Anatomy of a Misfit (3 page)

“Seriously? Shouldn't we call someone?”

“Yeah, we should call that hot new debate teacher and ask him if he's heard that song by the Police about the ‘
young teacher, the subject, of schoolgirl fantasy . . .
'”

“You're crazy.”

“Crazy for that debate teacher.”

And that, ladies and gentlemen, is what happens when you are not paying attention to your Valium dose.

Since then, I have perfected my technique and we have had no further incidents. But as you can see, every cloud has a silver lining and, in this case, the silver lining is . . . ever since the Valium dosing has begun, Mr. Baum's behavior has much improved.

Like today. He's totally leaving us alone, probably sitting at his desk waving his fingers in front of his face and marveling over the psychedelic trails. But that's not important right now, what's important is that in my leisure time I have concocted a plan that I think might seriously upgrade our Halloween, Homecoming, and holiday season.

“I think I figured out how to steal from this place.”

Shelli stops wiping the counters. Her eyes go wide. She really
does
look like a deer in headlights.

“Are you serious?”

“Yeah. Okay, so like . . . the camera's on the cash register, right?”

“Un-hunh.”

“So we have to undercharge on the register but get the actual price from the customer, right?”

“I think so.”

“Then just put all the money in the cash register, so the camera doesn't see anything, right?”

“Yeah?”

“But just keep a running tally, on the side, of the difference.”

“I don't get it.”

“Okay, like, say the Bunza meal is four dollars.”

“Yeah?”

“So, we charge the customer four dollars, but we only ring up three on the cash register.”

“Okay.”

“But when you do that, like right when you do it, write down the difference.”

“Okay.”

“So, you write down a dollar, right?”

“I think so . . .”

“And then we just keep a running tally of the difference all day.”

“Okay, then what?”

“Okay, so there's cameras everywhere, right?”

“Yeah.”

“So, when we make the drop, at the end of the night, we gotta do it where there's no cameras, yeah?”

“Yeah . . .”

“So, where are there no cameras?”

“I dunno.”

“Think.”

“I dunno! You're stressing me out!”

“Shelli, I'm just trying to improve our lifestyle.”

“Okay, well, just tell me, or . . . It's mean, it's like you're showing off or something.”

“Okay. The answer is . . . there's no camera on . . . the stairs.”

“What stairs?”

“The stairs down to the drop.”

“Oh . . .”

“Think about it, it's perfect. All you do is take out the difference, which you know from the running tally, put it in your pocket, and put the rest down in the safe. Perfect, right?”

“I'm not doing it.”

“Okay, you don't have to. Just cover for me, okay?”

“What do you mean, cover?”

“I mean like, just, you know, distract Mr. Baum or something.”

“How do I distract him?”

“I don't know. Show him your boob?”

“Gross!”

“I know. He
is
gross.”

“And a dick!”

“Exactly, Shelli.” I put my hand on her shoulder. “That's why we're stealing from him. Because he is a dick.”

Can you believe that in the middle of all my devious masterminding, the door swings open and Logan McDonough appears? Shelli nods over and there he is, right at the register, leaning in.

“Um. I'll have a Coke. And fries.”

“You don't want a Bunza or anything?” I ask.

We have to say that. It's not like I care.

“Nope.”

“Okay, um, that'll be . . . two dollars and seventeen cents.”

He doesn't even say anything. He just kind of puts the bills and change on the counter.

“Oh, exact change, thanks.”

He's not even looking at me. It's like he's turned inside out or something.

“Can I speak to the manager?”

“Um. What?”

“I'd like to speak to the manager, please.”

Oh God, do you think he heard me? I wonder. Do you think he heard my diabolical plan to steal from the Bunza Hut and is going to rat me out?

“Um . . . okay, sure.”

Shelli is not a person anymore. She is just two giant eyes standing by the soda machine. Watching.

“Mr. Baum? Uh . . . there's someone here to see you. . . .”

Mr. Baum comes out, taking off his Bunza hat and standing there like a rump roast. Thank God
this
isn't the day we nearly poisoned him to death. At least today, he has the ability to stand. Also, walk.

Logan speaks up. All of a sudden he's like a guy from
Sesame Street
.

“Hello, sir. I'd just like to tell you . . . you have a real top-shelf worker with middle management potential here.”

What. Is he. Talking about?

Mr. Baum nods, totally confused.

“Never has a French fry been served up with such love. Such kindness. And I really think you should be proud to have this young lady as a part of the Bunza family. I give her five out of five stars. For customer service. And general friendliness.”

Now Logan takes his fries and drink and waltzes out, leaving the front counter of the Lincoln southeast Bunza in silence.

Mr. Baum turns to Shelli and me.

“Friend of yours?”

Shelli and I shake our heads emphatically “No no no no,” although I'm not sure why.

“Oh, well, good job then. Nice work.”

He goes back to mixing Bunza meat. Shelli and I stand there for two seconds staring at each other, in silence, before we burst out laughing.

“WHAT the?”

“I know!” Shelli can't believe it either.

“Seriously?”

“I KNOW!”

Now we can barely control ourselves. We should no longer be wearing the Bunza uniform. We are no longer representing the store in a responsible manner.

“SOME-body li-ikes yo-ou.” Shelli says it in a singsong.

“Shut up.”

“And you know what—”

“Don't. Don't even.”

“I think you like him back.”

“No. I don't.”

“Yes, you totally do.”

“No, I swear to God I don't.”

“Really? Does that mean you don't give him
five out of five stars
?”

Of course I have to throw my towel at Shelli. God, it is such a relief when Becky's not around. Shelli and I are free when she's off doing whatever she's doing. Probably looking at herself in the mirror. But that doesn't matter right now. All that matters is what Logan McDonough just did was kind of rad. And weird. And maybe he might just kinda sorta be a lot more interesting than I, or anyone, thought.

five

I
f you turned a Labrador into a person you would make Brad Kline. He's happy and gushy and about as interesting and complex as a tree stump. But he's the most popular guy in the school and he's Becky's boyfriend. Of course. As far as I can tell the most interesting things about him are his complete inability to see Becky's true nature and his brother, Jared Kline. Yes, THE Jared Kline.

See, I like a guy who looks like he's just about to rob a bank. And Jared Kline looks like he's been on a Bonnie and Clyde bender for six months straight. Scruffy. Jagged. Mean. Where Brad is a puppy dog, Jared is a wolf. A big, bad wolf that your mother told you about but now you're just gonna have to ignore your mother. He's just out of high school. And he was never the captain of the football team, or the soccer team, or even track. As far as I can tell he was, and may still be, the captain of the smoking-pot-and-listening-to–Pink Floyd–after-school team.

Anyway, his name is flying all over the place this morning because the rumor is he got Stacy Nolan pregnant. I know. It started in first period, just a whisper, and now, just before lunch, it's a crescendo where it seems like any second the principal is going to announce it over the loudspeaker.

Becky's obsessed. She's practically up before the bell and into the hallway, right next to Stacy Nolan's locker. It's annoying that Shelli and I have to stand here and wait while Becky does whatever dumb thing she's up to, but it's an unwritten rule. We must comply, or die.

I swear to God Stacy sees her and tries to duck away, but it ain't happening. Becky waltzes right up to her, smirking over her books.

“Aren't you gonna invite us?”

Shelli and I stand back, cringe-ready.

Stacy shifts from her right foot to her left. Her face has gone so pale that her little nose freckles are standing out way more than usual. She can barely even make eye contact from underneath her thick brown bangs, because she knows the blow is coming. God, this is painful.

“To what . . . ?”

And now, Becky leans in.
“To your baby shower.”

I notice there is a bit of a crowd around us and everyone is laughing at Becky's little quip. Isn't she just
hilarious
, folks?

Poor traumatized Stacy lets out an involuntary “
eep
.” She turns and scurries down the hall like a rat that's been kicked in the guts. Becky looks back at us for approval. But I just can't muster up anything other than a huge pit in my stomach for poor pregnant pariah Stacy Nolan.

The crowd starts to disperse and now Becky's just standing there like she's daring us to challenge her.

“What's the matter with you guys?”

There's nothing for Shelli and me to do but mutter to ourselves. I think we are actually making up new words to mutter. Some of the pep squad girls continue to titter over Becky's little show. We just keep our eyes on our Trapper Keepers and shuffle off to class. After the last bell, we slink away for our long and cruel walk home.

 

The first three blocks, we don't say anything. But there's no question that the thing we're both not talking about is Becky.

Everyone loves her, yet she is pure unadulterated evil.

The weird thing is . . . It's not like you can point to anything that made her that way. It's not like her dad's a criminal or her mom's a crack addict or she was raised in an orphanage or something. That would actually
explain
her demonic powers. It's just like she was born, she did a few print ads for the Penney's catalog, and abracadabra-BEELZEBUB!

The only possible justification is that, potentially, when she was in the nursery, a dissatisfied ghost of some sort crept into her crib, possessed her baby body, and decided to wreak havoc on the living as revenge for some unanswered injustice. That's really the simplest explanation.

Whatever the case, we are slowly becoming her demon-underlings.

And that is not a job I signed up for.

We're about six blocks from school, the air thick as Jell-O, before it comes up.

I speak first.

“That was SO. LAME.”

“I know.”

“I mean, seriously.”

“I KNOW.”

Beat.

“Do you think it's true?”

“What, that she's pregnant?”

“Yeah.”

“Kinda.”

Beat.

“We have to do something.”

“Like what?”

“I dunno, stand up for her or something.”

“No way! We can't!”

“Wull, why not?”

“Why not? Are you kidding? Because we've got a good situation here, considering. I mean, you get to be . . . ethnic sorta and I get to make out all over the place and neither one of us has to be tortured about it!”

Beat.

“Well, what if we start a new group of friends or something?”

“Are you crazy? Becky would CRUCIFY us. Not to mention whoever we could get to be friends with us. Which would probably be nobody.”

“There's gotta be something we can do.”

“Look, if we cross Becky, forget it. She'll turn on us and it'll be, like, vicious. You know it will. It'll be like two seconds before I'm a total prostitute and you're like . . . the n-word.”

“The n-word?”

“Yup. The n-word. And she'll, like, add something. Like she'll call you a . . . a vampire n-word.”

“A vampire n-word?”

“Yeah. A vampire n-word.”

We walk on. It's getting dark. The sun is thinking it's about to set. We've both got chills now. The trees are getting black and spiky. Like they're just about to reach out and strangle us.

I have only one thought.

Jesus. I do not wanna be called a vampire n-word.

six

O
ur house kind of looks like a Pizza Hut, if you wanna know the truth. We used to have the best house ever, this farmhouse on the outskirts of town, with a barn and everything, but we got kicked off of it so they could build a Walmart. So, now it's Suburbs City and a house where you might as well just drive up and order breadsticks.

Tonight my mom's making pot roast. I get to cut the carrots and leeks and stuff. This is the safest thing for me to do without poisoning everybody. I'm no Betty Crocker. My poor mom has tried with me, but now she knows it's impossible for me to cook without spacing out and burning everything. Plus, who wants to spend all that effort, all those hours and concentration, on something that some ogre is just gonna wolf down in two seconds and burp? The whole thing is just so gross.

I can't help but think about Stacy Nolan. What's she doing right now? Is she in bed, crying? Did she switch schools yet? Is she really pregnant with Jared Kline's baby? More than anything, I just feel bad. We shoulda done something. We shoulda tried to defend her.