DEDICATION
For my son, Wyatt,
who is my sun, my moon,
and my stars.
And for my husband, Sandy,
who is my mountain, my ocean,
and my northern light.
CONTENTS
Dedication
Part I One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Twenty-Three
Twenty-Four
Twenty-Five
Part II Twenty-Six
Twenty-Seven
Twenty-Eight
Twenty-Nine
Thirty
Thirty-One
Thirty-Two
Thirty-Four
Thirty-Five
Thirty-Six
Thirty-Seven
Thirty-Eight
Thirty-Nine
Forty
Forty-One
Forty-Two
Forty-Three
Forty-Four
Forty-Five
Forty-Six
Forty-Seven
Forty-Eight
Forty-Nine
Fifty
Fifty-One
Fifty-Two
Part III Fifty-Three
Fifty-Four
Fifty-Five
Fifty-Six
Fifty-Seven
Fifty-Eight
Fifty-Nine
Sixty
Sixty-One
Sixty-Two
Sixty-Three
Sixty-Four
Sixty-Five
Sixty-Six
Sixty-Seven
Acknowledgments
Back Ads
About the Author
Books by Andrea Portes
Credits
Copyright
About the Publisher
PART I
ONE
Bet you’d never thought you’d be sitting at the freak table. It’s okay. You get used to it. Trust me.
But there are some responsibilities here, so let’s get things straight.
Let’s go around the table, shall we? Clockwise it goes . . . Peanut Allergy Boy, Headgear Girl, OCD, and me. You’re probably wondering about the names. Look. I’m not gonna sugarcoat it. There’s a reason I’m not telling you. We’ll get to that. I mean, geez. Why are you rushing me?
You may have to take care of these people when I’m gone, okay? Like Headgear Girl is pretty low maintenance. And, honestly, Peanut Allergy Boy is, too. Other than the fact you have to make sure there are no nuts anywhere near him, even pine nuts, seriously. If he eats nuts he’ll blow up like a puffer fish and you’ll have to stab him in the thigh with his EpiPen or he’ll die. That’s not an exaggeration. He will literally die. Don’t worry. No pressure. I’ll show you how to do it before I go.
Really, OCD is the one you have to watch out for. It’s just that if you don’t get the salt and pepper, ketchup, and mustard condiment dispensers all in a row, like exactly in a row, parallel to the table edge and centered in the middle of the table, well, he kind of starts flailing all over the place and then crying and shaking and yelling that we’re all gonna die. It’s okay, though. He’s on medication. Small detail, sometimes he forgets to take said medication and then all of a sudden the condiments’ positioning will lead to the end of the world, so it’s best just to put them there in the first place. Why risk it?
You can imagine all this freakiness in one place might lead to a certain amount of asses getting kicked. Never have you imagined more correctly. It’s okay, though. I usually take the brunt of it. That’s sort of what I’m here for. It’s also, kind of, why I’m here in the first place. I used to just be a normal high school–hating teenager somewhere in the middle of the public school experiment. In a kind of purgatory. A safe space.
But I sort of lost my mind in tenth grade and decided to defend Peanut Allergy Boy after the zillionth time he had “Penis Allergy” stuck to his back on a sign. It was really that he tried to defend himself. That was not allowed by the jocks, who clearly took a kind of red-faced glee in throwing him into the nearest trash can and rolling him down the hall between fourth and fifth periods.
Look. I don’t know what came over me. But whatever it was, it went like a whirl. The first part of the whirl was me yelling at them and calling them idiot Neanderthals with the IQ of maybe a concrete block. The second part of the whirl was them putting me into a trash can and rolling me down the same said hallway between fourth and fifth periods. And the third part of the whirl was me at the freak table from there to forevermore. It’s okay. Wanna know a secret?
I like it here.
This is the place for me.
Yeah. The freak table. Holler.
At least here I don’t have to dumb myself down or pretend to care about football or talk about the pros and cons of hairspray. Here, it’s perfectly acceptable for me to stare into the abyss for an entire hour, and nobody bothers me. All I have to do is make sure the table is sans peanuts, the condiments are in a row, and there’s nothing too stringy that gets stuck in headgear. Easy, right?
I would’ve stayed here happily. I really would have. For, like, ever.
Right now OCD and Peanut Allergy are waxing poetic about next year. About what’s gonna happen when I get back from the East Coast, calling it Le Snooty Coast, and how I’ll eat lobster rolls and say “Pahk the cah in the Hahvahd yahd” and get molested by a Kennedy. Headgear Girl thinks I should invest in a lot of navy blazers and maybe even invent a fake family crest.
And I don’t have the heart to tell them the truth. I don’t have the heart to tell them I won’t be back. I don’t have the heart to tell them I have a two-point plan. But I’ll tell you, okay? As long as you keep it a secret. You ready? It’s a simple plan, really.
1) Move to the East Coast.
And . . .
2) Kill myself.
TWO
You want to know what happened?
Fine. I can explain everything.
It’s because of “should.”
Yep, that one word. That’s why it all went down.
Does that sound crazy? It won’t for long. Not after I tell you the whole story. And this? This is the story you want to hear.
So, yeah. “Should.”
If it has to do with “should” or “supposed to be,” you are dealing, without question, with my mom.
If it has to do with “just the way things are,” that’s my dad.
And “just the way things are” is never, ever, good enough.
Nope. Not for my mom.
Not that she even lives here anymore. She lives in France. Outside Paris. In Fontainebleau. In the forest of Fontainebleau. Yes, she’s actually a fairy. Doesn’t that sound like a total fable? But hold on, we’ll get to that later, ’cause that’s a whopper.
If you think my dad and I live in Paris or France or Fontainebleau, you’ve got another think coming. No, we come from a very glamorous place you may have heard of. It’s all the rage. Beyond en vogue. Can you guess where? Okay, here goes.
What Cheer, Iowa.
Yup, you heard me. What effing Cheer effing Iowa. You may have thought I just got distracted while we were talking and turned to the person next to me and said “What?” and that person answered, “Cheer!” but no. No. That is the name
of the town. What Cheer.
There are many theories as to how the town got that name. I’m fairly sure the main reason is to make everybody confused when I tell them where I’m from.
The main story most people like to tell is the one where, back in ancient times, all the townsfolk—and I want you to imagine here a bunch of people in overalls, maybe someone with a corncob pipe, someone with a rope for a belt, and then a kindly old gentleman in a black suit with white hair like George Washington—gathered round in the town hall to think of a name for the town. No one could agree. There were insults made. Accusations hurled. Possibly a chair thrown.
Finally, it descended into so much chaos and rabble-rousing that the only respectable person there, who I imagine to be the guy with the George Washington hair, declared, “All right! The next person to come in that door, the first thing they say, THAT will be the name of the town!”
And then . . . out of the blue, a lonely old drifter came sidling in. I imagine this was the moment the hall fell silent. Possibly some tumbleweed blew across the floor. Maybe even the mice froze in anticipation. A kind townsman said, “Come in, sir. Take a seat.” To which the drifter replied, “What chair?” But nobody back then could hear anything, because they had all left their ear horns back home or something, so they all thought he said, “What cheer!” And, lo and behold, the first and most constant source of my awkward discomfort. What Cheer, Iowa.
People in town love to regale folks with this story. They tell it with real verve. At the punch line, everybody laughs and shakes their heads and pretends not to have heard it a thousand times before.
Oh, yes. I can rattle off that and a million other tales about What Cheer that would make the folks back home proud, but right now let’s just stick to the fact that the population is 646 people. Actually, 645, if you’re counting me.
Because right now, if you’re looking at me, I’m on a train. See me there? I’m the girl with the frizzy red hair and the funny mouth. Don’t make fun of my mouth—everybody has to have one, and I just got a weird one. Not weird, exactly, just kind of big. I have a big mouth. In all senses. First, the mouth is literally big, and second, the mouth is open a lot, asking a lot—okay, maybe too much—about all kinds of things. But what I want to know is which came first? The big mouth or the “big mouth”? You can’t exactly go through life with a mouth like this and not, by default, end up using it a lot to ask things everybody wonders but no one wants to say. If I had been born with a thin mouth, like Kristen Stewart or something, I bet I would just always be quiet and know my place. I bet I would wear a lot of beige. I bet I would bathe in beige.
But that’s not what happened here.
What happened here is I got this funny mouth, which by order of the decree of human existence made me a “big mouth.” And also, I got a broke dad, because he and my mom are divorced. So, if you start with a kid with a smart-alecky persona, grow her up in a place called What Cheer, and give her zero money (Thank you, broken family!), then you get me. A girl who has to dress from a thrift shop and never stops asking questions.
They call it “quirky.”
I call it “If I weren’t wearing these thrift-store clothes, I’d be wearing a pickle barrel.”
If I had just been born with a small mouth and a rich family I could’ve worn beige till the cows came home. Or the pheasants. Whatever rich people wait for to come home.
I could’ve had stick-straight hair and said clueless things like “For a home pedicure, just slather your feet in one-thousand-dollar gel made of rare dodo eggs!” Just like that celebrity woman with that “lifestyle blog.” Have you ever noticed how that blondie pale-face over there is always making a complete fool of herself? You know who I am talking about. Admit it. I have a theory, which is not that she’s out of touch or too privileged or just too transcendent or something. My theory is that maybe she is just dumb. There I said it.
But this is not her story. God, wouldn’t that be a bore.
No, this is a story about a girl from What Cheer, Iowa.
And the train has left the station. Literally. Like, the train just left the station fifteen minutes ago and now I am heading out to conquer the world. And by “conquer the world,” I mean “get calmly ensconced in a tomb of my own making and then end it all with a dramatic flair.” I am still hammering out the details, by the by. I’d like to see the lay of the land before I make any rash decisions.
I’d say I spent eighty percent of the year sitting there between OCD, Headgear Girl, and Peanut Allergy Boy trying to figure it out. What is the best way? When should I do it? Should it be a quiet one, where nobody knows and somebody just happens upon me, like in the stacks of the library? Or should it be a dramatic jump off the top of the giant clock tower they show all over the place in the brochure?
But listen. OCD, Headgear, and Peanut had no idea, saying good-bye to me, that they’d never see me again. I covered. Look, why make them depressed? I think they have enough problems, don’t you?
I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t gonna miss them. I’m gonna miss the fuck out of them. This whole plan? To make me go east? To make me sophisticated? To make me a respectable member of society? Honestly? It’s diabolical.
So I make a pact with myself. Don’t think about them. Just put them far away from me in a box and never think about them. Or, at least, try not to think about them. I don’t want to cry every day, now, do I? That is not sophisticated.
I bet you’re wondering why I’m not heading west. Isn’t that where everybody goes? Doesn’t it seem like at the end of every movie, book, whatever, the main honcho always shrugs or has a moment of insight or kills the bad guy before taking a train, plane, bus, or horse, west—to where the sun shines free and the palm trees fan you to sleep?
You’ve got to wonder what everybody does when they get there.
I bet they just look around and say, “Huh.”
And then the whole of California just kind of shrugs and goes back to its juice diet.
So, in case you’re wondering, no. No, I am not heading to California. I mean, this is the beginning of the story, right? If I headed there now, it just wouldn’t be proper. And I bet I’d end up on the streets with a guy named Spike as my criminal accomplice.
No, no. This story is about the “should.” As in, I “should” be more sophisticated by now, according to my mother. And I “should” be less of a total freak if I want to get anywhere at the Ivy League university I will no doubt be attending. Sending somebody to California to get sophisticated is like sending someone to the Krispy Kreme to lose weight.
Nope, to ensure this all-important sophistication I am headed to The Pembroke School back east. Oh, you’ve never heard of The Pembroke School? That’s because it’s basically a secret and nobody can get in unless their parents are in the Social Register or their great-great-great-great-great-grandparents came over on the Mayflower or their names are Sasha or Malia. Other than that, you’re out of luck. Don’t even think about it. It will just depress you.
So, how does a giant-mouthed, secondhand oddball from the sticks like yours truly get into a place that should obviously reject and scorn me before I even say its name? Well, here’s the good part.
So, have you ever heard of that theory of money called “The Logic of Collective Action”? You know, the “theory of political science and economics of concentrated benefits versus diffuse costs, its central argument being that concentrated minor interests will be overrepresented and diffuse majority interests trumped, due to a free-rider problem that is stronger when a group becomes larger”?
Of course you haven’t.
Nobody has.
Except economists. And bankers. And political scientists. And everybody who cares an awful lot about money and power, mainly because they already have money and power and they need to make sure to keep the money and power while everybody else just sits around wondering where all the jobs went, or why they work for forty hours a week and still can’t afford to put food on the
table.
Well, that theory, that theory, which is impossible to understand, was the main, superimportant work of . . . drumroll, please . . . my mother. Basically everybody in that little microcosm of the world, the one with the money and power, knows that theory and knows my mom.
Not “knows her,” exactly. “Worships her” is more like it.
Yes. She is worshipped.
I know, it’s weird.
And because of that, she’s written a zillion books and been in a zillion brain trusts and served under not one but two presidents. Like, in their cabinets. You get the picture. She’s a mucky-muck. A big whoop.
Don’t be jealous, she’s not a nice lady.
Like, if you’re even thinking of being jealous, you might want to take that thought and throw it out the back window and go downstairs and hug your normal mom, who maybe didn’t come up with some famous theory of economics but maybe, also, remembers your birthday, or Christmas, or that you even exist. Trust me. If you have a mom, and she went to maybe, say, ONE activity you ever did in your life, little league or the school recital or the Christmas pageant where you played Mary (MARY, for God’s sake!)—well, then, you have me beat. And you are sitting pretty, my friend.
Where this comes in handy, however, is The Pembroke School.
Because in places like this, if your attendance isn’t assumed by virtue of your birth, then it comes down to someone making a phone call. And when you get a phone call from an ex-president, you answer the phone. Even if this ex-president is, you know, just a pal, making a phone call for his pal. To get his pal’s daughter into your school.
It’s like that, see. That’s how it goes in these places.
Oh, did you think it was about the best candidate?
Wrongo.
This is the kind of thing you’re not supposed to know about. Like there’s this gas station right out of town, right out of What Cheer. And my dad had to stop going there. At least, with me in the car. Why? It’s because they live there. The whole family. The gas attendant, his wife, their three little kids. They live right there. Above the gas station. You can see the little kids looking out the front door, squinting there, in just a pair of shorts. And the littlest one, the baby, in just a diaper. And my dad just had to stop taking me. ’Cause every time I would throw a fit and tell him we had to go back and give those kids some clean clothes and maybe some food and “it isn’t fair, Dad. It’s just not fair, it’s just not FAAAAIIIIIRRRR.”