The Misfits: Chapters 1–8

In my book, he is a fine fellow, although I have heard him more than once referred to as “that young hooligan.”

He snapped his silk handkerchief in my direction, then shoved it back in his pocket with—there’s no other word for it—panache.

“If you are referring to that young hooligan,” Killer Man says (you could chip ice off the words), “Security will take care of him. Don’t waste your time.”

“What are you doing here?” I hiss at Skeezie. I do not mean to be hostile, but with Killer Man hanging out behind me like a vulture in the wind, I’ve got to act fast.

“What kind of stinkin’ rule is that?” Skeezie retorts. “Is that your boss over there? The Grim Reaper? I’m going to go right over there and tell him, What kind of stinkin’ rule is that?”

“Bobby, Bobby, Bobby,” he croons, his eyes still squeezed up as tight as if there was a whole pan of frying onions right there in front of him.

They have sent me as their emissary, because we cannot begin the Forum until all are present and accounted for.

Names come Addie's way, too, only in her case it is because of her being so tall, in addition to the factor of her intelligence, both of which fall on the plus side of the ledger if you happen to be a boy and are major liabilities if you were born into the world a girl.

Sometimes I am sitting with Addie and Joe and Skeezie at lunch—at our table way off to the side and down at the end of the cafeteria, out of harm’s way—and I get to thinking in a philosophical manner and what I’m thinking is this: Maybe it’s the whole rest of the seventh grade at Paintbrush Falls Middle School who’s misfits.

And even though he still acts a little tough and dresses like a fugitive from West Side Story, he is at heart the kind of person your mother wants you to be friends with.

If she believes something, she does not keep it inside her head like private property with a no trespassing sign up; she puts it out there in the world and says, "Deal with it.” She is not afraid of anything, Not even the names people call her.

She lifts a piece of paper from her desk and reads, “‘Pledge: A promise or agreement by which one binds himself to do or forbear something.’”

“Well, admittedly, what is pledged is allegiance—or loyalty—to one’s country. But isn't there the implication of a promise of liberty and justice for all? And do we have liberty and justice for all in this country? I think not.”

“Ms. Wyman, I will not utter empty words, falsehoods, and lies.” Addie walks to the front of the room and dramatically presents Ms. Wyman with a piece of paper on which she’s neatly penned her dictionary definition of the word “pledge,” along with a torn-out page of the newspaper.

Every Friday after school since the beginning of sixth grade, Addie, Joe, Skeezie, and I have gathered at the Candy Kitchen, last booth on the right—the one with the aforementioned torn red leatherette seats—to discuss important issues and eat ice cream. We call this the Forum.

Addie: I contend that it does make a difference.
Skeezie: Oo, she contends.

Addie: Yes, I contend that every act of conscience makes a difference.

All right! Here’s our food. See, a little protest’ll work every time.

“Yeah, well, tell your illiterate friends that if they’re going to call names, they should at least know how to spell them.”

“Numbskull of Unknown Paternal Origin,” Joe spits back.

Ms. Wyman brings this to an abrupt halt with threats of detention or disembowelment, I have trouble hearing which.

Brittney is the kind of person for whom active verbs and modifiers were invented.

Addie rises to her full height, meaning she occupies all the vertical space she’s entitled to instead of slumping, which she sometimes does because of her being so tall and getting called names on account of it, and she walks to the door, clutching her books.

she proclaims in a voice that sounds like she’s been listening a whole lot of times to that “I Have a Dream” speech: “Until there is LIBERTY and JUSTICE for AWWLL... let there be TRUTH in SILENCE!”

Perhaps there is a lesson I am meant to glean from the experience. Perhaps it will make me a better person. I think, I am already turning into a Zen Buddhist.

“Look at you,” he greets me with, “in that tie with all the little amoebas on it. How science dweeb is that??"
“These aren’t amoebas,” I inform him. “This a style called paisley.”

"Well, I think I knew that,” says Joe, casting his eyes over the ties on the nearest display table and gingerly selecting a purple one.

He appears to be lost in thought and whatever has got his brain cells occupied is having a strange effect on his facial muscles. They are not locked into their usual the-world-is-beneath-me sneer, but hang on his face like melting cheese, creating the illusion that he is an actual human being and a sad one, at that.

He is doing a little dance as he goes that is a sort of polka version of “Y.M.C.A.” and I return to listening to Mr. Kellerman’s digit-drumming and I suddenly imagine I hear this deep voice intoning, “You are traveling to another dimension, a dimension not only of sight and sound but of mind. Your next stop, the Twilight Zone!”

I curse whoever invented adolescence and ask God to keep me upright and odor-free for another eight minutes.

Well, as I am on my meander home from that last Forum meeting, of which the topic was “Popularity versus Principles,” I am in a philosophical frame of thinking.

“Hammer” is on account of him liking detective stories and his name being Mike, and when I discover that Mike Hammer is his detective of choice at the time I am about seven or eight, well, I give him that moniker and it sticks.

I do not tell him about the election or Addie’s plan to start a new party at school and run DuShawn Carter for president, because I know he will start in on Addie’s liberal politics and how she is too much of an idealist, like her parents.

“You can be obvious with me. Me and my friends here, we’re not too bright.”
“Speak for yourself,” Kevin says, indicating he may have missed the discussion on irony in Language Arts class.

“Being a minority,” she goes on, articulating the words dangerously, “you have certainly seen your share of injustice.”

Oh, he is good. He may be the High Exalted Emperor of Spitballs, but this guy has been staying awake in class.

“Ah’m thinkin’ dat might be mighty fine, Miz Addie,” DuShawn drones.

“Soon’s I get in from de cotton field, ah’m gwine to hawa give dis a little cogitatin’.”

“That’s a riot, DuShawn,” Addie says. “Disrespecting your ancestors. Really. A laugh riot. I guess I made a mistake thinking anybody would take you seriously when you can’t even take yourself—or your own people—seriously.

You know what you are, Addie? You’re one of those do-good liberals come pokin’ their white noses into black business, so full of themselves like they know what’s good for people they know nothin’ about.