The Misfits by James Howe Page B

looking over at Skeezie and I am pondering on the fact that his real name is Schuyler and I do not know when he first started getting called Skeezie or dressing like a 1950s young hooligan, but I’m remembering that his dad used to ride around town on a motorcycle, all decked out in a black leather jacket, which is not the usual thing to do in Paintbrush Falls, and he got a lot of grief over it, but he did not care. Or at least that’s what he said. But then one day he just up and left.
    And then there’s me. Pork Chop, Roly-Poly, Fluff.And I’m thinking there’s a lot more to all of us than the names we’re called or what we show on the outside.
    â€œCan I tell you guys something?” Joe says. “Will you promise not to laugh at me or say it’s gross?”
    â€œPromise,” I say, and Skeezie goes, “Pinky swear,” and smiles.
    â€œYou know what I want more than anything?”
    I am guessing by the way he takes a deep breath that the answer to this is not to be found in any of Joe’s usual wish-list categories, such as home decor or celebrities-I’d-most-like-to-be-stuck-on-a-desert-island-with.
    â€œI think about this a lot, but I’ve never told anybody. Not Aunt Pam or anybody. What I want more than anything is to hold hands with somebody I like.”
    Joe pulls his knees up then, sharp, and crosses his arms over them, so he can lay down his head, like now that he’s told us this terrible secret he doesn’t want to see our faces telling him what we think.
    â€œDoes that gross you out?” he asks from inside his folded-up arms.
    â€œNo,” I go, and so does the Skeeze.
    â€œIf that’s how you feel, then you should just go for it, man,” says Skeezie, getting all serious. “I mean, you’re a pretty outrageous character, JoDan. I never seen you exactly lacking for nerve.”
    Joe lifts his head.
    â€œRight. Can you see me walking down the hall holding hands with Colin the way Brittney holds hands with Will, or Sara with Justin? Not that I’m saying Colin would
want
to or anything, but it’s not fair.”
    Skeezie nods. “Hey,” he goes, “you know what this makes me think of? Remember that time we were in first grade, I think it was, and we went on that field trip over to Saratoga?”
    â€œUh-huh. You put a worm in my chocolate milk.”
    â€œI wasn’t thinkin’ about that part,” goes the Skeeze. “And if it helps any: Sorry about that.”
    â€œIt helps,” says Joe. “So what part were you thinking of?”
    â€œI was thinkin’ when we were walkin’ down the street that time, remember? After we got off the bus? You had to hold your buddy’s hand, and you and I were buddies. Remember?”
    Joe nods.
    â€œAnd this lady goin’ by looks at us and she says, ’Aw, aren’t you the cutest things?’ And after she walks away we look at each other and go, Tuck’.”
    Joe says, “I remember.”
    â€œSo how come we’re not cute anymore? I mean, how come little kids are cute to everybody, doesn’t matter what they do, but when you do the same things a little older you aren’t cute anymore. Y’know? I mean, what kinda stinkin’ deal is that? If you and I were walkin’ down the street
now
and we were, y’know, holdin’ hands like back when we were buddies in first grade, nobody’d say we were cute. They’d call us fags. Or do somethin’ even worse. What’s up with
that?”
    We sit there quiet for a time until Joe says, “That’s the million-dollar question.”
    The doorbell rings right below us and I figure it is my dad come to pick up the Skeeze and me.
    â€œPromise you won’t tell anybody about Colin,” Joe says as we’re standing up and Skeezie tosses him the Koosh ball.
    We both slap Joe’s palm and Skeezie says, “Don’t sweat it,