Anatomy of a Misfit (23 page)

But it's on.

And there's a commotion.

There's voices and whispers and shushing and then more and more of the TV.

I can hear Lizzie, and Neener. Henry just said something, and Robby, too. My mom shushing them. All of them up at five in the morning.

“Shush now. Shush up. Be quiet. Don't wake her.”

Don't wake who?

Don't wake who? Don't wake me? It has to be me. I'm the only “her” in the house that is not awake.

I stand at the door and listen.

“Shush. Lizzie. I mean it.”

I peek out and Lizzie's got her hand over her mouth. So does Neener. Robby is sitting down and Henry looks pale as a ghost. Henry looks like someone just sucked all his blood out and replaced it with ice water.

“You gotta tell her, Mom.”

And now I can't take it.

“What? Tell me what?”

And I'm rushing into the room toward the TV and they're parting between them, everyone but my mom, who tries to get in my way. In the background, the TV blares. It's a voice, an excited voice. It's a news voice. It's someone on the news.

“Honey, listen, I think we should talk about this—”

But I'm past her. I'm past Mom and I'm past Lizzie and Neener and Henry and Robby. I'm past all of them and in front of the TV, in front of the happy blonde hairstyle and sad news face and concerned, excited words coming out of the newscaster.

And she's in front of something, too. The newscaster. She's in front of something with sirens and cars and lights swirling.

She's in front of Logan's.

fifty-nine

P
edaling 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.

sixty

B
y the time I skid my bike to a stop the whole town's on Logan's street. The neighbors, the cops, the ambulances, everywhere there's ambulances and everywhere there's doctors and EMTs and IVs and bodies. There's bodies.

There's bodies on the stretchers.

One of the stretchers is going one way, in a hurry, surrounded by EMTs and IVs and orders being barked. The other stretchers are going in the other direction, more slowly, there's nothing there. No urgency. Nothing.

On the first stretcher, swarming with EMTs, there's a little sock. A little sock coming out with R2-D2. There's a little sock coming out and I know that sock because that's Billy's sock and he was wearing that sock the night Logan put him to bed and now that sock is soaked with blood and I can see it out of the blanket. Now that sock is soaked in blood now that stretcher is getting put in that ambulance and I'm not the only one seeing that sock and everyone, everyone has their hands to their mouths because everybody is seeing that sock.

And behind that stretcher, glued to that stretcher, are Logan's mom and Logan's kid brother, still in his camouflage sleeper. And his mom and his brother are hurrying in, hurrying in behind, glued to that stretcher, being carried away, too, lights swirling round and round, fast enough. It's gone, it's gone. That means hope. There's hope for that stretcher.

And now there's a second stretcher. God, please stop pulling out stretchers from that house but no one is listening no one is listening and here comes another one.

This one is big. A big body, a big, big body and something silent here. And that sheet is coming all the way up. And that stretcher is going slow. But that's two, that's two stretchers coming out from that house and that's enough Lord, please Lord, make that enough but it's not enough it's not enough and now the front door opens and it's one more.

The front door opens and it's one more.

And there is that hand. And there are those feet. And that is the hand that tucked in those R2-D2 socks under those
Star Wars
sheets. That is the hand that tucked in that Spider-Man sleeper. That is the hand that reached out to me and pulled me next to him and flew me past the trees on his moped. That is the hand that I dreamed about last night. That is the hand on that body that was supposed to be next to me, on that body that I fell in love with and that head and that heart, too. That is the hand and it's not moving.

It's not moving.

sixty-one

T
hey're trying to grab me now. My mom and these people, some of them are in their bathrobes. They're trying to grab me and hold me back and get me out of here. They're trying to stop me from getting through this police tape. They're trying to stop me. But they can't stop me because no one can stop me because that's Logan. That's Logan over there on that stretcher and that stretcher is covered in blood and that stretcher is moving away, away but it can't go away, you can't take him away, please don't take him away, we were supposed to be together. And I'm on my knees now and my mom and these people, who are all these people, have me by the shoulders but I'm almost to Logan. I'm almost to Logan. I can touch him. I can touch him and bring him back to life. I can bring him back to life I can just let me near him.

But they've got me and my mom's voice is coming out of somewhere, I can hear her:

“No, no, Anika. No, Anika, please, just, please, honey, I'm here. I'm here. I've got you. I'm here.”

And the stretcher is gone the stretcher is moved past me. The stretcher is going away away and in that door and in that ambulance and that door closes and all is quiet, everything is quiet now, and everything is swirling now and the ambulances and light swirl round and round above me and there's a voice and a body holding me and there's a voice and a body keeping me from turning into a trillion tiny pieces and falling into the ground.

“I'm here. I'm here, honey. It's okay. I've got you.”

sixty-two

T
his is the official report in the
Lincoln Journal Star
:

 

A Lincoln man distraught over his debts attempted to kill his wife and three children. The wife and two youngest sons survived and were found on the back stairwell of the house at approximately 4:45 a.m. The oldest son and father were killed in the altercation. The police were called after neighbors reported shots fired. The two bodies were found, dead on arrival, on the front landing. The injured son was rushed to the hospital in critical condition. He is now stable after being wounded by a stray bullet. The incident occurred in the Lincoln southeast suburb shortly after 4:00 a.m. A suicide note left open was found on the kitchen counter. In it, forty-two-year-old Steven McDonough expressed remorse about his overwhelming debts and “clearly indicated he was sorry he had to take the lives of his wife and children,” Police Chief Meier reported. The victim was identified as fifteen-year-old Logan McDonough. It is believed he died in an attempt to save the lives of his mother and younger brothers. The father, Steven McDonough, reportedly had a blood-alcohol level of 0.25% when found. The mother and two surviving sons are recovering and receiving both medical and psychiatric treatment after the incident. All condolences, donations, and cards may be sent to St. Mary's Community Hospital, where a fund for the family is being organized.

 

It doesn't say: “Yeah, that would explain why Logan's dad was always spending tons of money and then acting really weird.”

It doesn't say: “Yeah, you know, Logan's dad was actually a total gun freak who had a fucking arsenal of guns and ammo in his basement. Enough to hold off an army of zombies for two weeks straight and maybe that's not such a good idea when the guy's obviously got a screw loose.”

It doesn't say: “Yeah, that makes sense why Logan's mom was a raging alcoholic because you gotta figure that guy was not a good guy to spend your life with.”

It doesn't say: “Thank God there were two sets of steps in that house so that the mother and those two little boys could hide while Logan thwarted his batshit dad and basically gave his life protecting them as he'd probably done a million times, a million ways before.”

It doesn't say: “Oh, by the way, I was in love with Logan and now I'll never be able to tell him and he died not even knowing that and why the fuck should he have died anyway, just 'cause his dad was a paranoid gun-nut freak?”

But I know why he died, he died to save his mom and his kid brothers, and that's not fair either.

It doesn't say: “Logan's kid brothers looked like little angels in
Star Wars
pajamas and that fucking fuckface tried to shoot them dead, and what's the point in God, or anything in the universe, after that?”

It doesn't say: “God. Where the fuck were you last night?”

sixty-three

I
guess my family is really worried about me because my sisters are both camped out in my room, which is weird considering how much they hate me. They're both just lying there, on their beanbags, camped in the corner of my room while I sleep and stare at the ceiling and don't talk to anyone.

It's sorta like even though they wrestle me and spit on me and torment me every chance they get, they know this is the kind of thing that might set me off, finally, and all the marbles will be lost, once and for all, and I will inevitably be carted off in a little white van with guys in white jackets because we all knew that was coming anyway.

Mr. Baum calls from the Bunza Hut and my mom says I can't make it. She says to stop putting me on the schedule for a little while, which is my mom's way of saying I'm quitting. She never asked me about it or anything. She just knows. And she's right. It goes without saying that the Bunza Hut and I have parted ways.

Lizzie is just sitting there, reading some book about this guy Darcy and how everybody thinks he's a dick but then he turns out to be super-fantastic. Neener is painting her nails. Robby's at football practice, as usual. You could set your clocks by that. But he came in last night and gave me his lucky trophy. Now, that's something. That thing is usually in a glass case on lockdown. Every once in a while, Henry pokes his head in. He doesn't say anything, he just looks at my sisters, nods, goes away. Except this morning, he did have something to say, which is absolute Henry.

“They say they're gonna get all that life insurance. 'Cause it wasn't a suicide.”

Lizzie and Neener look up at him, puzzling.

“Now they're rich.”

We accept this news in silence.

My mom would be sleeping in the bed next to me, if she could, but she sees my sisters have taken a keen interest in my well-being, so she's allowing that miracle to transpire.

Jared calls a couple of times but Lizzie just hangs up on him.

Neener keeps bringing trashy magazines for me to take my mind off it, which is nice.

 

I really never would have thought my sisters would be so protective of me. Lizzie hasn't spat in my mouth once.

The ogre tried to peek in but my sisters diverted that little plan.

My sisters aren't having it. After years of seeing him dote on Robby, make airplanes with Henry, smile at Neener, tolerate Lizzie, but turn around and every time, every single time, grumble or grouse or disagree with anything and everything I say, including the sky is blue or the world is round . . . my sisters are not having it today.

The ogre does not get halfway down the hall.

You gotta hand it to Lizzie. Intimidation is her forte.

And Neener just gives me a nod.

“It's okay, kid. We got this one.”

And then there's school. Tomorrow's the first day back and everybody's talking about how there's gonna be a memorial service in the gym. I can picture it now. Becky lives across the street. She'll make it into the Becky tragedy hour. She's probably got the eulogy written and she'll be crying, talking about her
best friend Logan
and how she's devastated, how she can't go on without him.

She probably has a whole season picked out in black.

sixty-four

I
don't know why but the ogre is driving me to school today. I am not happy about it. He doesn't say anything the whole time and neither do I. I'm not gonna say anything if he's not. No way.

We pull up to the curb and I'm about to hop out and get this excruciating drive over with but he stops me.

Ugh.

“Anika. I just want to say something.”

“Um. Okay . . .”

“I know you don't like me. And I know you think I don't like you.”

“Actually, I know you don't like me so—”

“Maybe I just don't know what to say to you!”

That was weird. Kind of came out of left field.

“I'm a middle-aged man who works all day to keep food on the table for five teenagers.”

“Okay.”

“And I may not be some smooth operator like your dad but I'm here. And I'm doing the work. And I love your mom. And I love you kids. And yeah, that means you, too.”