Define "Normal" (13 page)
That shut my mouth fast. She must’ve lost. Mad as I was at her, I never wished her to lose.
“Sorry about this morning.” She raised her head. “They didn’t mean anything by it. It wasn’t personal. Just a game we play with
them.”
“Them?
”
She cocked her head. “You know, the jocks and straights and Jesus freaks.”
“You left out prisses.”
“And prisses.” She dropped her head again.
“I thought you were into respecting everyone’s individuality,” I said.
She raised her head and glared.
My gaze lowered. I didn’t want to fight with her. “I called you Sunday morning to see how you did in the— you know.”
“Yeah, I heard.” Jazz sat back and dug out her compact. “Just so you know, I’m not allowed to have phone calls. I’ve been grounded for life.”
“Why?” I frowned. “What happened?”
She clicked open the compact and examined her makeup.
“Did it have something to do with the piano competition?”
“Oh, didn’t I tell you?” She snapped the compact closed. “I quit the piano.”
“Quit?” My jaw bounced off my chest. “You can’t quit. Why? How? When did you quit?” I sounded like a blithering idiot.
“In answer to your last question”—she calculated on her fingers—”that would be Friday.”
“Before the competition?” My eyes widened. “Why? What happened?” My mind was reeling. Then a vision materialized. The vision of a dress. “Your mom insisted you wear the dress?”
“Bingo.” Jazz aimed a lethal fingernail at my face.
“What did Gregoire say? Didn’t he—”
“Oh, yeah,” she broke in. “I forgot to say, I fired Gregoire. He’s a jerk.”
I gasped. “Can you do that?”
“What? Call him a jerk?”
I sneered at her. “What happened really?”
She exhaled wearily. Tossing her hair back over her shoulder, she said, “He came over Friday to give me the program; go through the music one more time. This was right after Mom and I got into it about the dress. Mom asked Gregoire what he thought. Like he cares what I wear.” She stopped. Her face hardened. “Gregoire said that of course I would have to look presentable. It was expected.”
“You mean—”
“That’s exactly what I mean,” she almost spit at me. “He’s a pretentious phony, just like my mother. So I told them if I had to dress all prissy to play in public, I wasn’t going to play in public. In fact, I wasn’t going to play in private either.”
All I could do was gape at her.
A slow smile crept across Jazz’s black lips. “You should’ve seen my father cronk when Mom told him I was quitting the piano.” Folding her arms, she slid back in her chair and added, “But I won.”
I found my voice. “How do you figure? You didn’t play, so you lost the competition.”
Her eyes narrowed. “I didn’t lose.”
“You didn’t win,” I said.
She opened her mouth to retort when I cut her off. “You don’t have to quit the piano over this, do you? I mean, you made your point.”
“I hate Gregoire,” she muttered.
“So find another teacher. You can’t quit, Jazz. You’re too good. What about your goal? Your dream to go to Juilliard?”
She cocked her head at me. “That’s why they call it a dream, Tone. Because it’ll never be a reality.”
K
aren came by the Abeytas’ that evening to check on us. We were fine, great, according to Tillie and Luis. “Such nice kids, they could stay here forever,” Tillie told her. She hugged Chuckie in her lap on the sofa. Next to her, Michael beamed. Next to him, Karen stared at me across the family room. I continued to read my book.
“Antonia, why don’t you walk me out?” she said, rising to her feet.
I exhaled loudly and slapped my book closed. Totally rude. Don’t ask me why I was taking it out on Karen. Because I was a horrible person, that’s why.
When we got to the car, she said, “I stopped by the hospital today. Your mom’s looking better. Have you called her?”
I shook my head.
“You can, you know. If you want to go visit again—”
“No,” I said sharply. My eyes strayed down the street.
Karen squeezed the stiff hand at my side. “Don’t give up hope,” she said softly.
Hope, I thought. What was that?
Jazz was right. Any dream I ever had of living a normal life with my own family in our own house was simply that. A dream.
It seemed like the only thing I looked forward to anymore was peer counseling. I hurried to the conference room on Wednesday, late because we had to clean out our lockers during homeroom. Jazz was already there. She didn’t even notice me at the door, panting. She had her CD player out, earplugs in, eyes closed. Her fingers tapped on imaginary piano keys across the conference table. That’s when it hit me—all those times she’d had her earplugs in, she’d been listening to classical music. Whatever piece she was playing must’ve ended because she stopped and inhaled deeply.
As I slid into my chair, I clapped and cheered, “Brava!”
Her eyes flew open. She yanked out the earplugs and said, “Sorry. I was just …” She started to shove the CD player into her pocket.
“No, wait.” I reached over and laid my hand on hers. “What were you playing?”
She shrugged. “It was just the polonaise.” Lifting the CD player, she added, “This was a recording Gregoire made of me so I could listen to it at night and visualize.” She shook her head. “Putrid polonaise. I had it down perfect by Friday.” Her shoulders sagged.
“You’re still not playing, are you?”
Jazz dropped the CD player into her pocket. “Tell me more about the abominable Abeytas.” She propped her elbows on the table. Her eyes gleamed.
“They’re not abominable. They’re really nice. Michael and Chuckie love it there. I think Chuckie even stopped wetting the bed.”
“What about you?”
“I quit right after I spent the night with you.”
She whapped me. “I mean—”
“I know what you mean.” I sighed heavily. “It’s all right.” I stopped. “No, it’s not. It feels weird, living there with them. Like we’re this make-believe family, in a make-believe house. Just … making believe.”
“Like Pleasantville,” Jazz said.
I frowned at her.
“The movie. Never mind.” She waved it off. “So, you feel like an outsider? Like you can’t be yourself?”
“Exactly!” I said. “I’m afraid to do anything there. It’s not like home, where you can throw your underwear on the floor and no one cares.”
Jazz gasped. “You throw your underwear on the floor? My God. Wait till this gets out.”
I sneered at her.
She smirked and held up two fingers.
“I know,” I said. As an afterthought, I added, “Not that home was all that great. Even before Dad—” I stopped short.
Jazz held my eyes. “Go on,” she said.
I shook my head. “Never mind.”
“Come on, Tone. Tell me about him. When did he die?”
I swallowed hard.
She added quickly, “You don’t have to talk about it. Not if it still hurts. But maybe if you did …” She let it dangle.
I bit my lower lip. “He … isn’t dead.”
“What?” She sat bolt upright. “I thought you told me—”
“I never told you that. I said he was gone.”
Her eyes darkened. “You knew what I thought.”
I opened my mouth to argue, then shut it. She was right. I felt like a worm. “I’m sorry, Jazz. I didn’t mean to lie to you. It’s just that …” I paused. “You know how sometimes a lie gets started and keeps going and going until you start to believe it yourself?” Oh, lame excuse, Antonia.
“Or wish it were true?” Jazz looked at me.
“No!” I frowned at her. “I don’t wish my dad was dead. Geez.”
Jazz blinked and dropped her head. “I know what you mean about lies,” she said. “Sometimes they’re even more believable than the truth.”
What did she mean by that? Before I could ask, she added, “So what happened with your dad? Why’d he leave?”
“Jazz, I really don’t want to talk about him. I don’t even want to
think
about him. You know how you figured out Gregoire’s a jerk? I figured out my dad’s a jerk and a half.”
“Are your parents divorced then?”
“Yes. But don’t mention it to my mother. She still thinks he’s just working late.” My eyes welled with tears. I couldn’t do this. I had to get out. It was all crashing down. Before I made it to the door, Jazz was there with her arms wrapped around me.
“Don’t.” I pushed her off.
“I want to help,” she said.
“You can’t,” I almost screeched. “You couldn’t possibly understand. Your parents are perfect.”
She started to sneer, then stopped. “Tone—”
“I have to clean out my locker,” I mumbled, wrenching open the door and hurrying out.
I didn’t want to see Jazz on Friday. I wanted to stay home sick. Except I couldn’t, since I didn’t have a home.
Just as I feared, the session started out the same way as Wednesday’s. Jazz was already in the conference room, earplugs in place, fingers flying. This time, though, it was as if she were waiting for me. When I walked through the door, she ripped off the earplugs. But she forgot to turn off the CD player.
I could hear the music. A succession of lilting chords; it sounded like a folk dance.
“The polonaise?” I pointed.
She clicked off the player. “A Bach minuet,” she said. “I was going to play it at the recital in May.” She smiled, but it seemed forced. She looked different today. Her lipstick had faded to gray. In fact, her whole face looked gray. The same way I felt.
“Jazz,” I said, “why don’t you just tell your parents you made a mistake. That you were kidding.”
“No way.” The fire in her eyes reignited. “Then I’d be giving in. I want them to suffer.”
“Suffer?” I widened my eyes at her. “Who’s suffering?”
“They are,” she said. “They’re the ones who spent thousands of dollars on my lessons. They bought the baby grand. Without their little piano prodigy, they have absolutely nothing to brag about to their country club phonies.”
“Oh, brother.” I rolled my eyes. “You think that’s all they care about?”
“I know it is.”
We locked eyes. Then at the same time we both looked away.
“Parents,” Jazz muttered.
“Yeah,” I concurred.
A tentative truce passed between us. “I’m sorry about what I said the other day,” I began.
“Don’t apologize,” Jazz said. “I’m sure my parents do seem perfect to you.”
“Yeah, well, I don’t have to live with them.”
“You got that right.” She grinned at me. Looking more serious, she added, “I didn’t mean to imply that I could ever know how you feel, Tone. I just want you to know, I’m here if you need to talk.”
A lump lodged in my throat. I managed a weak nod.
“God.” Jazz raked her chipped fingernails through her ratty hair. “This has been the worst week of my life. I am so tense.”
“Tell me about it,” I said.
She climbed up onto the table and wound into her lotus position. Her index finger beckoned me to follow.
Why not? I thought. It’d be better than baring my soul.
A few minutes into droning our mantras, I felt surprisingly relaxed. With each “ohmmm” a wave of worry washed away from me. Like waves on sand. I felt as if I were floating. Like that day in the pool when Jazz held me up.
Beside me she said softly, “When did your dad leave?”
The tension returned. But not all of it. I willed myself back to calm. “Three years ago,” I answered. “A couple of months after Chuckie was born.”
Jazz let out a long “ohmmm.” She twisted around to face me.
“Does he call you?”
“No,” I said. “Never.”
“Do you know where he is?”
I shook my head. “Karen does, I guess. But he’s not coming back for us, so who cares?” I closed my eyes and said a silent “ohmmm.”
“God,” Jazz said. “Did he even say good-bye when he left?”
“Oh, sure.” I opened my eyes and turned to face her. “His exact words were, “I’m leaving, Tone. Promise me you’ll look after the boys. Your mother can’t. She can’t even look after herself.’”
Jazz looked at me. Her eyes were sad. I smiled. “To tell you the truth, I don’t miss him. I hardly remember him.”
“At all?” Her eyes widened.
“Well, one thing.” Closing my eyes and turning away, I said, “He’s the only one who ever called me Tone.”
I
offered to help Tillie do the laundry Saturday morning, but she told me it was under control. In fact, as I searched around for something to do, I noticed everything was under control. It was weird, having so much time on my hands. I actually felt … bored.
Karen dropped by later that afternoon to give us a progress report on Mom. “She has good days and bad days,” she told us. We were all gathered around the picnic table out back. Luis played catch with Chuckie while Michael squirmed at my side, itching to go play with them.
“As soon as there are a whole lot more good days than bad, shell be coming home.” Karen smiled at Michael. His eyes darted back to Luis and Chuckie. In a lowered voice, Karen said to Tillie and me, “The doctors are still working on finding the right antidepressant for her. She’s experiencing some severe side effects and …”
I tuned out. The sight of Luis lobbing the ball to Chuckie made me smile. He was so patient with him. Not the way Dad had been with Michael. He used to yell at him if he even dropped the ball. Said he threw like a girl. Suddenly I noticed the silence.
Karen was staring at me. “She’d love for you to call,” she said.
“Can I go now?” Michael asked. “I finished my Kool-Aid.”
Tillie said, “Go ahead.”
Karen said, “Antonia?”
“I will.” I pretended exasperation. “I’m just really busy right now, okay?”
She studied my face. Standing to leave, she said, “Whenever you’re ready.”
At our session on Monday, which had now become a regular meeting time for us, Jazz looked lifeless. She lay slumped over the table, her hair a mass of tangles. Even more than usual. Something else caught my eye. “What’s that on your scalp?” I leaned over, squinting for a better look.
She straightened slowly. “It’s head art. Ram drew it on in permanent marker. Like it?” She slumped again.
It was the profile of a bald eagle. Fitting, I thought. “Yeah, it’s cool,” I said. “I bet your parents cronked.”