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.
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eighteen
“Hey, 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.
“Anika? It’s Anika, right? Becky’s friend? Wake up, Anika!”
Waking up from my fake blackout, trying to look dizzy, and looking straight into the face of The Great One . . . well, that, my friends, was not hard. He’s standing right above me looking down at me like I am the tiniest, sweetest, and cutest of bunny rabbits.
“Are you okay now? Here’s some water.”
The room is made of dark cherry wood and there’s a kind of green glass lamp on the desk, green felt on the dark wood mahogany desk. I never thought to wonder what the Kline brothers’ dad did for a living . . . but whatever it is, it’s not too shabby. This house, the room—the pictures on the wall, oil paintings with ships stuck out in huge choppy waves in the middle of the ocean, the ladder you can move around to get books off the shelves—this is like something you’d see in Trading Places, not Lincoln, Nebraska. Lincoln’s the kind of place where, if you’re rich, you have two cars. Not a library room with a ladder and nautical paintings.
I drink from the glass in silence, looking up at Jared Kline, trying to figure out what to say that doesn’t make me sound like a complete idiot. “So, you just had sex with your brother’s girlfriend” probably won’t cut it. He’s not saying much either. Just kind of staring at the rug. Some Persian-looking thing, also expensive, flopped in the middle of the parquet floor.
This is a room to impress people. And it’s working.
I venture a small thanks.
I hand him back the glass of water and he just sits there. I’m waiting for him to swing open the doors and go back to his mad, passionate affair with Becky Vilhauer.
It’s strange though, it’s like he just wants to sit there in a trance, staring at the rug, and making me feel stupid.
“You know, they teach your dad’s book in Modern World History. Gustav Dragomir? That’s your dad, right?”
I blink. “Yeah, that’s him alright.”
“Smart guy. You know he’s really famous, right?”
I shrug. “Whatever.”
“How come you don’t live with him?”
“Well, he lives in Romania half the time, so . . .”
“You live with your mom?”
“Yeah.”
Um, discussing Count Chocula? Is the last thing I thought I’d be doing at this party. Things I thought I would be doing: Jell-O shots with Becky, jumping off the roof, riding a bicycle into the swimming pool. (By the way, I’ve actually done that last one. Just for the record.) But definitely not this.
“You must be smart, too, then, huh?”
Jared Kline is known for a lot of things. Getting stoned. Making out. Breaking hearts. Being a stone-cold fox. But smartness? Well, if he’s anything like his brother, that’s not part of the skill set.
“What kind of question is that?” I ask him. “There’s no way to answer that without sounding like an idiot.”
He smiles at that, looks at me.
“I’d offer you some weed, but I think you’re kind of on the road to recovery here.”
“I know. I’m sort of embarrassed.” I move to hop down from the desk. “I guess we should get back to the party. . . .”
He glances toward the door and squints.
“I’m not really in a hurry. You can, if you want.”
Well, the one thing I’m not gonna do is leave gorgeous Jared Kline in this gorgeous room for no reason. I may hate all of mankind but there are certain things you just don’t do. Even if you are a misanthrope. Walking out right now is one of them.
This is surely one of the most awkward moments in the history of Brad Kline’s dad’s library. Both of us are just sitting there, not knowing what to say. But here’s the weird thing, it seems almost like Jared Kline is . . . nervous. Could it be? The Great One gets nervous?
“So, are you and Becky best friends or what?”
“I dunno. Kinda.”
“She’s not a very nice person, you know.”
This is a weird thing to be coming out of the mouth of someone who was just having sex with Becky.
“I plead the Fifth.”
“You shouldn’t hang around with her.”
Now I am becoming vaguely annoyed. Who is this person to tell me what to do? This is the first time we’ve even spoken for crying out loud. Just because he carried me all Scarlett O’Hara down the stairs, doesn’t give him the right to boss me around.
>
I scowl my scowliest scowl. “Oh, yeah, who should I hang around with?”
And now he looks right at me for the first time, a weird sort of look I’ve never seen from anyone, except in movies.
He leans in and says, in barely a whisper—
“Me.”
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nineteen
I never got to grow up in rich-people rooms. Rooms in suburban houses with paneled walls and maybe a super-sweet TV, sure. But a room like this, with an ornate globe and nautical paintings and green felt, for some reason? No. This is the kind of room you get born into.
I’m not crying to myself here, or pretending I’ve been raised in a shack or something. I haven’t. My mom made sure of that by marrying the ogre. That was her sacrifice. And I know it. I know it even if she doesn’t want to admit it. She made a trade. And she did it for us.
I can’t help but wonder if it was worth it. And I can’t help but want to do something to someday make her proud. Although stealing Mr. Baum’s face off at the Bunza Hut is probably not a good start.
But, here, now, at Brad Kline’s party, stuck in this rich-people room with THE Jared Kline . . . it’s like I might as well be on that episode of Brady Bunch where Davy Jones comes to visit Marcia and she practically floats down the stairs.
But I also know that anything Jared Kline says is a big fat lie because he’s a scam artist of legendary proportions. A wolf in a Led Zeppelin T-shirt. Everyone says so. And right now he’s just sitting there, kicking his Vans up on the desk and smiling at me like he knows something super-fantastic but can’t say it.
“Look, I know you are a total scam artist, so I don’t know what you think you’re doing here to me but I just want you to know it’s not gonna work.”
He shuffles his Vans.
“Oh yeah?”
“Uh, yeah. I’m pretty sure you can’t be taken very seriously.”
“Really?”
“Sorry, but I’m not gonna lie to you, I know everybody thinks you’re like God’s gift to the universe but that doesn’t mean that I think that or that I’m just gonna take my pants off or something because you saved me, like I’m some broken-winged bird. You probably just saved me because you didn’t want to be liable or something.”
“Liable?”
“Yeah. Liable. Like you didn’t want to get sued or something. I know that stuff happens all the time so . . .”
“It does?”
“Yeah.”
“Like, give me an example?”
“Well, okay, well I can’t think of anything right this instant but I know that people do that. I mean my mom is always saying don’t have people over because if somebody gets drunk and gets into a crash you’re liable to get sued.”
“So, your example is your mom talking about a hypothetical?”
“Yeah. It’s my mom. My example comes from my mom.”
“Do you like your mom?”
“What? What kind of a question is that? Of course I like my mom, crazy.”
“Okay, well I just want to make sure.”
“Why, do you not like your mom?”
“Yeah, I love my mom. She’s really into trying to help other people. Especially, like, kids with cancer and poor kids and stuff. I think it’s pretty cool, actually.”
I guess this is his way of trying to show me he has a “heart” and that I should like him. But I am not taking the bait.
“PS,” I tell him,” I just want you to know that I know you just had sex with my friend Becky, so if you’re going for some sort of trifecta, or second-fecta, or whatever it’s not gonna be happening.”
“Second-fecta?”
“Yeah. You know. Like sloppy seconds or whatever.”
“I didn’t do anything with Becky.”
“Yeah, right.”
“I didn’t.”
“Come on.”
“Seriously? She like threw herself at me and I had to kinda tell her that wasn’t cool. Seeing as she’s my kid brother’s girlfriend and all.”
“I don’t believe you.”
He shrugs. “She’s not your friend anyway.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“She’s nobody’s friend. She’s like a dragon . . . wrapped in a cute girl.”
“Huh. Well, how do you know I’m not the same thing?”
“I never said you were a cute girl.”
I imagine Jared can see the steam coming out of my ears. “Thanks. Well, I’ll just be leaving now—”
“I think you’re a cool girl.”
Okay, so maybe this stops me.
“I think you’re a cool girl who happens to be kind of hot, actually.”
“Okay, listen, I don’t know what dumb lines you are used to giving girls so they fall all over you but I just want you to know that I wasn’t born yesterday so I am gonna go now and leave you to whatever dumb idiot girl is gonna buy that line.”
And now I walk out the door. But just before I get there, I hear him.
“Bye-bye, cool girl.”
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twenty
Of course the first person I see out of the door is Becky.
“You are so dead.”
The party is emptying out now and she’s just about to turn and walk out the front door, so now I have to hurry to catch up to her.
“What? Becky . . . I’m telling you. I was trying to cover for you.”
“Listen, immigrant. I don’t know what’s gotten into you lately but you are getting a little too big for your britches, if you ask me.”
“Becky . . . I was covering for you. Hello? Brad was coming right up the stairs . . . it was like a total disaster. Titanic heading for the iceberg.”
“So, that’s why you had to run off with Jared?”
“I didn’t run off with him! He carried me! Do you know that whole thing was for YOUR benefit so you wouldn’t get busted? Hell-o. I was being a good friend to you. I, like, fainted to cover for you.”
Becky stops at the front door. If she turns on me my life is gonna be a living hell, I just know it.
“What did he say? You were in there a long time.”
“Nothing, I mean. Really . . . all he did was talk about you.”
Beat.
“He did?”
“Yeah. It was like kind of crazy. He’s, like, obsessed.”
And now she drags me out the front door and under a giant oak tree that is now thoroughly decorated in toilet paper. This lawn is a floral bed of beer cans.
“Okay, so I want you to tell me exactly what he said.”
“Um. Well, basically, he was just like saying how beautiful you were and how he wishes you weren’t going out with his kid brother so he could be your boyfriend. And maybe take you to prom even.”
“What?! No.”
“Seriously. He thinks you’re like a supermodel or something.”
“Well, I did do that catalog shoot a month ago,” she says more to herself than me. “Do you think I should break up with Brad?”
“What?”
Now the whole party seems to be tumbling out onto the front lawn.
“You know, so like I can go out with Jared?”
“Um. I don’t think it works like that . . .”
“What do you mean? You just said he liked me!”
“He does! He totally does. It’s just . . . He can’t go out with you, even if you do break up with Brad. It’s like, too mean. You can’t go out with your brother’s ex-girlfriend. It’s like incest or something.”
Now the whole football team, including Brad, seems to be sprawling out of the front doors. Chip Rider is puking in the trash can on the curb. Gross.
“Listen, immigrant. I’m not mad at you anym
ore. I guess I was just annoyed. You know, ’cause he like saved you or whatever. But you’re right. Of course he doesn’t like you. I mean, no offense, but you are kind of like a half-breed. I mean . . . not to be mean or anything.”
“Yeah, no. I mean. That would be crazy.”
“And that was really nice of you to cover for me.”
“Thanks. Well, you know, what are friends for . . .”
“Hug?”
“Yeah, okay.”
And now I am hugging Darth Vader herself while Chip, in the background, thinks he’s done puking but isn’t done puking, so now he’s basically walking around while puking down the front of his sweater.
“You’re a good friend, Anika.”
It is a wonder I don’t puke myself.
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twenty-one
It’s not lost on me that the only two guys in the universe who seem to somehow, maybe like me are both completely off-limits for entirely different reasons. What a bizarre world, isn’t it? Logan is off-limits because he’s a social pariah that could completely ruin me if anyone knew about our moped rides and late-night sneak-outs. Jared Kline is the biggest stone-cold fox in the city, possibly even the state, and if Becky knew the things he was saying in the hoity-toity library, she would hand me to the wolves covered in butter.
Of course, I can’t tell Shelli about any of this. I just know she’d slip up. She forgets things, or can’t keep them straight. For instance:
Shelli keeps messing up how much money we’re stealing. I don’t know what it is, I mean all she has to do is subtract the amount from CHARGE but yet it’s like every time she gets loose change or she gets a ten or a twenty it’s like she can’t wrap her head around the numbers. I mean I don’t want to call her stupid, because she’s not, but this certainly doesn’t seem to be her forte. The problem is we can’t steal with Tiffany. It’s got to be just Shelli and me. But I have a sneaking suspicion Tiffany would actually be better than Shelli with the numbers.
Anatomy of a Misfit Page 7
