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Normalish Copyright © Margaret Lesh, 2012-2015
All Rights Reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without prior written permission of the publisher.
This book is a work of fiction. While references may be made to actual places or events, the names, characters, incidents, and locations within are from the author’s imagination and are not a resemblance to actual living or dead persons, businesses, or events. Any similarity is coincidental.
ISBN: 0692402993
ISBN-13: 978-0692402993
Editor, Ellen Brock
Cover design and interior layout, Steven Lesh
StoryRhyme.com Publishing; 2nd edition (March 1, 2015)
Dedication
To Steven and Andrew, my loves.
And to anyone out there who’s ever felt like they didn’t quite belong.
August 18 -
Mental Inventory
When I was twelve years old, I learned not to talk about death. People would get uncomfortable. They’d look away and change the subject. Or they’d say something stupid and wrong. Or the silence would become something you could almost touch. Kids at school would have one of two reactions: either they’d give sympathetic looks from afar, or they’d stay completely away from me as if the death were contagious, like some type of incurable disease. I also learned that the simple (or not so simple) act of talking about death is painful—almost as painful as experiencing the death all over again.
Two years ago, my dad died while he was crossing the street. It was one of those random accidents that can happen to anybody. It wasn’t something contagious, unless you believe in that sort of thing, like fate or destiny or voodoo or black magic. But I don’t believe it was anything more than a horrible accident, and I learned to bury it deep inside. Now the sharp edges of pain have dulled to more of a rounded feeling, but it’s still there.
I think about death a lot. I think about the big questions of where we go after we die and what happens to us. One time my mom told me about how after my dad died, she’d dream about him, and in her dreams, he’d show up at the front door with a suitcase in each hand as if he were just visiting. Personally, I like to think he visited her while she slept and their souls could touch, then he’d return to wherever it was he’d come from. He came to her when she needed him the most—when his death was still fresh and raw. After about a year, she stopped having the dream.
Occasionally—when I wake up in the morning, walking to and from school, during class, and when I go to bed at night—I like to take a mental inventory of my life. When I’m in a glass-half-empty kind of mood, which is about fifty-one percent of the time, I start out with the things in my life that blow:
• 1. My dad is still dead. (Obvious, but still true.)
• 2. I don’t have a true best friend. (Not anymore.)
• 3. I don’t have a boyfriend.
• 4. I don’t have any money.
• 5. High school is much worse than I thought it would be.
• 6. My clothes are completely lacking in style—not to mention the fact that they’re old.
• 7. Becca is still a slob.
• 8. Math is my worst subject. (But not as bad as actual death.)
I’ve added a new topic to my life-blows list:
• 9. Becca has been acting strange. (Stranger than usual.)
Lately I’ve been thinking about “normal” and how there’s this fine line between being an average, ordinary person and being completely out-of-your-mind crazy. “Normal” is all about perception. I mean, isn’t “normal” what the majority of people do? So what if suddenly ninety-nine people out of a hundred decide to walk their iguanas down the street while wearing a tutu? Wouldn’t the one guy who didn’t own an iguana and wear a tutu be the freak? And isn’t it the ones who seem normal on the outside who, in actuality, know where the bodies are buried in the backyard or are secretly in love with their toaster?
Am I normal? I’m a freshman, I hate school, I think most of the other kids are idiots, and I don’t fit in. Most days I feel like I’m an alien from another planet observing the lives of Earth teens. But ninety-nine out of a hundred high-school freshman would probably say that’s normal.
I have a tendency to be too sarcastic, but I’m working on that. I live in North Hollywood, California, which sounds much more glamorous than it is. There are some really nice areas of town and some not-so-good ones that you wouldn’t want to walk through any time of the day. But since this is Los Angeles, you can barely turn around without running into a celebrity of some kind. Like I once saw a movie star picking her nose at the Farmers Market, and one time I saw a soap opera actor at IKEA looking at dish towels. You can almost always see someone at least familiar looking, like an infomercial host, at the Whole Foods on West 3rd Street.
I’m a movie buff, especially classic movies, when men were handsome and women were glamorous, and everything was like a fairy tale, because people wanted to escape their lives for a couple of hours. Today, everything is about depressing realism. Everyone knows that life can be depressing and real enough as it is.
I’ve thought about which movie my life is most like. The one that really sums up my feelings the best is 10 Things I Hate About You, but I really just like the title.
I thought fourteen would be better than thirteen. In some ways it is, but in others, it’s much worse. Which leads me to high school. With the first week over, I have only this to say: it’s much worse than I thought.
August 22 -
So Who Am I Really?
(In 250 Words Or Less)
Horrible high school has begun. It is horrible for many reasons—the reasons you’d usually suspect—and it is horrible on so many levels—the ones you’d also usually suspect—not to mention the fact that it starts in August. (But I won’t even go there.)
One horrible thing that was particularly awful and egregious happened the first week of school. In English, our teacher Mr. Selden (a nice-looking, older man—broad shoulders, deep brown eyes, nicely-shaped eyebrows—someone I could really sit back and daydream about) asked us to do a quick-write about our family, which, by itself, was not so bad. What was horrible was the fact that he read it out loud. For everyone to hear. If I’d known this in advance, I would have either:
• 1. lied, saying I was raised by wolves, or
• 2. made it much less entertaining so that my teacher wouldn’t have felt the compelling need to humiliate me in front of the class.
If I had known my life was going to be made public, I wouldn’t have written about my sister Jill being bossy and overbearing, or how she literally has a cow when I squeeze the toothpaste tube from the wrong end, or how she’s been known to smack me upside the head for using the wrong subject-verb agreement.
I also wouldn’t have written about how I went to Ms. Liz’s Modeling School or how she taught me to make the perfect gin & tonic—one part gin to three parts tonic over three ice cubes with a twist of lime. (Since we weren’t actual model material, I think knocking back a few during Runway Class was her own personal coping mechanism. Also, I’m beginning to wonder if she ever really was a model.)
I wouldn’t have written about being in the gifted program because—well, you know how that sounds. I mean, I don’t want to brag or anything. And I wouldn’t have written about math—how it doesn’t like me and I don’t like it—because that just made me sound like a loser.
Lastly, I wouldn’t have mentioned Becca being strange. I mean, people know her. If she ever found out about it, I could get seriously hurt.
August 22, Later -
My Life
As An Open Book
(Which I Don’t Recommend)
When Mr. Selden read my paper to the class, I experienced this strange sensation of being disconnected, like I was listening to someone else’s horrible life story being read out loud for everyone to hear. He did not warn us that what we wrote could be used against us. (And I kind of hate him now, even though he’s still handsome.)
“I have a paper here from Stacy York,” he said as he peered over the top of his glasses. “Stacy, where are you?”
I raised my hand so he’d see me—kind of half-raised in self-conscious embarrassment.
Please don’t read my paper. Please, I beg you in the name of everything that is good in the world. Puppies, kittens. Fluffy, white bunnies. Toast with strawberry jam. Please don’t. It was a slow-motion feeling; there was nothing I could do to stop him.
“This was quite good.”
First he cleared his throat, then he began to read my life to the class. I heard someone snicker in the back row. Miguel, the mouth-breather in the next desk, stared at me, mouth open as usual.
I wanted to hide.
Someone poked me in the back. It was Daria.
“Stacy, I didn’t know you went to modeling school. That’s weird.”
“Um, thanks.”
Chad sat in the next row laughing. I gave him a death stare. He ignored it.
Mr. Selden also glared at him, continued my public humiliation, finished reading, then asked, “Did you really mix cocktails for Ms. Liz? That’s very funny, Stacy. You may have a future as a writer.”
Would somebody please shoot me?
He softened the blow just a little by saying, “Stacy’s used humor to write an engaging essay. Humor’s an effective tool for holding your audience.”
This was where I stopped listening and started singing my favorite song in my head, “Loser,” hoping his moving on would take the focus off of me.
On the way out of class, Mr. Selden stopped me, looking a little concerned, probably from noticing the way my body had slumped for the rest of the class period.
“Hey, I hope I didn’t embarrass you by reading your essay.”
What could I say? This: “You ruined my life”? Or this: “I’ll never be able to show my face again, and it’s all your fault”? No, this is what I actually said, because I just didn’t have that kind of nerve: “No, that’s okay. Um, see you tomorrow.”
I wanted to hide. But I couldn’t, because I’m a freshman. My choices are limited.
August 22, Even Later -
Not An Endless Summer
At lunch, after my public humiliation, I saw Chad. He asked me, completely out-of-the-blue, “So, what’s up with you and Summer?”
I shook my head, sighed. Something else to feel depressed about. “I dunno. Maybe I’m too—”
“Smart?”
We laughed. I was going to say “dorky.” Chad and Summer have never exactly been friends.
Chad seemed happy to see me—he was being his usual cheerful self. He was in boardshorts and a T-shirt. His skin was brown, and his hair was extra curly, like he’d just gotten back from the beach.
“So what’d you do all summer, Chad?”
“Family went to Fiji. Nothing exciting like you. I mean, not everybody gets to mix cocktails for Ms. Liz.”
He laughed. I wanted to hit him. But I didn’t since he’s my Summer replacement.
I guess I was never part of Summer’s high school plan. Maybe I am too dorky. Maybe it’s the less-than-new clothes or the fact that I never have any money.
It has become apparent to me that Summer, my best friend, is now my former best friend. She found new homies over the summer, Chelsea and Hannah. I don’t know them, but I already don’t like them. They’re the type of girls who look eighteen, dress like they’re twenty-one, but probably read at a second-grade level. Total flash over substance. And they’d never be caught dead with someone like me. (So I really don’t like them.)
After two days of trying to get her attention and being repeatedly blown off with excuses, I got the picture.
When I saw her in homeroom today, the picture was developed.
“Hey, Summer. Wanna get lunch later?” I asked.
“Oh, Stacy!” (Everything Summer says has an exclamation mark attached to it. Everything is very important.) Her hands were fidgety; she looked away, eyes darting to the side of the classroom where her new friends sat checking their phones for messages, even though we’re not allowed to have them in class. “I can’t. I made other plans already!”
“Come on, Summer! What are you doing?”
Chelsea was calling her over, acting as if she owned her, giving me this look like, “And just who are you?”
“Stacy! We’ll talk later, ’kay?”
“Sure, Summer. No problem,” I lied. And she was off.
How like her.
The thing with Summer is, she’s a force of nature—like an earthquake or flood. There’s no stopping her. But for some unknown reason—a complete mystery to me—she had chosen me to be her friend. Summer Phillips, social butterfly. Summer with the waterproof mascara and trendy clothes. Summer who made out with guys in middle school. Cute ones.
I tried not to question our friendship too much though, because sometimes you just have to let a good thing happen. So I went along for Summer’s ride, but in the back of my mind (the glass half-empty part), I wondered how long it would last. I wondered when she’d drop me like a hot rock.
In middle school, Summer would invite me to spend the night at her house, and then insist on me going to Mass with her Sunday morning because—well, you know. Misery loves company. I’d sit there, totally lost, afraid of doing the wrong thing, and her mom would keep shushing us while all Summer wanted to do was sit and gossip with me.
Even in the eighth grade she knew where all the action was. She’d constantly get phone calls from people wanting to know whose band was playing where and where the parties were. (She had all these connections.) And if someone called her who she didn’t consider worthy or who she just didn’t feel like speaking to, she’d tell them, “I’ve gotta go. My muffins are burning.” But she’s never baked in her life.
A few weeks ago, I called her.
“Hey, Summer. Wanna go to the mall?”
“Stacy! I can’t talk right now!” (Girls’ voices in the background laughing.) “I’ve got something in the oven. Gotta go!”
At least she didn’t say “muffins.”
Now that we’ve started high school, she acts like she’s a rock star and school is this giant mosh pit. She just dove right in, and people are passing her around—and here I am standing in the shadows waiting for her to come back to me some day.
The truth is, Summer is kind of a bad friend. And that’s just who she is. But she reached out to me when I really needed someone. And she always gives me good advice about my hair.
So I’m giving her back to the universe. Maybe she’ll gravitate back to me once in a while, or maybe the universe will get tired of her one day and throw her back. Until then, I’ve got Rose and Bethany. And then, of course, there’s Chad.
August 29 -
My New Best Friend?
Chad seems to be my new best friend. We’ve been eating lunch together every day. Rose and Bethany sit with us. Actually, he lets us sit with his group. But Chad’s like that. He doesn’t care that we’re fringy. Yesterday when we sat down with him, horrible Vanessa gave me a death stare. I don’t know if it’s because I’m not “one” of them or because she thought I had the hots for Chad.
“So I’m running for class president,” he said during lunch, all excited and goofy.
“Look at you, Mr. Popularity.”
“Well, you know.” He shrugged his shoulders. “Want to help me campaign?”
The look on his face was all hopeful and maybe a little—what? I don’t know. But I did notice that his hair was extra wavy and sticking up a little in the middle. I wanted to laugh, but I didn’t.
&nbs
p; “Sure, Chad. I’ll write your speech and see how many times I can work in the words ‘awesome’ and ‘cheese.’”
“Um, okay. Maybe not ‘cheese.’ Um, maybe I’ll have you work on posters instead.”
I gave him a little shove, and we laughed some more. We talked about ideas for his campaign, which would be short—only two weeks to get everything done.
We’ve collaborated before. When we were in the gifted program in fifth grade, we cowrote and starred in our modern version of The Three Little Pigs. It killed. Hilarious. The adults ate it up. Chad’s a natural comedian. I’m having him start his speech out with a joke to loosen up the crowd. He’s funny and popular. (I’m funny too, just not popular.)
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