Anatomy of a Misfit by Andrea Portes Page B

It’s not like we’re 100 percent together. I mean, we pass secret notes. We’ve hung out a few times. We’ve made out like twice. Seriously.
    I know you’re keeping score, you perv. The fact is so far it’s all been basic kissing and a couple of heavy make-out sessions. Logan doesn’t seem to be in any big hurry, which is kind of annoying sometimes actually.
    Not to mention this whole Jared Kline thing. I mean, yeah, it’s true Jared Kline is a scam artist. That is true. But . . . and here’s the thing I really don’t want to admit to myself: If Jared Kline were madly, passionately, crazily in love with me . . . I’m pretty sure I might have to be in love with him, too, a little bit. Well, okay, a lot. All I know is, when I was in that mahogany office with him . . . it kind of felt like I was in a spaceship or something. I mean, he didn’t seem at all like what everybody says. He seemed kind of, I dunno, sweet in a way.
    The problem with all of this, of course, is that it’s basically a daydream.
    I’m not gonna lie to you. I seem to be like the queen of the daydreamers. For instance, at Bunza Hut, when we’re just sitting there for eight hours straight staring at our toenails and ringing up French fries, it’s kind of like only a matter of time until I start thinking about what it would be like to live in Iceland, or if there is any possibility of marrying a duke, or what about just living someplace really weird in the South Pacific, some island that no one even really knew existed except the locals. Things like that.
    You can see why I have to steal just to keep focus.
    Right now Logan takes off and Stacy Nolan is walking next to me on the long death march home, in the freezing cold and, frankly, it’s a little bit awkward. Neither of us knows what to say, really.
    â€œHey, so, I wanted to tell you . . .”
    â€œYeah?”
    â€œI thought that was really nice what you did for me. I mean, not many people would have done something like that. Honestly.”
    â€œWell, it wasn’t much.”
    â€œYeah, it was. Believe me.”
    â€œIt wasn’t even true, so, I mean, that kind of helped.”
    â€œI know!”
    We walk on up the hill. It’s rows and rows of suburban houses but you can see your breath now. It’s obvious my parents are trying to kill me.
    â€œIt’s kinda weird, right?”
    â€œWhat? What is?” I’m halfway to daydreaming, she better make it quick.
    â€œWell, I mean, don’t you wonder who started that rumor in the first place?”
    â€œYeah, I guess.”
    â€œI sure do.”
    â€œWell, let’s think. Do you have any enemies or anything?”
    â€œWhat do you mean?”
    â€œI dunno, did you like do something mean to someone, maybe you didn’t even realize until after it was too late or something?”
    â€œHm. Lemme think.”
    We walk on and now it’s really starting to freeze over. The sun is going down through the scraggly black trees and the leaves on the ground—red, brown, orange—smell burnt. We are about one block past Shelli’s house and I can’t help but wonder if she’s become a born-again Christian yet.
    â€œAnyone? I mean, maybe it was just some dumb thing.”
    â€œI dunno. The thing is . . . I’m not like you. I mean, people don’t care about me. Like, they don’t care what I do. It’s like, I dunno, it’s like I’m invisible or something.”
    â€œReally?”
    â€œOh yeah. It’s like . . . I mean as weird as it sounds, that whole debacle was like the first time half the school even knew I existed.”
    â€œNo way.”
    â€œYeah. Way.”
    The fact is, she’s telling the truth. And I don’t even know why. I don’t even know who makes up these unwritten rules about who and what you’re supposed to care