Anatomy of a Misfit Page 5

  I kept trying to get it through her head all night but she’s stuck on it. I mean, she was watching the news like it was the Hindenburg or something.

  Which, in the end, is good for me. And my diabolical plan for sneaking out.

  This is how it works. The bedroom is on the second floor, there are two windows, each long rectangles that are only about a foot and a half high. Now, add to this that the windows fold out in the middle . . . and you are talking about a space of about nine inches to get through. Also, there’s nothing to latch on to. Even if you manage to somehow magically squeeze through that tiny slot . . . what are you supposed to do, just fly away?

  Excеpt. And there is always an except. Thеre happens to bе an oak tree with a branch that comes about two feеt away from the window.

  So, herе’s how you do it: You tеll your parents you want to go to bed еarly so you can gеt enough sleеp for that big test tomorrow, which is imaginary, of coursе. Thеy smilе at you and pat thеmselvеs on thе back for thinking you arе such a good person and that they havе done such a good job raising you.

  Then, you wait. At somе point, thеy’ll go to their room, at thе othеr еnd of the hall. Thе TV light may bе on, but that doеsn’t mean anything. That thing could be on all night, and into the next century, bеlievе me.

  Once their door has stayed shut for about fifteеn minutes, you put on whatеver crazy thing they wouldn’t let you out of the housе in if you were walking out thе front door. Except for your shoes. You have to drop your shoes to thе ground. You’re gonna neеd your fеet. Trust me.

  So you crank opеn thе window, drop your shoes to the ground, thеn breathе a big sigh in and out. You havе to makе yoursеlf as skinny as possible to gеt through that slivеr.

  Now, put your fеet up on the bеd and reach out of the window, so that you’rе basically in a Supеrman position, parallel to thе ground.

  Now. Rеach out thе window, stretch as far as you can, and grab thе trее branch. Don’t be scared. Just grab it. Yes, I know it’s weird to be in a Supеrman position stretchеd like Gumby out the window grabbing a tree branch but it works, trust me. Okay, now makе sure you havе a good grip on the tree branch and pull pull pull until you are practically out thе window completely.

  Alright, now this is thе hard part. This is “the move.” What you have to do now is you have to, basically, usе the momentum of swinging out thе window to gеt your feet to thе nеarest lower branch to hook onto it, likе a monkey. If you scrеw this up you’ll fall. And possibly diе. That’s okay though bеcausе at least thеn you won’t havе to takе your SATs.

  Once you have еxecuted that last monkеy movе you are homе frее. All you have to do is crawl down thе trее and voilà! There you go past your annoying sisters who are probably flirting on the phonе with guys who just want to get into thеir pants, past your brothers’ room where Robby is probably watching sports on his mini TV and Henry’s got his face in his chеmistry textbook bеcause if he doesn’t get into Harvard, hе’ll die.

  Who cares though ’causе outside it’s freedom!

  Okay, I’ll admit it I’m meеting Logan tonight. Don’t tell. Shelli has somе idеa there is somеthing going on bеcause those mopеd rides homе from school arе gеtting morе and more frеquеnt and, to bе honest, more and morе super-fantastic. Now that we’rе into fall, and oncе the sun goеs down you start to frееze your boobs off, thеsе mopеd rides are kinda sorta where it’s at.

  We havеn’t beеn kissing all the time so get your mind out of the gutter. It’s morе like . . . he’ll swoop by, pick me up, and next thing you know we’ll be flying over the hill and through the tract housing and the world is our oyster but we don’t have to talk about it. Like, we don’t have to talk about anything. And sometimes we’ll kiss good-bye without even saying anything. And then he’ll pass me all sorts of funny little notes, furtively in the hall between bells, but we don’t say anything there either. In fact, there’s a whole lot of not-saying-anything going on here. It’s kind of like we’re spies.

  The thing is, Logan is a lot smarter than all those dumb no-neck guys on the football team. Especially Chip Rider, the one everybody keeps saying I’ll die if I don’t like him back. What a rube! He thinks Chekhov is a Star Trek character. I mean, like, if you said to him, “Actually, the Chekov you are thinking of, the one from Star Trek? Well, that guy was probably named after the more important Chekhov, who is a super-famous playwright and basically like the Shakespeare of Russia.” If you said that, he would just stare at you with a blank stare and then his teeth would fall out.

  Meanwhile Logan has probably written like five plays secretly that are obviously brilliant but no one will know because they’re just sitting there in his Trapper Keeper.

  Since all you can think about is kissing, here’s a point of interest: Logan is a really good kisser. Not that I’ve kissed a lot of guys. And by “a lot of guys,” I mean “anybody.” But I have seen a lot of movies and I think I get the general idea. Also, and I may be wrong about this, I think there’s a direct correlation between how much you like someone and how much you like kissing them.

  For instance, if Chip Rider was the number one kisser in the universe, world champion five times over, and he kissed me . . . I bet I wouldn’t like it as much as I like kissing Logan. See? That’s my theory. I haven’t put it to the test, though. And I can’t ask Shelli because, well, first of all, she bones anything that moves and, second of all, then she’ll figure out that Logan is more than just a moped ride-share. Becky is out of the question, for obvious reasons. And, of course, I can’t ask my mean sisters because they will just harass me endlessly, tease me, tackle me, pin me to the ground, and then spit on me. I know. They totally suck.

  Henry won’t know either because the only girl he’s ever made out with is Princess Leia in his dreams and, possibly, his Sports Illustrated swimsuit issue. Now, Robby, on the other hand, probably has kissed a few girls but I’m pretty sure there is absolutely no useful information he could give to me on the subject because he’s a boy and I’m a girl. He’ll probably just say something stupid like, “Yeah, it gives you boner.”

  Anyway, it’s pretty cold out. There hasn’t been any snow yet but tonight the grass is freezing over and you can see your breath. None of this has stopped me from wearing a completely weather-inappropriate outfit and yes, that’s a miniskirt. But I’m used to the cold and I’m wearing tights anyway. Besides, I’ve got thermal socks under my boots so by the time I meet Logan I’ll only be half-frozen to death.

  He says he has a surprise for me and I know that’s the kind of thing serial killers say before they haul you off to a hole in their basement somewhere and start dressing you up like their mom before they strangle you. But, considering that we’ve been on over thirty after-school moped rides together and not once has he asked me if he could cut off my scalp and use it for a bonnet, I think I’m in the clear.

  Besides, tonight is one of those nights when I’d really like to stick it to the man. And by the man I mean Count Chocula. See, my dad’s pissed because I’m getting a B in PE. But I’ll tell you why. Every time we have to do something big like run a six-hundred-yard dash, or climb the ropes, or leap tall buildings in a single bound, every time, like clockwork, it’s the day I’ve got my period. And not even a small day like the fourth day or fifth day, but like the first or second day, when it’s like you might as well be in the emergency room.

  I mean who wants to run the six-hundred-yard dash when you’re bleeding like a stuck pig and it feels like everybody’s punching you in the back?

  And the ropes? Forget it. Can you even imagine that?! There was this girl in eighth grade, Carla Lott, who got her period the first time in white shorts and it leaked and everybody knew. Everybody. From then on it was just Carla Lott! Period Spot! Carla Lott, Blood Spot! For years.

  And I’m gonna tell you something. Every girl, every girl you’ve ever met dreads, DREADS, that ever happening to her. Eve
ry one. Even Becky. It’s no fair. Guys don’t have anything like that. I mean if there was any justice in the world you wouldn’t even have to go to school during your period. You’d just stay home for five days and eat chocolate and cry.

  Anyway, what’s gonna happen is Count Chocula is gonna call any day now, super-early, like 6:00 a.m., and explain to me that As are better than Bs and that if I want to get out of this one-horse town and go to a good college on the East Coast, I have to be a straight A student, no exceptions, no excuses. And, if I don’t, then obviously, I will end up a full-fledged loser, living barefoot and pregnant and married to some guy named Cletus, in the middle of nowhere, with all my hopes and dreams dashed.

  Like my mom.

  He won’t say that part, but that’s what he means. Believe me.

  So tonight it’s time to say fuck it.

  I’m about two blocks from Holmes Lake when I see Logan parked on his moped behind a weeping willow. He doesn’t see me yet so I get to take a good look at him and decide if I still like him, despite the fact that if anybody finds out about our torrid affair, I will be ousted, blacklisted, and shunned.

  I’m trying so hard not to like him. It would be so much easier not to like him.

  But, unfortunately, he’s not making it any easier on me because he’s just sitting there with his dirt-brown hair looking like some beautiful-but-grimy-but-tough-but-heartbroken-but-earnest-but-guarded fallen angel or something. I mean, he might as well have his own theme music. Something dark. With lots of keyboards. And some violins.

  Ugh.

  Why can’t he just be a dork.

  I walk toward him and his eyes catch me. “You ready for a night of spontaneous super-specialness?”

  That’s the other thing that’s hard to stop liking about Logan. He doesn’t say anything the way anybody else says it, or maybe even think anything the way anyone else thinks it. Like, if this were Chip Rider, he’d be like, “Hey, yer hot!”

  But there is Logan, standing there, in all his misunderstood, complicated glory with cool turns of phrase and cooler thoughts behind them.

  I really can’t take it.

  I hop on the back of Logan’s moped and all of a sudden we are flying past Holmes Lake and down, south south south, past the outskirts of town and into this weird new mini-world of new and practically new and half-built houses. There’s a turnoff with a sign in cursive, like something off a bottle of wine that says, “Hollow Valley.” We take it and inside of the development the houses are three times the size of the ones on my block. They’re bigger, even, than the house down on Sheridan, where the mayor used to live.

  These places are, like, new but are trying really hard to look old with lots of turrets and arched windows and ironwork and stuff. But it’s also like you could push them down, like they’re a movie set or something.

  They’re all like halfway built or almost done or just the foundation, but there, at the end of a street called Glenmanor Way there’s a three-story monstrosity ready for its close-up.

  And that’s where we’re headed.

  Logan pulls up in the driveway, doesn’t even try to hide or anything, cuts the engine, and gets off.

  “Home sweet home.”

  “You’re kidding, right?”

  “Kinda.”

  He walks up the stone path toward the giant front double doors and starts reaching into his pockets, making a squiggly mouth.

  “It’s my dad’s new thing. His latest investment. This is the demo.”

  “Demo?”

  He finally plucks the key out of his pocket and now we are in a massive faux-marble entry hall, fully decorated with fake plants and everything.

  “It’s like a model house,” he explains. “So when they go to sell the other houses, people can walk through and ooh and aah until they sign the check and pop the champagne.”

  I have to admit, even though it’s 100 percent super-fakey in here, it is nice. Like so nice my mom would probably freak out and start bumping into the furniture or something. There’s even fake grapes in a fruit bowl and a fake bottle of champagne on ice.

  Logan sees me looking at the demo champagne and reads my mind.

  “There’s beer in the fridge ’cause my dad likes to loosen up the clients if he gets that vibe. Especially the guys. You know, man talk.”

  In the middle of the house is a giant room that the upstairs looks down on from a railing, and a fireplace with fake plants on each side.

  “Here’s the best part.”

  He reaches next to the fireplace and presto, there’s a fire in the fireplace automatically.

  “Wow. That was easy.”

  “Yeah, I think that’s one of the big selling points.”

  He hands me a beer, a green German beer with a white label.

  Logan explains, “My dad likes to keep it classy.”

  I grab the beer and we clink bottles.

  “Is your dad, uh, classy?”

  At this point Logan spits up his beer all over the rug. It’s hard not to laugh.

  “Wow. An actual spit take.”

  Logan wipes his chin. “My dad is so not classy. He’s like a used-car salesman in an expensive suit.”

  “Aw, that’s not nice.”

  “He’s not nice.”

  Silence.

  “He like goes on all these so-called ‘fishing trips’ and bones everything that moves and then comes back with some stupid mallard decoration and expects us all to believe it.”

  “Really?”

  “Oh, yeah.”

  “That sucks.”

  “I know. And my mom totally buys it. So do my kid brothers. It’s so lame.”

  “Well, how do you know?”

  “If I tell you, you’re gonna be like so grossed out.”

  “Okay, well, now you have to tell me.”

  We’re sitting in the demo couch now, some faux-suede L shape sunken in front of the fireplace.

  “Okay, so one day he told me he wanted to go fishing with me. Like you know, father and son stuff, and so we went up to Madison together, in Wisconsin, on this big bonding trip.”

  “And?”

  “Okay, so, the first day we get on the boat he’s like, ‘There’s someone I want you to meet’ and next thing you know he’s got this little chippie behind him getting in the boat. In heels. Heels, on a boat! It was, like, mortifying.”

  I make a note-to-self about boat-appropriate footwear.

  “Are you serious?” I ask.

  “Yeah.”

  “What, like, he didn’t think you would care that he was cheating?”

  “Guess not.”

  “He didn’t think you would care about your mom?”

  “Nope. It was like, ‘we’re all men here’ or something.”

  “That’s so gross.”

  “I told you.”

  I am silent. Seriously dumbfounded. “What a dick!”

  “I know.”

  “Did you tell your mom?”

  Logan lets out a sigh and drinks his beer a second.

  “No. I’m lame. I can’t. I don’t know what to say. It’ll like ruin her, you know?”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah, she’s like really fragile, and kinda in love with him, and scared of him in a way.”

  There’s a pause and now it all makes sense, the brand-new moped, the new wardrobe, the new everything, to Logan from his dad.

  It’s all a bribe.

  Something Logan said sits funny with me. “Why do you think she’s scared of him?”

  “I don’t know.” He is silent for a moment.

  “He’s just kinda weird, you know, like he can’t sit still or something. Like we can’t go out to dinner without him looking around the room like a thousand times. And all he does is brag about stuff. The things he buys my mom. The places for dinner. Like we should all be so grateful. And when we’re not like all falling over ourselves to kiss his ass he gets like . . . I dunno.”

  Logan and I sit there staring into the
fire for a minute. I guess we both have shitty dads. Maybe everybody does. That would be something. Maybe the single moms everybody gets so apoplectic about are onto something.

  I think about my mom, having that ogre snoring in the bed beside her, and I shudder. Seriously.

  But at least he doesn’t sleep around all over the place. The only thing the ogre cheats on my mom with are his French fries.

  “You know, Anika. If this is too weird to be here, I get it. I mean, it’s kinda like, a fake house or something. Well, it’s exactly a fake house, actually. Some people might find it a little . . . freaky?”

  “No. No, it’s not freaky. I’m happy we’re here.”

  “You are?”

  “Yeah. I mean I snuck out didn’t I?”

  We both sip our beers and stare at the fire.

  Silence.

  “You’re like the prettiest girl I’ve ever seen in my life.”

  He blurts that out. I can’t help but gasp. He covers his face with his hands. “Oh my God, I can’t believe I just said that. I’m so lame. Please don’t leave.”

  I recover. “Tsh. What? Why would I leave?” I shake my half-empty bottle at him. “I mean, I think this is kinda like the best bar in town. It’s certainly the cheapest.”

  He smiles. “Right.”

  “Besides, it’s . . . Nobody’s ever said anything like that to me before.”

  “No way.”

  I shrug.

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “Well, it’s true. What, do you think people just go around telling people they’re pretty all the time?”

  “Not people. You. I think people must say that to you every day.”

  “Um. They don’t. They say it to Becky . . .”

  “She’s a cunt.”

  “Whoa!”

  “She is.”

  It’s hard not to smile at this. Such sacrilege.

  “Come on, you don’t think that your dear friend Becky is an A-number-one velociraptor in disguise? I mean, she’s a total sociopath.”

  “Um. I think I plead the Fifth.”