Longing for Normal

by Darcy Pattison

It hit the faded white line just left of the bull’s eye. Nothing. Mr. Benton was still smiling.

  I shook my head and kept my face straight. “What a shame. Try just north of center. Or just south. Gotta be a sweet spot somewhere.”

  Toby didn’t look at me, he just concentrated. His next two pitches went fast. Clang! Clang!

  “No!” Toby slapped his hands together. “Too bad!” He pulled a dollar from his pocket. “Here, let me have three more balls.”

  Mrs. Zane was there, though, saying, “No, honey. It’s time to go inside.”

  “Mom! I know I can drop him. Let me try! Just one more!”

  She put her arm around his shoulder and pulled Toby out of the line and off to the side, while the rest of the Zanes and I followed. My stomach started cramping, not from hunger, but from hurting for Toby’s pride. Toby could have dropped Mr. Benton, and man, that would have been great to watch.

  “Down, Mommy. Put me down,” Veronica whined.

  The crowd quieted while the next person got ready to throw. Clang!

  “Toby, your Dad gives a speech in ten minutes. Come in and listen.”

  Clang!

  “Do I have to?” He frowned and shot me a glare. “Can’t I throw just one more time?”

  Clang! A roar of disappointment. Mr. Benton was still dry.

  “Yes, you have to come inside. No, you can’t throw again.”

  “We’ll be right in,” I answered for both of us. Otherwise Toby would argue and argue and argue until Mrs. Zane got really mad.

  Mrs. Zane nodded at me, gave Toby a “you-better-obey” stare, and led her blond ducklings back into the school building.

  Toby didn’t let me say anything. He just whipped out his billfold and peeled off five-dollar bills. “Five, ten, fifteen, twenty, twenty-five.” Then he peeled off a couple more. “Oh, here, take ten more, just for the heck of it. Then we won’t have to bet again for a while.”

  “No, I don’t want your money.” I folded my arms and tried to swallow. I still had some pride, too. “And we never have to bet again.”

  Toby stuffed the money in his pocket and stared at the water tank.

  I stood numb, unable to say any more. It wasn’t like it hurt him to make bets and let me win; his billfold was still stuffed. As Mr. Zane was fond of telling anyone and everyone who would listen, he was a landlord, owning lots of apartment complexes in this neighborhood. He went into a run-down place, bought it, cleaned it up, put in security fences and cameras, and then made sure each renter had a good record. No shady characters in his apartments, he always bragged. Nice and clean apartments like that, they get a good reputation. Long waiting lists.

  Last year, I kept expecting the Zanes to move away to a richer, newer part of town. But then Mr. Zane got elected councilman: he has to stay in this voting district. Toby would be my friend for at least four more years.

  Finally, Toby sighed and pulled out the bills again. “Look, a bet’s a bet.”

  “Only twenty-five,” I said stiffly. “Only what we bet.”

  Toby’s mouth was straight and tight. But he counted out the twenty-five.

  With trembling hands, I took the money. Now I wouldn’t have to bother Marj. Would she ever remember that I needed an allowance? Because I sure wasn’t going to ask. And I sure wasn’t going to bet with Toby again. It wasn’t worth ruining a friendship.

  Clang!

  Alli was throwing. Her arms were so scrawny that I didn’t think she could even throw a tennis ball, much less a baseball.

  Toby said, “Bet the sweet spot is the very center. Bet I could hit it.”

  Alli wound up and threw. Not hard, but not soft. And—by luck—it hit smack in the target's center.

  Mr. Benton squealed like a second-grader. Plop! Splash!

  A tremendous wave rolled toward the edge of the water tank; it rolled toward Mr. Porter, still high, still strong, it splashed over the edge, right onto Mr. Porter's chest; water ran down his pant legs.

  Alli stood stock still, eyes wide, shocked, her pale face even paler. Mrs. Johnson–now in dry clothes–leapt up and down shouting and clapping. Mr. Benton rose up, flinging his head back, spraying water everywhere and roaring with laughter. And kids were laughing and pointing at the new girl, who had dunked the principal.

  And Toby whispered, “I could have dropped him.”

  

  With Mr. Benton’s dunking, they shut down the water tank. “The rest of the activities will be inside,” Mr. Porter called.

  We waited around, talking to some of the guys, until finally heading in ourselves. Inside, Toby reminded me, “You still need to talk to Mrs. Lopez.”

  “Right. Save me a place to listen to your Dad.”

  Toby nodded and headed toward the row of chairs.

  Of course, I heard Mrs. Lopez before I saw her. She and Marj sat at the PTA table near the gym door. Coming from the side, I saw the stacks of paper money and coins that, apparently, they had just counted. Marj was writing something on a pad of paper.

  Mr. Benton was there, too, already dried off from the water tank, and wearing a school T-shirt.

  This was bad: with all three of them together, they had to be discussing the Bread Project. I didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but they were loud.

  Pointing to the cash, Mrs. Lopez said, “We’ve enough to pay the bill for the T-shirts. From now on, it’s just profit. But we need another fundraiser. We all understand the idea of the Bread Project, but we need to decide: do this project or something else.”

  Marj had a hand to her ear, playing with her dangly earring, a bad habit. “Will it work? I’ve never done anything like this.”

  Mr. Benton nodded, while Mrs. Lopez said, “Si, it will work.”

  No, I thought, it won’t, and then I sped up, darting around the last few people, but bumping against a PTA table. I’d have to go around it to join the conversation.

  Marj said, “Okay. But I’d feel better if we worked out all the details first.”

  Mrs. Lopez shook her head. “There’s no time to work everything out. Besides, we don’t have enough sourdough starter to give each student. The only way to get enough is to let it grow week by week. Which means we must start now, or wait until next year.”

  “You’re right. It will be a couple weeks anyway before very many kids get the starter. We can easily work out details as we go, but we have to start now,” Mr. Benton said. “It’s agreed then? The Bread Project is on?”

  Rage shot through me and my fists clenched as I hurried around the table.

  How to explain? Griff’s ideas about fund-raising for the school had a history; they were tied to who he was, a symbol of everything he stood for. It wasn’t a plan for anyone to just pick up and use. Without Griff, there was nothing.

  Marj saw me and nodded me over. “Oh. Here’s Eliot. Griff’s son. Eliot.” She cleared her throat. “Our son.” She coughed. “As a family, we appreciate you doing this to honor Griff. He would be happy about this.”

  Son.

  Earlier, I had longed for Marj to call me her son. Now? I don’t know what she meant. She said it so awkwardly, like she didn’t know if she meant it. Said, “our son,” not “my son.”

  Mr. Benton asked me, “You okay with this Bread Project?”

  Son. Marj had called me son. Had said we were a family. I couldn’t speak, the heavy misery holding me in its tight fist.

  Mr. Benton slapped my back. The guys’ version of Mrs. Lopez’s hug of sympathy.

  Still, I said nothing, held fast by the weight of grief.

  “Oh,” Marj said to me, “Here’s a T-shirt for you.”

  It was a size large. Too big for me.

  “Good,” Mr. Benton said. “We’ll get the Project started tomorrow.”

  

  When I slid into the metal chair beside Toby, he whispered, “Well?”

  “Too late. The Project is on.” I didn’t know what to think about it, whether I should be mad or not. It had all seemed so easy before Mar
j had called me “our son.” I did know one thing: I would not get involved with the Bread Project. Not at all.

  In front of us, Mr. Zane was talking into a microphone and gesturing. Sameer, sitting with his mother on the front row, was hanging over the back of his chair and watching a kid behind him play with a hand-held video game. The family with dark-haired twin boys sat outside of the row of chairs and let the boys wrestle on the floor. Toward the back were two rows of Arab-looking men and women with head-scarves, the Herat clan.

  The microphone squealed and someone behind us said, “Zany Zanes.”

  Toby hitched his chair closer, leaned over and whispered, “The Bread Project is so complicated. I bet–”

  Surprised, I leaned back and studied Toby’s face: he was going to bet something again? He had straight white-blond hair and a long straight nose–if his hair darkened as he grew older, he’d look just like his dad.

  “–that the Bread Project will fail.” Toby sat back up and stared at his dad.

  This bet made me mad. “So, what else is new? Of course it will fail.” But Toby wasn’t supposed to think that, much less say it.

  He leaned back in: “What’s new is my twenty-five dollars to back up the bet. Just a bet between friends.”

  I sucked in breath. I thought we weren’t betting any more. Was he trying to say that he was okay with what happened earlier, okay with not getting to dunk Mr. Benton?

  “In fact, it will fail so badly that I’ll double that bet,” he said.

  “Done.” I couldn’t pass up that kind of money. Automatically, I announced the exact terms of the bet. “The bet isn’t finished until Thanksgiving, when we either have 500 loaves or we don’t. If the Bread Project works, then I win.”

  “Agreed.”

  And I thought: I might make it through school this year with friends like Toby.

  

  Later, back in my room, I laid out my clothes, supplies and backpack, trying to be organized for the first day of school. If only emotions could be lined up so easily. Downstairs, I knew Marj was putting together a computer presentation for tomorrow. She only had a couple slides done, so she’d be up late. But she wouldn’t let me help, just told me to go up and get ready for bed.

  With everything ready, I flopped onto my bed and stared at a framed picture of Griff and me, holding up a catfish we had caught together. What a great morning that had been: seven catfish in just two hours. That night, we had a fish fry with Mr. and Mrs. James, the old couple down the street who talked with a Southern drawl. That was Griff. Always bringing in someone that others had overlooked. It had been a day of sun and laughter and good food and good friends.

  Suddenly, I flipped the picture face down, jumped off the bed, jerked the curtains closed, took off my shoes, threw my T-shirt into the dirty clothesbasket, and plopped back onto the bed. Trying not to think. Oh. How I missed Griff.

  And how hard it was with Marj. Did I think of her as just an almost-adoptive mother or as a real mother? Had she meant what she said, that we were a family? Did she really think of me as a son? Her son?

  BREAD PROJECT: DAY 1

  ELIOT

  I slouched into my seat, smack in the front-center of the auditorium. In the middle of all the kindergartners and first graders. Toby and the rest of the sixth grade sat on the back row, but I had to run the computer for Marj’s presentation on the screen up front.

  A kid poked my back. I jerked around, hitting my elbow on the wooden armrest. I gasped and shifted in the hard seat to glare at the kids behind me. “What?”

  “Why are we here?” asked a girl with a high-pitch voice.

  “It’s an assembly.”

  Her eyes were wide. “What’s that?”

  Kindergartners. I shook my head. They didn’t know anything about anything yet. “Just watch,” I said.

  The house lights darkened. Bright stage lights washed out the red velvet curtains. Swish, the curtains opened.

  “Oh! Look!” The little kids squealed and jabbed fingers, pointing.

  For a change, they were right; it was a wonder. I sat forward. All along the edge of the stage, almost on top of blue or red floor lights, marched quart jars. They didn’t gleam or twinkle. Instead, they glowed. ‘Course it was a glow borrowed from the lights, but still a sight to see.

  Then I saw a splash of white hit one of the jars. A spitball.

  No! They couldn’t do that to the bread jars. I half rose–then stopped.

  Careful, I told myself. Don’t get involved in the Bread Project, I reminded myself. Even this computer thing, it was just to help Marj, not the Project.

  I dropped back into my seat. And it squeaked.

  And I remembered what Griff always said: when you’re about to do something crazy, try to distract yourself. Maybe I could distract the others and still stay out of it.

  With both hands, I grabbed my seat’s edge and rocked. There. Now that was a satisfying, annoying creaky rhythm. “Hey, kids. Listen.”

  “Huh?’

  “Listen,” I whispered loudly. Creak-a-creak-creak.

  “Like this?” It was the girl with the high voice. Her seat squeaked better than mine. I smiled at her, then grinned, as the creak spread in arcs through the kids seated behind her.

  It worked. More and more seats took up the joy of creaking until I was sure no one was interested in throwing spitballs at the bread jars. And such a great sound.

  Mr. Benton strode across the stage and behind him was Marj. Into the microphone, Mr. Benton said, “Welcome to the first assembly of the year.”

  I didn’t listen to his introduction. I just stared at the 512 quart jars which I had just saved from a spit ball war. They were the beginning of the Bread Project.

  

  “Good morning,” Marj said into the microphone. “This assembly is the kick-off for the First Annual Bread Project, a community project that was planned by my late husband, Griff Winston.”

  The projector’s fan blew warm air at me, and I shifted in my seat to avoid it. The first time Griff brought Marj to meet me, on that hopeful day last year, her voice had been warm. Like milk chocolate was melting in her mouth. Today, talking about the Bread Project, it had changed. It was deeper, fuller, like she had been eating dark chocolate. Last night, she had been scared to meet people, yet here she was talking to the auditorium full of kids. It had been a huge, slow effort last night to put together this presentation; she had stayed up until 1 or 2 a.m. But the presentation would keep her on track, make sure she didn’t get too emotional.

  Mr. Benton walked off the side of the stage, leaving Marj alone.

  I held the remote control tightly, making sure I was ready.

  “Today,” Marj said, “one person will take home one of these quart jars with sourdough starter.” She didn’t use her hands to explain things like Griff had always done; instead, she raised an eyebrow, or frowned, or smiled. Now, she smiled, as if to say, “I know this Bread Project sounds strange, but give me a minute and I’ll explain.”

  I started the first slide showing an empty quart jar, a quart jar with sourdough starter, and a loaf of bread.

  Marj continued: “Sourdough starter is just wild yeast. Yeast is the stuff that helps make bread rise and be light and fluffy. Without it, bread would be as hard as a rock.”

  Next slide: flat bread and bread that had risen.

  “This particular sourdough starter has been in the Winston family for over a hundred and fifty years.” The next slide showed an old black and white picture of Griff’s family, including his aunt wearing an apron and holding out a loaf of bread.

  I knew most kids wouldn’t understand the importance of that. Yeast– if they ever thought about it at all–was just stuff that came out of a package. But a yeast culture could live for years and years. Griff had been proud of the 150-year-old starter. “One of the oldest cultures in the United States,” he said.

  Marj continued, explaining that each jar with its starter would come with instructi
ons (click to next slide) and recipes (click to next slide). The starter had to be fed with flour and water each week (click to next slide), which would let the yeast grow.

  So far, I thought Marj was doing great. The Kindergartners were quiet and the only sound was a few chairs creaking. But Marj better hurry, ‘cause the kids would get restless fast. For the next set of slides, I anticipated when she would get there and clicked early. It worked, speeding her up.

  “Next week, the first person will pass one cup of starter on to the next person. Then two people will have the sourdough starter. They will feed it and let it grow a week and then, the next week, those two will give to two more, so there will be four jars of starter. Double that the next week for eight jars of starter.”

  My slides flickered–quickly–on the cracked screen behind Marj. Quickly. Explaining how each week the number of jars of sourdough starter would double. By Thanksgiving, ten weeks from now–1, 2, 4, 8, 16, 32, 64, 128, 256, 512–there would be 512 jars. Enough for each student to take home a jar of starter.

  The kindergarten kid on my left side was kicking his legs, and the girl on my right had pulled her legs up to sit cross-legged. She studied a scab on her knee, and then leaned close and whispered, “What’s a Ress-uh-Pee?”

  I rolled my eyes and hoped the older kids understood better. For these little kids, Mrs. Lopez and the PTA had better send letters to the parents.

  “On Sunday of Thanksgiving week,” Marj said, “you’ll start your bread. You can make anything you want with the sourdough, any recipe you want. Sometime on Monday night, you’ll bake that bread. On Tuesday, the last day of school before Thanksgiving break, you’ll bring your loaf of bread to school for the PTA Thanksgiving Dinner. We’ll eat a turkey dinner (click: slide of a party, with a big turkey on a platter) and then auction (click: slide of an auctioneer banging down a gavel. Sold!) the bread as a fundraiser. The PTA will use the money to buy playground equipment.”

  Marj’s eyes widened and she smiled, obviously expecting the audience to do something. Clap or cheer, maybe?