The Misfits Page 2
“Yes, Ms. Wyman?”
“Would you care to tell the class why you did not rise and say the Pledge of Allegiance with us this morning?”
“Yes, Ms. Wyman.” Addie takes a deep breath. “I looked the word ‘pledge’ up in the dictionary and it said—”
“Furniture polish,” Kevin Hennessey mutters. A bunch of boys around him laugh, Jimmy Lemon loudest of all.
Ms. Wyman furrows her brow. “Continue, Addie,” she says.
“It said, well, it actually said lots of things because the word ’pledge’ has multiple meanings, as many words do, but as best I could make out, the meaning that applied to the Pledge of Allegiance was this.” 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.’”
She clears her throat.
“Now, besides the fact that the dictionary is hopelessly sexist and it should have said ’himself or herself... “‘
Somebody says, “Here goes Know-lt-All.”
Addie presses on. “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.”
She casts her eye on DuShawn Carter, who conveniently is seated to her right and even more conveniently is African-American.
“Addie,” Ms. Wyman says. “I think perhaps—”
“Did you happen to read this morning’s New York Times?” Addie continues. I make a mental note to tell Addie later about my liver-eating theory in regards to Ms. Wyman and to suggest that it might be best not to interrupt her.
“Well, my parents subscribe to The New York Times,” Addie says, to the accompaniment of groans, “and it’s a good thing they do. Otherwise, I wouldn’t know half of what’s going on in the world. Have you seen what is happening in the unfair metropolis of New York? You cannot be a black man and walk down the streets of that city without the word ’guilty’ stamped on your forehead. The police arrest you—or worse—just because of the color of your skin. I do not call that liberty and—”
“Miss Carle—”
“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.
Returning to her seat, she says, “I rest my case.”
Sitting, she lets out a gigantic fart and turns bright red. Pretty much everybody cracks up. I am sticking the sharp point of my compass into my thumb to keep from laughing because, after all, Addie is one of my best friends.
“Kevin Hennessey!” Ms. Wyman exclaims. I’m sure she figures it is Kevin who put the whoopee cushion on Addie’s chair, because statistically speaking—and statistics are Ms. Wyman’s raison d’être (which is French for “reason to be,” in case not knowing what something means in another language gets in the way of your following the action)—you’d have a pretty good bet that Kevin is guilty of just about anything that happens in school. Anything of a subversive or out-and-out nasty nature, that is. Once Skeezie retired as School Bad Boy, Kevin took over the job. But I have the feeling it isn’t Kevin this time. No, I have the feeling it is Addie’s Living, Breathing Symbol of Social Injustice who has placed the whoopee cushion on her chair. I mean, DuShawn Carter is laughing so hard he is pretty near busting a gut.
3
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. Due to the change in my employment status, we canned holding the Forum on a specific day of the week and decided we’d have it whenever we felt like it. The Friday Forum became the Floating Forum.
The minutes of the First Floating Forum of the Seventh-Grade Year are as follows:
Addie:
Today’s topic for discussion is “Liberty and Justice for All.”
Skeezie:
Do you have to write down every single word?
Addie:
Talk more slowly, please.
Skeezie:
Geesh.
Addie:
Well, I guess we all know what happened in Ms. Wyman’s homeroom class this morning.
Joe:
You told us at lunch.
Skeezie:
It is all you talked about at lunch.
Joe:
Wait a minute, did you write my name down as Joe?
Addie:
That is your name, the last I heard.
Joe:
Not anymore. Now it’s Scorpio.
Skeezie:
Scorpio?!
Joe:
You should talk, with a name like Skeezie.
Bobby:
What happened to Jodan?
Joe:
Oh, that putting-my-first-and-middle-names-together thing? That is sooo last week. I like Scorpio. It has, oh, I don’t know, energy.
Skeezie:
How about Plunger?
Joe:
Plunger?
Skeezie:
Yeah, like in toilet plunger. You get one of those things working, man, talk about energy.
Joe:
Wait a minute, I think I hear someone laughing. Oops, my mistake, that was someone gagging in the next booth.
Skeezie:
Ha.
Addie:
Excuse me, could we get back to the topic?
Joe:
Could you write my name as Scorpio?
Addie:
Okay, fine.
Scorpio:
Thank you.
Addie:
You’re welcome. Now, what I want to know is if you guys think there is liberty and justice for all in this country.
Scorpio:
No way.
Bobby:
Well, I think what the Pledge of Allegiance is about is idealism. You know, like, what we aim for.
Addie:
But that’s not what is says. It says promise.
Bobby:
Where? It doesn’t say that word.
Addie:
Well, pledge, promise, same thing. The point is—
Scorpio:
The point is there’s no way there is freedom and justice for everybody in this country. It’s, well, I don’t mean it’s like a total, you know, a totalism kind of thing, whatever it’s called.
Addie:
Totalitarianism.
Scorpio:
Yeah, that. I mean, it’s not like we’ve got some dictator guy telling everybody they have to, I don’t know, like, wear polyester all the time or something grotesque like that.
Skeezie:
Oh, yeah, there’s a fate worse than death. Synthetics.
Addie:
I think we’re getting a little off the—
Bobby:
It’s cool that you’re not saying the Pledge, Addie, I mean it’s cool that you’re standing up for your principles and all, but—
Addie:
Thank you.
Bobby:
But what difference does it make? I mean, just because you sit there and don’t say the words with everybody else, that’s not going to help some poor guy hundreds of miles downstate in New York City who gets beaten up just because he’s black or poor or something.
Addie:
I contend that it does make a difference.
Skeezie:
Oo, she contends. Where’s our food, if you don’t mind my asking?
Addie:
Yes, I contend that every act of conscience makes a difference.
Skeezie:
But you’re talking about New York City. We don’t have the same kinds of problems here.
Scorpio:
Hello.
Are you kidding? Of course we do.
Addie:
Just on a smaller scale. It’s important to bring attention—
Bobby:
My dad says it’s better just to get along, not make waves. He says bringing attention can be a dangerous thing.
Addie:
Of course it can! Just look at Abraham Lincoln or Martin Luther King or . . . or . . .
Scorpio:
Madonna. Or RuPaul.
Addie:
I don’t think they’re in quite the same league, Joe. I mean, Scorpio.
Scorpio:
They bring attention! They’re like, “In your face, world! Look at me! This is who I am and if you don’t like it, stuff it! I’m as good as anybody else!”
Skeezie:
Tell it!
Bobby:
Whatever. The thing is, Ms. Wyman is not going to let you not say the Pledge, Addie, so what is the point?
Addie:
Excuse me? I do not believe Ms. Wyman has the right to tell me what I can and cannot say. Have you never heard of the First Amendment?
Skeezie:
Has that bozo who took our order never heard of first come, first served? Did you see that? He just gave them their food and they came in here after we did!
Bobby:
Maybe they’re friends of his.
Skeezie:
There you are, Addie, a perfect example of how there’s no liberty and justice for all. In a just world, I’d be slurping my Dr Pepper by now and instead I’m sitting here parched and deprived because Mr. HellomynameisAdam is giving preferential treatment to his friends. Justice, I say! Justice!
Addie:
Skeezie, stop pounding on the table. You’re making a scene.
Skeezie:
Justice! Justice!
Bobby:
I thought you wanted to bring attention, Addie.
Addie:
There’s bringing attention and then there’s bringing attention. I mean, a little kid throwing a tantrum in public is bringing attention and that’s closer to what Skeezie’s doing right now than my standing up for—
Scorpio:
I was just thinking. RuPaul. I really like the sound of that. I think I’m going to be Jodan again. Except I’ll make the “D” capital, so you have to, like, emphasize the second syllable, you know? Jo-Dan.
Addie:
What are you talking about?
Scorpio:
No, no, don’t write Scorpio, write . . .
Addie:
Oh, I get it. Okay.
JoDan:
Yeah, like that. That’s cool.
Skeezie:
I thought that was so last week.
JoDan:
With a small “d.” That was so last week.
Skeezie:
Right, whatever.
Addie:
So about liberty and justice for—
Skeezie:
All right! Here’s our food. See, a little protest’ll work every time. You were right, Addie! It pays to act on your conscience. Hey, I learned something today. These Forums are way cool. Hey, hey, wait a minute.
HellomynameisAdam:
What’s wrong?
Skeezie:
This Dr Pepper is flat, my man. You gotta get me another.
Hellomy nameis Adam:
Look . . .
Skeezie:
Justice! Justice!
Hellomy nameis Adam:
All right, all right. Just cool your jets, will you?
Skeezie:
Peace, brother.
We do not record the rest of the proceedings, since we never do get back on the topic. If I recall correctly, we spend the rest of our time at the Candy Kitchen that Monday talking about who are the meanest teachers in seventh grade and who are the best. Ms. Wyman scores points in both categories.
4
TUESDAY MORNING, we get to school, and what do we find scrawled in big ugly marker on Joe’s locker but the word Fagot.
Joe is outraged.
“Don’t they teach spelling in this school?” he goes, then yells across the hall to Kevin Hennessey, who is wearing his usual smirk, “There are two ’g’s in ’faggot,’you numbskull!”
“I didn’t do it!” Kevin shouts back. “Not this time, anyways.”
“Yeah, well, tell your illiterate friends that if they’re going to call names, they should at least know how to spell them.”
“Okay, f-a-i-r-y,” Kevin retorts with an evil grin.
Joe gives him the raspberry.
“Liver pâté,” I mutter under my breath, which is code for: Ms. Wyman should rip his liver out, toss it in a blender, and serve it on crackers.
Joe and Kevin have been doing this little dance together since kindergarten when Kevin told the whole class that Joey didn’t have a pee-pee and Joe announced in a loud voice that he had two pee-pees and Kevin was just jealous.
“Faggot,” Kevin Hennessey spits as the bell rings.
“Numbskull of Unknown Paternal Origin,” Joe spits back.
“Good one,” I say.
Kevin jabs Joe with his elbow, then goes, “Out of the way, Lardbar,” to me as he pushes his way into Ms. Wyman’s homeroom. Joe rolls his eyes at me and shrugs before moving down the hall to Mr. Daly’s homeroom. Just another morning at Paintbrush Falls Middle School.
Now, as my classmates and I settle into our seats (we have at least a couple of minutes before Ms. Wyman leads us in yoga breathing), let me tell you about the first time I laid eyes on Joe. He was four. So was I.
I and my mom were visiting Addie and her mom, when Addie ups and tells me I should go check out the new kid next door. I noticed she did not offer to go with me.
“Just ring the bell,” she told me.
So I did. When the inside door opened, there on the other side of the screen was this kid wearing a dress.
“Will you marry me?” the kid in the dress asked.
I shook my head.
“Why?”
“I am going to marry my mother,” I answered. My mother did not yet know this.
“Can I marry your mother, too?”
“No.”
“Can I marry your father?”
“No.”
“Can you play with me?”
“Okay,” I said.
“I’m Joe,” he said.
“Okay.”
“I’m a boy,” he told me, lifting his dress to show me the proof. He was not wearing underpants. (For the record, he had only one pee-pee.)
“I never knew a boy who wore a dress,” I told him.
“There’s a lot you don’t know,” he said.
He was right about that.
It wasn’t the last time Joe wore a dress. He kept taking stuff from his mother’s closet and trying it on until his mother finally gave him his own box filled with clothes she was through with and he could dress up to his heart’s content.
He doesn’t wear dresses anymore—at least, not that I’m aware of—but lately he’s taken to running a streak of color through his hair and he’s always got the nail of his right pinky finger painted some crazy way. Sometimes his aunt Pam, who sells cosmetics at Awkworth & Ames but is really an artist, paints these tiny pictures on it. Faces or flowers or symbols. They’re pretty amazing. Even Kevin Hennessey has been known to say, “Cool.” Right now, there’s a scorpion on his finger, on account of his being Scorpio, I guess, except that’s changed of course and he’s JoDan, but I never remember to call him any of these names du jour anyway and just call him Joe.
As for Pam, well, I’ll have to tell you more about her later on, because we’re halfway through homeroom period and I perhaps should listen up in case Ms. Wyman says something that might be of actual use. I do want to tell you this, though: Pam is beautiful. I don’t mean ordinary Paintbrush Falls beautiful; I mean, like from a whole other planet beautiful. And although she does not smile all the time (she’s no phony), when she does, she’s got the kind of smile that makes your
chest feel two sizes too small and your brain two sizes too big, and the truth is I can hardly stand being around her most of the time. Or at least my body can hardly stand it.
“. . . elections three weeks from today,” I hear Ms. Wyman saying. I had best tune us back into the action because these elections she is going on about are going to play a big part in this story—and, although I have no way of knowing this at this moment, they will play an even bigger part in the story of my life.
“As you will recall, you all registered as Democrats or Republicans in the sixth grade—”
“Or Independents,” Addie pipes up.
Ms. Wyman gives Addie a look that’s laced with arsenic, on account of being interrupted.
“Or Independents,” she gives. “Now, anyone interested in running for student council on either ticket has until Thursday, seventh period, when the nominating conventions will take place—Republicans in the auditorium, Democrats in the media center.”
Out of the corner of my eye I see Addie stir. I want to swat her with a rolled-up newspaper, but I do not have a rolled-up newspaper and besides I remind myself she is not a fly.
“Where will the Independents meet?” she asks, to which Kevin goes, “The girls’ John,” and general hilarity ensues.
Ms. Wyman brings this to an abrupt halt with threats of detention or disembowelment, I have trouble hearingwhich.
“We have a two-party system,” she says firmly, once order has been restored.