Anatomy of a Misfit by Andrea Portes

Dush-nozzle.”
    Shelli takes this class with me. Thank God. At least we can sit in the back giggling during Mr. Short-Shorts’s monologues about team spirit or whatever the hell he’s talking about.
    â€œWhat? Why?”
    â€œMy dad says I have to.”
    â€œThe ogre or the vampire?”
    â€œThe vampire.”
    â€œOh.”
    Even Shelli knows that’s serious.
    â€œDo you think I should do it now?”
    â€œI dunno. His shorts look pretty short today. What if his wiener sticks out and tries to bite you?”
    â€œGross! Do you think he has a girlfriend?”
    â€œYeah, and her name is Rosy Palm.”
    â€œOkay, here goes.”
    The last thing I want to do is talk to this guy, but what are you gonna do? If I don’t I’ll end up barefoot and pregnant and living in a trailer park with a guy named Cletus.
    His office has glass around it, stuck right behind the gym. He’s doing something with laminated charts and looking vaguely confused.
    â€œUm. Mr. Dushane?”
    He doesn’t hear me.
    â€œMr. Dushane? Can I talk to you for a minute?”
    â€œWhat? Oh, hi. Yes, what can I do for you . . .” He can’t remember my name.
    â€œAnika. My name’s Anika.”
    â€œRight! Right. I knew that. So . . . what can I do for you, Anika?”
    â€œWell, I wanted to talk to you about my quarter report. I got a B.”
    â€œYes?”
    â€œWell, I’m just wondering what advice you could give me, seeing that you’re considered like one of the most inspiring teachers and all . . . I’m just wondering, like, what advice you can give me to get better, and, you know, get an A.”
    â€œIt’s not about As and Bs.”
    â€œMr. Dushane, I’ve never gotten a B before in my life. I’m not allowed, okay?”
    â€œI see.”
    â€œAnd I just want to ask you what I can do to improve myself, here in PE, and I am really just looking for some advice from someone who really seems to have it all figured out.”
    All figured out? Who says that? What am I turning into over here?
    â€œOkay. Okay, Anika. You have to apply yourself. You have to think, when it seems hopeless, when you’re getting tired in the six-hundred-yard dash, you have to give it not one hundred percent . . . you have to give it one hundred and ten percent. See what I mean?”
    What an idiot.
    I could get that kind of advice from a Nike commercial.
    â€œYes. Yes, Mr. Dushane, I do. I really want to thank you for that. It really means a lot to me.”
    He nods, making a reassuring but stern face. A guyface. A jockface, also used by politicians, I’ve noticed. It says, “This is how it’s done, and we can do it!”
    Guys are so full of shit.
    Okay, back to Shelli.
    â€œWhat’d he say?”
    â€œHe said his wiener wants to meet you.”

twenty-three
    S helli’s mom picked her up today because she’s bringing her straight to Spring Youth. Spring Youth, can you believe it? If you don’t know what it is, picture this: Twenty or so kids go over to the leader’s house and eat cookies, drink punch, and sing songs. The song lyrics are projected, written out in pen so you can sing along. The leader, or her husband, plays guitar. It’s all fun and everyone is having a big old time. Then, the leader, or a guest speaker, gets up and talks about Jesus Christ our Lord and Savior. At the end of each session you are invited, if you so choose, to get up and say, “My name is so-and-so and Jesus Christ is my Lord and Savior.”
    Now, how do I know this? Because I have attended one of these Jesus parties and I know firsthand that it is actually extremely enjoyable until Nerdlinger, our particular Spring Youth leader, gets up there and starts talking about Jesus. They should just stick to the songs and the punch.
    Anyway, today is Shelli’s day to try to be a stand-up Christian but