Okay, third. The pièce de résistance.
While drooling, and swaying like a rookie on Mount Everest, running out of oxygen and wobbling around with altitude sickness . . . I will look up at Mr. Dushane.
I will look up at Mr. Dushane, because I know he will be looking over at me and wondering if his speech mattered or if the world is just a meaningless place consisting of an endless series of gestures signifying nothing.
I will hyperventilate.
I will practically fall to the ground.
I will cry.
But then . . . then, folks, I will look up at the you-can-do-it eyeballs of Mr. Dushane and I will be heartened, nay, inspired. I will suddenly feel a sense of power, hope, and the triumph of the human spirit. Glory will wash over me.
No, my legs will not give out!
Not here! Not now!
Not with Mr. Dushane and his dumb speech!
Today is the day that Mr. Dushane saved me!
Today is the day that Mr. Dushane changed a life.
Today is the day that Mr. Dushane mattered.
Except that, by the five hundredth yard . . . the one where the triumph of the human spirit has overtaken me, I hit the ground with a thud and black out.
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thirty-six
Yeah, I probably should have trained.
I mean, it’s one thing to put on the grand theatrics, but it’s another thing entirely to actually do the work. Which, apparently, I never thought of.
Mr. Dushane is standing above me. As is Shelli, Jenny Schnittgrund, and Charlie Russell. There is grave concern.
“Anika, Anika, can you hear me . . . ?”
“Anika, don’t go into the light!”
(That’s gotta be Shelli.)
Suddenly, the blurry circles around me turn into heads and Mr. Dushane is stooped over me like a terrified turtle.
“Anika. Are you okay? What day is this?”
Oh, this is gonna be fun. . . .
“Wha? What . . . ? Apple.”
Mr. Dushane panics. He turns the kids away. This is too important for Charlie, Shelli, or the Oompa-Loompa. He can’t have witnesses.
“Anika. What month is it? Do you know what month it is . . . ?”
I wait. I look at him.
“Taco?”
Mr. Dushane is officially losing his shit.
“Anika, I want you to think. I want you to really think. Where are we? What state do we live in . . . Can you remember what state . . . ?”
Pause.
“Cleveland.”
Now Mr. Dushane is practically crying. I am not kidding. He is seeing his bank account shrink, his house full of moving boxes, and his wife leaving him for the realtor. Okay, I can’t take it. The guy’s a dick, but even I am not that diabolical.
“It’s Nebraska. We’re in Nebraska.”
“That’s right! We’re in Nebraska!”
Never has anyone been that excited to say that sentence in American history.
“And you’re Mr. Dushane. And there’s Shelli . . . and Charlie . . . and Jenny . . .”
I’m just copying the end of The Wizard of Oz, here, by the way. Just straight up plagiarizing.
“That’s right, Anika. We’re all here. We’re all here for you, okay?”
I can see Shelli over Mr. Dushane’s shoulders and she knows exactly what I’m up to. She knows me. She knows and she is doing everything in her power to keep from laughing.
“Mr. Dushane, did I finish . . . ? Did I finish the six-hundred-yard dash?!”
I might as well be asking if I saved the world. If I thwarted the Nazis. If we won State.
“Please, Mr. Dushane. Please . . . tell me the truth . . .”
“Um. Anika. I’m afraid you didn’t finish. You passed out.”
“I can do it! Out of my way!”
And with this, I attempt a measly, totally pathetic attempt to rise to my feet.
“No, Anika, NO!”
Mr. Dushane thwarts my noble plan and sets me back down, gently.
“Anika. You don’t have to. You’ve done enough.”
And now it’s speech time. Now he’s playing to the class.
“I think we’ve all learned something here today.”
Oh my God, you should see Shelli’s face.
“I think Anika has proved to all of us that you never give up, no matter what . . . No. Matter. What.”
The class is looking on, completely apathetic.
“And you know what, Anika. I’m gonna remember this. I’m gonna remember that today . . . today, you were the teacher.”
It’s really hard for me to keep a straight face at this particular moment.
Mr. Dushane helps me to my feet and walks me over to the bleachers.
I did it. Not exactly the way I had it planned but . . . I did it.
I made him feel important.
And walking back to the locker room with Shelli by my side, I can’t help but wonder . . . if it’s such a big deal for a middle-aged white guy to feel important . . .
What happens when he doesn’t?
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thirty-seven
Friday night at the Bunza Hut equals ghost town. I mean, I could turn into a frog in here and no one would even notice. Six p.m. and only one customer in three hours. And that lady just asked to use the rest room.
No one wants to work now because of the big game. Mr. Baum thinks I’m such a hard worker because I always offer to take this shift but really it’s just so I can get out of going to the game without people thinking I’m a communist.
I’m boning up on my AP English. We’re reading this book now about this boy that gets kicked out of boarding school and he doesn’t really seem to care about anything. I get it. I’m crossing my fingers that nobody comes in now so I can make it to the end. Only thirty pages left.
I’ve been avoiding Logan since the boathouse incident. I mean, what am I supposed to do? It’s not like I don’t miss him or anything. I do. Like, I miss the way he slumps his shoulders and hides behind trees and stuff. But I’m also freaked the fuck out. I’ve been checking the papers and nothing about the incident. Thank God. Kind of makes me wonder if the whole thing wasn’t some weird dream. Like maybe I just made it up and I don’t have to think about that whiskey-breath ever again.
On the other hand, I can’t help but think of Logan’s psycho dad and that makes me feel two things at once. The first is . . . I feel for Logan. Think about it. You gotta figure that wasn’t the first time the dad slapped him around. And talk about protective? That look he gave his mom? You have to figure Logan’s running interference for her and his two kid brothers on a constant basis. Like he’s the hero of the house, in a way. But on the other hand, maybe he’s also gonna be just as much of a psycho. Like maybe he already is.
It’s wrong and I hate it and it is not Logan’s fault and it makes me all kinds of angry at the world and the universe every atom in it.
But if I can keep my mind on these pages I don’t have to care. I can make this all just go away. Poof. I can stay in this book and then this book gets to be real and everything else gets to be fake and who cares anyway.
But no such luck because of all the gin joints in all the world Becky Vilhauer just walked into this one. With Shelli in tow.
She is not happy. Shelli stands behind her looking like she wishes she could hide in her elbow.
“What the fuck?! Seriously?”
“Um . . . would you like fries with that?”
“Ha-ha. Very funny. What’s this about Logan McDonough? Seriously.”
“What do you mean?”
“Don’t play dumb. I know all about it.”
“All about what?”
“How about th
e moped rides . . . after school . . . ring a bell . . . ?”
Becky’s leaning in like a vulture. Shelli’s getting smaller and smaller with each sentence. The only thing to do is shrug it off.
“It was cold.”
“Tsh. Not that cold. Lemme spell it out for you. You’re a half-breed. Without me, you’re nothing. You’re no one. You’re like a misfit. A leper.”
I catch Shelli peeking out from behind Becky, in pain.
“Don’t look at her. You think she’s gonna stand by you? Who do you think told me?!”
Shelli is literally shaking now. A broken animal. I catch her eye and she looks down at the ground. Guilty.
“Look, Becky, it’s really no big—”
“Oh, it is a big deal. It’s a huge deal. You’re jeopardizing all of us. Do you think I wanna get a rep for hanging out with losers? No thanks.”
“He’s really not that —”
“Get it straight. Either drop him. Or we drop you. And then, I can’t be responsible for whatever happens.”
“That’s so—”
“End of story.”
And now she turns, Shelli practically attached to her by a leash. Shelli scurries out, ahead of her somehow. Becky turns. A final say.
“Look, this is up to you, Anika. The choice is yours.”
And with that she goes out the glass door, into the freezing air. The skeleton decorations smile up at me but I can’t return the favor. So much for an uneventful evening.
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thirty-eight
I should’ve known Shelli’d come by at noon. It’s Saturday and Shelli is out on the front porch, her cheeks red in the freezing cold. With those red cheeks and saucer eyes it’s like Frosty the Snowman is waiting out there for me. My mom lets her in and we go down to the rec room. We’ve got a pool table down here, a fake bar where the ogre serves root beer (woo hoo!), and a dartboard I can’t hit if my life depended on it. Normally, Shelli and I would go to my room and giggle all over the place but it feels too close. Considering she just betrayed me, she gets the rec room.
“Are you mad?”
Shrug. Of course I’m mad. What am I, Jesus?
“I’m really sorry.”
“I know.”
“She just, like, got it out of me. I mean, she just kept asking questions and then questions and questions and pretty soon it just didn’t add up and she kept on me and I caved. I just caved. I’m really sorry. I suck. I know. I totally blew it.”
Silence.
The fact is . . . that’s how Becky operates.
“Yeah, I can see it.”
“You can?”
“Yeah. I mean. I can picture it.”
“It really was like I didn’t know what was happening and then it just like came out.”
“I know.”
“Do you forgive me?”
“Well . . . I’m not gonna lie. I was pretty bummed last night. I mean, when you guys left I felt like somebody punched me in the gut or something.”
“I know. I’m really sorry. I didn’t even know we were going in there till we were there. You know Becky. It was like a sneak attack. Wait, I know!”
Shelli is suddenly excited. She has an idea. This is rare.
“I know how to make it up to you. I’ll tell you something I’m not supposed to tell you. No matter what.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay.”
“Okay, so you know that whole Stacy Nolan thing? The pregnancy scare?”
“Yeah?”
“That was Becky.”
“What?”
“Becky started that.”
“What? No way.”
“Way.”
“But . . . why?”
“For fun.”
“Are you serious?”
“Totally. Stacy did nothing to Becky. Becky was just . . . bored.”
“What a bitch!”
“I know.”
“That’s like so mean.”
“I. Know.”
Shelli and I look at each other with disbelief in our eyes and there’s something else in there, too . . . fear. If Becky could do something like that, on a whim, just think what she could do to us.
It’s terrifying. Now I know why Shelli caved. She knew, even more than me, the true nature of the beast. I would’ve caved, too, to be honest.
“Anyway, do you forgive me? . . . Please? You’re like my best friend.”
“Yeah. I do. I mean, I was mad but I get it. I do.”
Awkward hug. I’ve never been very good at hugs. I’d honestly just rather shake hands. The less humanoid contact the better. But Shelli means it. I can tell. She’s never been much of a liar. I make a note to myself. Don’t tell Shelli anything. Not because I’m mad. Just because she’s defenseless against Becky. Becky will get it out of her. No matter what.
Shelli is down the steps and putting on her coat. She turns to me.
“What are you doing tonight?”
Tonight, meaning Saturday night. Meaning my date with Jared. Meaning the Oscars and the Super Bowl and the Second Coming all in one.
“Oh, nothing.”
Shelli nods, unconvinced. Normally, she’d ask me to hang out but it’s kinda premature considering we just made up. Might be awkward. I don’t hold it against her, though. Shelli’s a good egg. She’s just not very strong-willed. Her weird Christian mom snuffed any will out of her.
“Call me.”
“Yeah. Tomorrow.”
And with that, Shelli is gone. Just in time for me to start planning my outfit.
I know what you’re thinking. What’s wrong with me? And I would be thinking the same thing about you if our roles were reversed. I would. But the point is, it’s obvious that ever since Jared came to my door, I’ve been possessed by voodoo witch doctors who have obviously cast a spell on me to make me unable to stop myself from going out on this date with Jared. It’s not my fault. Their power is too strong.
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thirty-nine
Nobody knows about my date with Jared Kline. Except my sisters, who are pissed. My brothers probably forgot by now. Robby doesn’t care because the Knights lost to the Spartans last night, so he’s been moping around all day.
The thing is, after tonight, everyone will know about my date with Jared Kline. Because at least two or three people will be at this Halloween jamboree thingy and that means by midnight the whole school will know. And by the whole school, I mean everyone. And by everyone, I mean Logan. Logan will find out by Monday for sure. I think.
I don’t know how to feel about this other than the way I feel which is decidedly . . . okay, look, I don’t know how I feel about it, okay? Jesus.
But the thing is . . . Let’s say I do go out on the date, and let’s say, I don’t like Jared Kline at all. Then I can just tell Logan . . . um . . . I don’t know what I can tell Logan. I’m not sure IF I can tell him anything without thinking about him pummeling that guy’s brains out by the boathouse.
But I’ll think of something. I will. Maybe I could just tell him that I wasn’t really that romanced by the fact that he almost killed someone in front of me. Or maybe I can tell him I’m in love with him and think he’s kind of a hero and maybe we should run off together and become some sort of Bonnie and Clyde bank-robber duo.
As you can see, folks, I haven’t thought this thing through. And how can I? There’s really no playbook for what to do when you’re sort of in love with an unstable misfit and then the biggest heartthrob in history asks you out on a date, an official date where he asks your parents and everything.
I mean, not going on the date? That’s like, well, I mean, that’s like not going to the moon or something. Like Ne
il Armstrong just shrugging and saying, yeah, I’ll pass.
And yes, there is the distinct possibility he might just be the world’s greatest scam artist. That’s true. But how am I gonna know if I don’t even go on one date. It’s just one date. That’s it. One date. No big deal.
Also, don’t forget the voodoo possession.
The tricky thing about getting dressed up and going anywhere in Lincoln, Nebraska, from October to March is that it’s freezing goddammit, so what are you supposed to wear? It’s like a balancing act where you’re trying to find the happy medium between Marilyn Monroe and the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man. I mean, you need a coat. And boots. And you basically have to wear three layers everywhere. So, go ahead, you try to make that look sexy.
The best I can do is two pairs of tights, boots, a parka, a hat, and . . . a miniskirt. That’s the sexy part. Look, I’m doing my best. The fact is, dressing for an indoor/outdoor Halloween jamboree is a fashion dilemma of the order Jean Paul Gaultier couldn’t solve. I get an A for effort.
My mom is waiting with me, fixing dinner, while I pretend to not be nervous at the table. She’s got the ceramic Halloween salt and pepper shakers on the table. Oh, you didn’t know? My mom has ceramic salt and pepper shakers, table decorations, even china for every holiday from here till Christmas. This is the heavy decorating time of the year. She has boxes for Halloween. For Thanksgiving. Five for Christmas. We take the holidays seriously around here. We’re not fooling around.
The ceramic Halloween salt and pepper shakers are an undead couple. It’s really very appetizing to eat your dinner staring at bleeding, drooling statues of his and hers brain-eaters. My mom can tell I’m nervous.
“It’s alright, honey. He’s just a boy. Besides, he’s the one who asked you out.”
“I know, Mom.”
“And if anything makes you feel uncomfortable, I want you to come straight home. You can call anytime. I’ll be here by the phone.”
“Thanks, Mom.”
“Or you can even take a cab. I’ll give you cab fare. Just in case.”
“Okay, Mom.”
“Just be yourself.”
Anatomy of a Misfit Page 13
