The Misfits: Chapters 9–14

Me: Colin is a boy. He will not want to run for secretary.
Addie: You are a sexist pig. Colin won’t care. Besides, he likes to write.

Me: But shouldn’t we have another girl on the ticket?
(I ask this, thinking surely this will make sense to Addie, who is such a feminist she once wrote a letter to her church asking that “hymns” be called “hers.” She did not succeed.)

When Brittney talks to you, for instance, you get the feeling she is being polite and showing that she knows how to behave around those less fortunate than herself. Sort of like she’s Mother Teresa and you’re a leper.

“Oh,” I say. I have run out of dialogue. Sometimes I wish I were a character in a book and there was a writer out there giving me things to say. This is one of those times. I just stand there, feeling stupid.

The Democrats and Republicans held their conventions during seventh period and they’ve put together their slates and their platforms. We’re still short a candidate and we don’t have our platform.

“I thought it was ‘Free the Slaves,”’ DuShawn quips and Addie gives him a look that needs no interpretation.

Addie raises her voice to accommodate the growing din of middle-school politicians filling the room.

I suddenly spot Skeezie Tookis lurking down the hall. I would like to think there is another word to describe his behavior, but “lurking” is a perfect fit. Ordinarily, Skeezie is not a lurker.

Even those of an adult persuasion who have called him a young hooligan have never combined the accusation with the word “lurk” or any of its derivatives. Yet, there he is. Lurking.

Ms. Wyman is threatening to disallow the Freedom Party. You’ve got to help us convince her that we serve a purpose not served by the other parties.

I hate that expression. Gay does not equal weird.

She’s always ready for a fight, acting like we’re some kind of oppressed people just because we’re black.

And before you can work up the nerve to ask her, you will catch yourself sniffing your armpits, slapping yourself on the forehead like your head and your hand are two of the Three Stooges, and calling yourself an incurable geek.

And the truth is that I am not a particularly high-minded character in my formative years. I hardly ever speak up in class and I never question what the teacher says.

From my personal point of view, this is more than copacetic, although I try not to dwell on the prospect of being with Pam and Kelsey in the same room at the same time for fear of becoming light-headed and making a large noise when my oxygen-deprived body hits the ground.

To tell you the truth, I am having a good time of it, except for those occasions when the Killer Man clicks his tongue and informs me, with a kind of pleasure I can only describe as oily, that I have committed a fashion faux pas, which is French for “screw-up.”

Even when I make what is obviously a cool match, the highest praise he will give is, “Not bad,” Or, “For one so young, you have a decent intuitive sense.”

But even when he is being nice to me, he’s nasty about it, and I am beginning to feel fed up and wishing I were more like Skeezie or Addie so I could tell him what he can do with his ties.

I cannot wait for Mr. Kellerman to get off the phone so I can brag shamelessly, but when he does get off the phone I do not brag shamelessly or in any other adverbial manner, because he doesn’t look in my direction or ask what happened with the customer or even notice that Daffy is missing.

Besides, I can tell right away that he needs to feel important and that divulging too much information to an underling would seriously threaten his status as Son of the Store Manager and Heir Apparent to the Realm.

While Junior busies himself refolding clothing that is more in need of dusting than refolding, and tidying up the sales desk, which Mr. Kellerman has already tidied to the point where it could pass military inspection, I alternately replay my coup as a tie salesman and imagine what sort of personal business took Mr. K away.

I picture myself watching myself on TV going, “Yeah, I worked with Mr. Kellerman. No, he never struck me as the criminal type. I was as surprised as anybody to find out he was a drug czar and that he had fourteen bodies buried in his backyard. I mean, people at work did call him Killer Man, it’s true, but who would have thought...”

Of course, what he actually is saying turns out to have nothing to do with Upstate New York or a small-town clothing salesman or even organized crime, which just shows what an overworked imagination combined with a pathetic need for excitement does to the brain.

“Not you, too!” he gives back, although when I prod him for an explanation, he zips his lips and goes, “All I know about love is that it’s a four-letter word.”

My point is it doesn’t have to turn you into a cynic.

“Man, it was pitiful,” Skeezie tells me. “The girl was desperate, what could I do?

And then I’m looking over at Skeezie and I am pondering on the fact that his real name is Schuyler and I do not know when he first started getting called Skeezie or dressing like a 1950s young hooligan; but I’m remembering that his dad used to ride around town on a motorcycle, all decked out in a black leather jacket, which is not the usual thing to do in Paintbrush Falls, and he got a lot of grief over it, but he did not care.

Kevin Hennessey shouts sarcastically, “Save the whales!” and both Addie and I check out the dolphin on the poster as Mrs. DePaolo shushes Kevin and tells him she hopes she doesn't see him in the office today.

Mr. Kiley opens his hands wide, palms up, fingers splayed. Adults use this gesture often, especially when talking to kids. They think it means, Look how honest and open I’m being. Look how hard I’ve tried. I feel just rotten about it, but I’m absolutely helpless to do anything more than I’ve already done. What it really means is, Conversation’s over.

Ms. Wyman spoke to me after school on Friday and made the very good point that both parties state in their platforms that they represent all students, which includes minority students. A third party claiming to represent minorities is redundant at the very least and might justifiably be seen as promoting special rights.

“I can’t believe Kiley accused me of just wanting attention,” Addie grouses.

She's all rah-rah self-esteem so long as the self you esteem is the one she approves of. That is so hypocritical.

“What we have to do is come up with a new platform,” she is saying. “Something Ms. Wyman can't dispute.

“Well, revenge is a paltry weapon when confronted with the arsenal of truth."

“Ooo, Cruella De Vil,” Joe says, and it is hard to know whether he means this as an insult or a compliment. Cruella is one of Joe's favorite movie characters. Back in second grade he even called himself Cruella.

Kevin Hennessey’s laughter is as blunt and heavy as a boot while he watches Daryl Williams slink away from the table his ridicule has forced him to vacate.

Gripping the edges of his tray of half-eaten food, Daryl's knuckles turn white and his shoulders hunch up in a desperate attempt to hide the look of humiliation burning his face.

“No offense, Addie, but you’ve been looking at the wrong minority the whole time. DuShawn even said it.”

“The point is that being a minority isn’t only about the color of your skin or your religion. It’s about not fitting in, being on the outside.”

“Wait a minute, you guys, we have to have a slogan, right? What do you think of this: Sticks and stones may break our bones, but names will break our spirit.”