<< Go Back

Misfits

By Roger E. Bruner

Order Now!

The first time I saw her, she looked up at me across the table with the bluest eyes I’d ever seen and smiled as if we’d known each other all our lives. Then an evil grin broke through. “Hey, you’re a preacher’s kid, too, aren’t you?”
My mouth almost hit the floor. Whatever I’d thought she might say to a guy like me, that wasn’t it. I started to respond, Then there’s a pair of us. Don’t tell. They’d banish us, you know.
But I couldn’t remember whether this girl had been in my English class that day—that’s why Emily Dickinson’s poem “I’m Nobody” was still fresh on my mind—and I was afraid she’d think I was crazy, otherwise.
No matter. She was right. About my being a preacher’s kid, that is. A PK. A social reject by default. An outcast by definition—the equivalent of a leper in Jesus’s day—even among the other teens at Dad’s new church, where a guy might expect things to be different. Maybe even better.
But that hadn't happened.
The unforeseen nature of this girl’s greeting almost made me drop my overloaded tray on the floor. Why in the world had I brought my books to lunch with me and put them on the tray with the food?
“Here…” She reached over to guide my trembling, tottering tray to a safe landing at the place directly across from her. That gal would have a great future as an airline pilot. No bumpy landings in a long career of flying commercial food trays through often-turbulent high school cafeterias.
Oh, man! I’d never responded to her question about being a PK. In fact, I still hadn’t said anything at all. What kind of weirdo would she think I was? Or would she take for granted it was all just part of my being a PK?
I smiled a silent thank you for her help with the tray. Then, making no effort to hide my curiosity, I narrowed my eyes. “About being a preacher’s kid…” I took a deep breath and checked the top of my shirt pocket to see if my copy of the New Testament & Psalms—I’d brought it that day by accident—was that visible; it wasn’t. “Are you a mind reader or what?”
She rolled her eyes before winking at me. Her right eye, as I recall. I probably wouldn't have noticed something like that, but I wasn't accustomed to having girls wink at me.
“I’m definitely more of an ‘or what.’ My name’s Lydia Lake.”
She stuck her hand across the table, barely missing the mystery meat piled high on mashed potatoes that looked as if they’d been cooked into submission. If any eyes remained in those potatoes, they’d long since turned black and blue.
Then I shook it. Her hand, that is. Not the mystery meat or the potatoes. Nice firm grip for a scrawny-looking teenage girl.
“My dad’s the pastor at Crossroads Gospel Church,” she continued when I forgot to respond. “I saw your picture in the newspaper a few weeks back. You, your parents, your kid sister. Nice-looking family.”
You don’t get your news from the Internet? And you couldn’t at least say I’m better-looking than my picture? Okay, so you’re not a flirt and that picture probably looked a lot better than I look in real life. But you’re a bit average-looking yourself, Lydia Lake. Not that I’d ever be rude enough to say so.
I looked at her again. Wavy but not obnoxiously curly, well-brushed, shoulder-length red hair—several shades lighter than Ron Weasley’s. Teeth: white and reasonably straight, no braces. Face: symmetrically shaped, pleasant but not especially pretty. Nose and ears: functional, no worse than anyone else’s. Glasses: definitely not my choice of frames. Complexion: minus-one on a one-to-ten scale.
Mine was at least a minus-three, however. Even a well-practiced doodler would need a whole day to complete connect-the-dots on my face.
I was too much of a Christian gentleman to pay much attention to the rest of her. Except to note that scrawny might be inaccurate. She was only somewhere between thin and trim.
But those blue eyes more than made up for her complexion and any other imperfections I was aware of. I could’ve stared at them for the rest of lunchtime and forgotten to eat.
When I took a closer look at my food, I concluded that eye-gazing would’ve been a nicer—not to mention a far safer—activity than eating. I would ask Mom to pack me a lunch tomorrow.
After giving Lydia a final once-over, I concluded that—although she was average-looking—at least she was an acceptable average. Probably closer to the upper end of average, truth be known.
She gave me a semi-patient, aren’t-you-going-to-say-something-back-now look.
My turn again already? Guess that newspaper article didn’t say anything about how shy I could be. Especially when I wasn’t sure what to say. I liked to think before speaking, although I always had room in my mouth for a foot. Preferably my own and not the foot of somebody I’d unwittingly insulted or hurt the feelings of.
“Sorry, Lydia. I was lost in thought.” Or at least in those eyes. “I’m Ben Matthews. Sounds like we were both born in the Bible, huh?” I patted my shirt pocket with my left hand. “Or at least named for people in the Bible. I’m Old Testament, of course, and—”
“And I’m New.”
Might as well state the obvious and make it official. “So you read about my father being the new Baptist preacher in good old Crossroads, Virginia?”
She nodded.
Huh? My right hand felt unusually warm. Warm and slightly moist. I looked down. Whoops! We were still clutching one another’s hand, although the handshake had deteriorated to motionlessness—like in some corny chick flick.
I wouldn’t have known anything about movies like those, but my kid sister, Lindsay, had dragged me to one or two of them over the past several years, and she wasn't even a teen yet.
Our hands were hovering dangerously close to my food. So that was what was steaming our clasp. Would the heat and humidity mold our hands together permanently? Not sure that's how I wanted to turn a girl into a girlfriend. Or whether Lydia would be my first choice of girls, anyhow. In spite of those gorgeous eyes.
Rather than drop her hand and chance having it land in my food, I shook it again—beginning with a powerful upward sweep to move it out of the danger zone—and then let go.
She giggled. A giggle that was more conspicuous and just as hard to ignore as her eyes—high-pitched and, well, more than slightly ear-piercing. Yet her speaking voice had been so pleasant and feminine.
I chuckled back at her. A nice deep masculine chuckle to demonstrate the way mature laughter was supposed to sound. When coming from a mature teen guy, anyhow. “I don’t always laugh about being a PK.” I wiped the smile off my face with my napkin and followed up with an I’m-sure-you-know-what-I-mean look.
Her eyes looked extra-serious as she focused on mine. She didn’t have to say, Huh? for me to catch on that she hadn’t understood my obvious look. She narrowed her eyebrows until they almost touched.
Gotta remember to mow the lawn when I get home. Huh? Now what made me think of that?
“Why not?”
You’re kidding? You like being a PK? I barely kept myself from saying, You even have to ask? No need to offend one of the few teens who would probably remain on my side for the rest of high school. We'd be misfits together for the next two years. Instead, I said only the polite part of what I’d just been thinking. “You like being a PK?”
She shrugged. “I don’t mind it.” She narrowed her eyes for several seconds. Then she relaxed and took a breath. “Not most of the time, anyhow. But you still haven’t explained why it bothers you so much.”
This girl wasn’t like any other PK I’d ever met. Her grin was cute, but those piercing blue eyes held my full attention. “You ready for a sermon?” I forced a laugh. “Full-length?”
“A sermon? You following in your father’s footsteps?”
Huh? Now she was baiting me just to prove her point? Uh, my point? Whoever’s.
“There.” I could feel the blush of all blushes coming on, one that could have sucked the redness out of every traffic light in town. Without waiting for it to reach its fullest intensity, I toned my volume down to lower-than-normal.
“That’s exactly what I’m talking about. Don’t you get sick of everybody asking if you’re going to be a preacher someday—just like your daddy?”
I used my most sarcastic tone on those last four words.
She cocked her head playfully and faked an exaggerated frown. “Can’t say that's ever happened to me.” Before I could question her response, she added, “No women pastors in conservative churches like ours. We don’t believe it's biblical.” She rolled her eyes as if she might disagree.
“Oh.” Now that I thought about it, my denomination didn’t have many, either. Or many women deacons.

~*~

I’d once dated a super-conservative PK. Her list of “do nots”—no dancing, no movies, no Harry Potter or vampire books—was so endless we started our date by reading the Bible together for a while.
The original King James Version. The pre-publication edition. The one Jesus used. Then we prayed—also in King James English.
Finally, we went to a worship service at her father’s super-conservative church. I was surprised they didn't make the men and the women sit on opposite sides of the sanctuary—like at a Quaker church I’d once visited.
I didn’t date that girl but once. She unceremoniously ditched me because I hadn’t worn a white shirt to church—and a tie. And because I’d unintentionally sat close enough to rub elbows. I was still trying to figure out which of the Ten Commandments I’d broken.
Why were girls like her always the hottest looking? Even when dressed the most modestly.

~*~

Not all PKs were equally obnoxious, however, and I hoped like crazy Lydia would be different from that girl. Maybe she already knew she wasn’t the greatest looking gal around. That would make her more tolerant—and easier to get along with.
Whoops! Negative thoughts about the ultra-girl were still flashing through my head like the whirring lights of a fast-approaching fire engine. I hoped Lydia wouldn’t think she was responsible for the scowl that made my face feel like someone had wound my head mummy-tight with rubber bands before shrink-wrapping it.
“Don’t worry, Ben. I’m a nice Christian girl, but I’m not a stickler for the silly rules some denominations have.”
Why had she thought to say that if she wasn’t a mind reader? Didn’t really matter, I supposed. So I sighed with relief, smiled, and patted her hand. “Same here. Except I’ll never be a nice girl.”
“I suspected as much.”
Ugh! The more Lydia giggled, the more I rated the sound somewhere between highly obnoxious and I’m-going-to-scream-if-you-don’t-cut-it-out. I’d have to get used to it if I hung around her very much, though. I doubted whether a girl could consciously change the way she laughed—even if she had a good reason to. Wanting to please a dorky fellow-PK like me would probably never cross her mind.
“That was short for a full-length sermon.” She giggled once. “At least from what I’ve heard about Baptist sermons.”
Hmm. At least she'd been paying attention. What would she think of Dad’s preaching, though? His sermons were so typically full-length the Methodists nearly always beat us to the restaurant after church on Sundays. On those rare Sundays we ate out, that is.
I took a deep breath and let it out again. “I hate having adults point at me and tell their kids, ‘Isn’t Ben a fine example of a young Christian gentleman? That’s how you ought to behave.’ The kids resent it, too.”
I didn't admit that hadn't happened since I'd grown into teenhood. Why not? Didn't adults still think I was a fine Christian? As much as I’d resented the fact they used to say it, part of me resented the fact they’d stopped. Go figure.
“Hmm. Not sure I’ve been conscious of that, Ben, but I’d be resentful about it, too.”
Resentful like the other kids or resentful like me? “Furthermore, people expect me to be there every time those stup—those church doors are open.”
She winked. Left eye. Hadn’t she used the other one the first time? I’d have to ask if she was an ambidextrous winker. And why she’d switched eyes this time. Had she done it on purpose or did she have a nervous condition she had no control over?
“You don’t want to be at church?”
Good thing she’d winked or I might’ve thought she was serious. Seriously critical. I didn't need that now that I'd thought of some more points to include in the sermon-at-the-table Lydia was listening—but not quite relating—to.
“I want to be there because I want to be there. Not because it’s expected. Especially by other church members.”
“Fair enough. What else?”
I felt my forehead wrinkling. I could go on and on if she really wanted me to. “I have a hard enough time making friends—”
“But you're so friendly.”
I’d been practicing my smiles in front of a mirror ever since moving to Crossroads. I let one of them show. “Even so, when kids discover I’m a PK, they assume I'm contagious. Probably with some highly fatal disease.” I frowned at the unlikelihood that some fatal diseases might prove less serious than others.
“Some potentially fatal disease, I mean. Like I’m not a normal teen and don’t have the same problems and interests they do.”
“Or the same kind of thoughts and feelings?”
I nodded—vigorously. Lydia’s tone had echoed my frustrations big-time that time.
“Ben,”—she gave me such a stern look that I cringed at the thought of what she might say—“aren't you thinking of yourself a bit too much like a stereotypical PK? I may be—I am—a misfit, but it’s not because of who or what my father is.”
I came dangerously close to blurting out, Lucky you, but God must have grabbed me by the tongue—gross!—and pointed my words in a different direction. “You've lived here in Crossroads your whole life, haven't you?”
The thought-wrinkles on her forehead were cute, but I forgot about them as soon as she responded. “How did you know?”
“You haven't had to fight to re-establish yourself after every move. We've lived in Florida—several places in Florida, actually—and in North Carolina and Maryland. I started out at the bottom of the heap every time we moved and never climbed much higher. Not since becoming a teen, anyhow.”
“Hmm. I can see how that would be a problem.” She paused, as if considering how much more to say. “I'm sorry. I interrupted your sermon. Since we seem to have different problems, I, well, could you tell me the rest of it?”
I raised my eyebrows. Do you really—?
“Yes, I want to hear it.” Her eye contact was impossible to ignore. “Go on. Please.”
Sure, I'll tell you the rest. About how I'm a living, breathing PK stereotype. I took a couple of deep breaths. Lydia could have gone all day without making that stereotype comment a couple of minutes earlier. It was still bugging me. More now than before, actually. How could she fail to understand what I was going through?
Was her life really as perfect as mine was lousy? So perfect that she had to sit by herself in the middle of a crowded lunchroom? Surely she hadn’t done that by choice.
I tried not to focus my resentment on her when I continued. “The other kids—this hasn’t happened here yet because nobody has paid that much attention to me—inevitably ask why my mom and dad don’t buy me the extravagant things their parents don’t think twice about buying them.
“Their have-to-haves keep my wish list full, and it rarely grows one item shorter. Admitting that Mom and Dad aren’t as well off as their parents is embarrassing.
“One of these days, I'm going to tell the kids at church, 'If your parents tithed instead of giving God such petty little tips, maybe my dad—he's as smart and well-educated as your parents—would earn enough to give me some of what you take for granted.'”
Lydia was silent for a moment that didn’t last long enough. “The apostle Paul was happy whether he had a lot or a little.”
I couldn’t tell from her tone whether she was putting me down or not. Was she suggesting I should be just as happy doing without the things I wanted as I’d be if I had them? That I wasn't a good Christian for even wanting them? She was a weird PK if she couldn't relate to what I was saying.
Okay, Lord. I’ll be careful. I toned down my intended response. “You may not have noticed this, Lydia, but I’m not Paul.” Even though I’d spoken in my meekest tone, I failed to keep a little bit of sarcasm from slipping out.
She didn’t say anything at first, but she soon found words again. “So what do you want most—of all the things your parents can’t afford?”
She probably thought I would name something silly. Like a fancy sports car practically nobody’s parents would give them.
I grinned inwardly. Then outwardly. My answer would surprise—maybe even shock—her. Especially since money would probably affect but couldn't actually purchase what I wanted most. “Popularity.” I scrunched my eyes and forehead in thought and then added, “Or at least acceptance by the in-crowd.”
I wasn't worried about the ‘out-crowd.’ They were probably misfits, too. Just a different kind from me.
Lydia, why are you crying? Did I say something wrong?

Order Now!

<< Go Back