Longing for Normal

by Darcy Pattison

  For a second, when Mr. Porter’s pockmarked face appeared, I thought of werewolves and Beauty and the Beast and other stories that explained ugly faces. I didn’t know if I should shudder or laugh. So, I just went ahead, still playing along.

  “It’s a joke.” I made Vs with my fingers, and put one finger on my eyebrow, the other under my eye, on either side, in a fake mask. “I’m disguised. As a sixth grader.”

  Mr. Porter raised an eyebrow, and this time, I did want to laugh. I could’ve played along a bit more, but Marj was in a hurry.

  Dropping my hands and smiling, I asked, “Is Alli ready?”

  “For what?”

  “We’re going to the Harvest Party at the Community Center.”

  “She didn’t ask permission for that.”

  “But–” I stopped, suddenly remembering who I was talking to. Mr. Porter, the sixth grade social studies teacher who never smiled except on Halloween night when he played up the scary stuff.

  I stepped back and waved for Marj to come to the door.

  She slipped the car into park and turned off the engine. Half-pulled herself out of the car. Called, “What’s wrong?”

  I only waved at her to come.

  Mr. Porter stepped outside, too, and closed the door. “Don’t want the house to get cold.”

  When Marj stopped at the bottom of the steps, Mr. Porter said, “Now, what’s going on tonight?”

  “The Community Center Harvest Party. We have a booth for the Bread Project, and Alli is supposed to come and help.”

  “Oh. That project.” Mr. Porter knelt and took the top off a jack-o-lantern, letting the candle throw deep, sharp shadows over his creepy face. “It’s a waste of time.”

  All my elation fell away.

  Apparently, satisfied that the candle would burn a while longer, he replaced the jack-o-lantern’s top. He straightened up and stared at Marj. “It won’t work. People won’t bake bread and won’t bring it for Thanksgiving.”

  Now, his gray face almost disappeared against the gray concrete of the house. Like a ghost fading in and out, that’s what he looked like. I shivered.

  “Thanks for the warning,” Marj said. Her voice wasn’t melting chocolate anymore: it was as sharp as an icicle. “But we’re doing the Bread Project anyway. And Alli has volunteered to help. Volunteered. If you don’t mind.”

  From a block or so away, we heard kids yelling. Mr. Porter pulled his hood back up and muttered, “A bread project.”

  At his sarcasm, Marj took a step up. She held her body tense, like a rubber band stretched to its limits. “You don’t mind if Alli helps, do you? Because the Project is to honor the memory of my husband.”

  A lump filled my throat: sadness that Griff was gone, yet pride that Marj was standing up there, defiant, fighting for Griff’s memory. I stepped up beside her.

  Mr. Porter returned her stare. Then abruptly, he dropped his eyes.

  The laughter from the trick-or-treaters echoed through the neighborhood. They were just two houses away.

  Mr. Porter jerked open the door and called. “Come on down. You’re trying to listen anyway.”

  Alli clattered down the wooden stairs and out the door to stand beside Marj.

  “You’ll bring her home later? I won’t have to get out and pick her up?”

  “I’ll bring her home,” Marj said.

  Walking out to the car, I said, “Guess what Marj brought us?” I pulled out the masks.

  “Oh. I bought masks, too.” She held up her two masks.

  Suddenly, we were laughing and piling into the car. Happy.

  Behind us, the group of kids had reached Mr. Porter’s house, and we heard his voice croak, “Welcome to our haunted castle!”

  “Trick-or-treat!”

  

  Walking into the community center, it was already crowded. The Halloween booths were already decorated and people were chattering, gossiping, smiling. I saw Toby at his Dad’s political booth and waved.

  We had to ask several people before we found someone in charge, who sent us to find the janitor, who led us to the back of the gymnasium. He pushed up his wire-rims, turned away slightly and sneezed. “Sorry, I must be getting a cold.” He rubbed his nose again, trying to keep back another sneeze.

  I put my hands behind my back and stepped away.

  Meanwhile, the janitor stopped at a booth and gestured. I stared at the blue curtains that created a small booth space. The other booths were lined up in the aisles, like the setup for the back-to-school party. But the Bread Project booth was on a far wall. Far away from everything else. Separated by a huge empty floor space, an ocean to cross to get to our booth.

  “This is our booth?” Marj demanded.

  “Your sign up said this was a Bread Project.” The janitor pushed up his wire-rims again. “Most food booths want to be close to the kitchen.”

  Marj and Mrs. Lopez looked at each other and then back at the janitor.

  “There’s nothing else?” Marj asked.

  “Not tonight.” The janitor turned and walked away.

  Mrs. Patel looked back at the aisles of booths, then at ours. “We don’t have anything to decorate with, either.” Today, she’d come straight from work: black skirt, white shirt and heels.

  I sat cross-legged on the floor. “No one will find us over here.” This was a big setback for the project. I was afraid to look at Marj, to see her disappointment.

  By now, we realized that we had to contact the parents; without them, the project was dead. Kids just didn’t understand it exactly, how important it was to pass off the sourdough starter on time each week. They didn’t understand enough about baking. And then, there was the question of who would buy the bread. The auction needed community people who would buy bread as a donation to the school.

  The aisles were full of costumed figures: a David and Goliath walking along together, several wore the latest store-bought Batman costume, and some poor kid who had decided to actually wear a World War I wool uniform. I felt sorry for him.

  Mrs. Johnson set down her basket of supplies and bread and put her hands on her hips. “Maybe, maybe not. We’ve made a mistake, not getting a better booth, not setting up early. But we’re just learning. It happens.”

  “Si. Let’s get set up, and while we work, we can decide what to do,” Mrs. Lopez said.

  Alli stepped up then. “Good. And while you work, you have to wear a mask.” She passed out the masks, and everyone put them on. Somehow it was easier to smile with a mask on your face.

  I finally looked at Marj, and she even tried a smile. She nodded at me to help her with our boxes that held a couple loaves of bread. I heaved them onto the table top and lined up the loaves. Soon, the table was heaping with breads.

  Mrs. Lopez had pan dulce, a Mexican sweet bread; Mrs. Patel had her naan; and Mrs. Johnson had made cinnamon rolls. Lots of great samples, lots of brochures to pass out, just no one to give them out to. I pulled the mask back over my face and wished the evening was over.

  ALLI

  Trouble, that’s what we had. The mothers were cute in their masks, hurrying around getting brochures and bread laid out and in order. But after that, they were clueless, totally without ideas.

  I squinted, looking from our booth to the aisles of games. How could you get someone to come over here, just to pick up a brochure?

  You couldn’t. Tonight, everyone was thinking about costumes and candy and fun.

  I saw a few tutus and capes pass by. Nothing special. Then, Sam came out of one aisle, heading for the next. Dressed in a turban and wide flowing pants. Ali Baba, I guess. He waved, but moved on to a basketball toss. A second later, Toby waved, too, dressed as Michael Jackson. Really strange for a blond kid to dress like the King of Pop, but somehow, Toby’s walk carried it off.

  I fiddled with my mask. The elastic rubber band had caught and tangled my hair. Mrs. Patel noticed what I was doing and took a step over to help me straighten it. And I said, “Thanks for your help.”r />
  “No problem,” she said. “Any time.”

  And that made me think about all the times I’d heard someone say something like that. I know. Mostly people just say that to be polite or because they are paid to say it. Like Mrs. Brodie-Rock saying to call her anytime.

  But the Bread Project was different. Mrs. Patel really was working on the cookbook and Mrs. Johnson had joined us and had already visited a couple families, talking recipes and such. Mrs. Zane had done the brochures to pass out to parents. Seems like the project was something that people wanted to help with. Really help. Like I really wanted it to succeed.

  I clenched my fists. Well, now was the time. We needed help. People wouldn’t come to our booth, but –

  I turned toward the booth and said loudly, “I know what to do.”

  All eyes turned to me.

  “What?” Eliot sounded harsh. Despite his mask and the party, he was frowning.

  “We take the bread to them.” I explained that we’d gather up some other sixth graders, and then we’d walk up and down the aisles and give away small bread samples and the brochures.

  Mrs. Winston ran a hand through her bangs. It was still rare to hear her laugh, but she wasn’t quite as sad anymore. I think the project had helped. When she wasn’t around, Mrs. Lopez said the project had helped Mrs. Winston a lot, making her meet people and work with them and not stay at home all the time.

  “Well, it might work,” Mrs. Winston said.

  “I brought a knife,” Mrs. Johnson said. “I can cut each cinnamon rolls into three or four pieces.”

  The others nodded, and it was agreed.

  I waved at Eliot to come with me. “Let’s find some help while they get the samples ready.”

  Walking beside me, Eliot scowled. “This is stupid.”

  I didn’t really think it would work, either. After all, it was Halloween. But we were desperate to get people to pay attention to the Bread Project and had to try something. Or else pack it up and go home. My fist clenched again at that thought. We couldn’t give up. Not when I was starting to see how the community could come together on this.

  When we found Toby and Sam and explained it, they were excited.

  “Giving away something is always fun,” Toby said.

  We asked them to find a couple other kids who might help and meet us at the Bread Project booth.

  Ten minutes later, Toby, Sam, Marisa, Brad and a couple others–about a dozen altogether–scattered into the crowd, carrying brochures and bread samples to pass out.

  We had just done one simple thing. Ask for help. Is that all it took, you just had to ask? I was stunned.

  ELIOT

  The lanes of booths were packed now, and the large room was filled with a low roar. I fixed my mask in place, grabbed the napkins Alli held out, and started to follow her.

  But she had other ideas: “Everyone split up and try to give away everything in your basket. Meet back here in ten minutes. We’ll see how we’re doing.”

  I nodded and turned toward the left aisle.

  “Bread! Free bread samples!” Alli called.

  Heading for the middle aisle, Toby started bellowing, “Free! Get your sample bread here! Free!”

  So, I did the same: “Free bread!”

  A short, bald man stopped and stared, trying to see behind my mask. “Eliot Winston?”

  I lifted my mask and nodded.

  “I thought so.” The man pulled me into a tight hug.

  Whoa, what an aftershave smell. Spicy and strong. I squirmed and tried to breathe.

  The man suddenly sneezed, trying, but failing to cover his mouth.

  I cringed and stepped back.

  From behind his fat hand, the man mumbled, “Griff was a great man. Sure miss him.”

  I watched the man’s germ-laden hand, making sure it didn’t come near me. “Um, how did you know Griff?”

  “Just around the community. You tell Mrs. Winston, tell her that we miss him.”

  The man reached out to pat my shoulder, but I ducked down and put a brochure in his hand instead.

  “Sure, I’ll tell her.” I scooted away. After a dozen steps, I looked back. He was still reading the brochure.

  “Free bread!” I called.

  Another man stopped. He was skinny and unshaven. Thin cheeks, thin hands. I had to squirm away from another hug and decided that aftershave lotion was better than the unwashed smell.

  And a woman had to hug me—sweet, flowery perfume—and say how sorry she was for our loss.

  I finally realized that I hadn’t been to the Community Center since Griff had died three months ago. School and work, that’s all Marj and I did. How many people did Griff know, anyway?

  I asked the next hugger that question.

  The large—and we’re talking really large—red-headed woman widened her eyes, “Why, Griff helped just about every person here, at one time or another. Most times you didn’t need to even ask for help. Griff just knew.”

  I thought about that. Griff had always been busy doing this or that for someone, it was true. But he’d never seemed to be flustered or overworked or anything like that. It was just as natural as breathing in and out for him. “Thanks. I just didn’t know so many people loved him.”

  “Too bad you didn’t know,” she said. “‘Cause he was special.”

  “We’re doing a project at school in Griff’s honor.” I handed her a brochure.

  She glanced at it, then stuck it in a bag hanging from her arm. “We do the Halloween Carnival, but otherwise, well, we don’t get involved with the school much.”

  “That’s okay,” I said politely and tried to move on. But I had to dodge another hug.

  Finally, she moved on. But behind me a big sneeze erupted, followed by a chorus of “Bless you.” Spinning around, I saw the redhead woman rub her freckled nose with the back of her fat hand. She saw me and smiled and waved again.

  I shivered. It was cold season, all right.

  By now, over ten minutes had passed, so I headed back. I wove through the crowd. Crossed the ocean of empty space. Dragged myself up on the deserted island of the Bread Project booth.

  Even with the extra kids helping, it looked like we had already surrendered. The women were just sitting on metal chairs, not even talking; just staring across the empty space at the busy booths. Marj still had on her black mask. It didn’t hide her sadness, but it did prevent her from making eye contact with the others.

  They all reminded me of third grade, the year I tried soccer, and the team was the worst ever, losing every game except one. One game we lost by a score of 15-0. It was a complete team failure. Never played again. This Bread Project team didn’t have much of a chance, either. The Project was going to fail.

  Nor did Alli or Toby or Sam or Marisa or anyone have much encouragement.

  “Kids are eating candy. Not bread.”

  “No one wants our flyers. If they take a flyer, I find it on the floor later.”

  “What can we do?” I asked.

  “We’ll try again,” Alli said. She took up her basket and flyers again and tiptoed across the open space like she was walking on water. As she disappeared into the crowd, we heard her call, “Free bread!”

  Toby sighed and said, “Well, working together, we can finish fast and then go trick-or-treating. I bet three chocolate bars that I can hand out more than you.”

  It was the only thing that sent me back into the aisles. I loved chocolate, and I could never turn down a bet from Toby.

  We spent the next thirty minutes hawking bread samples. Picking up flyers people had dropped and putting them in someone else’s hand. No real progress, but we tried.

  By the end of it all, we were tired, and ready to get out of the Community Center. We cleaned and packed up quickly, then divided up into three cars to finally go trick-or-treating.

  ALLI

  Sitting between Mrs. Winston and Eliot, I had to hold myself very still. Inside, I was trembling with excitement. Trick-or-treat
ing. Every kid in America has done it; every kid but me.

  It wasn’t a specific candy I wanted. It wasn’t the costume that excited me. It was the experience, the living through an event that every other kid took for granted. It was this longing for normal that I could never quite fulfill. All I knew was this: normal kids trick-or-treated and laughed and traded candy. Talked about the awful toothbrushes they got at one house, and the load of chocolate at another.

  Mrs. Winston stopped at one street, and the other two cars pulled up behind us, Mrs. Lopez in her van, and Mrs. Johnson in her truck. We all piled out together, pushing and shoving, waiting for someone to start toward a house.

  Finally, I pointed to the brick one before us. “Let’s go.”

  We charged, laughing and calling, but I got there first. Rang the doorbell. Was the first to yell, “Trick-or-treat.” The first to hold out my bag, the first to get some candy. Now this–this was fun.

  Later, after an hour of trick-or-treating, Mrs. Winston dropped off everyone else at their homes and turned toward the Porter’s house.

  “Would you just look?” I scooped up handfuls of candy and let them fall back into my bag. What a night.

  Eliot held up a caramel. “Want to trade for some chocolate?”

  Sure. I got every caramel and sour thing he had, plus all the candy corn. In return, I gave him all my chocolate. Didn’t like it anyway, so it worked out.

  Finally, we stopped at the Porter’s house. I stepped out, then turned back. “Mrs. Winston? Do you know how kind you are? This is the best Halloween I’ve ever had. Thanks.”

  Her brow furrowed, like she was puzzled. “A simple mask and some candy? Is that all it takes to make this a special Halloween?”

  Eliot looked up at the ceiling, and I saw him swallow. And I understood.

  I reached in and pulled out the largest bag of candy corn I had gotten. Solemn now, I held it out to her. When she shook her head, I put it on the seat beside her anyway.

  “Really. Tonight–” I blinked back tears. “–this was special. Thanks.”

  Then, because I couldn’t hold it back any longer, I turned and ran into Mr. Porter’s house, up the stairs to Tim’s room and threw myself on the itchy blanket and burst into tears of happiness.