Back in my room I get to flop down with no one around. One of the perks of being the youngest nobody likes? I get my own room. I had to share with Lizzie for a while but I just kept calling her a slut all night till she begged Mom to move her. Sounds mean, but the thing is, all she ever does is talk to boys all night on the phone and make it impossible to study. She blushes and giggles and then half the time sneaks out but I don’t tell anyone because then I can use it to blackmail her. Now she’s down with Neener and I get my whole room to decorate and think about how Logan lost twenty pounds and actually didn’t look half bad.
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
..................................................................
four
My boss doesn’t know I’ve been poisoning him.
Don’t be jealous but Shelli and I got a job at the Bunza Hut. We get to wear lemon-colored fake polos, Kelly-green shorts, and banana LA Gear sneakers. We get to wear this every. Shift.
You have to stand back by the sundae machines, otherwise you’ll be on camera the whole time and it’s an invasion of privacy or whatever.
“Bubba thinks you’re hard to get,” Shelli says.
I snort. “I’m hard to get if your name’s Bubba.”
“They’re having a party Friday, we should go.”
“They’re just gonna try to stick their wieners in us.”
“You’re such a prude.”
“Wull, they are.”
“Some girls actually like that kind of stuff.”
“Like some girls named Shelli?”
Mr. Baum, who has absolutely no idea how high he is, pokes his head from the back.
“Am I paying you girls to drink milk shakes?”
You shoulda seen this guy before I started crunching up my mom’s Valium and dosing his endless cup of Folger’s. He was a total dick. Especially to Shelli. It was like that helpless, needy look in her almond-shaped eyes sparked something in him where he smelled blood. He tormented her. If she was sweeping, he’d say to mop. If she was mopping, he’d say to sweep. If she smiled at the customers, he’d say she was being too friendly. If she didn’t smile, he’d say she wasn’t being friendly enough. Black shoulda been white, white shoulda been black, and no matter what, she was an idiot. The guy’s a sociopath. One day he made Shelli cry because he said her shorts needed to be pressed and she needed to lose ten pounds. That was the day I realized something had to be done.
So now I dose him. First thing after clocking in.
The trick is misdirection. You can’t just crunch up Mom’s Valium and put it in his mug. Are you crazy? He’d notice that in a second. You have to make small talk with a customer while doing the crunching. Of course, there is the issue of dosage.
Here’s what happened the first time. About five weeks ago, the first Sunday of preseason football, Mr. Baum was hungover and it was practically an emergency because he was being a total jerkface.
He was nursing his headache in the back and I was up front chitchatting with a very nice family from Platte.
“Oh, those Huskers are looking good!”
Crunch. Crunch.
“Looks like this is gonna be our year.”
Crunch. Crunch. Crunch.
“Those Sooners don’t stand a chance!”
“Damn straight. Go Big Red!”
Pour the coffee in the mug.
Dose. Dose. Dose. Stir stir stir.
And then the happy Platte family makes their way to the table, Mr. Baum gets his Folger’s, and everything is perfect.
Except.
Fifteen minutes later we hear a thud.
Shelli looks at me with her almond-eyes, there’s no face anymore, just eyes.
I look at her and we both know the situation is dire.
“You go look.”
“No, you.”
“I can’t go. You know how much he hates me. He’ll kill me. If he’s not already dead.”
Shelli does have a point.
“Okay, what if we both go?”
“Like together?”
“Yeah, like together.”
And now Shelli is holding my arm.
“Shelli, now’s not the time to make a pass at me.”
“Shut up!”
“I know I’m superhot but we have an emergency situation here.”
I can’t help it. It’s too fun to tease Shelli. Also, she’s a Christian, so if Mr. Baum is dead that means eternal damnation in the claws of the Beelzebub, whereas I will just be grounded.
By the time we make it into the back office there is nothing visible of Mr. Baum but his feet. He’s wearing tassel shoes, which should be enough excuse for the poisoning, but the lack of movement here is certainly a cause for concern.
“Is he . . . is he . . . ?”
“If he is, Shelli, I really think you should keep your hands to yourself. It’s important to respect the dead. Also, he might reawaken as a zombie.”
“Shut up, Anika, God!”
“I also don’t think you should take the Lord’s name in vain in front of a zombie.”
“Jesus!”
“That’s the son of the Lord, Shelli. You just murdered someone and now you’ve taken the son of the Lord’s name in vain.”
“Anika, stop, seriously—”
“Look, there’s no way he’s dead.”
“Are you sure?”
“Um, yeah.”
“Smell him! He smells like a vodka plant.”
“What like a plant made of vodka?”
“No. Like a place where they make vodka. You know, like a rubber plant.”
“I don’t think there’s such a thing as a rubber plant.”
“Shelli, focus. I need you to check and see if he’s dead.”
“I’m not checking. You check.”
“I can’t. If I get closer he might bite me. We both know I’m Romanian and if I’m bit by the undead I will immediately become a vampire. Then, there’s no chance for you.”
“Well, I’m not getting cl—”
“No chance, Shelli! My ancient blood will overpower you. You’ll probably just evaporate.”
“I can’t do it, Anika!” She’s practically crying.
Mr. Baum’s tassel shoes remain unmoved.
“Really the only solution is that we both look at the same time.”
“Okay.”
“Okay?”
“Yeah, okay.”
Shelli grabs my arm and we go in closer, like two kittens investigating a fallen rhino.
We are almost to his comb-over when he snores so loud it throws us back into the other room.
Jesus.
That guy can snore!
“What do we do?! What do we do?!”
“Well, I dunno, Shelli. There’s kind of two ways to look at it. Either . . . we tear ourselves apart with guilt that we are obviously horrible people or . . . OR . . . we accept that Mr. Baum is out for the day, make some sundaes, and prank phone call that hot new debate teacher.”
“Seriously? Shouldn’t we call someone?”
“Yeah, we should call that hot new debate teacher and ask him if he’s heard that song by the Police about the ‘young teacher, he’s subject, to schoolgirl fantasy . . .’”
“You’re crazy.”
“Crazy for that debate teacher.”
And that, ladies and gentleman, is what happens when you are not paying attention to your Valium dose.
Since then, I have perfected my technique and we have had no further incidents. But as you can see, every cloud has a silver lining and, in this case, the silver lining is . . . ever since the Valium dosing has begun, Mr. Baum’s behavior has much improved.
Like today. He’s totally leaving us alone, probably sitting at his desk waving his fingers in front of his face and marveling over the psychedelic trails. But that’s not important right now, what’s important is that in my leisure time I have concocted a plan that I think might much improve o
ur Halloween, Homecoming, and holiday season.
“I think I figured out how to steal from this place.”
Shelli stops wiping the counters. Her eyes go wide. She really does look like a deer in headlights.
“Are you serious?”
“Yeah. Okay, so like . . . the camera’s on the cash register, right?”
“Un-hunh.”
“So we have to undercharge on the register but get the actual price from the customer, right?”
“I think so.”
“Then just put all the money in the cash register, so the camera doesn’t see anything, right?”
“Yeah?”
“But just keep a running tally, on the side, of the difference.”
“I don’t get it.”
“Okay, like, say the Bunza meal is four dollars.”
“Yeah?”
“So, we charge the customer four dollars, but we only ring up three on the cash register.”
“Okay.”
“But when you do that, like right when you do it, write down the difference.”
“Okay.”
“So, you write down a dollar, right?”
“I think so . . .”
“And then we just keep a running tally of the difference all day.”
“Okay, then what?”
“Okay, so there’s cameras everywhere, right?”
“Yeah.”
“So, when we make the drop, at the end of the night, we gotta do it where there’s no cameras, yeah?”
“Yeah . . .”
“So, where are there no cameras?”
“I dunno.”
“Think.”
“I dunno! You’re stressing me out!”
“Shelli, I’m just trying to improve our lifestyle.”
“Okay, well, just tell me, or . . . It’s mean, it’s like you’re showing off or something.”
“Okay. The answer is . . . there’s no camera on . . . the stairs.”
“What stairs?”
“The stairs down to the drop.”
“Oh . . .”
“Think about it, it’s perfect. All you do is take out the difference, which you know from the running tally, put it in your pocket, and put the rest down in the safe. Perfect, right?”
“I’m not doing it.”
“Okay, you don’t have to. Just cover for me, okay?”
“What do you mean, cover?”
“I mean like, just, you know, distract Mr. Baum or something.”
“How do I distract him?”
“I don’t know. Show him your boob?”
“Gross!”
“I know. He is gross.”
“And a dick!”
“Exactly, Shelli.” I put my hand on her shoulder. “That’s why we’re stealing from him. Because he is a dick.”
Can you believe that in the middle of all my devious masterminding, the door swings open and Logan McDonough appears? Shelli nods over and there he is, right at the register, leaning in.
“Um. I’ll have a Coke. And fries.”
“You don’t want a Bunza or anything?” I ask.
We have to say that. It’s not like I care.
“Nope.”
“Okay, um, that’ll be . . . two dollars and seventeen cents.”
He doesn’t even say anything. He just kind of puts the bills and change on the counter.
“Oh, exact change, thanks.”
He’s not even looking at me. It’s like he’s turned inside out or something.
“Can I speak to the manager?”
“Um. What?”
“I’d like to speak to the manager, please.”
Oh God, do you think he heard me? I wonder. Do you think he heard my diabolical plan to steal from the Bunza Hut and is going to rat me out?
“Um . . . okay, sure.”
Shelli is not a person anymore. She is just two giant eyes standing by the soda machine. Watching.
“Mr. Baum? Uh . . . there’s someone here to see you . . .”
Mr. Baum comes out, taking off his Bunza hat and standing there like a rump roast. Thank God this isn’t the day we nearly poisoned him to death. At least today, he has the ability to stand. Also, walk.
Logan speaks up. All of a sudden he’s like a guy from Sesame Street.
“Hello, sir. I’d just like to tell you . . . you have a real top-shelf worker with middle management potential here.”
What. Is he. Talking about?
Mr. Baum nods, totally confused.
“Never has a French fry been served up with such love. Such kindness. And I really think you should be proud to have this young lady as a part of the Bunza family. I give her five out of five stars. For customer service. And general friendliness.”
Now Logan takes his fries and drink and waltzes out, leaving the front counter of the Lincoln southeast Bunza in silence.
Mr. Baum turns to Shelli and me.
“Friend of yours?”
Shelli and I shake our heads emphatically, “No no no no” although I’m not sure why.
“Oh, well, good job then. Nice work.”
He goes back to mixing Bunza meat. Shelli and I stand there for two seconds staring at each other, in silence, before we burst out laughing.
“WHAT the?”
“I know!” Shelli can’t believe it either.
“Seriously?”
“I KNOW!”
Now we can barely control ourselves. We should no longer be wearing the Bunza uniform. We are no longer representing the store in a responsible manner.
“SOME-body li-ikes yo-ou.” Shelli says it in a singsong.
“Shut up.”
“And you know what—”
“—Don’t. Don’t even.”
“I think you like him back.”
“No. I don’t.”
“Yes, you totally do.”
“No, I swear to God I don’t.”
“Really? Does that mean you don’t give him five out of five stars?”
Of course I have to throw my towel at Shelli. God, it is such a relief when Becky’s not around. Shelli and I are free when she’s off doing whatever she’s doing. Probably looking at herself in the mirror. But that doesn’t matter right now. All that matters is what Logan McDonough just did was kind of rad. And weird. And maybe he might just kinda sorta be a lot more interesting than I, or anyone, thought.
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
..................................................................
five
If you turned a Labrador into a person you would make Brad Kline. He’s happy and gushy and about as interesting and complex as a tree stump. But he’s the most popular guy in the school and he’s Becky’s boyfriend. Of course. As far as I can tell the most interesting things about him are his complete inability to see Becky’s true nature and his brother, Jared Kline. Yes, THE Jared Kline.
See, I like a guy who looks like he’s just about to rob a bank. And Jared Kline looks like he’s been on a Bonnie and Clyde bender for six months straight. Scruffy. Jagged. Mean. Where Brad is a puppy dog, Jared is a wolf. A big, bad wolf that your mother told you about but now you’re just gonna have to ignore your mother. He’s just out of high school. And he was never the captain of the football team, or the soccer team, or even track. As far as I can tell he was, and may still be, the captain of the smoking-pot-and-listening-to-Pink-Floyd-after-school team.
Anyway, his name is flying all over the place this morning because the rumor is he got Stacy Nolan pregnant. I know. It started in first period, just a whisper, and now, just before lunch it’s a crescendo where it seems like any second the principal is going to announce it over the loudspeaker.
Becky’s obsessed. She’s practically up before the bell and into the hallway, right next to Stacy Nolan’s locker. It’s annoying that Shelli and I have to stand here and wait while Becky does whatever dumb thing she’s up to, but it’s an unwritten rule. We must comply
, or die.
I swear to God Stacy sees her and tries to duck away, but it ain’t happening. Becky waltzes right up to her, smirking over her books.
“Aren’t you gonna invite us?”
Shelli and I stand back, cringe-ready.
Stacy shifts from her right foot to her left. Her face has gone so pale that her little nose freckles are standing out way more than usual. She can barely even make eye contact from underneath her thick brown bangs, because she knows the blow is coming. God, this is painful.
“To what . . . ?”
And now, Becky leans in, “To your baby shower.”
I notice there is a bit of a crowd around us and everyone is laughing at Becky’s little quip. Isn’t she just hilarious, folks?
Poor traumatized Stacy lets out an involuntary “eep.” She turns and scurries down the hall like a rat that’s been kicked in the guts. Becky looks back at us for approval. But I just can’t muster up anything other than a huge pit in my stomach for poor pregnant pariah Stacy Nolan.
The crowd starts to disperse and now Becky’s just standing there like she’s daring us to challenge her.
“What’s the matter with you guys?”
There’s nothing for Shelli and me to do but mutter to ourselves. I think we are actually making up new words to mutter. Some of the pep squad girls continue to titter over Becky’s little show. We just keep our eyes on our Trapper Keepers and shuffle off to class. After the last bell, we slink away for our long and cruel walk home.
The first three blocks, we don’t say anything. But there’s no question that the thing we’re both not talking about is Becky.
Everyone loves her, yet she is pure unadulterated evil.
The weird thing is . . . It’s not like you can point to anything that made her that way. It’s not like her dad’s a criminal or her mom’s a crack addict or she was raised in an orphanage or something. That would actually explain her demonic powers. It’s just like she was born, she did a few print ads for the Penney’s catalog, and abracadabra-BEELZEBUB!
The only possible justification is that, potentially, when she was in the nursery, a dissatisfied ghost of some sort crept into her crib, possessed her baby body, and decided to wreak havoc on the living as revenge for some unanswered injustice. That’s really the simplest explanation.
Anatomy of a Misfit Page 2
