Faking Normal (7 page)

He’s not smiling now. “I shouldn’t have left like that. Mr. Tanner was being nice.”

“Yeah, but
Mr. Tanner
should have thought before he said something so insensitive. Bodee, you know we’re not trying to replace your family. Mom and Dad know they can’t fix this for you. I know it. We just want . . . I just want this year to be . . . easier from here.”

He is silent for a moment, and then he nods. “I want that . . . for you, too.”

There’s so much to say in return. Like telling him my pain is nothing compared to his. Like asking how he sees things about me when no one else can. But words will only make me more vulnerable, so I say, “Me too,” and leave it at that.

I’d hug Bodee if I could. A friendly hug. And maybe if he wasn’t hibernating in a den of grief, he’d hug me back. As I stand there not hugging him, I think if we were normal teenagers we’d probably squeeze each other and sigh, and let our hands roam around until we had a knockin’ boots of a one-afternoon-stand before supper and then never speak of it again.

But we’re not normal. At least I’m not, and I’d bet on the ponies he’s not either. And I don’t feel the urge to touch his fuzzy, can’t-grow-a-real-beard face. Or run my hands through his Kool-Aid hair. But I like him in this room. Like him in my house.

Instead I say, “I can help you put your stuff away.”

Bodee nods; it’s his typical wordless assent.

I stack the tent and the sleeping bag in the corner of the closet while Bodee unzips his duffel. This is not a job for two, but I’m not ready to leave.

“Won’t take long,” he says.

I reach for his worn copy of
Hatchet
. “God, I loved this book. Where do you want it?” I ask.

“Under the pillow,” he answers.

Bodee removes his underwear from the bag so quickly the stack tumbles into a disheveled pile. I’m not supposed to have seen, so I hold the book and fumble with his pillow until I’m sure he’s finished. It’s weird how something as ordinary as white boxers turn a face red.

“I can hang those up,” I say when he pulls the khaki slacks from the bag.

The tie, still knotted as I saw it last, a wrinkled white shirt, and pants come to me in a ball. They haven’t been washed, and I can smell the earth and sweat of last Saturday on them.

“Why don’t I wash these first?”

“I’ll do it once I buy detergent.”

“You’re not buying detergent. It like, well, comes with the house. Like my shower soap and blue shampoo. And dinner.”

Bodee tucks the strand of blue hair back, the one that’s been driving me crazy, and says, “And rides to school?”

“Yes, and rides to school. And anything else you need.”

An indeterminable number of white T-shirts, three pair of jeans, some socks, and the five boxes of Kool-Aid from the kitchen counter are the only other items he removes from the bag before shoving it under the bed.

“That’s it,” he says. “Told you it wouldn’t take long.”

Guilt doesn’t stab at me, but it pokes at a place between my ribs.

I want to see him smile again.

“So”—I scroll my finger down the boxes of Kool-Aid he’s
balanced on the windowsill—“what shade you going with tomorrow?”

“Sugar-free grape.”

“You ever wear the lemonade?”

“Nah, too much like the natural,” he says. “That was for drinking.”

“Your mom bought them for you?”

This time there’s no nod, but there are tears in his eyes. “She was . . . the best.”

Now there are tears in my eyes. Bodee’s emotions are as shareable as candy in a bowl. “I’ll make you a promise, Bodee. Long as you’re with my family, you won’t run out of Kool-Aid.”

He blinks up at me. “And I promise you, I’ll stop
whoever’s
hurting you.”

I stand there barely breathing, and he says something that sounds like, “Even if it’s you,” but the words are mumbled, and I can’t be sure I’ve heard them right.

If he were Heather or Liz, I’d deny this completely. But I can’t lie to him. Not after today and his kitchen and the Kool-Aid on the counter and his tent and the stack of tumbled-over underwear on the bonus room floor. We’re already more than the sum of my lies. So I just breathe and look away, trying not to lie with my face, but to stand in the presence of the truth.

It hurts.

There’s complete silence until I say, “See you at dinner.”

“Okay.”

“Make a pile and I’ll throw your clothes in to wash,” I say.

“Okay.”

“I’ll have Dad take us to the store tomorrow in case you need something.”

“Okay.”

“And don’t say anything about Kayla and Craig and the engagement.” This reminder is pointless, since he rarely speaks unless spoken to.

“Okay.”

“Okay” has become the new
hey
, I realize, as I leave him with wrong-side-up Cinderella.

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

..................................................................

chapter 7

I
have to stop scratching my neck or I’ll never be able to pull my hair up for the wedding.

And the wedding’s official now that my parents know. There were happy tears in the mashed potatoes tonight. And hugs. I imagine there will be plenty more, too, before their
Christmas
wedding. Holy moly, that’s quick. They’ve done everything else slowly. Why do they have to do this so fast?

I don’t know if there’s time for my neck to heal.

And . . . I’ll need to be happy.

I’m fresh out of happy.

The air vent’s slivers of darkness reel me in; my one way to cope that doesn’t involve digging at my neck. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. I am up to nineteen before I blink and ruin the count. I start again because sleep hates me. Again
and again until my brain gives in and allows the numbers to take me to dreamland.

In dreamland there’s a pool.

Not our pool, because there’s no wooden fence around the patio, but it looks like ours. A bunch of guys are there, sitting on the edge, swinging their feet and looking lazy, and kicking up little splashes of water.

“Hey. Okay. Hey. Okay. Hey. Okay,” they chant. Automated and eerie, like the cry of a bobcat. I want to rip at the scabs on my neck.

The guys all have on black goggles that mask their faces. One minute they’re all the same guy, but the next minute each individual face is different, and I know them: Dad; Collie; Dane Winters; Bodee; two boys from homeroom I’ve known since preschool; Matt from church; Craig; Hayden from our lunch table; and the band director, who has more hair on his chest than a shedding dog. There’s Liz’s on-again, off-again boyfriend, Ray, and then a guy I don’t know whose face is painted up like Captain America. I’m pretty sure there are more, but they’re too blurry to identify.

The painted-up guy must be Captain Lyric. I stare at him because I have to know who he is. But he shimmers in and out of focus until his face is like all the rest.

“Alexi. Alexi. Alexi.” My name on their lips is hypnotic.

“I’m lonely,” they say together. Now they’re splashing a fountain of big fat drops of water to the center of the pool. “We’re lonely. Lonely. All so lonely.”

The guys on the right side speak. “You understand lonely.”

I can’t wake my brain enough to recognize I’m dreaming. And I’m paralyzed with fear. And mute.

Then it’s not like a dream anymore. I know this pool. Know these guys.

And one of them knows me too well.

My eyes lock on his. I try to scream
Stop
. It’s more of a wheeze than a word.

Everything is wrong. A hand covers my mouth, but it’s not mine. I don’t have any hands. Or arms. This mutant isn’t me, but it is.

The guys on the left side of the pool say, “She always understands.”

“She didn’t understand me,” Dane says.

“Or me,” Collie says.

“Or me,” Matt from church says.

Another kick-splash. “But she won’t tell,” they all say.

“She never tells,” Bodee says.

“And we’re practically family,” Craig says. “Families know everything.”

I want to scream
Families don’t know everything
, but I can’t.

“I don’t know anything,” my dad says.

“He doesn’t know anything,” the rest of them say as laughter sparks around the pool.

“It all happened on his patio,” Hayden says. “But he doesn’t know anything.”

It’s like a memorized script as the rest of them chime in.
But then something changes. Their hands reach toward my face before I can turn away. Each one claws at a side of my mouth. They jerk, and I scream and taste the pillow as my skin rips, and tears spurt from my eyes at the pain.

And then I’m awake. Sweating and shivering and dry-mouthed, the taste of blood on my tongue.

Before my alarm. And I don’t want to think about the dream.

I sleepwalk through the day until fourth period.

Heather’s in a chatty mood. “We were nice to Bodee in the car,” she says as if they deserve an award.

“You were,” I agree, though I barely remember the ride to school.

“So, tell me. What do y’all do at night?”

“Do? Bodee and me? We don’t do anything.” My voice rises, and I check to see if Mrs. Tindell notices, but she’s buried her nose in a novel. “It’s not like we’re the only ones there. Last night we sat at the table with the fam for two whole hours while Kayla and Craig talked wedding details.”

“You don’t seem super excited for them. Jeez, if my sister was marrying a guy like Craig, you know, like with a job and no kids or jail time, I’d be flipping. But Hallie’s got this thing for the gutter, so I doubt that’s gonna happen.”

“Sorry I’m not all rose petals and ‘Canon in D.’ I slept like crap last night. My head feels like it got run over by a tractor.” Not a lie. “And anyway, they’ve been together so long that it’s not like this was big news. Sort of like Collie saying he likes your boobs. Heard it a million times.”

Heather rolls her eyes. “He doesn’t say that. Not a million times.”

“Kidding,” I say, knowing Collie mentioned Heather’s boobs to me only once. And it was after he’d had a couple of beers.

“He is sort of horny,” she admits.

“I don’t want to hear this,” I say.

Heather’s voice is unusually whiny as she says, “You said I could talk to you about him.”

“Not today. I’m too exhausted to discuss your sex life.”

“Yeah, my nonexistent sex life. Do you think he’s getting it somewhere else?”

I fold my head into the crook of my arm, a disappearing technique I’ve learned from watching Bodee. “Not today, Heather.”

“Fine. Sit over there and brood.”

“I’m not brooding. I’m thinking. You should try it.” I don’t lift my head.

“You don’t have to be pissy. Are you too tired for Captain Lyric?”

“No.” I show her the desk.

After yesterday’s lines are the new ones I wrote today before Heather arrived in class.

Nothing is sure but you

Nothing is safe but you

Nothing’s left in this world

Only you

“Great. A power ballad.”

“Hush. I’m just thinking about the wedding,” I say, because I know what lines come next.
Promise me a wedding day. That you’ll stay—forever. And ever. Only you.
Will the Captain write them as my end-of-the-week lyrics?

“You’re lucky Mr. Wixon likes you,” Heather says.

“I made a deal with him,” I say, knowing that our old custodian, Mr. Wixon, may wear overalls to work, but he’s a starry-eyed man at heart.

“Of course you did.”

“We write in pencil, and we erase them on Friday. He Cloroxes the desks over the weekend. We’re not hurting anything,” I say.

Heather smiles. “Hey! Does he know who else writes them?”

“I didn’t ask. I’m not ready to ruin this.”

“You’re so weird. I can’t believe the suspense isn’t killing you,” she says, shaking her head.

I’m operating under the assumption that I am as much of an enigma to him as he is to me. It’s romantic (and tragically stupid?), but this is the perfect way to reveal myself. Everybody at Rickman has heard by now that Kayla and Craig changed their status to Engaged. If the Captain is half-awake, he’ll know. And make the leap that it’s just logical for Kayla’s little sister to write lyrics about a wedding. Right?

Maybe I should erase this clue. This constant ping-pong between wanting to know him and wanting to keep it all on
the desk, safe and distant, bangs around in my head.

I leave the lyrics. Channeling brave. Looking forward instead of behind.

“You should be thinking about the homecoming dance,” Heather says. “He’s the person you should ask. Just leave him a little question out to the side of the last lyric.”

“I am not asking him.” But dang, the temptation . . . it’s intoxicating. And paralyzing.

“Well, then, what would you say to Hayden if he asked you?”

“No. And he hasn’t. Asked.”

“Well.” Heather chews her bottom lip. “Maybe we talked about it. And maybe I told him that you liked him.”

“Heather.”

“Lex, I knew you’d never ask Captain Lyric, so something had to be done. The dance is next week,” she says.

Mrs. Tindell is up and on the roam. Heather looks expectantly at me, and I slide the completed worksheet from my folder.

“Finished already?” Mrs. Tindell asks when she reaches us.

“Yes, ma’am.”

Satisfied, she circulates to the next group, and I exhale.

“I know you don’t already have a date,” Heather whispers, while keeping an eye on Mrs. Tindell’s retreating back.

“No.” The homecoming football game and the dance afterward is a big deal. But I can go group stag. Lots of girls go together and dance way more than if they have dates. But if I
want to go with Heather and Liz, I have to have a boy who is picture-ific and just mine.

I do want to be with them.

And I don’t.

Being with Heather and Collie on a date is like watching low-grade porn with my mom in the room. Heavy breathing. Hands in the places they shouldn’t be in public. Awkward.