The Misfits by James Howe

brainstorm.
    â€œD-d-d-daryl,” I hear. “H-h-how ya d-d-d-doin’, D-d-d-daryl?”
    â€œS-s-s-s-stop it, K-k-k-k-k-kevin!”
    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.
    â€œWhat a dweeb!” Kevin Hennessey goes, and jimmy Lemon laughs like Kevin is the funniest guy since Robin Williams.
    â€œThat’s our raison d’etre,” I hear myself saying.
    The others turn and look at me, and in that split second before I explain, this amazing feeling comes over me. It’s a Twilight Zone sort of feeling, like I’m about to pass from one dimension into another. And you know? That’s exactly what I’m going to do. I am about to stop being a get-along kind of guy and turn into somebody who makes a difference.

14
    â€œNO MORE names,” I say.
    Addie goes, “What?”
    â€œThat’s our platform and that’s our party,” I explain, getting excited. “The No-Name Party.” Ideas are rushing at me like water out of an open hydrant.
    The Skeeze, wiping chocolate off his mouth with the back of his hand, says, “What are you talkin’ about? The Lame-Brain Party? I don’t get it.”
    â€œThat’s because
you’re
the lame brain,” I tell him. “No offense, Addie, but you’ve been looking at the wrong minority the whole time. DuShawn even said it.”
    â€œSaid what?”
    Joe chimes in, “He said
we
were the ones who hadto watch our butts, not him and Royal and Tondayala Cherise.”
    â€œRight,” I go. “And, Joe, you said not every minority is visible, remember? Think about it, Addie, what makes a minority? It’s numbers, right? The majority is the larger percentage, the minority the smaller.”
    â€œWyman would be prouda you, man,” says the Skeeze, ridding his fingers of unwanted chocolate crumbs by dragging them down the front of his shirt. I swear, his eating is some kind of performance art. He could charge admission.
    â€œWhatever,” I say. “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.”
    â€œLike us,” Addie goes.
    â€œAnd Daryl, who Kevin just called a dweeb,” I point out. “Think of all the names
we’ve
been called over the years.”
    I grab a pen out of my back pocket and start writing down all the names I can think of on a napkin. There are eighteen, then seventeen when I realize I’ve written “Fluff” twice.
    â€œWow,” Joe says, “that’s almost as many as me.” He starts rattling off his list and I’m writing so fast the napkin begins to shred. He’s got twenty-six by the time he’s through and those are only the ones he can think of off the top of his pink-streaked head.
    â€œWhat about you, Skeeze?” I ask. “What names have you been called?”
    Skeezie starts rocking back in his chair, his hands clasped behind his head. “Wop,” he starts with, “greaser, greaseball, slimeball, guinea ...” His list ends up at sixteen, four of which are put-downs of Italians, which doesn’t even make sense because Skeezie doesn’t have an ounce of Italian blood in him.
    It’s Addie’s turn and now we’re all into it, weirdly competing with one another for who’s been called the most and the worst names. There are some we’ve all been called. Addie comes up with only eleven, three of which have to do with her height, five with her brains, and three what we call “all-purpose.”
    Our final tally covers three napkins. This is what we’ve