Faking Normal

by Courtney C. Stevens

  Heather’s beautiful where I’m ordinary. She could find someone else in a minute who would love her, but Collie’s her flypaper; she’s been stuck on him for years. “Alone isn’t terrible.”

  “I don’t know.” She sighs. “I wish I could talk to Liz about this, but she doesn’t get it.”

  I’m a good second-place friend, so I say, “She gets it. You should talk to her.”

  Heather doodles her own name and then Collie’s on a blank sheet of paper. “Is that what you do? Call Liz?”

  “No.” I put on an exasperated face. “As you pointed out earlier, I’m not even on the social ladder. So there’s nothing to say.”

  Sucks to be Heather. Her best friend is a teetotaling virgin, and her second-best friend is on lockdown.

  “But there could be,” she says.

  From the way she’s winking, I know she’s thinking about Dane. And me. Being all sexually deviant. I can’t think that way about Dane. Or anyone. But I can’t tell her that.

  “No, you don’t get it,” I say.

  “You’re the one who is never going to get it. And I’m not either.”

  She sounds exasperated with both of us. But Heather doesn’t understand. Even if I got up the nerve to tell her everything about why I’m not interested in going to Victoria’s Secret, or talking porn, or dreaming of Dane wearing only his socks, it wouldn’t help.

  He would still be in the hallway, and I’d still have to pass him. He’d still be a part of my life. Which would only change for the worse if I told them.

  Because then they’d know, and you can’t un-know something.

  “Maybe someday you’ll meet Captain Lyric and you’ll be ready,” Heather says. “And when that day comes, you have to promise to tell me everything.”

  “Of course.”

  “You mean it? ’Cause it would make me feel so much better if I knew I wasn’t the only one.”

  My heart pounds as I choose my phrase. “I promise I’ll call you first.”

  A wicked little smile plays on Heather’s lips, and just like that, her uncertainty disappears. “Even if it’s Bodee Lennox.”

  “Even if.” The piece of paper Mrs. Tindell gave us at the beginning of class is still blank, so I say, “Hey, we’d better do this.”

  “I’ll do one to five if you’ll do six to ten.”

  I nod and open the book to the right page. This plan has gotten us As so far. When our regular teacher, Mrs. Tomlin, returns from maternity leave, this worksheet crap will finally end. I read this chapter over the weekend, so my answers take only a few minutes. I’m left with ten free minutes to consider Captain Lyric, Dane, and Bodee.

  Soul mate. Date. Question mark. In that order. None of them would want me if they knew the truth. And I don’t really want them, either.

  I know I’ll make myself go out with Dane tomorrow night to keep Heather happy. Liz takes some martial arts class I can’t pronounce on Tuesday nights, so I can’t count on her to help. Damn her Karate Kid skills.

  “What should I wear?” I whisper.

  “Something that shows your boobs.”

  “What boobs?”

  “Just wear that bra I got you for your birthday and a tight shirt. Maybe that red one with the snappy buttons.”

  I don’t have that bra anymore, but I shake my head. Maybe I’ll ask Liz what to wear.

  This dating thing is a problem. What if Captain Lyric knows who I am? He might think I’m into Dane. Then what if he stops finishing my lyrics on the desk? This date with Dane could ruin the one thing that’s getting me through junior year. It could mean Captain Lyric never confesses he wanted to be a priest until the day he saw me in the hallway, and I never get the chance to assure him his call to celibacy suits me just fine. Because I wouldn’t let that keep us apart.

  I’m more like Heather than she knows. Scared shitless and hoping a boy will love me someday even though I’m a mess. And Dane’s probably not looking for love.

  Besides considering how mad Heather will be if I find a way to blow Dane off, I’m stuck on what I ought to do about Bodee. If anything.

  Mom said it perfectly when she said, “Oh, that poor boy.” People have poor boy-ed him all day today. Rumor is that somebody on the football team even asked him after homeroom if he wanted to eat lunch at their table. And I overheard a teacher say she picked him up for school today. I figure he’s got maybe a week of grace before he goes back to being the Kool-Aid Kid and everyone at school moves on to the next tragedy.

  Turned out today was a blue hair day. Fitting, I’d thought, during our conversation this morning. Which made me part of the pity party Rickman High is throwing for him.

  I’d said, “Hey.”

  He’d said, “Hey.”

  Then I’d said, “See you around.”

  And he’d said, “Thanks for, uh, you know.”

  Then I’d snapped my locker shut and walked away.

  Bodee’s like this tall dead tree among a forest of green. Or an evergreen in winter surrounded by oaks. I can hardly ignore him anymore, because he’s like those trees. You notice them first.

  After sharing that slab of concrete on Saturday, I’ve started wondering about all the things I don’t know about him. And that’s a long list.

  I don’t even know what color his eyes are, since Bodee doesn’t really look at anyone. Green? Blue? Brown, like mine? Funny how people value eyes, when really, their colors are super limited. I doubt anyone would enjoy a new box of crayons if they came only in eye-color shades. And maybe his teeth are jacked up, because on rare occasions when he smiles, his mouth stays shut.

  Besides pain, what’s under that mop of Kool-Aid blue?

  Across from me I notice the absence of pencil sounds when Heather stops scribbling. She says, “Do you read these lessons ahead of time or something?”

  Of course I do, which is why I always finish before she does. I can’t help it; my mom’s a teacher. But I say, “No.” Because I’m not admitting to this level of responsibility.

  And because the homework distractions help keep me out of the closet.

  The closet is both my curse and my sanctuary. For at least an hour every day, I hide there. Folded and tucked. Arms wrapped around my knees while I will my mind not to live in whacked-out “before and after” mode. Which is hopeless. Because hiding behind my comics, football cards, stuffed animals, or my old copy of Superfudge never really works.

  “You thinking about Dane?”

  “Can’t stop,” I answer.

  The bell rings, and Heather tosses her folder into her overlarge purse. “Yay, lunchtime. Pizza or prepackaged?”

  Prepackaged food is generally safer, but my stomach can’t handle a bag of Heather’s favorite white cheddar popcorn. “Pizza.”

  “See you in there.” Heather splits while I take the time to straighten my desk. Tomorrow, if the universe hasn’t forsaken me, his handwriting will appear below mine. Then I’ll have fifty-three minutes to escape from reality into his words.

  I walk the hallway with my head down and earbuds in and don’t stop until I get to my locker. Too many people drop trays when they try to carry both books and food, so I’d rather unload my stuff and then deal with the long lunch line.

  I notice that Bodee’s not at his locker.

  Maybe he doesn’t have my lunch period, or maybe he’s already enjoying his new status as the football player’s friend. Then again, if it was my mom who died, I’d be in the bathroom crying off my mascara.

  Knowing Bodee’s location is not my job, but somehow the silence we shared on the bench connected us, and I find myself wanting to know if he’s okay.

  Or only pretending to be okay.

  Bodee is really none of my business. But I did follow him out of the funeral. And as I ask myself why I did, or why I’m thinking about him now, I know the answer.

  Because I’m pretending too.

  UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

  HarperCollins Publishers

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  chapter 3

  MY alarm clock screams, It’s a school day, and jerks me out of the few hours of sleep I managed. It wasn’t one of my better nights.

  I’m in the shower when Kayla pounds on the door.

  “Lex, hurry up. Craig’s gotta pee.”

  “Why can’t he use your bathroom?” I yell.

  “’Cause Dad’s in there. Hurry up or Craig’ll be late to school.”

  Why is he even here at six forty-five in the morning? He has a house down the street. And his own bathroom. Can they seriously not make it without seeing each other before he goes to teach and she goes to work?

  “Out in a minute,” I yell.

  Showers keep me sane. And bring me peace. This morning it looks as if both are already in short supply.

  But it’s better to avoid an argument with Kayla, so I swallow my frustration at being rushed by Craig (Rickman High’s favorite PE teacher) and swap the shower for my closet.

  Among the familiar clothes and shoes and bits and pieces of things from my childhood, and Binky the Elephant pressed to my stomach, I am marginally better. With my pink notebook filled with scribbles from junior high. My old Etch A Sketch. The jumpsuit from Space Camp. These things have no purpose except comfort, so I keep them.

  Just like I keep my secret.

  This morning the secret has claws. And it’s climbing the walls of my stomach, twisting my gut, quivering and rolling and burning. Red-hot acid in the back of my throat. Ready to explode.

  And I have to stop it before it spews all over my life.

  But I wonder why I even try to control it. I should be angry at him.

  I should want to rip off his balls and serve them to him on a silver platter. “Your manhood, you bastard,” my imaginary self says.

  But I don’t say this. Or dream up any more evil castration fantasies. In fact, I’m usually nice to him when we talk. He probably thinks I don’t care that it happened. Given that later on, the one time we discussed it, I dismissed the whole thing. I said all sorts of crap like “It’s okay,” and “I understand,” and “It could have happened to anyone,” so he probably thinks he’s given me the gift of experience.

  The problem is, I’m not angry at him. I’m not angry with my parents. Or Kayla. Or my friends. And it’s not the school’s fault.

  It’s mine.

  “You’re the stupid idiot. You let him. You let him.” Now my nails come out. Tearing the vulnerable skin on the back of my neck.

  “You let him.” The scabs that needed a night to heal are under my nails again.

  It doesn’t matter how hard I dig, the words keep going and going in my head.

  Blood smears into the collar of my shirt. It’ll never go into the hamper for Mom to wash. “You let him. You let him.” God, I wish I could bleed him out of my life.

  If only I could make the outside hurt more than the inside.

  To keep myself from scratching deeper, I push open the door a sliver and stare at my bedroom ceiling. My breath leaves me, and the numbers start automatically. The compulsion is overwhelming. I have to count.

  One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine.

  Don’t blink. My eyes start to burn.

  Ten. Eleven. Twelve. Thirteen. Fourteen. Fifteen. I can’t blink. I’m almost there.

  Sixteen. Seventeen. Eighteen. Nineteen.

  Blink.

  Dammit.

  No matter. I’ll start over and try again to reach twenty-three.

  Sometimes I stand on my bed and run my hand over the metal air-vent slits as if they’re a weird form of Braille. Those openings breathe cold air on me. Twenty-two holes of darkness. Twenty-three spaces of light. It’s hard to count them at night after they blur into a flat black hole.

  Now I understand all the girls in my school who cut. I used to think of them as idiots who didn’t know how to cope. Now, I realize they are coping. Just not as well as I do.

  No one knows about my counting, and no one has noticed my neck. Not even my mom, and she’s pretty observant. I hope my pain is invisible. I don’t want anyone calling in the “crazy” squad. Teachers, parents, doctors, therapists. When the squad arrives, the friends disappear. I’ve seen it before.

  And I already hang on to Heather and Liz by a thin cord.

  My parents would understand my pain, but oh God, the complications. There’d be crying and rants and more crying. Pity. Then when we’re all dried out and prayed up, the lessons on forgiveness would start.

  Which I already know by heart.

  I hear their voices in my head. “Alexi, understand the place of pain he was in to lash out at you like that. It will eat away at you if you don’t forgive him.” Then they’d watch me like a hawk. Further ruining my life.

  I don’t need anything, and I’ve already forgiven him—well, moved on—so I use my fingernails. I stare at the vent and count. And I keep my mouth shut.

  Heather will be here any minute, and I’m not ready for school. I still can’t count higher than twenty on the vent without blinking, but I give myself one more minute of peace in the closet.

  Sixty seconds later, I use baby wipes to blot away the blood. My neck is angry and red, but a polo shirt covers most of the damage.

  “Lex, Heather’s here. Toast is out,” Mom yells.

  My Dane-date shirt, though not the red one Heather suggested, is already in my backpack. I close my closet door and grab my bags on the way out of my room.

  “Sleep okay?” Mom asks as I arrive in the kitchen.

  “Counted all my sheep,” I say. The air vent has a new name. I shove a bite of toast into my mouth. “Don’t forget I’ve got the soccer game. Should be home by eight o’clock.”

  “You’ve got a ride?” She fishes through the bowl on the counter, and I know she’s lost her reading glasses again.

  “They’re by your chair,” I say. “Yeah, I’ve got a ride.”

  Mom kisses my forehead like she does every morning. “Have fun at the game. Hey, family meeting tonight when you get home.”

  I pop the rest of the toast in my mouth so I don’t have to speak.

  “Stop scrunching your nose at me.”

  Her tone’s playful enough that I know I can talk back. “I’ll stop scrunching when we stop having family meetings.”

  Mom tosses the plastic glass I left on the island last night into the sink. “Would you rather we never asked your opinion?”

  “It doesn’t count if you never take it,” I say.

  “We will this time.” There are tears in her eyes. Which isn’t all that unusual, but this has the makings of something bad. Kayla and I have a list of things that make Mom cry. It’s seven pages, front and back, and we bring it out occasionally to tease her.

  Heather’s horn blares.

  “Go. You’ll be late. And neither of us is dying. I know how you think.”

  I open the back door and hide behind it. “Promise it’s not bad.”

  She stares past me but says, “It’s not bad.”

  Liz lets me into the backseat of Heather’s Malibu.

  “Another day in Littrell-topia?” Heather asks.

  I snap my seat belt into place. “Family meeting tonight.”

  Heather raises her sunglasses to glare at me through the rearview. “You are not using that as an excuse to get out of the game.”

  “I wish,” I tease. “No, it’s after. She says it’s not bad.”

  “Then I’m sure it’s not,” Liz says sympathetically. “Your mom wouldn’t lie to you. So what do you think about this Dane thing? Heather told me all about it on the phone.”

  “So y’all talked boys last night?” I ask.

  Heather’s not glaring now. She’s giving me the We didn’t talk about sex look.

  “Yeah,” Liz says. “Well, mostly we talked about you and Dane.”

  “Great. Did you tell her I don’t need a boyfriend?” I say.

  “Yep.” Liz pops Heathe
r on the thigh and says, “You know we can feel you bitch-staring at us, right?”

  Heather laughs like a hyena in heat. I bounce against the seat belt as we jerk between the white dotted line and the rumble strip. Heather’s got a great laugh.

  “Bitch-staring. I can’t believe you said that. Alexi, call your Brother guy and tell him about our friend, the potty mouth.”

  “I’m sure Brother Jacob wouldn’t be all that shocked,” Liz says, but her face is red.

  “Whatevs,” Heather says.

  “Whatevs,” Liz and I say together.

  I feel guilty about cussing too. But I only do it when I’m really upset. And even then I wish there were other words for fuck or damn or shit, but if those other words existed, I’d feel just as guilty about using them, too.

  “Bitch-staring,” Heather says to herself again. “I am the queen of bitch-staring.”

  She is, and we all know it, so we laugh again.

  The Malibu is faithful. We’re at school with enough time to go to our lockers before homeroom.

  Our laughter walks down the hallway with me. There’s a smile on my face, and I share it with Bodee.

  He’s still got the blue hair, but I think it’s left over from yesterday. In fact, he looks like he’s left over from yesterday. But how can you tell with a guy who wears the exact same clothes every day? I wonder if they really are the same ones or just a look-alike set.

  He smiles back.

  It’s an audible smile, almost a happy sigh.

  “Hey,” he says.

  Oh boy, we’re back to the heys. I bend down to open my locker. “Hey,” I say. “Hair’s still blue.”

  “Yeah.” His locker door, which is just above mine, doesn’t make a sound as he shuts it. But he actually looks at me. “Neck’s still red,” he says.

  My mouth falls open, and my hands go to work smoothing and patting my already straight hair against my neck so no one else sees the little wounds. “It happens in my sleep,” I say.

  “Mine too,” he says. “I wake up and it’s a different color.”

  Bodee tosses his hair in a way that is neither mean nor a joke. His voice is soft, sort of like my dad’s. It keeps my own voice calm as I say, “Don’t tell anyone.”