Anatomy of a Misfit (8 page)

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 Stoner 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 when he grew up 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.

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.

Before thinking it out in any way, I grab Brad Kline by the jersey, throw him up against the wall, and shove my tongue down his throat like I am a sex-deprived nymphomaniac just back from an island of frogs. Brad is utterly confused but not so confused that he doesn't kiss me back. It is here that I would like to state that Brad Kline is a terrible kisser. It really is like his tongue is a lizard that is trying desperately to eat everything inside my mouth and then slither down my throat. Gross!

It occurs to me during this lizard-slithery kiss that this could backfire mightily and Becky could actually get mad at me for protecting her slutty self in the back room with Brad's brother.

So now what?

It's here that I decide that the best thing to do is pass out. Which I do. And how. Yes, folks, it's official. I am now lying on the ground as if someone hit me over the head with a hammer.

Chaos. Anarchy.

Frogs are falling from the sky.

Suddenly the big drama at the party is that Anika, Becky's second-best friend, is blacked out cold and oh my God, what if she doesn't wake up, we heard she's a vampire anyway and now maybe she is part of the undead!

Now everyone is saying we should call an ambulance, no, we should not call an ambulance, yes, we have to call an ambulance, no, we can't, we can, we can't.

If I opened my eyes, which I want to do so badly it's eating me alive, I would see a circle of heads above me, pondering, debating, squinting. All I want is for that damn back door to open and Becky to get the hell out here so my grand charade can come to an end.

But, instead what happens is Jared Kline.

Yes, THE Jared Kline.

Next thing I know, Jared Kline is picking me up, like he just married me, and carrying me down the stairs to the library. The crowd parts like the Red Sea at the sight of The Great One carrying this broken-winged bird down the stairs and into the dark wooden den, where he is obviously going to save my life by issuing CPR and turning me into a fairy princess.

No one is playing opera, but they might as well be.

Everyone tries to clamber into the room with us but Jared sets me down on his dad's giant desk, turns around, and slams the door. As I open one eyelid to peek at who is outside looking in, I see something that fills me with dread.

Dread!

No, it's not an ambulance, or the cops, or even a horde of drooling body snatchers. It's Becky Vilhauer, standing there, looking at me like I am dead meat.

Which, let's face it, I probably am.

eighteen

“H
ey, hey . . . are you okay?”

Now's the part where I have to pretend I am waking up from my blacked-out slumber.

My sister Lizzie used to put us in plays all the time, mostly musicals, so it's not like I don't have any experience flexing my thespian muscles. We were so good, in fact, that my mom even put us on the talent circuit. We used to have this whole routine we'd do to “Ain't She Sweet,” which would really rake 'em in. I was the ringer. My sisters would do a toe-step, sing their part. Then my brothers would do a soft-shoe, sing the chorus . . . and then I would come on with a giant lollipop and a huge hat and next thing you know we'd be getting that state fair trophy. True story. You could practically hear the sighs of defeat from the other contestants when I stepped on the stage. The only time we ever got second place was when we were up against a chicken that played tic-tac-toe. That day, the chicken was the ringer.