The Misfits (16 page)

But Addie is not buying this and will not get off the phone until I promise to come over there around lunch-time.

This I do not mind because both Addie's parents are good cooks and they always have interesting things to eat there, even if they are vegetarian. Besides, I am thinking vegetarian might be a good thing for me to consider becoming since I would not mind parting company with some of my fat cells. I decide to ponder this seriously while making some waffles for breakfast.

Addie's and my attempts at speechwriting do not go well. After a lunch of lentil burgers and vegetable shakes, which are pretty good (except I do not recommend drinking the vegetable shakes in clear glasses since in appearance the word “sewage” comes to
mind), we get down to work and Addie hauls out about five hundred index cards on which she has written notes, mostly to do with historical documents. I tell her that I do not think a history of the Pledge of Allegiance or an analysis of the First Amendment is going to win many votes. She gets all huffy about all the time she has put in and all the notes she has taken, and when I tell her maybe she should have put more thought into what she was going to do before doing it, she says, “I take umbrage at that remark.”

Umbrage. I swear.

I try to persuade her to take a simple approach, to talk about name-calling and stick to that, but she says this is a
presidential
campaign speech, as if CNN is going to be there to cover it and the middle-school band will be blatting out “Hail to the Chief.”

Finally, we give up trying and I say, “What's bugging you today?”

She gets all fired up and goes, “Fine! I want to talk about the speech and all
you
want to talk about is stupid Colin and how he doesn't
know
we're going together! Fine! We'll just talk about
that
then!”

“Okay,” I say. I wonder: Are all girls like this?

“Fine!” Addie says for the third time, landing on her sofa and scattering two cats. “I just don't understand boys, okay?” I laugh at this. “That's what I mean.
Why
are you laughing? Colin is so dense! I asked him if he would walk me home yesterday and he said sure, and then when I said something about the dance, he was, like, huh? I mean, isn't it
obvious
we're going to the dance together?”

“Obvious to you, maybe.”

“Why isn't it obvious to
him?
I hate love.”

I know what she means. I remind her about the heart I found in art class, and how it couldn't be Kelsey who drew it but there aren't other girls in class I wish it were from.

All of a sudden, Addie gets all sympathetic, like she's ten years older than me and engaged or something and I'm her pimply little brother. “It's hard to love somebody when they don't love you back,” she says, her voice getting all gooey like the marshmallows she doesn't eat because they're made with gelatin and she's that kind of vegetarian. “I'm lucky at least to know that Colin likes me. Even if he is as dense as a ...”

She stops, not knowing what he is as dense as. I cannot help her out, because my mind is on Kelsey and then I get to thinking about Pam and females in general and my stomach hurts and I tell Addie we should try working on her speech another time, I've got to go.

She says okay, because she recognizes a lost cause when she sees one.

I figure on going right home, but Joe is out on his porch next door and calls over to me I should come in, Pam is about to streak both their hair and do I want to be streaked, too? I tell him no, but I'll watch.

So now I'm in Joe's kitchen and Pam is standing there with Joe's head in the sink and this bottle of coloring that is red. Not normal hair-color red, red like a maraschino cherry.

They're really into it, laughing and teasing each other, and I am looking at Pam and thinking once again how she is the most beautiful creature I have ever seen and that if we were back in olden times she might have been made into a goddess because she is so beautiful. Sometimes I cannot stop my mind. It's scary.

So while I'm having all these thoughts, she says, “joe told me about the No-Name Party and I think it is so great. I remember what middle school was like for me. It totally sucked. Everybody labeled everybody else. It was
so
easy to hate yourself!”

“Weren't you popular?” I ask, thinking this is like asking the Pope isn't he religious.

Pam lets out a rip-snorter of a laugh then and I think she is going to fall off her stool. “No way!” she gives at last.

“But you're so beautiful,” I say. I can't help it, the words just come out. I don't think my having a crush on her is a big secret anyway. She is too smart and I am as easy to read as a Frog and Toad story.

But she doesn't say any of that or make me feel stupid. Instead, she looks at me like I've just handed her every flower in the garden.

“Thank you, Bobby,” she says. “But you know something? Being beautiful didn't matter. In some ways, it made things worse. People
expect
things of you when you're beautiful. They expect you to be happy all the time, as if being beautiful is the same
thing as being happy. What's even worse is they expect you to make
them
happy. I remember walking into a room one time and everybody broke into smiles, as if I was this surprise package that had just arrived to brighten everybody's day. Maybe it should have made me feel good, but it didn't. I hated it. I felt like I had to be the person they imagined me to be. The fact was I was awkward and incredibly shy.”

“You?” I say.

Pam nods. “Kind of like your friend, what's her name.”

Joe goes, “Kelsey.”

“Mm. I can relate to her. I'm telling you, if I hadn't had my art... well, my art saved me, that's all. I ended up going to an arts high school, where I found other people like me. For the first time ever, I felt comfortable, and it didn't matter whether I was beautiful or not.”

“You were lucky,” Joe points out. “I wish I could go to a school like that. No such thing in this dinky little town.”

Pam goes to the refrigerator and takes out juice for all of us. “You're going to have to leave Paintbrush
Falls to find others who are like you, Joe. But meanwhile you've got your friends—hey, thank goodness for the Gang of Five, I wish I'd had what you guys have—and you've got your parents, who are two of the best people in the whole world, and you've got yourself. One thing about you, Joe, you take good care of yourself. You just seem to know how to do that. You have more strength than just about anybody I know.”

Joe takes a box of juice from Pam and says, “I wish you didn't have to go back to New York.”

I feel a twist in my gut. “Are you moving?” I ask.

“Not right away,” Pam says, “but probably after Christmas. A friend of mine called about a possible job opening in a new gallery in Chelsea. Whether it happens or not, it got me thinking about what I'm doing here and the answer was simple: healing. Well, I think I'm healed. Finally. It's time to go back to the city and my life.”

“I'm going to miss you,” I say, speaking in that foreign language again, the one that I'm learning is my own.

“You are so sweet,” Pam goes. “I mean it. I'm going to miss you, too, Bobby. Anyway, I'll be back to visit. Promise.”

“You'd better,” says Joe.

I finish my juice and tell them I've got to go.

“Why?” Joe asks. “You got something better to do than watch us streak our hair?”

“Hard as it is to believe,” I tell him.

As soon as I go home I pick up the phone and dial. I only hang up twice when I hear somebody pick up. The third time, I manage to get the words out. “Hi, Kelsey, this is Bobby Goodspeed.”

Me: Hi, Kelsey. This is Bobby Goodspeed.

Kelsey: Bobby. Hi.

Me: Um, in case you were wondering if that was me before—

Kelsey: If what was you before?

Me: Those hang-ups. Um, there's something wrong with our phone.

Kelsey: Oh. Did you call before?

Me: Well, yes, but . . . there's something wrong with our phone.

Kelsey: That's okay.

(Long pause.)

Kelsey: How are you?

Me: Oh, I'm fine. How are you?

Kelsey: I'm fine.

Me: I called because...

(Long pause.)

Kelsey: Are you there?

Me: Uh-huh. There's something wrong with our phone. Sorry.

Kelsey: That's okay. You were saying—

Me: I was saying—

Kelsey: Why you called.

Me: Oh, because of art. Class. Art class. You know the project we have to do?

Kelsey: Uh-huh.

Me: That we have to decide by Monday.

Kelsey: Uh-huh.

Me: Well, have you decided? I mean, I'm asking you because you're so good in art and I thought maybe you could help me decide ... Not that I want you to make the decision for me, but I'm having trouble figuring out what I want to do and I just thought...

(Long pause.)

Me: Are you there?

Kelsey: Uh-huh. I was just thinking.

Me: Oh, okay. I thought maybe it was my phone
again. Did I tell you we're having trouble with our phone?

Kelsey: Uh-huh.

Me: Do you ever have trouble with your phone?

Kelsey: What?

Me: Never mind.

Kelsey: Okay.

Me: So about the art project.

Kelsey: Oh, right. Well, I'm not sure exactly. It has to be a self-portrait, right?

Me: Right.

Kelsey: So I was thinking of maybe doing a sort of Andy Warhol thing. Do you know Andy Warhol's work? From the sixties? His pop-art portraits?

Me: Oh, sure. Sort of. From the sixties.

Kelsey: Well, I was thinking of doing something like his Marilyn series. It would be easy with computer technology, you know. But I'm not sure. I love Chuck Close's work, too, and I was thinking it would be fun-though really ambitious—to try and do this huge portrait with all the little squares the way he does. Anyway, you could pick an artist you like and model
your self-portrait on their work. It would be funny to paint yourself like the
Mona Lisa,
don't you think? Or I heard Justin is going to do a sculpture of himself like
The Thinker—
you know, the Rodin statue? I hope he's planning on wearing clothes. I'm kidding.

Me: That's funny. Planning on wearing clothes. You're funny.

Kelsey: I don't usually talk so much. I don't think I'm helping you.

Me: Oh, you are! Lots! Really! Oh, there's my dad ... What, Dad? Oh, I have to get off now, Kelsey. Sorry. I—

Kelsey: I didn't hear anything.

Me: You didn't? Well, it's this phone, that's why. We're having trouble with this phone. With all our phones. It's like major phone trouble here. I'm lucky I got through to you. Really. Anyway, I'll see you in school on Monday. Will you be in school on Monday? I mean, you're not sick or anything or going away someplace?

Kelsey: No, I'll be there. Unless I get sick or something or go away someplace.

(Short pause.)

Kelsey: That's another joke.

Me: Oh, right. Good one. Well, I better go. My dad is calling, so...

Kelsey: So good luck with your art project.

Me: Thanks. Thanks for calling.

Kelsey: You called me.

Me: That's right. That's what I meant. Thanks, ME, for calling!

Kelsey: You're funny, too.

(Long pause.)

Kelsey: Are you still there?

Me: We've got to get this phone fixed. Well, anyway, I'm glad, thanks for... I guess I've got to go now.

Kelsey: Me, too. I'm glad you called, Bobby.

Me: Really?

Kelsey: Uh-huh.

Me: Well, okay. Good. Then I'll see you Monday, okay?

Kelsey: Okay. See you Monday. Bye.

Me: Bye.

OF COURSE, there is nothing wrong with our phone.

And my dad isn't even home.

And I have already decided on my art project.

And I made a total fool of myself with Kelsey.

But none of this matters.

All that matters is she said, “I'm glad you called, Bobby.”

I can't help thinking,
She likes me.
And even when this other thought comes into my head, the one that says,
No, she doesn't, she likes Joe,
I just push it away and bask in the light of her saying, “I'm glad you called, Bobby.”

Monday rolls around and I actually think about what I am going to wear to school, because I do not wish to appear to be a
shlub,
which Joe tells me means “bumpkin” and when I ask him why he doesn't
just say bumpkin, he tells me because nobody knows what a bumpkin is. Like they know
shlub.
Anyway, whenever he sees me with my shirt hanging over my pants—this being a favored style of chunky people everywhere—he goes, “Bobby, you look like a
shlub.”
For Kelsey, I do not wish to appear shlublike. I put on the coolest shirt I own and tuck it in.

I am hoping Kelsey will race over to my locker first thing and tell me, “I'm glad you called, Bobby,” just so I can hear those words again for real instead of in my head over and over, but she does not, although she does smile at me for more than a nanosecond—closer to two nanoseconds—and she waves. These two small gestures practically cause cardiac arrest, so I am thinking that it is perhaps for the best that she does not race over and say anything. Otherwise, I would be dead and the story would end right now.

Of course, the story does not end right now. You could say the story will not end for a long time—until I
am
dead, in fact—because this is the story of my life, except that the part I am choosing to tell you is just a little piece of it. When you're living through it, though,
especially when you are twelve and you think the whole world is changing until you realize it isn't the world, it's you, no piece seems little. It's all so big you think it can kill you. But it doesn't. Which is why the story goes on.