The Misfits (2 page)

Anyway, most of the kids called me Fluff, and I kept thinking,
This is so stupid, because there's a lot more to me than half of what I put in a sandwich.
Though I expect the name had more to do with the obvious
results
of eating nonstop Marshmallow Fluff
than the fact of doing it. But still, I wonder if maybe everybody gets names hung on them for only a little part of who they are.

Maybe even Killer Man.

Kids who get called the worst names oftentimes find each other. That's how it was with us, Skeezie Tookis and Addie Carle and Joe Bunch and me. We call ourselves the Gang of Five, but there are only four of us. We do it to keep people on their toes. Make 'em wonder. Or maybe we do it because we figure that there's one more kid out there who's going to need a gang to be a part of. A misfit, like us.

Sometimes I am sitting with Addie and Joe and Skeezie at lunch—at our table way off to the side and down at the end of the cafeteria, out of harm's way—and I get to thinking in a philosophical manner and what I'm thinking is this: Maybe it's the whole rest of the seventh grade at Paintbrush Falls Middle School who's misfits. Maybe when they grow up and go out into the big, wide world, they will see that Paintbrush Falls was the only place they could ever feel at home, because the rest of the world is made up of people
more like me and the rest of the Gang of Five and Daryl Williams, who stutters and you can see in his eyes how much it hurts just to try and say hello, or that girl who moved here last year and you can hardly tell she's breathing she's so afraid of being noticed, but then she keeps drawing these amazing pictures that Mr. Minelli says are “touched by genius.” In other words: people who are misfits because they're just who they are instead of “fits,” who are like everybody else.

Anyway, I do not want you thinking that I or Addie or Joe or Skeezie feel sorry for ourselves. We do not. Other people may call us names or think we're weird or whatever, but that does not mean we believe them. We may be misfits, but we're okay. Leastwise, in our own eyes we are, and that's all that really matters.

Addie is the one who got us all together. Of course, Addie and I were actually “together” since before either of us can remember because our moms were best friends when we were born, so we became best friends, too. Then Joe moved in next door to Addie when we were four. As for Skeezie, well, I didn't think he'd have
any
friends, the way he was. In kindergarten, he got
labeled a troublemaker right off the bat and everybody just kind of knew to steer clear of him; at least, you did if you didn't want a chunk of your hair cut off when you weren't looking or a gob of paste shoved down your underpants.

It was Addie who decided in the second grade that what Skeezie needed was a friend. She sent him a secret Valentine. It said, “I think you are nice even if you act like a moron.” Skeezie did not know what “moron” meant. He thought it was a compliment. So he announced in front of the whole class, “If whoever wrote this Valentine tells me who they are, I will give them a dollar.”

Before Miss Haskell could shush the class and tell Skeezie he would do no such thing, Addie had her hand in the air and said, “I wrote it.” Of course, so did every other kid in the class because we all wanted the dollar. But Addie proved she was telling the truth by providing a sample of her handwriting and Miss Haskell believed her and Skeezie believed her and—here's the part nobody could believe—he did not cut off any of her hair or paste any of her clothing to any
of her body parts. He gave her the dollar, and they became friends.

From that day on, Skeezie stopped making trouble. Just like that. Cold turkey. And even though he still acts a little tough and dresses like a fugitive from
West Side Story,
he is at heart the kind of person your mother wants you to be friends with. And all on account of Addie.

Addie has always been like that. If she believes something, she does not keep it inside her head like private property with a
NO TRESPASSING
sign up; she puts it out there in the world and says, “Deal with it.” She is not afraid of anything. Not even the names people call her.

On Monday of the second week of school, she strikes again, this time in Ms. Wyman's homeroom. Ms. Wyman is the seventh-grade math teacher. She is also a believer in the religion of Self-Esteem. Her room is plastered with these signs that say things like,
TODAY IS THE FIRST DAY OF THE REST OF YOUR LIFE
and
IF YOU DON'T BELIEVE IN YOURSELF, WHO WILL
? She keeps fresh flowers on her desk and she likes to start each day with
these deep yoga breaths so we'll all be “centered” and “at our best.” She's so sweet sometimes you swear you can smell muffins baking. But here is the bad news about Ms. Wyman: If you cross her, watch out. That smiley face of hers'll fall off like a mask that's popped its elastic, and underneath is a dragon lady. And
that
Ms. Wyman, I swear, wouldn't blink at removing your liver with her bare hands and eating it with a spoon.

So it is particularly nervy of Addie to do what she does, it being in Ms. Wyman's homeroom and only the second week of school and all.

“We will now stand and say the Pledge of Allegiance.”

Some sixth-grade voice I do not recognize is giving the morning announcements over the P.A. Ms. Wyman looks mildly annoyed to have her morning yoga breaths interrupted, but she smiles indulgently at the box on the wall and says, “Boys and girls, please rise.”

We do.

“I pledge allegiance to the flag of the United States of...”

It is then I notice that not
all
of us has risen. One of us is sitting with her hands folded on her desk and a new look for a new day resting comfortably on her face.

“Addie Carle,” Ms. Wyman says after the rest of us finish and sit down.

“Yes, Ms. Wyman?”

“Would you care to tell the class why you did not rise and say the Pledge of Allegiance with us this morning?”

“Yes, Ms. Wyman.” Addie takes a deep breath. “I looked the word ‘pledge' up in the dictionary and it said—”

“Furniture polish,” Kevin Hennessey mutters. A bunch of boys around him laugh, Jimmy Lemon loudest of all.

Ms. Wyman furrows her brow. “Continue, Addie,” she says.

“It said, well, it actually said lots of things because the word 'pledge' has multiple meanings, as many words do, but as best I could make out, the meaning that applied to the Pledge of Allegiance was this.”
She lifts a piece of paper from her desk and reads, ‘“Pledge: A promise or agreement by which one binds himself to do or forbear something.'”

She clears her throat.

“Now, besides the fact that the dictionary is hopelessly sexist and it should have said 'himself or herself... “‘

Somebody says, “Here goes Know-lt-All.”

Addie presses on. “Well, admittedly, what is
pledged
is allegiance—or loyalty—to one's country. But isn't there the implication of a promise of liberty and justice for all? And do we have liberty and justice for all in this country? I think not.”

She casts her eye on DuShawn Carter, who conveniently is seated to her right and even more conveniently is African-American.

“Addie,” Ms. Wyman says. “I think perhaps—”

“Did you happen to read this morning's
New York Times?”
Addie continues. I make a mental note to tell Addie later about my liver-eating theory in regards to Ms. Wyman and to suggest that it might be best not to interrupt her.

“Well, my parents subscribe to
The New York Times,”
Addie says, to the accompaniment of groans, “and it's a good thing they do. Otherwise, I wouldn't know half of what's going on in the world. Have you
seen
what is happening in the
unfair
metropolis of New York? You cannot be a black man and walk down the streets of that city without the word 'guilty' stamped on your forehead. The police arrest you—or worse—just because of the color of your skin. I do not call that liberty and—”

“Miss Carle—”

“Ms. Wyman, I will
not
utter empty words, falsehoods, and lies.” Addie walks to the front of the room and dramatically presents Ms. Wyman with a piece of paper on which she's neatly penned her dictionary definition of the word “pledge,” along with a torn-out page of the newspaper.

Returning to her seat, she says, “I rest my case.”

Sitting, she lets out a gigantic fart and turns bright red. Pretty much everybody cracks up. I am sticking the sharp point of my compass into my thumb to keep from laughing because, after all, Addie is one of my best friends.

“Kevin Hennessey!” Ms. Wyman exclaims. I'm sure she figures it is Kevin who put the whoopee cushion on Addie's chair, because statistically speaking—and statistics are Ms. Wyman's raison d'être (which is French for “reason to be,” in case not knowing what something means in another language gets in the way of your following the action)—you'd have a pretty good bet that Kevin is guilty of just about anything that happens in school. Anything of a subversive or out-and-out nasty nature, that is. Once Skeezie retired as School Bad Boy, Kevin took over the job. But I have the feeling it isn't Kevin this time. No, I have the feeling it is Addie's Living, Breathing Symbol of Social Injustice who has placed the whoopee cushion on her chair. I mean, DuShawn Carter is laughing so hard he is pretty near busting a gut.

EVERY FRIDAY after school since the beginning of sixth grade, Addie, Joe, Skeezie, and I have gathered at the Candy Kitchen, last booth on the right—the one with the aforementioned torn red leatherette seats—to discuss important issues and eat ice cream. We call this the Forum. Due to the change in my employment status, we canned holding the Forum on a specific day of the week and decided we'd have it whenever we felt like it. The Friday Forum became the Floating Forum.

The minutes of the First Floating Forum of the Seventh-Grade Year are as follows: