Anatomy of a Misfit

by Portes,Andrea

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  HarperCollins Publishers

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  Contents

  Cover

  Disclaimer

  Title

  one

  two

  three

  four

  five

  six

  seven

  eight

  nine

  ten

  eleven

  twelve

  thirteen

  fourteen

  fifteen

  sixteen

  seventeen

  eighteen

  nineteen

  twenty

  twenty-one

  twenty-two

  twenty-three

  twenty-four

  twenty-five

  twenty-six

  twenty-seven

  twenty-eight

  twenty-nine

  thirty

  thirty-one

  thirty-two

  thirty-three

  thirty-four

  thirty-five

  thirty-six

  thirty-seven

  thirty-eight

  thirty-nine

  forty

  forty-one

  forty-two

  forty-three

  forty-four

  forty-five

  forty-six

  forty-seven

  forty-eight

  forty-nine

  fifty

  fifty-one

  fifty-two

  fifty-three

  fifty-four

  fifty-five

  fifty-six

  fifty-seven

  fifty-eight

  fifty-nine

  sixty

  sixty-one

  sixty-two

  sixty-three

  sixty-four

  sixty-five

  About the Author

  Author’s Note

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

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  one

  Pedaling fast fast fast, this is the moment. One of those movie moments you never think is gonna happen to you, but then it happens to you, and now it’s here.

  Pedaling fast fast fast, this is my only chance to stop it. This is the place where it looks like everything is gonna go horribly wrong and there’s no hope, but then because it’s a movie there is hope after all and there is a surprise that changes everything and everyone breathes a sigh of relief and everybody gets to go home and feel good about themselves and maybe fall asleep in the car.

  Pedaling fast fast fast, this is the moment, this is the moment I get to remember for the rest of my nights and my days and my looking at the ceiling. Over that hill and down the next, through those trees and past the school.

  Pedaling fast fast fast, this is the moment, by the time I get there you can see the lights going blue, red, white, blue, red, white, blue, red, white, little circles diced up in sirens and you think you can stop it but of course you can’t, how could you ever think you could?

  Pedaling fast fast fast, this is the moment.

  This is the moment, and it’s too late.

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  two

  You’re never gonna believe what happened. Okay. Let’s just start from the beginning.

  Logan McDonough’s dad bought him a moped. That was the first thing.

  Let’s say Logan had showed up first thing, first day of school, tenth grade, at Pound High School, Lincoln, Nebraska, having never ever set foot here before, on his black moped, in his black mod outfit, with his black mod haircut. He woulda been a hit. Even Becky Vilhauer, aka number one most popular girl in the school, aka Darth Vader, woulda swooned.

  But he had been here before, in ninth grade. When he was a nerd.

  So you can see how his actions were totally illegal.

  You can’t just decide somewhere between May and August that you are going to change your whole identity, jump from geek to cool kid, get a jet-black haircut, peg your jet-black jeans, lose twenty pounds, and drive a Vespa. No way. That is totally against the rules and everybody knows it.

  The audacity! Becky Vilhauer was not having it. I know, because she was right there next to me when he pulled up to school and you shoulda seen her jaw drop. She was pissed.

  If you’re wondering what I was doing standing right there next to Becky, aka the dark side of the force, it’s because I am number three in the pecking order around here. I have no hope for rising above my station and I will explain why later. But number three is where I will always be and, as I am constantly reminded, I am lucky to be here.

  Between number one and number three is Shelli Schroeder. Number two. She’s my best friend even though she’s kind of a slut. She told me something I immediately wanted to unhear and now I’m gonna tell you and you too will immediately want to unhear it. She makes out and even does the old in-and-out with the high school rockers. Like a lot. One time she told me Rusty Beck told her “she has the biggest pussy he’s ever fucked.” Yup. Try to unhear that. Nosiree, you cannot. By the way, she told me this like it was a compliment. I didn’t have the heart to tell her I’m pretty sure that wasn’t going to get her a date to the prom.

  I like Shelli but it’s kinda weird how she draws on her eyeliner. She kind of just circles both her eyes so you just get these two black almonds staring at you all the time. Imploringly. There’s definitely something about Shelli’s look that makes you feel like you’re always supposed to help her out in some way. I guess that’s why those rocker guys are always helping her out of her clothes.

  Okay, so the reason why I’m number three and can never even hope to dream of being number two or number one is because my dad is Romanian and looks like Count Chocula. Seriously. He looks like a vampire. Never mind that we never see him and that he lives half the time in Princeton and half the time in Romania. That doesn’t matter. All that matters is that he left me with a weird last name: Dragomir. And, to seal the deal, an even weirder first name: Anika.

  Anika Dragomir.

  So, you see, there is no hope.

  You try going to a school of Jennys and Sherris and Julies with a name like Anika Dragomir.

  Go ahead. I dare you.

  But right now, that’s not the story. Right now, no one can believe how Logan drives up to the front school steps.

  Like a total. Baller.

  And even better, he doesn’t even acknowledge Becky Vilhauer when she scoffs at him on his new moped.

  “So, what? Now he’s a nerd on wheels?”

  And this is what’s so weird about the whole thing: Even Shelli notices, which she tells me later on our endless, seriously endless, like we-should-be-put
-in-child-protective-services endless, walk home from school. Logan doesn’t notice what Becky says because he’s not even looking at Becky. And he’s not looking at Shelli, either. No, no.

  Logan McDonough—nerd-ball turned goth romance hero—is looking directly, and only, at me.

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  three

  By the time I get home my stupid sisters are already locked in their room listening to the Stones and talking on the phone to more boys who don’t like them. My brothers are in the back, probably setting fire to themselves or killing something.

  In case you’re wondering about the pecking order around here, it goes like this: My oldest sister, Lizzie, the leader of the pack, is the one who looks, dresses, and acts like Joan Jett and teases me endlessly for having boobs ’cause she is flat as a board, so fuck her. The second oldest is Neener, she kinda looks like Bambi and as far as I can tell her only distinguishing quality is she likes strawberries. Next up is Robby, he’s the happy-go-lucky one everybody likes and never has any problems and looks all bright eyed and cute, like the Gerber baby. Then there’s my other brother, Henry, who looks like Peter Brady and has been brooding ever since he was three. And then, last but not least, there’s me. I’m the youngest and the one that everyone has decided is mentally deranged.

  They’re wrong, of course, but I don’t mind letting them think that because everyone lives in constant fear I’m going to kill myself and that’s alright with me.

  I bet you think I have dark hair and dark eyes and look like I listen to the Cure but you’re wrong. On the outside I look like vanilla pudding so nobody knows that on the inside I am spider soup.

  Unless they look closer.

  For instance . . . Yes, there is blonde hair, blue eyes, pale skin. That is true. But, you see . . . everybody around here has a button nose and I have more of a nose that looks like it got lopped off by a meat cleaver. There’s another thing, too, I have a boy jaw, like a square jaw, and cheekbones you could cut yourself on. Also, there are dark purple circles around my eyes that might be adorable if I was a raccoon. So, you see, I’m hideous. Also, there is the fact that Becky constantly calls me “immigrant.” That doesn’t exactly help.

  And yet . . . If you don’t look close enough, you would never know I’m not made of apple pie. You have to truly inspect me to see that I am obviously from a place where Vlad the Impaler is everybody’s great-great-grandfather and you have to survive on one turnip a week, that you have split with your brothers and three cousins who live in the attic.

  But this is not a complete liability. In fact, it’s probably why, two years back, I won that fight at the roller-skating rink. Here’s what happened: Russ Kluck, from the wrong side of the tracks, liked me and kept trying to get me to couples skate with him. Even though everyone knows he lives in a trailer, everyone thought I should be flattered but I don’t really know how to talk to boys so I just sprayed ketchup all over him.

  He thought that was cute and liked me even more but that just made this other wrong-side-of-the-tracks girl jealous. She liked Russ and couldn’t believe I sprayed him with ketchup. I bet she thought she was getting into a fight with a vanilla wafer on roller skates but little did she know she was getting in a fight with a spider sandwich.

  Look, I’m gonna explain my insect insides but you have to promise not to feel sorry for me, okay? This is not a sob story. These are just the facts. Plain and simple.

  My dad, Count Chocula, basically kidnapped us and brought us with him to a castle in Romania when I was three. Maybe it was more like a chateau. Whatever, to a three-year-old, it felt like a castle. It was me, my real sister, Lizzie, and my real brother, Henry, practically all alone in that castle, with Count Chocula gone half the time but that was okay because when he actually was there it was kind of like having a walking wraith eating your Cheerios with you. I’m serious, this guy could basically freeze the air just by strolling in the room. It’s not like we ever did anything wrong, either. Are you kidding? We were too scared. It was obvious if we even spilled a drop of milk on the stone castle floor we would be encased in glass and sent into the phantom zone, never to return. Luckily, there was a nice nanny for a while. But he got her pregnant and she left.

  My mom didn’t have any way to get us back so it took me standing up to my dad when I was ten to finally get back home to her and her new husband. So, to recap, I was raised from three to ten by a wraith-like vampire in a freezing stone castle in Romania. Don’t feel sorry for me, that’s not what this is about. This is about spider stew.

  Wrong-side-of-the-tracks girl didn’t know what she was going up against at the roller-skating rink and I don’t blame her. The legend goes that I pulled her hair out, dropped her to the ground, and kicked her repeatedly with my roller skate. But that’s not what happened. It was more of a weird roller-skating dance—each of us pulling on each other and moving in a slow, deformed circle—that was ended by the manager. In all honesty, it was a draw. I guess that girl had a pretty tough rep, though, because nobody ever messed with me after that.

  My sisters and brothers don’t mess with me either, but that’s because not only do they think I’m annoying and hate bringing me anywhere, but they are also worried I’m going to throw myself off the nearest bridge on their watch, in which case, they will be grounded for life.

  Robby and Neener, my stepbrother and stepsister, are 100 percent purebred all-American. Their mom lives in a trailer next to a lake and there’s even a horse. Also, a duck. Or so I’m told. They have no idea how lucky they are. I would give anything to have a dad who lived in a trailer instead of a castle, and maybe that sounds completely backward but you try growing up half vampire in Nebraska.

  Henry, my real brother, doesn’t care about being a half-breed because he knows once he graduates from Harvard and starts making a billion dollars no one will care and he can just buy all his friends at the friends store. And Lizzie. Well, Lizzie has decided to just go straight past half-breed, and full speed ahead into super-freak. She is dark. She is gamine. She is mean. She is Joan Jett. She will kill you. And you will know her by the trail of dead.

  So, really, I’m the only one around here wrestling with an immigrant complex.

  I bet you think I go to school with all these freaks but I don’t. Thank God. We live in this weird strip of suburb where you can choose either East High or Pound High. My sisters and brothers chose East High. So I chose Pound. I did this as a purely self-protective measure. My sisters, especially Lizzie, would have pursued, tortured, and harassed me endlessly if I set foot or even thought about setting foot near them. No, sir. High school would’ve become my own personal Spanish Inquisition crossed with Salem Witch Trials crossed with every movie you’ve ever seen with a marine sergeant torturing his underlings at boot camp. No thanks, folks. No way.

  I cannot give Lizzie that pleasure.

  Now, this brings us to my mom. Who is essentially the only decent one in the house. But if you think post-Chocula she went out and found the perfect husband, you can guess again. The guy she got is six foot three, three hundred pounds, and stands in front of us at the buffet line my mom sets out at dinner, eating all the food. If we are lucky we will get something good but you better grab it while you still have a chance. He never talks to us, except in grunts, and then goes straight to his room after dinner, to lie on his water bed and watch Wheel of Fortune.

  So, basically, my real dad is a vampire and my stepdad is an ogre. If my mom gets married a third time it will clearly be to either a werewolf or a mummy. I’m sure she married this guy so her kids would have a home and all but, man oh man, I wish she could have found someone that made her happy.

  I have an escape plan for Mom and me where we can leave all these jerkfaces in the dust, but I am only on stage 2 of that plan currently.

  I’m looking at her in the kitchen and realizing th
at if you made a trajectory from Brigitte Bardot to Mrs. Santa Claus, my mom is one-third of the way from Brigitte Bardot over. She’s a total dumpling about everything and certainly deserves better than this crap-hole.

  “Honey, did anything exciting happen at your first day of school today?”

  “Not really. Logan McDonough got a moped.”

  She’s making Mexican casserole, which is heavy on the rotation and usually lands on a Monday night, unless there’s gonna be Taco Tuesday.

  “Oh, I bet that was a real hit.”

  “Not really. Becky told him he was a nerd on wheels.”

  “Well, that wasn’t very nice of her.”

  “Tsh. Whatever. She’s kind of a bitch.”

  “Honey, you know I don’t like words like that.”

  “I know. She’s just not very nice is all.”

  “Well, did you say something nice to him? I bet that woulda made his day.”

  “What?! No. Becky would kill me.”

  Now Mom stops putting the chips in the casserole and looks up. Real emphasis.

  “You know what, honey, just because Becky does something doesn’t mean you have to do it.”

  “Yeah, right. She’s like the number one most popular girl, Mom.”

  “Well, why is that?”

  “I dunno, she was like a model or something.”

  “A model?”

  “Yeah.”

  “A model for what, might I ask, seeing as we live in this bastion of the fashion industry here in Lincoln, Nebraska?”

  “I dunno. I think, like, the J. C. Penney catalog?”

  “Oh, well that explains it.”

  “Mom, you just don’t understand, okay?”

  “Honey, all I’m saying is that you can stand up to her—”

  “—you mean like you do with Dad?”

  But she doesn’t take the bait. She just ignores me and puts the casserole in the oven instead. Doesn’t matter, my brothers run in from the back and start tearing through the cupboards like the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse are riding up from Kansas.

  “Boys, now listen, it’s only one hour to dinner. I don’t want you to ruin your appetites.”