The Misfits Read Online Free Page A

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 homeroomperiod 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.
    â€œ. . . 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.
    â€œAs you will recall, you all registered as Democrats or Republicans in the sixth grade—”
    â€œOr Independents,” Addie pipes up.
    Ms. Wyman gives Addie a look that’s laced with arsenic, on account of being interrupted.
    â€œOr 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.
    â€œWhere 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.
    â€œWe have a two-party system,” she says firmly, once order has been restored.
    â€œBut—”
    â€œThe candidates from the
two
parties will meet with me, as student council adviser, in this room after school on Thursday. Any questions?”
    Addie raises her hand.
    â€œGood,” Ms. Wyman snaps, grabbing a stack of papers from her desk. “Then we can move on. Brittney, would you pass these out, please?”
    Brittney Hobson jumps up. “I’d be happy to,” she says perkily. Brittney is the kind of person for whom active verbs and modifiers were invented.
    As we read about the seventh-grade dance coming up in October, the announcements come on the P.A., and soon we are standing for the Pledge.
    Or not.
    Which explains why Ms. Wyman now has that liver-eating look on her face and is saying to Addie, “Miss Carle, I think perhaps you had best go see Mr. Kiley.”
    Some of the boys go, “Oooo.”
    â€œThat’s enough!” snaps Ms. Wyman. “Miss Carle, you may be excused.”
    Addie rises to her full height, meaning she occupies all the vertical space she’s entitled to instead of slumping, which she sometimes does because of her being so tall and getting called names on account of it, and she walks to the door, clutching her books. When she