The Art of Being Normal (18 page)

Having arrived at form room and found the classroom empty, I make my way back across the playground as instructed by Mrs Craig.

I remember taking home a letter about the trip now, weeks ago, back in October. It’s to some gallery in town; a ‘treat’ before we have to knuckle down to revise for our mocks. I forgot to ask Mam to sign the permission slip and had to forge her signature on the bus.

Ahead of me, I can see a line of kids waiting to board a pair of coaches. I slow down. It looks like the whole year group. Great. I look for Alicia. I can’t help it; my eyes seek her out before my brain can stop them. The moment I clock her it’s like my heart has jumped into my mouth. She’s standing with Ruby, her lips pursed and her arms folded across her chest, her mass of black curls held off her face with a silver headband.

I hang back, not wanting her to spot me, and wait to see which coach she boards before choosing the opposite one.

I’m the last to get on, Mr Toolan ticking my name off a list as I climb up the steps.

‘Welcome back, Leo,’ he says. ‘All better now?’

‘Yes thanks, sir,’ I say, not looking at him.

I hesitate, searching for a seat alone.

‘Come along, Leo, we haven’t got all day,’ Mr Toolan says. ‘There are plenty of places to sit.’

Reluctantly I choose a seat near the front, next to a girl from my French class – Serena, I think her name is. She’s quiet in class, only speaking up when asked to by Madame Fournier, so I’m pretty confident she won’t try to talk to me on the journey. As I sit down, her eyes bulge at me before looking away again. Unable to fit my backpack under the seat in front, I stand up and shove it in the overhead compartment. As I tuck in the straps I can feel Serena’s eyes on me again, only she’s too quick and turns her head to look out of the window before I can catch her in the act. I glance towards the front of the coach. Mr Toolan is talking to the driver. I sit back down to discover Serena has twisted her body away from mine, one leg crossed over the other, so her back is practically facing me. What is her problem?

The other coach pulls out first, passing us on the left hand side. I scan the windows for Alicia, only the glass is tinted and all I can make out are murky shadows.

My phone vibrates in my pocket. I take it out. It’s a text from David, checking up on me I expect.

Leo, whatever you do, don’t get on the bus. I think

I stare at it. The message just stops there. He thinks what?
Maybe he worked out the trip would mean seeing Alicia unexpectedly and he wanted to warn me. Too late. I try to ignore the waves of sickness in my belly and shut my eyes.

As our coach eases its way through the tail-end of the rush hour traffic, I try to switch off. I just need to focus on getting through today. I’ll worry about tomorrow when it comes. One step at a time. Once we arrive at the gallery, hopefully I’ll be able to slip off, keep out of everyone’s way until it’s time to go home again. I begin to feel a bit better.

Then I hear it.
Megan.

My eyes snap open and I listen carefully. I tell myself I must have imagined it, but I’m not convinced. I glance at Serena. She’s wearing sugary pink versions of the headphones Alicia wears. She’s listening to poppy stuff, the sort of thing Tia likes to wail along to. I wish I had an iPod and headphones of my own to drown it out.

I shut my eyes again, but this time I can’t ignore the sick feeling in my stomach.

We arrive at the gallery about half an hour later. It looks like a giant sugar cube; square and white and modern. As we’re herded off the coaches and into the foyer, I come face-to-face with Alicia. She’s been crying, I’m certain. Her eyes are red, her face blotchy. She meets my eyes for a second. They flash with panic then look away again. I want to go over and hold her, make it OK, only I know I can’t.

We’re being divided up into four groups. My heart sinks when I realise I’m in the same one as Alicia. I consider joining one of the other groups but Miss Jennings has her eye on me.

We’re led into the first gallery by our tour guide, an animated
Chinese guy with an American accent. The room is long and white and brightly lit. The paintings on the wall are massive and just the kind of art I hate; the sort that looks like a toddler has done it. Still, I try to listen to what the tour guide is telling us, anything to distract me from the fact that a tearstained Alicia is standing only a few feet away from me.

‘Freak.’

The delivery drips with venom and even though I don’t know for certain, I’m pretty damn sure it’s directed at me. I try to remain calm and fight the urge to turn round, find out who the voice belongs to and make them pay for it.

In front of me, the tour guide waves his hands around as he talks about the inspiration behind the painting before us. I don’t give a toss, it just looks like a load of red and blue paint chucked on a canvas to me, but I try to focus on his words anyway, subtly easing my way to the front of the group, away from the voice. All the time panic is rising inside me. Because all this can only mean one thing – Alicia told and my secret is out.

‘Tranny.’

This time I know who the voice belongs to. Miss Loudmouth herself, Becky Somerville. I whirl round to face her. She smiles smugly.

‘What did you call me?’ I demand, squaring up against her.

‘Tranny,’ she replies innocently. ‘I’m so pleased you answered to it.’

She smiles sweetly as she clocks my clenched fists.

‘You’re not going to hit a girl are you? Wait, silly me, I’m forgetting it’s a fair match. Just go ahead. We’ll see how long you last at Eden Park.’

I take a deep breath and release my fists. God, I hate her.

Alicia reaches out and pulls Becky back. Becky turns and scowls at her.

‘What? She deserves it, after what she did to you,’ Becky says, putting extra emphasis on ‘she’. ‘She’s nothing but a dirty lying pervert.’

The kids surrounding her make noises in agreement. Their faces are blurring. I feel lightheaded.

‘So, Alicia?’ a kid called Charlie says. ‘How was it batting for the other side?’

‘Oh fuck off,’ Alicia says.

I’ve never heard Alicia swear before. It’s one of things I like most about her, that she doesn’t feel the need to show off like that, not that she’s showing off now; anything but, her face red with shame.

‘She doesn’t bat for the other side, you moron,’ Ruby says angrily. ‘It’s not her fault – Leo, or should I say Megan, totally tricked her.’

‘Shush!’ Miss Jennings says, glaring at us all.

Ruby pauses before lowering her voice.

‘Alicia is the victim here.’

‘Shut up, Ruby,’ Alicia says.

‘But it’s true!’

‘I said shut up!’

The whole exchange seems to happen in stereo, and I’m certain the walls are starting to spin. I want to scream and shout at them, go crazy and lash out, but I can’t. Because my brain is consumed by one single thought.

She said she wouldn’t tell. She promised. She’s not special after all. She’s just like all the rest, just like Hannah.

I need to get away. Now.

The tour guide moves on to the next painting. The moment Miss Jennings’s head is turned, I duck behind another school group before turning and walking straight out of the gallery, as fast as I can.

It’s nearly two o’clock when I get back to Cloverdale. It took three buses to get back from the gallery. I didn’t have enough money for the third bus so I had to sneak on through the back doors.

The whole way home my brain is a jumble of thoughts; images of Alicia colliding with flashbacks to the woods, the gallery. It’s never going to change. As long as there is a chance of being found out, I’ll never be safe, I’ll always be waiting. I need to get out of here, and fast.

As I approach the house I can hear the faint roar of the vacuum cleaner.

Mam is home.

I consider turning back but I’m starving and I know that Mam and Spike finally went to the supermarket the other day so the fridge has proper food in it for the first time in weeks. Plus I know Mam has a shift at the launderette at three. If I’m quick once she’s gone I can be out of the house without having to run into Amber or Tia.

An unwanted picture of Tia realising I’m gone floats into my
head, her lower lip beginning to wobble, her eyelashes wet with the beginnings of tears. I shove it out.

As I put my key in the lock, I hear the vacuum shut off. I close the door behind me and take off my blazer, flinging it over the banister. It lands with the embroidered crest facing up. Fairness and initiative? Give me a bloody break.

I enter the living room. Mam is standing with her hands on her hips, her body angled to the door like she’s been waiting for me. The telly, some American reality thing, is on mute.

‘And what do you think you’re doing here at this time of day?’ she demands, pointing at the clock.

She’s wearing an old pair of jeans and a faded T-shirt of Spike’s, and she has a tea towel wrapped round her head bandana-style. I prefer her like this, when she’s natural. She looks younger and prettier; not that she’d believe you if you told her.

‘Well?’ she says, following me through to the kitchen.

I open the bread bin and take out two slices of bread. The margarine is already out on the counter, lid off, toast crumbs clinging to the edge of the tub.

‘Half inset day,’ I say, rinsing off a knife.

‘Liar,’ she replies, not missing a beat.

Slowly I turn to face her.

‘You’re a liar, Leo,’ she continues. ‘Bare-faced. I got off the phone with that Mr Toolan a bit ago. According to him you’ve just done a runner from school.’

‘So? What do you care?’ I say, returning to the task of buttering my bread.

‘Do you want to move schools again, Leo? Do you want to end up in the PRU?’

The PRU. Pupil Referral Unit. The place for the kids no one else wants. The ultimate threat. Once you’re in the PRU there’s no coming back, no matter what they claim.

‘Because I can’t handle all that palaver again,’ she says. ‘No way.’

I drop the knife with a clatter and turn round again.

‘What palaver? All you did was come to one little meeting and sign a couple of forms. Jenny sorted the rest out.’

‘Oh sorry, I forgot, let’s all bow down to Saint Jenny!’ Mam says, raising her hands in the air. ‘With all her fancy university degrees in being bloody patronising. She talks to me like I’m about five years old half the time.’

‘And why’d you reckon that is, eh, Mam?’

She comes up close, so her face is only centimetres from mine and I can make out the pores on her nose and cheeks.

‘You think you’re so clever, don’t you?’ she hisses. ‘That you know exactly what goes on behind the scenes of everyone’s life.’

I turn my back on her and march over to the fridge. I take out mayo, ham and tomatoes, slamming them down on the counter.

‘Cos you don’t, Leo,’ she continues. ‘You don’t know the half of it.’

‘I’ll tell you what I do know,’ I say, spooning a thick layer of mayo onto each slice of bread, my hands trembling. ‘I know that at age fifteen, my life, past, present and future, was, is and always will be a pile of shit.’

I slap down the ham and start to saw at the tomatoes, but the knife I’m using is too blunt and I end up with a load of mush. I scrape it onto my sandwich anyway, not caring what it looks like, even what it tastes like any more.

‘That’s not my fault, Leo!’ Mam shouts. ‘I know you like to think everything is, and maybe some bits are, but you cannot blame me for every single bad thing that’s ever happened to you!’

There’s a beat before I burst into tears.

I think they shock me more than they do Mam. I’m not a crier, even as a kid I hardly ever cried. I’d get angry, scream, throw stuff, but I wouldn’t cry. And these days I’m Leo Denton, master of the poker face. But right now I’m powerless to stop the tears from flowing and all I can do is stand there as they rock my body.

‘What do you want me to do, Leo? Eh?’ Mam asks desperately. ‘What the hell do you expect me to do? Magic it all better? If I knew how to do that then we wouldn’t be in this mess, any of us.’

I can’t catch my breath to reply.

‘Jesus, I can’t deal with this right now, Leo, I just can’t!’ Mam says, pacing back and forth.

She looks up at the clock and swears under her breath.

‘Shit, I’ve got to go.’

She rips the tea towel off her head and chucks it on the table, grabbing her handbag and keys.

I’m still crying, shaking all over. And all I want her to do is stop and hug me, make it OK, just like she used to once upon a time. But she’s reapplying lipstick, fumbling for her lighter and fags, refusing to look at me. The whole time her hands are shaking.

‘Look, just pull yourself together, Leo,’ she says. ‘Please. And, and clean this place up while you’re at it.’

A few seconds later the front door slams shut and I’m alone.

I throw my sandwich at the wall. It hits the tiles with a splat, the
cheap white bread sticking for a moment before the whole lot slides down the wall and into the sink.

My tears replaced by anger, I turn and charge up the stairs. I go into my room first, flinging clothes into an old sports bag. I do up the zip and haul it downstairs. I return to the kitchen and check the tin. It’s got less than a fiver in it, but I pocket it anyway. I need more though, much more. I head back upstairs to Mam’s room. The curtains are still closed and the bed is unmade. The whole room smells of sleep and stale perfume. I pull open her drawers. They’re a mess; a jumble of knickers and tights, but I’m certain Mam must keep a bit of cash somewhere in here. I just need enough to get a train or bus that will put a decent distance between me and Cloverdale. I’ll worry about what to do next when I get there. I kneel down and investigate the very bottom drawer. It’s full of odds and ends: screwed-up receipts, batteries, scraps of wrapping paper, old birthday cards. But no cash. I yank at the drawer in frustration. It comes all the way out and I drop it in surprise, trapping my finger beneath it. Cursing, I pick it up and try to slide it back in. It’s heavy though and I have trouble lining it up with the runners.

It’s then I notice the glint of gold.

I pause and heave the drawer out of the way, placing it on the bed behind me. I lie down on my belly. The carpet is covered with Mam’s hair, blonde and wiry. Gross. I reach in the gap where the drawer fitted and quickly realise the drawers are not as deep as the frame. My left hand gropes about until it strikes something cool and metal. I pull it out. It’s a rectangular box; red with gold trim. It’s vaguely familiar. It’s got dents on each side, as if it’s been dropped or thrown on more than a few occasions. The lid doesn’t quite fit
properly, and, luckily for me, the lock is broken. I place it on my lap and lift the lid.

The box contains mostly photographs. Quite a few of them are the ones I begged Mam to take down when I transitioned from Megan to Leo: Amber and me as babies wearing matching pink babygrows; the two of us as bridesmaids in peach satin dresses, Amber beaming while I scowled, hating every second; the four of us – me, Amber, Mam and baby Tia, sitting on the settee, Tia screaming her head off, the rest of us laughing. Looking at them now, it’s like I’m looking at the ghost of some girl I used to know. I put the photos aside.

There are the bracelets we wore as babies in the hospital, tiny things, not much bigger than my thumb; our baby-sized handprints – red paint on white paper; locks of our hair taped to a piece of scruffy card. Beneath these things are several bits of paper. I unfold the first. It’s Tia’s birth certificate, listing Tony the twit as her dad. Poor Tia.

I realise I’ve never actually seen my birth certificate before, I’ve never needed to. Quickly, I unfold the next piece of paper. It’s mine.

I wince as I read my birth name, Megan Louise Denton, and see my sex listed as female, there in black and white. My eyes float down the page. Then they stop. Something is not right.

My father is listed as Jonathan Denton. Jonathan? But my dad’s name is Jimmy. Jimmy Denton.

Then it dawns on me.

I’ve always assumed Jimmy was short for James. Never Jonathan.

I’ve been looking for the wrong man.