into my classroom.

You should see Stacy Nolan. She's sitting there all by herself. It's weird 'cause she's perfectly still but you can practically feel her trembling. God, she's in a panic.

Now for the finishing touch.

It's here that I'd like to mention that this is the trickiest maneuver of the routine. Like, if I nail this, the Russian judges will award extra points. If I don't, it could be a complete disaster. I could end up ostracized alongside Stacy for, well, life maybe.

Instead of taking my desk, in the front, 'cause I'm kind of a straight A student thanks to my vampire dad, I sit right smack dab next to Stacy. She looks up like I have just landed from Mars.

I whip out a
Seventeen
magazine from my backpack and put it in front of us. The way she looks at me, it's like I'm James Bond or something.

“This October issue is so gay. All it is is back-to-school and Halloween parties. Again.”

Stacy Nolan takes her cue. Yes, she is supposed to look now. Yes, she is supposed to act engrossed. We pretend to look through the magazine together.

“Eww. That guy's gross.”

Beat.

“How'd ya like to kiss that guy?!”

Beat.

“YUCK! Look at this one! What a douche!”

Beat.

“Oo, I like that. Is that Guess?”

Beat.

“Cool shoes. I like those leg warmers with them.”

Stacy is just nodding away by my side, but that's not what's really happening. What's really happening is the room is starting to get crowded, people are starting to trickle in, one by one, and see us. See me. Third Most Popular Girl in School. Together. With Stacy Nolan. The one who, just yesterday, was pregnant.

But today? Well, today, she is flipping through magazines with number three over here.

They start to swarm.

First, it's the pep squad girls. Then, the hair-spray girls. Then, the heshers. Then, the brainiacs. And now for the coup de grâce . . . Charlie Russell. Yes, if Charlie Russell bites we are home free.

Charlie is the de facto mayor around here. Everyone knows him. Everyone is his friend. He's nice enough, but if you asked someone why he's such a big man on campus, I doubt they could tell you. Maybe it's because he plays tennis, wears rugby shirts, and lives in a ginormous mansion on Sheridan Boulevard.

Charlie sits down right beside me. Praise Jesus!

“Morning, ladies. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“This dumb mag, look how stupid.”

If you woulda told Stacy Nolan that by first period, before the first bell, she would be surrounded by the pep squad girls, the hair-spray girls, the heshers, the brainiacs, Charlie Russell, and yours truly . . . looking through a
Seventeen
magazine amongst a chorus of oohs and aahs, she woulda sent you to a funny farm. But here she is, Stacy Nolan, the erstwhile Pregnant Stacy Nolan, the center of attention again, but now, in a good way. Beyond redeemed. Perhaps even more popular. Having avoided a scandal and all.

The bell rings and everybody takes their seats. I go back to my suck-up seat in the front row. Before Mrs. Kanter gets to her speech on the history of the cotton gin, and southern productivity in general, Stacy Nolan looks at me across the room. The awe on her face? You would think I was the tooth fairy.

I smile and wink and she just mouths it.

“Thank you.”

Even though I am made of spider stew, there is a part of me that doesn't mind feeling like this. Like maybe, maybe it's possible I did something kinda sorta good.

And I would relish this moment. I would. If I didn't know that I was gonna pay for it, dearly, when Becky finishes at the orthodontist and hears what happened.

nine

J
ust like I thought, Shelli and I are leaving school, beginning our zillion-mile walk home, when here comes Becky.

“What the fuck?!”

Oh God. This is gonna be bad. Shelli just looks at the sidewalk. She knows what's coming.

“What's going on?” I ask.

“You know what's going on. Immigrant.”

People are starting to look and this has the potential to ruin me. I dunno. Maybe I shoulda never stuck my neck out. Dumb conscience. Thanks a lot.

“No, I don't.”

“Really? Two words. Stacy. Nolan. Ring a bell?”

“Oh, yeah, my mom is SO. ANNOYING.”

Becky stops. “Wait. What? What does your mom have to do with it?”

“She totally made me go over there last night and APOLOGIZE. It was SO. LAME.”

And now I do a three-second eye roll.

“She did?”

“Yeah. It was like. Excruciating.”

“What was her house like?”

“Kinda stupid. I dunno, it was like, her dad has those fake ducks everywhere.”

“Fake ducks?”

“Yeah, like mallards. I think that's what they're called.”

“Did it smell?”

“Totally. It totally smelled like soup. Even the lawn kinda.”

“What a loser. I can't believe you were talking to her.”

“I know! But, like, I had to. My dumb mom was gonna ground me.”