6
The car turns out to be an ancient Volkswagen. The window rolls down and a voice calls, “Hey, do you want a ride or something?”
Suspiciously, I walk over, and what do you know?—it’s Mr. White sitting behind the steering wheel. “What happened?” he asks. “Car break down?”
“Not exactly. Are you heading back to town?”
“Yeah,” he says. “Hop in.”
Mr. White’s definitely not the rapist type, but he’s strange enough you can’t completely rule out serial killer. So what, though? I really need a ride, and if I can’t handle myself against Mr. White, I deserve to end up sliced and diced and stacked up in his basement freezer. Besides, the mood I’m in, I don’t really care what happens to me.
“So, what are you doing walking down the highway at night?” he asks as I slide into the hard seat next to him. But he doesn’t ask the question like I must be some kind of moron. His voice is deep and mellow, which makes him sound confident and friendly at the same time. It’s strange because it’s so normal, yet it comes out of this guy who looks anything but normal. At least for around Knowles.
As we pull away, I explain how I got sick of the party with all the wasted people acting like idiots. No use in going into Gillis’s antics or mentioning Tillman kissing a meth freak’s neck. I’d just as soon forget all that.
“So why do you go to parties like that?”
“Hey, you have to do something around here if you don’t want to get bored to death.”
“I never get bored,” he says. “I create my own realities without having to get wasted.”
Creates his own realities? Who talks like that? Besides, it’s not an easy idea to swallow coming from a guy who probably had to sit by himself in the cafeteria through the whole last year at school. I mean, if he created his own reality, you’d think he’d throw some friends besides Captain Crazy in there. But it’s not worth arguing about.
“So,” I say, “why do you always wear white? Is that part of your reality?”
He glances down at his T-shirt, then at me. “Actually it is,” he says. “It’s a statement. White is the opposite of black. Black is despair, so white’s about hope. And when you make a statement like that, you can set a new reality in motion.”
“You sound like a New Age hippie or something,” I tell him, but he says I couldn’t be further from the truth.
“In a way, I’m Old Age. Like about seven hundred years old.”
“Are you reincarnated or something?”
He laughs. “You’re hilarious,” he says. “I like you. But no, I’m not reincarnated. I don’t believe in that. It’s just that I’m real into the Renaissance period. That’s when things were really happening, huge things. People just like me and you changed the world in this gigantic, positive way.”
But I’m not exactly in a positive mood right now because I’m like, “Really? Isn’t that when Romeo and Juliet were hanging out? Look what happened to them.”
He laughs again. It’s a good laugh, not in any way at my expense, which is lucky for him. “I know what you’re thinking,” he says. “Suicide’s kind of a downer. I liked your take on Romeo and Juliet in English class. That’s how I knew you were cool, when you were all like, ‘Juliet was stupid to off herself just because Romeo was dead. A girl doesn’t need a guy to make her life worth living.’ That was awesome.”
How do you like that? The guy’s been keeping tabs on me. That could be flattering or creepy. I decide to go for flattering for the time being. After all, looking at him more closely, I have to admit he’s not exactly ugly. Sure, he’s skinny with a long face, but he has good cheekbones and a strong nose. Not that I’m considering him for boyfriend material. After the way this night’s gone, I figure I should just forget about that for the next decade or so.
“Well,” I say, “I don’t think too many other guys thought it was so awesome.”
“The other guys are idiots,” he says. “But you have to admit, Shakespeare changed the world. People are still reading him all over the place.”
“So what are you going to do, change the world by wearing white and writing plays that bore high school kids out of their skulls? I really don’t see anyone changing the world from a nothing town like Knowles.”
He looks at me, then back at the road. “You make it sound like trying to change the world is unrealistic or something, but hey, it’s better than not doing anything. Anyway, this town’s just a speed bump on my way to where I’m going. I’m still trying to figure out exactly what I’m going to do, but one thing I know for sure is I’m going to get out of this town to do it.”
Now that sounds more like it. I can get behind anyone who wants to blow off this dump town. My friends don’t even bother thinking about their futures. Tillman and Gillis would be happy ending up like the rest of the losers at Dani’s party.
I ask Mr. White where he plans on going when he gets out of here, and he’s like, “There’s only one place to go—New York City. That’s where you have to go to get your ideas heard. Besides, it’s hard to be a misfit there because that’s where all the misfits flock to. Like ninety-eight percent of the population is made up of misfits. Maybe that’s what I’ll do. I’ll start a misfit revolution.”
A misfit revolution! Now that’s an idea. Suddenly I forget about the crappy night I’ve been having. If there was ever anyone cut out for a revolution, it’s me. “Well,” I say, “you’ll probably need a general if you’re going to get anywhere. I mean, every revolution needs a general.”
He looks at me, his gaze burning through his glasses. “You talking about yourself?”
“Why not? I’m as good a misfit as you. Besides, this town hasn’t done me any favors. New York would be as good a place as any to go.”
“Okay,” he says. “You’re hired.”
From there, we start talking about what we’ll do when we get to New York, how we’ll hang out at cool coffee shops and see weird new bands in concert, and everywhere we go we’ll round up converts for the misfit revolution. It’s fun. I mean, I know we’re just talking crap, but still, I’m starting to feel like it’s really possible. As if I’ve got one foot out of town and away from my parents. For a while, I even forget Mr. White is buddies with the captain.
He’s getting excited about the whole thing too, slapping the steering wheel with every new idea, his long hair dancing around his face. We talk about having misfit marches through New York City, thousands of misfits strong. Misfit festivals in Central Park. A misfit political party. A misfit president. Then we’ll go international with it too.
I’m like, “We’ll get my brother Bobby to go. If anyone can help us get it done, it’s him. There’s nothing he can’t do.” Of course, when Bobby gets back, I won’t need any misfit revolution because I won’t be a misfit with him around, but it’s fun to think about us heading to New York together anyway.
Then Mr. White has to go and ruin the fantasy. “And we’ll take Captain Crazy,” he says. “He’ll be like our grand spiritual advisor.”
He looks at me, smiling as if he just came up with the best idea yet, but I’m like, “No way. I’m not getting in any revolution with that idiot.”
His smile fractures. “Wait a minute. I know you got mad at the captain for talking out against the war, but if you really listen to what he has to say, you can’t deny he’s telling the truth.”
“The truth! He was basically calling me and my brother—who fought in the war, by the way—cowards. If you think that’s the truth, then you’re as big an idiot as he is.”
“He’s not against your brother. He just happens to think the best way to support the troops is to get them home as soon as possible. The captain’s on your brother’s side a whole lot more than a bunch of phony patriots who don’t know what they’re talking about.”
“Bullshit. I heard him. And on top of that, I was out at his place the other night, and you know what he told me? He told me I don’t even know who I am. Me, he said that to. I guarantee you I
know who I am better than anyone else in this town.”
“So,” Mr. White says. “It was you and your gang that paint-balled his house.”
“First of all, I don’t have a gang, and second of all, I never said anything about paintballing anything. I just said I was out there.”
“Right,” Mr. White says, sarcastically. “Here’s how much you know. That paint didn’t hurt the captain at all. When I saw it, I told him I’d help him scrub it off, but he didn’t want to. He thinks it’s beautiful. And he’s right—it is. He’s also right about something else—you don’t have the least idea who you really are.”
Really! That’s what he tells me! Just like that. And I thought he was going to be okay there for a little while. But I don’t need some scraggly stick figure telling me I don’t know who I am any more than I need to hear it from a crazoid hobo.
“You don’t know the least thing about me,” I say. “And you never will.”
He starts trying to explain himself, but I’m like, “Turn left at the next stoplight, go down two blocks, make another left, and then I’ll tell you where to go from there to my house.”
That’s pretty much it for the conversation. He asks me what I’m getting so bent out of shape about, but I just turn away and look out the side window until we get to my house.
“You won’t stay mad at me,” he says as I get out of the car. “Just wait and see.”
“I’m not mad at you,” I tell him. But, of course, I am. Doesn’t matter. There’s only one guy I need in my life right now, and that’s Bobby.
7
Sunday afternoon the whacked-out drama that is my life continues. I’m in my room talking to Brianna on the phone. I’m hoping she might have some news about Sophie Lowell, but it turns out Brianna ditched the party not long after I did. Seems the smoosh-faced idiot who was hitting on her took off with another girl, an out-of-town skank who said she knew where to get some magic mushrooms. Poor Brianna. The only thing that halfway cheered her up was getting a look at the dent I put in Gillis’s eyebrow before she left.
“Maybe you should talk to him about Sophie,” she says. “He was still there when I left.”
And I’m like, “Are you kidding? I wouldn’t talk to him if he was the last leprechaun on earth.”
Then, just as I get off the phone, my annoying little sister, Lacy, barges into my room with one of her stupid fashion catalogs, wanting to show me the latest cute sandals she has her eye on. She’s such a wimpy girlie-girl. I’m like, “I don’t want to see any of your prissy little sandals.”
And she goes, “You just don’t like sandals because you have beefy feet.”
Beefy feet!
She thinks she’s so cute. I’ve got news for her—maybe, unlike me, she has a nice petite figure, but let’s face it—she definitely has the family round face and frogmouth.
So I go, “And you have a big, fat head.”
“I do not!”
“It’s like a pumpkin.”
“Well, you have a square butt.”
“You better shut up.”
“Square butt, square butt.”
I’m about two seconds away from wrestling her down on the carpet and giving her a Dutch rub when Dad shows up at the door.
“You two,” he says, “knock it off and come downstairs. We’re going to have a family meeting.”
“It was her fault,” Lacy whines, and Dad goes, “I don’t care. Downstairs. Now.”
He walks off and Lacy turns to me and goes, “See what you did.”
But I know this isn’t going to be about the two of us arguing. No, this is going to have something to do with Grandma Brinker. Mom got back from her weekly trip to Grandma’s about thirty minutes ago, just enough time for her to fill Dad in on whatever this meeting is about. Not good. Family meetings usually end up with me having to do something I don’t want to do. This time, I’m afraid it might mean they want the rest of us to go to Davenport to visit Grandma too.
It might seem strange that the whole family hasn’t been going all along, but Grandma’s never been too fond of having us visit. I would think, now that she’s sick with cancer, she’d want us around even less. She definitely never liked me or Bobby. I remember her slapping him across the face one time for being “impertinent.” Plus he busted her lawn gnome. Well, technically, I did, but she mainly got mad at him.
My theory is she thinks me and Bobby are too much like Dad when he was young. According to Uncle Jimmy, Grandma was totally against Mom marrying my dad in the first place. She thought he was riffraff or a juvenile delinquent or something. How ridiculous is that? My dad, a juvenile delinquent. He doesn’t even cheat at bowling.
I’m sure Grandma thinks I’m hurtling straight to hell because I stopped going to church when I was fourteen. Sure, church people do some good things, like collect cans of beans and old shoes to give to the poor, but mostly it’s just a bunch of blah, blah, blah, don’t do this, don’t do that, throw some money in the collection plate, all while you sit there struggling to keep from lapsing into a coma.
My mom and grandma are huge Christians, though. Dad says he is, but he doesn’t actually go to church except on special occasions. He says he keeps the Sabbath in his own way, which means going fishing till noon. Of course, my sisters and little brother go, but Bobby gave it up at fourteen, just like me.
And sure, it was pretty open-minded of Mom to let us make our own decisions about going to church, but still, you’d think someone who believes in hell might try a little harder to keep us from roasting in the fiery furnace with pitchforks sticking out of our butts like toothpicks in a Swedish meatball. Maybe she doesn’t think we’re worth saving.
Anyway, Lacy and I march downstairs to the living room, along with my little brother Drew, for the big family meeting. Dad sits in his favorite easy chair, but Mom keeps standing. She has her serious face on, which doesn’t mean she’s completely quit smiling. It’s just turned down to about a three on the smile-o-meter.
“The first thing I want you to know,” she says, “is that your grandmother is really making progress. I have complete faith that she’s going to get better. But with her chemo treatments, she’s feeling pretty worn out. That’s normal. Sometimes, you have to put up with the hard days to get to the good. It’s just that right now she can’t do a lot of things she’s used to doing and needs a little help. If I could take off work and stay with her while she gets through this, I would, but I’m lucky to get the days off I have been without losing my job.”
Uh-oh. This is worse than I thought. I mean, if someone needs to stay with Grandma for a while and it’s not Mom, who else in the room is it likely to be? It can’t be Dad or Drew, and I don’t see how it can be Lacy either. She has absolutely no sense of responsibility, unless you count babysitting jobs. And even then she let the Crowders’ little girl get a peanut M&M stuck up her nose. She had to call them to come home and everything. They had to take the kid to the doctor to get it out.
So, no, I am definitely not expecting it when Mom says, “Your father and I have talked it over, and we’ve decided it would be a good idea if Lacy stays with Grandma, just until she recuperates a little more. I’ll drive you over there after I get off work tomorrow.”
Mom turns her smile up a couple of notches like this is the best idea since the invention of the curling iron. Dad stares at the floor. You can tell he didn’t have much input into this decision. And, of course, the first words out of Lacy’s mouth are, “Me! Why me? Why doesn’t Ceejay have to go?”
I admit I’m thinking the same thing. Not that I want to spend time with a grandmother who basically thinks I’m a thug, but it’s hard not to feel like this is yet another way for the parents to let me know I’m not a real part of the family. After all, why else would they choose my weakly little fourteen-year-old sister over me? I’m definitely not going to argue about their choice, though.
Mom keeps her smile at a steady wattage. “Ceejay’s going to work for your uncle this summer,”
she tells Lacy. “We’ve had that planned for a long time.”
“But what about my plans?” Lacy whines. “What about all my friends?”
I’m thinking, What plans? Her and her friends lying around the public swimming pool all summer hoping some idiotic junior high boy will buy them a Coke?
“It’s just a month or so,” says Mom.
“A month or so!” Lacy whines. “I’ll die if I can’t be around my friends for a month.”
Finally, Dad gets into the act—“I don’t want to hear any more talk like that.” His voice has a stern edge. Usually playing sergeant at arms isn’t in Dad’s nature, but he’ll do it if he thinks he has to back up Mom. “Your grandma is part of this family and we don’t turn our backs on family. We have to be there for each other.”
Right, I’m thinking. Like how you didn’t turn your backs on Bobby when the town assholes sent him into the army.
“But why does it have to be me?” Lacy’s practically in tears now.
“Your mother already explained that,” Dad tells her. “Besides, it’ll be good for you to think about someone besides yourself for a while.”
At least someone finally had the sense to say that to her. I’m just surprised it was Dad. He usually treats Lacy like she’s a shiny little princess who does no wrong.
She shuts up after that, but I know the look on her face. She’s plotting something, probably some way to trick the parents into sending me to Grandma’s instead. It’s hopeless, though. Mom and Dad have their minds made up.
On our way upstairs after the family conference, I nudge Lacy’s shoulder and tell her not to worry. There will probably be a whole fresh crop of boys she can drool over in Davenport.
“Why don’t you go over there then,” she fires back. “Maybe you’ll meet a boy who likes you for a change.”
“Hey, don’t get smart-ass with me.” I give her earlobe a hard flick. “I’m not the one making you go.”
“But it wouldn’t make any difference if you went,” she says. “You’d be better off not hanging around with your stupid friends anyway.”