Anatomy of a Misfit (24 page)

“Um.”

“And I'm really sorry about what happened to your friend.”

It's probably because I'm tired but for some dumb reason this whole speech-at-the-curb thing is making me sort of misty. I mean, I don't even know where to start.

“And I'll try to think of something to say but, honestly, I don't have much in common with a fifteen-year-old girl. You know?”

“Well, maybe you could just start with ‘hi' or something.”

He nods.

“I love you kids and your mom very much. You're all I got.”

I guess maybe this whole family-massacre incident has got to him because I could swear he's getting like choked up a little. Right here in the car.

“Alright. Um. We got a deal, I guess.”

He looks up now. Still wispy but a little smile.

And with that I turn to go into the school. Well, I sure wasn't expecting that this morning. I mean, that was the last thing I ever thought was gonna happen. You know what I thought, actually? I thought my mom told him about the money and he was gonna ground me till college.

sixty-five

E
verybody in the gym is dressed in black or wearing black armbands and there's a giant picture of Logan in the back, surrounded by white lilies. There's a big memorial wall and people have put down candles and flowers and written all sorts of shit like “Taken too soon” and “God be with you” and “We miss you.” There sure are a lot of kind words for someone who, just two days ago, was considered a social pariah.

But everyone wants a part of this.

They want a part of the drama. They want a piece of it. They want to somehow seem meaningful by being closer to it. They were Logan's chemistry partner, they were in Logan's study group, they were Logan's friend.

Right now one of the teachers is up there, a pencil-thin woman in a black woolen skirt, just about to introduce a “very special speaker” and would that “very special speaker” come up to the podium.

And that “very special speaker” is Becky.

Of course.

Because Becky lived right across the street.

Shelli and I sit, side by side, in the front row, while Becky makes her way to the podium. All in black, she is the picture of teenage mourning. Her dress is Gucci. Freshly pressed. She dabs her eyes. She looks at the audience. She dabs her eyes again.

Some show.

She lets out a long sigh and begins . . .

“Logan McDonough was my neighbor. My classmate. My friend. Not many people knew about our strong bond, for it was something precious. More precious than idle gossip. It was so special; he was so special. Not very many people had the opportunity, like I did, to get to see Logan's inner heart, his brilliant thoughts, the way he would see the world in his own amazing, original way. And now . . .”

Pause.

Tears.

“And now that heart is snuffed out. Taken before its time.”

More tears.

Tears enough to float a boat. Tears enough to make the teacher offer to rescue her. But, no! Becky holds up her hand. Becky is strong. Becky can do it. Becky is brave.

“But the truth is, Logan's heart will persevere. His heart will shine. Forever. Logan, you are eternal now. . . . I love you, Logan. We all do. We will miss you so.”

Not a dry eye in the house.

Everyone is eating it up. It's like the whole school has amnesia.

The teacher gets up again. She is going to introduce the next “very special speaker” and that next “very special speaker” is me.

There's a silence, a few coughs, and shifting in seats as I reach the podium. Yes, I'm wearing black, too. But I look more like I just crawled out of the laundry machine.

I stand at the podium and look out at my classmates. It's gotta be about three hundred people. The whole school's in here. All that Pound High School has to offer. Even the heshers, somewhere in the back, by the bleachers. I have an entire speech written about Logan. About who he was and how brilliant he was and how there will never be anyone like him and how he was a real-life hero. Everyone is looking up at me and the teacher nods, an affirming nod. She's trying to tell me I can do it. I can do it. And to hurry up and get to it.

Silence.

And now I look out at the three hundred faces.

“Um. So. I was in love with Logan McDonough. He was my boyfriend.”

There's a rustle and a few looks.

“He made two fake fire drills and left a painting for me in the middle of my art class.”

In the back, I swear I can hear one of the heshers: “I knew it!”

I smile to myself, all that seems so far away now. . . .

“The second fake fire drill he filled the room with butterflies.”

I catch Stoner Art Teacher's eyes and he nods and I know it's okay. He knows the truth, I know the truth, and he doesn't care. He even looks kind of moved.

“Logan was a misfit and a weirdo and it was like he was made of kryptonite. None of us wanted to touch him. But he wrote me the coolest haiku ever. It was the last thing he gave to me.”

Everyone's leaning in, including Becky, and Shelli, and even the jocks. I take it out and try to hold my hand steady, but I know what it says.

“Ceaseless.

“Almost too much for this small frame.

“You make me part of the sky.”

There's a silence in the auditorium. “It was kind of a secret. Actually. I kept it a secret. 'Cause I cared, I cared what everybody thought more than what I thought. Or more than my heart thought. And that makes me an idiot.”

And now I look down at Becky looking at me, straight off the set of some soap opera scene she's made up in her mind. A scene where she is obviously the star and we are all just pointless extras. She actually looks annoyed that I'm stealing her thunder.

I could cry my face off right now but something else takes over, some rush of something rugged. Something sick of being soft.

I look at Becky for a long time.

“But now that I'm being honest, Logan McDonough thought Becky Vilhauer was a cunt. And so do I.”

Shock.

Awe.

Christians are marrying Romans in the aisles.

Hatfields are making out with McCoys.

“Logan would have laughed his face off to hear that stupid Becky speech, which is the biggest piece of bullshit I've ever heard.”

The teacher is looking at me like it's time to get off the mike, but that's not happening.

“Becky just makes shit up. Like how Stacy Nolan was pregnant. That was her. She just made it up. For fun. For her own personal amusement. Just for a laugh!”

I can see Stacy in the audience, turning bright red, and everyone is scuffling and turning in their seats and not knowing what to do with themselves because Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny and Jesus Christ might as well pop up behind me.

“She tortured poor Joel Soren on a constant basis. Just because one day he wouldn't give her a piece of bubble gum. Bubble gum! And now he gets beat up, every day. Tortured. All because of a dumb piece of Hubba Bubba.”

I catch Jared in the back of the room. He gives me nod and a half grin. What is he doing here?

“Oh, and let's not forget she tried to fuck her boyfriend's older brother. Yes, Brad. Becky threw herself at your brother Jared, at your birthday party. How do I know? Because I was supposed to keep watch for ‘the puppy dog.' That's what she called you.”

I wish you could see Shelli's eyes.

And Becky—Becky is about to bum-rush the stage.

“And, finally, while we are on the topic of Jared Kline. Yes, I dropped Logan for Jared Kline because, well, for a whole bunch of reasons but one of them was that Logan wasn't cool. Because
I cared
that everybody thought Logan was a freak. That's something I'm going to have to live with for the rest of my life and, yes, it totally sucks and I'd do anything, anything in the world, to get him back. But just to be clear. Just to really put it all on the table . . .
Becky warned me that if I didn't drop that ‘loser,' meaning Logan, I was done for
. So . . . so much for Becky's ‘special relationship' with Logan. She's full of shit and Logan was way too good for her and, quite frankly, he was way too good for me, or any of us.”

Becky is looking at me like my throat may as well already be slit.

“But here's the thing. Why are we all just acting like idiots and caring what stupidface Becky says about this or what so-and-so says about that? None of it matters. Right? I mean, does it really fucking matter?! Like, when you're eighty years old and on your deathbed do you really think it's gonna make you feel good to know you snickered at the right moment? At whatever thing or outfit or person that, according to Becky Vilhauer, wasn't cool? And what if you're like Logan? What if it all gets taken away, like that, one night out of nowhere? Do you really think any of this bullshit is going to matter? Do you? I mean, what the fuck is wrong with us?!”

Suddenly I realize I might as well be talking to a slab of concrete.

“Thank you and good night!”

Silence.

Crickets.

I look out into a sea of catatonic faces and realize it's over for me. It's over for me and that's that. I'm going to have to live with the vampire and go to private school back east after all.

Except.

In the back of the hall, I can hear it. A clap. One little clap. And it's Jared Kline. And then Brad stands up. A clap. And then another. Stacy Nolan stands up. One clap. And then another. And then Chip Rider. And then another. And then Jenny Schnittgrund. And then Joel Soren. And then Charlie Russell. And then, the heshers in the back. And suddenly, the whole auditorium is burst out into applause and—

And Becky is looking at Shelli, who is not standing. Shelli is sitting next to Becky like a bag of frozen peas. She looks at me. She looks at Becky. She looks at the entire auditorium full of jocks and brains and heshers and cheerleaders and back at me. And Becky is clinging to her, clinging to her arm like it's the last deck chair on the
Titanic
.

And Shelli stands up.

Shelli stands up and starts clapping.

And Becky melts into the ground. She melts sideways, like the Wicked Witch of the West, and scuttles out the auditorium door to the side like a wraith caught in daylight, and this makes everyone clap harder and for once in its life, Pound High is liberated from the great reign of Becky the Terrible and suddenly we are all together, emancipated, we are all free.

And I get to walk out the door now, walk right out through the middle with my head high, and I don't have to move away or jump off a bridge or anything. I get to walk down through that crowd, right past Jared Kline, who does the best thing ever because I guess Jared Kline always does the best thing ever, which is . . . he smiles and tips his trucker cap, like I was the greatest show on earth.

And I know, right there in that moment, that it's up to me now, that it was always up to me, and who knows maybe someday . . .

But not now because now I am out through the front doors and outside to the green grass field spread out in front of me like a magic carpet.

And walking across that field, hearing everyone behind me, getting quieter and quieter and further and further away, I make a promise up to the sky, up to Logan and beyond.

I won't forget. I won't forget you. I won't let them forget you. I don't know how, I don't even know when or how it could even be possible . . . but one day, I'll tell everyone about you, and you and me, and what happened and somehow I'll get to tell the whole world about you and how you wrote the most beautiful haiku in the world and I'll make it up to you, somehow, somehow, I'll make it up to you, I promise. And I think about them, too, the R2-D2 socks and Spider-Man sleeper, how Logan had to tell Billy his ankylosaurus had to stay at the foot of the bed to protect him.

And I want to throw my arms around Logan for what he did. I want to spin time backward and hold him close, close, and never let go. But that would be like grabbing the light out of the sunset and begging it not to leave the dusk.

And if I could, I would do every second of every moment over again if I knew the secret.

You get one chance.

You get to do this thing one time and you don't even know when it goes from swirling forward and around and around in circles to just a plain cold stop and nothing more. Can you believe it? All this time I've spent weighing this and weighing that, worrying about this and worrying about that, living back then and living forward, caring about what so-and-so thinks and about so-and-so, too, but never living here,
here
, this moment here. Never even acknowledging that this moment even exists, and it hits me, like a live volt through the chest.

This moment here.

This is all you get.

Before you are part of the sky.

acknowledgments

For Dylan McCullough, his brothers and his mother.

 

There have been so many noble and kind people I wish to thank for helping me along the way. My mother, Nancy Portes Kuhnel, and my best friend, Brad Kluck, first and foremost. Also, my astute agent, Josie Freedman, at ICM. Of course, my literary agent, Katie Shea Boutillier, at Donald Maas Literary Agency. And my incredible editor, Kristen Pettit, at HarperCollins, as well as the entire Harper team, especially Jennifer Steinbach Klonsky and Elizabeth Lynch. I have been lucky to have great editors along the way: Dan Smetanka for
Bury This
. Fred Ramey for
Hick
. My family: my brother, Charles De Portes, and my sister, Lisa Portes. My father, Dr. Alejandro Portes. My amazing steps: Maria Patricia Fernandez-Kelly, Doug Kuhnel, Nancy Kuhnel, and Bobby Kuhnel. Also, the people who made
Hick
such an amazing experience: Derick Martini, Chloë Grace Moretz, Eddie Redmayne, Teri and Trevor Moretz, Christian Taylor. Matthew Specktor, Joel Silverman, Dawn Cody, Noelle Hale, Stuart Gibson, Trevor Kaufman, John Limpert, Mira Crisp, Io Perry. Of course, my brilliant and kind fiancé, Sandy Tolan. And last but not least, the sun in my sky, the zing in my shoe-step, the most adorable little prince, my son, Wyatt Storm.