Define Normal

by Julie Anne Peters

  “That was my first mistake.” He grinned at her. Deep dimples dented his cheeks.

  I could see why she was in love with him. I think I was, too.

  “Play!” he ordered.

  And she did. Gloriously. My jaw came unhinged. Awesome was the only word to describe her playing. She had a God-given talent. I closed my eyes to listen. It was so moving, so consuming, that I didn’t notice the stirring beside me. When I opened my eyes, Michael and Chuckie had crouched down next to me.

  “Wow,” Michael breathed.

  I nodded. That’s all you could say. Chuckie just sat there, mesmerized. We were all mesmerized. We settled in on the stairs like the Three Stooges, listening to Jazz’s entire piano lesson.

  At the end, I hustled the boys back upstairs to the game room. Downstairs I heard Gregoire say, “The mazurka and concerto are perfect, Jazz. But the polonaise is not. It does not come from here.” He fisted his heart.

  Jazz looked crushed. “I’ll work on it,” she said. “I promise. I won’t let you down.”

  He gathered up his things and headed for the door. Before leaving, he turned and said, “It’s not me you will be letting down.” His eyes strayed up to the balustrade and met mine.

  My face flared. Quickly I backed away and slipped into Jazz’s room.

  A minute later she tromped in. “Your mother was right,” I said from the desk. “You are an extremely talented pianist.”

  She clenched the doorknob. “You heard me?”

  “We all heard you. God in heaven heard you.”

  “Did She?” To the vaulted ceiling, Jazz performed a sweeping bow. “I hope You enjoyed the show.” She smirked. Sprawling across the bed, she hugged a pillow to her chest and said, “So, what’d you think of Gregoire?”

  “As they say in France,” I replied, “ooh-la-la.”

  Jazz squealed and tossed the pillow at me.

  I fended it off with a forearm. “What are you practicing for? A competition?”

  “A young artists’ Chopin competition. And a recital next month. Oh, and, Tone, do me a favor.” She sat up, looking serious. “Don’t tell Animal or Ram or Eeks about the piano.”

  I frowned. “Why not?”

  She shrugged. “They’d think it was, you know.” She wrinkled her nose.

  “Normal?” I ventured.

  “Nerdy,” she countered. “I mean, classical music?” She made her psycho face. “And look at this.” She rolled off the bed and hurried to the closet. Riffling through a rack of clothes, she yanked something out of the back. “This is what my mother expects me to wear to the Chopin competition.” She held up a dress on a hanger.

  I gasped. It was gorgeous. Lush blue velvet with a wide white satin sash.

  “It’s hideous, isn’t it?” Jazz hung it back up.

  I didn’t say what I was thinking. Wishing, praying. That if she didn’t want the dress, would she please give it to me?

  Chapter 17

  Monday morning Mr. Luther dropped us off at school on his way to work. “You think we could do peer counseling today?” Jazz asked, glancing back over her shoulder as her father drove away. “I might not be here on Wednesday.”

  “Uh, sure,” I said. “Where’re you going Wednesday?”

  Jazz pulled out her makeup kit and began her transformation. “I might be ditching the rest of the week. I really need to practice that polonaise.”

  Someone called, “Yo, Jazz.”

  She whipped her head around. “Later,” she said to me as she loped off toward the science wing.

  Good, I thought. That solved one problem. I didn’t really want to be seen with Jazz. People would talk. “Like who?” I muttered. “All your friends?” Still, there was my reputation to consider.

  At our afternoon peer counseling session, Jazz started off by saying, “Your brothers are so sweet. It must be really fun to have them around.”

  “Fun?” I scoffed. “They’re a pain.”

  “Really?”

  I just looked at her. “Not Chuckie. He’s okay, but Michael’s a brat. A brat and a half.”

  She pursed her purple lips. “He does seem kind of angry.”

  “That’s an understatement. He’d kill the world if he could.”

  “Why?”

  I took a deep breath. “Don’t ask me. I’m not a child psychologist.”

  “You’re not?” She looked shocked. “But DiLeo said you were. I want my money back.”

  I sneered.

  Jazz flung off her boots and climbed up onto the table. “Tell me about your mom,” she said. “What happened to her?”

  I folded my hands on the table and looked up at Jazz. She sat lotus style, facing me. “I have a better idea,” I said. “You tell me about your mom.”

  She stared over my head, trancelike. “What about her? Ohmmm,” she chanted.

  “Why are you so mean to her?”

  Jazz stopped chanting. She frowned. “I’m not.”

  “Yes, you are. You talk down to her and mouth off and do everything you can to deliberately make her mad.”

  Jazz’s eyes narrowed. She straightened her spine and took up her mantra. After a minute of droning, she stopped and said, “She gets on my nerves, okay? She’s always on my case. She hates my clothes, she hates my hair, she hates my friends—except you.” Her eyes met mine, briefly. “She hates everything I am. Everything I do.”

  “Not everything,” I countered. “She loves the way you play the piano.”

  “Yeah, and she knows if she ever pulls that trick on me and my friends again, I’ll quit.”

  “What trick?” I asked.

  Jazz answered, “She called the cops on us.”

  “When?” My eyes grew wide. “What’d you do?”

  “Nothing!” Jazz screeched. Then realizing how loud her voice was, she took a calming breath and said, “We were just hanging out at Ram’s, not doing anything. Ram was really bummed about his mom and we were trying to cheer him up. Telling jokes and stuff. I guess I lost track of time because all of a sudden the cops show up at the shed. Ram tells them to take off, so they bust in and start frisking us. Tearing the place up, looking for drugs or guns, I don’t know what all. Ram says, “I got a water pistol in my pocket.’ When he reaches for it, one of the cops shoves him up against the wall and almost breaks his arm. I mean, God. This is Ram. He is the sweetest, gentlest person. He’s so peaceful he won’t even let us step on cockroaches in his presence. It was only like eight o’clock, but if I’m not home by dinner my mother calls out the National Guard.”

  “How do you know it was your mother who called?” I said.

  Jazz’s face hardened. “Because she was sitting in her Beamer across the street from Ram’s house the whole time. Everyone saw her. It was humiliating. God.” Her jaw muscles clenched. “Mother thinks my friends are corrupting me.” A wicked smile spread across Jazz’s face. “If she only knew.”

  That was pretty bad. I could see why Jazz was angry.

  She said quietly, “The thing that really gets me is, she doesn’t trust me. Doesn’t she know me better than that?” Her eyes searched mine.

  “Maybe she thinks you’ve changed.”

  “I haven’t!”

  “Maybe she’s afraid you will.”

  Jazz stared. “God, you’re good.”

  My face flared.

  “Wrong, but good. All my mother wants is to control me. Just like she controls my father and my sister and everyone else in the world.” With her two index fingers, Jazz formed horns on her head. “She’s like the mother from hell.”

  I smiled. “You still want to trade?”

  Jazz held my eyes for only a second before blinking away.

  No, I didn’t think so.

  After school I waited for Jazz on the front steps outside. I didn’t know what else to do. I wasn’t sure if Mr. Luther was picking us up or if we were walking. If we were walking, there was no way I could find my way to Jazz’s house alone.

  Thankfully, she was la
te. Most of the crowd had dispersed by the time she appeared around the corner of the science wing. She was with her punk groupies, headed my way.

  Oh, no, I thought. I’m not going with them. They looked so weird. Worse than Jazz with their spiked hair and leather jackets. Two of the girls wore shorts. At least, I assumed they had on shorts under their jackets.

  Suddenly Jazz stopped. She turned toward her gang and said something. They all reversed direction and started walking away. Jazz waited until they’d disappeared around the building before loping toward me.

  It gave me a strange feeling. Like she didn’t want to be seen with me.

  “Sorry,” Jazz said. “I forgot you were staying at my house.”

  My gaze hit the pavement. “Jazz,” I said softly. “I’m sorry about today. I didn’t mean to—”

  “I know,” she broke in. “I’m sorry, too. Some days I’m a total bitch.”

  “No, you’re not.” I shook my head. “I’m just really grateful for everything your mom’s doing for us. Both your parents. And you, too. I mean, at least we have a place to stay for … however long.”

  Jazz smiled somberly. “Hey, it’s no problem. It’s not like we don’t have a hundred empty rooms, you know? Come on.” She grabbed my sleeve and yanked me down the stairs. “The caterer’s probably already set up our after-school-snack buffet out on the front forty.”

  She was kidding, right?

  “I wonder who’s here,” Jazz said as we approached her front gate. It was open, and a white car was parked in the driveway. “Can’t be the Clean Team. They don’t come till Tuesday.”

  The Clean Team? “You have maid service?”

  Jazz rolled her eyes at me. “You didn’t think my mother performed manual labor, did you?”

  My eyes dropped. I guess I did.

  Jazz added in a sneer, “Mother hires all kinds of help. Cooks, gardeners, maids. It’s like totally pretentious, don’t you think?”

  I don’t know. I was thinking it’d be great.

  Mrs. Luther and another lady rose from the living room sofa when we walked in. “Hello, girls,” Jazz’s mother said. The other lady smiled at me, then glanced at Jazz. Her face changed. I recognized the expression. The same look of revulsion that Jazz had gotten from Mrs. Bartoli, with a little fear mixed in.

  The lady bustled over to Jazz and stuck out her hand. “Hello, Antonia,” she said. “I’m Karen Millbrook, from Social Services.”

  Jazz lurched back. Mrs. Luther laughed. “No, no,” she said. “That’s my daughter Jasmine.” She strode over to me and squeezed me around the shoulders. “This is Antonia.”

  The lady looked relieved. My brain told me to run, but my feet wouldn’t move. Maybe because there was nowhere to run to. Nowhere to hide.

  Chapter 18

  She asked me to call her Karen. Like we were going to be friends or something. Like there was going to be this long-term relationship. We all sat on the sofa staring at one another. Actually, Karen was staring at me, while I tried to morph into the ceramic magnolias on the coffee table.

  What was happening? How did I get here? How did we become a charity case? Why did I feel like my whole life had been one long dream? Not this life; this was a nightmare. The one before, when things were normal.

  “Your mother may be in the hospital for a while, Antonia,” Karen said.

  That demorphed me. “How long?”

  “It’s hard to say,” she replied. “Until she’s stable. Until it’s safe for her to leave.”

  Safe? From what? I met Karens eyes. I knew from what. Herself.

  “You know we’d love for you to stay with us,” Mrs. Luther said. “But I’m afraid it’s just not possible.”

  My heart sank. Not only were we charity cases, we were homeless, too.

  Jazz said, “Why can’t they stay here?”

  Her mother gave her a look. It said, Keep out of this.

  It was no mystery to me why she didn’t want us to stay. Who needed three crummy kids to take care of in addition to a delinquent daughter?

  Karen said, “And you don’t have a father, is that right?”

  I shook my head. Funny how lying gets easier the more you do it.

  Mrs. Luther piped up, “Even though you have to go to a foster home, I insisted they place you and your brothers together.”

  Foster home. So that was it. The beginning of the end.

  Mrs. Luther chuckled. “Michael thought you were all going to an orphanage.”

  “What’s the difference?” I nailed Karen with the question.

  Her face contorted, like she was new to destroying people’s lives. “There’s no comparison,” she said. “In fact, we don’t even have orphanages anymore. So forget all the horror stories you’ve heard or seen. This isn’t Bosnia. You’ll be placed with a very nice family.”

  Mrs. Luther reached over and patted my arm. “Temporarily, Antonia. It’s only until your mother is better. Who knows? It might be just a couple of days.”

  Karen shot her a look. It clearly said, Don’t get her hopes up.

  Michael and Chuckie clomped down the stairs, lugging backpacks. New backpacks. Mrs. Luther rose. “I’ve packed a few things for you, too, Antonia.” She hurried to the dining room and back. On her arm dangled an overstuffed, sporty new backpack. She held it out to me.

  If I took it, it meant I was accepting charity. It meant everything I was feeling right now was real. My eyes welled with tears.

  “Oh, sweetie.” Mrs. Luther crushed me against her, whapping my butt with the backpack. What was in there, forty pounds of sirloin steak? She slipped the straps up over my shoulders. Make that fifty pounds.

  During all of this, Jazz remained silent. She just sat and glared at her mother.

  Don’t blame her, I wanted to say. It isn’t her fault. But I couldn’t say it. I couldn’t say anything.

  Karen led us out to the driveway. My brothers must’ve felt as miserable as I did; we looked like we were heading out on the orphan train.

  Our foster folks were named Mr. and Mrs. Abeyta. They stepped out onto the porch as we drove up. After Karen introduced us, we stood around looking stupid. Chuckie clung to my leg, sucking his thumb. Michael would’ve, too, if he hadn’t been trying to act so brave.

  “Call me Tillie,” Mrs. Abeyta said. “And my husband here is Luis.”

  Luis said, “Hello, kids,” and smiled.

  I tried to smile back but couldn’t.

  “Have you had dinner?” Tillie asked.

  We shook our heads in unison.

  “You must be starving. I’ll whip something up.”

  “I’ll stop by tomorrow, kids,” Karen said. She passed a silent message to the Abeytas, something like, They’re all yours now. Do whatever you want with them. To us she said, “Everything will be fine.”

  The three of us watched her walk down the driveway, get into her car, and drive away. It felt as if she were taking our lives away with her.

  “Come on,” Tillie said, pulling open the screen door. “It’s getting chilly out here.”

  We trailed Tillie through the house to the kitchen, like sheep led to slaughter. She sat us at the table while Luis sliced ham for sandwiches. Tillie told us she and Luis had raised eight kids. Since the last one left for college, the house was too quiet. “Feels like ghosts,” she finished.

  “Those are ghosts,” Luis teased her. “It’s the kids coming back to haunt us. We’ll never get rid of “em.”

  Ghosts. Just what we needed. Just what we looked like.

  The sandwiches smelled delicious. Thick ham and Swiss cheese. They must’ve tasted good too, the way Michael and Chuckie were scarfing them down. I took one bite and couldn’t swallow past the lump in my throat.

  “Not hungry?” Tillie asked me.

  It took every ounce of self-control I had not to start bawling.

  I had my own room, which used to be the Abeytas’ oldest daughter’s room. Yolanda. She was married with two kids now, Tillie informed me as she
set a stack of towels on the cedar chest. Yolanda had left behind her stuffed animals and books and posters. Most of the posters were these glistening guys in skimpy swimsuits, all flexing their muscles. How could I sleep with them staring at me? How could I even get undressed?

  I didn’t have to explain about Chuckie’s nightmares because both boys were put in the room next to mine, in a bunk bed. Which they loved, I could tell. I wandered over near the door to eavesdrop. Luis told them, “Our boys collected model airplanes. See? They never finished this one. Maybe you could work on it, Michael. And, Chuckie, Tillie made up this whole basket of toys for you.”

  “Okay,” he said cheerfully.

  I wanted to charge in there, grab their arms, and scream, “Don’t touch anything. We’re not going to be here that long.” But I didn’t. And I didn’t tell Tillie or Luis about Chuckie’s other problem. Let them discover the wet sheets in the morning. Let them think it was their fault.

  I was a terrible person. No wonder this was happening to me. Like a robot, like the ya-ya I was, I worked on my homework and went to bed.

  The Abeytas’ house was in our school district, thank goodness. At least we wouldn’t have the added trauma of starting new schools. Tillie was retired, so she planned to stay home with Chuckie. Luis drove Michael and me to our schools, since they were on the way to his restaurant business. Or so he said. “Meet me right out front afterward,” Luis told me as he pulled to the curb. “Just think of me as your own personal chauffeur.” He grinned. The corners of his eyes crinkled, just like Dad’s do. Did, I mean.

  Don’t cry, Antonia. Don’t cry. Don’t cry. I concentrated on my loafers crunching through the frosted grass and somehow made it through the front door intact.

  The day was a haze. My body was there, but it was just going through the motions. My body was good at that. Except I made a multiplication mistake on a quadratic equation I was computing at the board. Mrs. Bartoli smiled her famous I’m-sorry-but-that-is-incorrect smile. It was the first time she’d extended it to me.

  Obviously my head was somewhere else. I knew where—at home. Did anyone take the trash out? Tuesday is trash day. If the trash isn’t at the curb, they won’t pick it up. Did I turn off the hall light before I left? Did I make the beds? Milk! The milk in the refrigerator would go sour if we didn’t drink it. Did I remember to flush the toilet after Chuckie? Did I fold the laundry? Did I …