Define Normal

by Julie Anne Peters

  Tillie flapped a hand at me. “Gab as long as you—”

  I raced to the den and dialed Jazz’s number. It rang once, twice. “Hello?” a man answered.

  It startled me. “Uh, hello, Mr. Luther? Is Jazz there?”

  “Who’s this?”

  “It’s Antonia Dillon.” My voice cracked.

  “Antonia, hello,” he said, a little less ominously.

  I cleared my throat. “I know Jazz is grounded, but I really need to talk to her. It’ll just take a minute.”

  He hesitated. “Don’t tell Margie, okay? She’ll exile me to the guest room for a month.”

  I let out a short laugh. “I won’t. I promise.”

  A few minutes later I heard a click and the faint sound of breathing. “Are you there, Jazz?” Mr. Luther asked.

  “No, it’s your guilty conscience speaking.”

  He sighed. “I’m hanging up.” Another click sounded.

  “So?” Jazz said flatly.

  “Listen to me,” I said quickly. “I didn’t plan for those guys to be there in the auditorium. They must’ve seen the crowd or heard you playing and come in to listen.”

  She didn’t respond. In the background heavy metal music blasted away. “Just a minute,” Jazz said. The volume lowered and she came back on. “God, that piano is so out of tune. I sounded awful.”

  “Awful? You were awesome.”

  “Yeah, right,” she muttered.

  “Didn’t you hear them clapping? They loved it. They thought you were fantastic.”

  “They were whistling. They thought I was a geek,” she said.

  “They know better. Don’t they?”

  She snorted. In a smaller voice, she said, “I feel so guilty, like a criminal. They keep asking me why I’m in such a bad mood and I can’t tell them. They know I’m hiding something. They think I don’t trust them.”

  “I don’t see why you can’t tell them. What kinds of friends are they if they can’t accept the real you?”

  I guess she didn’t have an answer for that. After a long silence, she said, “That piano hasn’t been tuned since it was made. Middle C sticks. The pedals don’t work. Good thing Bach’s dead. If he heard me play his Minuet in G like that, he’d have killed himself.”

  So that was it. Besides her secret being revealed, she was afraid her performance had been less than perfect. I understood. It was the same way I felt about homework assignments. They had to be perfect. Not that I felt a passion for homework; that’d be stupid.

  “I wouldn’t worry too much about the piano,” I told her. “They were all watching you. Believe me, you were sensational.”

  “They weren’t supposed to be watching me,” she snarled. “They were supposed to be experiencing the music.”

  “They were. At least I was. Everyone else might’ve been surprised to see who was playing it. No offense.”

  She didn’t say anything.

  “Jazz, I didn’t mean—”

  “I know what you meant,” she broke in. After a slight hesitation, she said softly, “Can we do it again Monday? After we talk?”

  “That was the plan,” I said.

  “Uh-oh. I just heard my mom on the stairs. I better go. Tone? I mean, Antonia?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Thank you,” she said, and hung up.

  Chapter 25

  From the end of the hall I could see Jazz standing outside the conference room door, stretching her fingers and shaking out her hands.

  “Jazz,” I called to her. “Let’s just go to the auditorium. We don’t need to talk today.”

  She rushed up to me. “Are you sure?” The color had returned to her face and her eyes gleamed again. She was psyched.

  So was I. “Yes, I’m sure. Come on.” I had my reason for not wanting to meet officially, but she didn’t need to know.

  At the auditorium door Jazz blocked my entrance. “I have to tell you something, Tone. Antonia. Geez!” She smacked her own head. “I keep thinking about this and” —holding my eyes, she finished—’I think what your dad did really stinks. Abandoning you guys like that. Ram’s dad’s a bastard, too, but at least he calls once in a while.”

  My face flared. “You told Ram about my dad?”

  Jazz’s jaw dropped. “Of course not. That’d break the oath of confidentiality. Not to mention, I might get fired.”

  “From what?”

  Jazz opened her mouth to answer, then shut it. A couple of teachers emerged from the copy room and headed our way. “Oops.” Jazz yanked open the door and shoved me in. “You don’t want to get a bad rep for hanging with me.”

  I clucked. Brushing by her, I said, “I can hang with anyone I want.”

  “Ooh.” Jazz widened her eyes. She made sure to shut the door behind us. “Look out, world. I’ve created a monster.”

  I twisted around. “Maybe I already was one. Like you said, bad and bode.”

  Jazz snorted.

  As we scurried down the center aisle, I added, “My dad isn’t a bastard. Well, okay, he is. But I can sort of understand why he left. He just couldn’t take it anymore.”

  “Couldn’t take what?” We’d reached the stage and I flicked on the lights. Jazz didn’t race to the piano, the way I expected. She stalled at the bottom of the stairs, waiting for me to answer.

  “Mom,” I said. “And us, too.” My hollow voice echoed in the closed hall. “Go on.” I waved her off. “We don’t have that much time.”

  She didn’t move. “Maybe we should talk today.”

  “We’ll talk Wednesday. Now go. Dazzle me with your brilliance.”

  She took the stairs two at a time. As I resumed my seat in front, I called up to her, “What are you going to play?”

  “I don’t know.” She scraped back the bench. “I was going to sneak out some sheet music this morning, but Mom was hanging around the piano. I don’t know what she was doing; she can’t even play “Chopsticks.’ She was just sitting on the bench, staring. Probably at her own reflection. Anyway, the only things I have totally memorized are the Chopin and the pieces I was going to play for my recital.”

  “Play what you were going to play for the recital,” I said.

  While Jazz played, I worked on my homework. The live music was better background than any tape or CD. We were both so absorbed in what we were doing that when the bell rang we shrieked in unison. Gathering my things, I followed Jazz to the restroom. Even though it’d make me late, I had to go.

  When I came out of the stall, Jazz was standing at the mirror. She offered me her black lipstick. I declined. She said, “What happened to bad and bode?”

  I sneered at her and left.

  Wednesday, when I arrived at the conference room, Jazz was perched on the table, tucked into her lotus position. Her eyes were closed, thumbs and index fingers pressed together. “Ohmmm,” she droned.

  It made me happy to see her back to her old self. I shut the door behind me and considered joining her. She seemed deep in her meditation, though, so I slipped quietly into my chair.

  “Bode,” Jazz droned. “And baaad,” she bleated like a sheep.

  “Shut up,” I said.

  “You take everything so personally.” She stuck out her tongue stud. “It’s just my new mantra. Bode,” she droned.

  By habit, I reached down for my peer counseling folder, then thought, Oh, forget it. We’d pretty much blown the program.

  Jazz slid off the table and looped a leg over her chair catty-corner from me. She crossed her arms on the table and rested her chin on them. “So talk,” she said.

  I flinched. “What do you want to know?”

  “What did you mean by your dad had enough of you? What were you, like a psycho-punker freak or, something?”

  I rolled my eyes. “You wish.”

  She grinned.

  I didn’t. “It’s a lot of responsibility, taking care of two little kids.”

  “Duh.” Jazz sat up. “It’s not your responsibility.”

  I l
ooked away.

  “Where was your mom?” Jazz asked.

  “She was there. Sort of. Do you mind?” I pointed to the tabletop.

  Jazz’s eyebrows arched. She shot up after me and we both assumed our lotuses, side by side.

  “Ohmmm,” I said.

  “Bode,” Jazz said. She peeked over at me.

  It made me smile. “After Chuckie was born,” I began, “Mom got pretty bad. He was a real cranky baby, which didn’t help.”

  “Is that when your mom got depressed?”

  “No. She was always depressed. Ohmmm. Not like … what you saw. Ohmmm. But she used to have spells. That’s what Dad called them. Sick spells, where she’d have to go to bed for a couple of days. If it lasted longer than that, Dad would start yelling at her, telling her to snap out of it.”

  “Oh, man. That’s cold.” Jazz shook her head. “Then one day he just split?”

  I nodded.

  “And he never called you guys, or wrote, or anything?”

  “He might’ve called Mom. The only thing I ever saw in the mail was the divorce papers. That’s when Mom really lost it.”

  “How long ago was that?” Jazz asked.

  I thought back. “Six, seven months.” I twisted to face her. “Six, seven years.”

  “God, Tone. You are so strong. I never could’ve handled all that.”

  I blinked away and shrugged. “You do what you have to do. The hardest part is, Mom and I used to be really close. Then she just sort of… went away.”

  “Yeah, I know what you mean,” Jazz said. “My mom and I used to be pretty close, too. Then she just sort of … became a bitch.”

  That made me laugh. Sliding off the table, I said, “Come on, let’s go to the auditorium.”

  “It’s kinda late now,” Jazz said, glancing at her watch.

  I peered over her arm. “Already? Wow. Time flies when you’re having fun.”

  She whapped me.

  We left together, closing the door behind us. “From now on, let’s just meet in the auditorium,” I said.

  A cloud darkened her face. “I don’t want my playing to take the place of our peer counseling.”

  “It won’t,” I said. “We can still talk. If you want we could meet every day. We wouldn’t have to actually count it—”

  “Yo, Jazz,” someone called from the end of the hall. “Wait up.”

  “See you tomorrow.” I veered off in the opposite direction.

  “Wait.” Jazz caught my shirtsleeve.

  Her punker pal sauntered up to her. “What’s this I hear about the piano? You and snooze music.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Jazz said.

  “Eeks told me—”

  “Eeks needs to get a life,” Jazz cut him off. Changing the subject, she said, “Ram, this is Antonia. Antonia, Ram.”

  “Hi.” I smiled tentatively.

  “Hey” he said. In spite of his orange spikes and nose ring, he was kind of cute.

  “Don’t judge her by her looks,” Jazz said to Ram. “Antonia is a good person. The best. A better person than you’ll ever be.”

  “Hey!” Even through his war paint, he looked totally offended. “She looks like a babe to me.”

  Jazz kicked his shin. Spinning him around, she shoved him down the hall. “See ya, Tone,” she called over her shoulder.

  “Yeah, see ya,” Ram said, smiling at me. “I hope.”

  I floated through the rest of the day.

  Chapter 26

  “Prélude à l’après-midi d’un faune, by Claude Debussy. Translated,” Jazz explained, “it means “prelude to the afternoon of a fawn.’ This is my favorite piece in the whole wide world.” She lifted her hands over the keys and, with the lightest touch, began to play.

  Today I just sat back to listen. The music swirled down around me. I could picture it—a fawn following its mother across a mountain meadow. The warm breeze rustling the aspen leaves. I closed my eyes and let the melody sweep me away. So calming, so comforting.

  Then the image changed. It wasn’t a fawn, it was me. And it wasn’t a doe, but my mother. We were having a picnic. At Cherokee Reservoir. Something I said made her laugh. A deep, resonant laugh that carried in the wind. I couldn’t remember the last time my mother laughed like that. The last time she’d been really happy. The last time I’d made her happy.

  Suddenly the bubble burst. I wasn’t alone. Someone whispered in my ear, “She’s amazing.”

  It was Dr. DiLeo, sitting beside me.

  I smiled. “Isn’t she?”

  He said, “Are you responsible for this?” He motioned to the stage. “Getting her to play?”

  My face flared. “No way. She could always play.”

  “I meant—” He stopped and smiled. We listened through a passage before he turned and whispered, “Is this your peer counseling time?”

  “Not really,” I said. “I mean, we added some sessions. I felt I needed more time to help Jazz with her problem. One of them, anyway.”

  “What about you?”

  I looked at him. “What do you mean?”

  He coughed. “Excuse me.” He reached in his pocket and popped a Tic Tac. While he was sucking away, I decided to ask Dr. DiLeo the question I’d been meaning to. The question whose answer I’d been dreading. “When are Jazz’s fifteen hours up?”

  “Her fifteen hours?” He looked confused.

  Someone else slid in on the other side of me. “Hello, Antonia,” Mrs. Bartoli whispered. “Who is that?” She motioned up to the stage.

  “It’s Jazz.” I twisted to face her. “Jazz Luther.”

  Her eyes bulged. She dug her glasses out of her blazer pocket and shoved them on.

  I added, “She’s incredible, isn’t she?”

  Mrs. Bartoli didn’t answer, just sat and stared. I loved her reaction. The shock, the disbelief. Jazz would love it, too, when I told her. If I told her.

  “You look surprised,” I said to Mrs. Bartoli.

  “Well, I…” She blinked at me and shook her head. “I just never knew she was so talented.”

  “Oh, yeah,” I said. “She’s talented in lots of ways. Like she’s really, really smart. She gets straight A’s, almost.”

  “No,” Mrs. Bartoli said. “Jazz?” She gawked up at the stage.

  “I know,” I babbled on, “it’s hard to get past her looks, but deep down, she’s a really cool person.”

  Mrs. Bartoli frowned at me. “Are you two friends?”

  I nodded. “Good friends.” I didn’t know if that was true, but I felt close to Jazz. We’d been through a lot together.

  Mrs. Bartoli seemed a little shaken, like she’d had this major revelation. She stayed to listen for a few more minutes, until her watch beeped. When she stood to leave, I told her, “Jazz’ll be practicing again tomorrow, if you want to come listen. Oh, Mrs. Bartoli?” I stopped her. “I was thinking about joining math club again. I know it’s kind of late in the year, but … would that be okay?”

  “Of course,” she said. A smile curled her lips and her eyes softened. “I’m so glad, Antonia.”

  The next day, about five minutes into Jazz’s performance, I felt another presence occupy the seat next to me. When I saw who it was, I freaked.

  “Oh, my God,” she breathed. “It’s true. She’s playing.”

  Oh, my God is right, I thought.

  Mrs. Luther reached over and clutched my hand. “The Mozart sonata,” she said. “Isn’t it marvelous? Isn’t she marvelous? Ohhh …” Her hand squeezed mine.

  We sat there together, lost in the music. I don’t know what she was thinking, but I was imagining this was my mom holding my hand, that we were experiencing a special moment together.

  Mrs. Luther sniffled before releasing my hand and unlatching the purse in her lap. She pulled out a lacy hankie. Just as Jazz finished, Mrs. Luther blew her nose.

  It caught Jazz’s attention. I saw her freeze. Her eyes narrowed before zeroing in on me.

  I sh
rugged, hoping she’d get the message that I had no idea how her mother had found out.

  Mrs. Luther stood and applauded wildly. “Brava, brava,” she cheered.

  Jazz turned away.

  Her mother raced up onto the stage. She yanked Jazz up by the shoulders and smothered her in a hug. “Oh, darling. You’re playing again. Thank the Lord. Wait until I tell your father.” She held Jazz out at arm’s length, then pulled her in again.

  Jazz stood there like a rag doll, her face expressionless.

  Mrs. Luther said, “You are going to play in that recital.”

  Jazz pushed her back. “No, Mother. I’m not.”

  “Yes, you are.”

  They stood eye to eye. A bolt of lightning couldn’t cut through the tension. Then a tear rolled down Mrs. Luther’s face. “I don’t give a damn what you wear,” she said. “You are going to play.” She pulled Jazz in close again. “Oh, darling. Seeing you play again makes me so happy.”

  Jazz’s hands lifted to spread across her mother’s back. A slow smile of victory spread across Jazz’s face.

  My eyes welled with tears. I had to get out of there fast.

  Saturday morning Tillie and Luis had planned to take us to Six Flags, but I begged off with a headache. “Would you like me to stay home with you?” Tillie asked, reaching up to feel my forehead.

  I recoiled. “No, I’ll be fine. I think I’m just tired.”

  She smiled sympathetically. “If you get hungry, there are lots of leftovers in the fridge. The cookie can is full, too, so help yourself. Don’t be a stranger.”

  A strange thing to say to a stranger, I thought.

  After they left, it took me an hour to work up the courage. Three times I picked up the phone and dialed. As soon as it rang, I hung up. I was so afraid.

  “Afraid of what?” I asked myself aloud. “She’s your mother.”

  On the fourth try, a receptionist answered. When I asked to speak to Patrice Dillon, the lady said, “Just a moment.” It was a long moment before someone else said, “Psychiatric. This is Nancy. Can I help you?”

  “May I please speak to Patrice Dillon?” My voice sounded strained, far away.

  “Who may I say is calling?”

  “Her daughter.” I swallowed hard.