Halfway Normal

by Barbara Dee

  “No problem,” I’d told him, and he grinned at me.

  So now, here in the lunchroom, I was planning the drawing in my head: a side view, I decided. Oh, but wait: All I had were gel pens and pencils. Would they work on the surface of an electric bass? What if they smeared? Griffin had said his bass was black and white, so I could do the art on the white part. But with what?

  “Harper, can I ask you a question?” I blurted.

  She looked at me over her turkey wrap. Her eyes were so round, I could tell she had no idea where this was going. And with my weird behavior lately, she was probably ready for anything.

  “Shoot,” she said.

  “If you were drawing something on an instrument, what sort of writing utensil would you use?”

  “Instrument?” She made a face. “Writing utensil?”

  “Come on. Pen? Marker?”

  “Hmm.” She thought. “Not knowing the surface, but guessing it could be slippery, I’d have to say one of those special markers they have in Art Club, because they don’t smear. But are we talking about your instrument?”

  I shook my head. Before cancer, I’d played viola, but I hadn’t touched it in the last two years. You couldn’t come back to the school orchestra if you were out of practice for two whole years.

  “So whose, then?” Harper pressed.

  “It’s for a kid in math, okay?”

  She smiled. “Boy kid or girl kid?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “No. Although if it’s a girl, you just say ‘girl.’ You only say ‘kid’ if it’s a boy.”

  “I guess.” I took a bite of apple. “Hey, if I came to Art Club, could I borrow one of those special markers?”

  “Probably. Pretty sure we have extra. We had them last year, anyway.” Harper raised her eyebrows. “You’re doing Afterschool, Norah? I thought—”

  “Just for today,” I said, and immediately changed the subject.

  READY FOR FLIGHT

  The only kid in both my eighth grade classes who seemed to remember me from before was Ezra, a pimply boy who could multiply three-digit numbers in his head. I mean, he was a very smart person, but even he didn’t seem to remember much. At the end of class that day he walked over to my desk and said, like he’d had amnesia: “Hey, didn’t you used to take my bus?”

  “Not sure,” I mumbled.

  “Pretty sure you did. Bus three. You always sat with that kid Silas, right?”

  Thea was bouncing around Griffin’s desk, telling him some dumb, pretend-dramatic story about yesterday’s soccer practice, so I doubted he heard Ezra’s question, which I didn’t answer. But the thought that anyone in our math class knew, or just suspected, the truth about me was horrifying. It wasn’t that I cared about my age. I was more afraid that once the eighth graders discovered “my whole story,” I’d turn into Cancer Girl for them, just the way I was Cancer Girl for the seventh grade. And if that happened, maybe Griffin would change the way he treated me. Because why wouldn’t he? That’s how it was with everyone else.

  My plan for that afternoon was to get to the art studio as soon as the dismissal bell rang, so that I could avoid bumping into Astrid. I was thinking: If Astrid sees me with Harper, she might start to wonder where I’d come from, why a “new” kid like me was such good buddies with a seventh grader. And then she might say something to Thea. Who would possibly say something to Griffin.

  When the dismissal bell rang, I ran to the art studio so fast I was panting.

  “Can I have that special marker you told me about?” I begged Harper, who was setting up her table. “I really need it now, before people get here.”

  Harper eyed me. “Everything okay, Norah? You’re out of breath.”

  “I’m fine! I just have something to do.”

  “You mean ‘the instrument,’ whatever that is?”

  I nodded.

  She walked over to a closet and took a black marker out of a jar.

  “Wait, can I have a red one?” I asked. “Instead?”

  She put the marker back, took a red one, and handed it to me. “Here. I’m not going to ask any more questions, because you won’t tell me anything anyway.”

  Thwack. That felt like a slap. Which I totally deserved. “Harper, I’m sorry. I promise that I’ll explain—”

  “Whatever. Just make sure you return it, okay? Astrid checks.”

  “Thanks.”

  I stuffed the marker into my pocket and ran into the hall. But all of a sudden I realized that I didn’t know where to go. Griffin had said to meet him in “the band room,” but because I’d stopped playing an instrument, I had no idea where that was. Was “band room” different from “orchestra room”? Maybe it was. I reached into my backpack for the school map.

  Just then Thea and Astrid came walking toward me.

  “Hey, Nor-ahh,” Astrid said in a teasing singsong. “So you’re taking my advice?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Signing up for Afterschool? Like I said ?”

  “Me? No. Well, possibly. I’m kind of checking out something.”

  “Yeah? What?” Thea asked in that airy way she had.

  “Bugs,” I blurted. I had no idea where this came from, but it was the only club I remembered from the booklet.

  “Well, good. You should definitely do something.” Astrid said this like she’d decided my problem was laziness, and the only cure for that was swatting flies.

  They walked off, laughing. As soon as they turned the corner, I pulled out the map. The band room was in the basement, so that meant I’d need to find a staircase. And I didn’t have time to get lost—probably my parents were already outside, in Dad’s car, waiting to pick me up. Well, they’d have to wait a few more minutes. This was definitely more important.

  * * *

  A few minutes later, I’d found the band room. Three boys I didn’t know, plus that horrible Rowan, were playing a song I didn’t recognize. Griffin was sitting in a corner, watching. When he saw me, his face lit up, and he came running over.

  “I was worried you wouldn’t come,” he said.

  “Why wouldn’t I? I said I would.”

  “I thought maybe you’d forget.”

  “Norahs have supermemory,” I said. “It’s because we’re Hydra creatures. If we ever forget something, we just grow another head.”

  He laughed. Then he put his hand on my shoulder—which was still so bony I flinched—and led me over to his bass, locked up in a scuffed brown case. “Do you think you could do the drawing fast? The band already has a bass player, so I’m like the sub, but I think they’ll want me to rehearse with them soon.”

  I nodded. “Where should I do it?”

  “Not in here.” He blushed. “Out in the hall? If you’d be comfortable. I could bring you a chair.”

  “Sure.”

  I carried Griffin’s bass (surprisingly heavy in its case) out into the hall and waited. A minute later he returned with two chairs—one for him.

  My heart banged. He was going to stay out here with me?

  “Um, you said you wanted the griffin red, didn’t you?” I asked. “You said the bass was black and white, so I thought on the white part—”

  “Cool,” Griffin said. He unlocked the case and took out his bass. Right away I could see he hadn’t been exaggerating. It really was in horrible shape, all nicked and scratched, like something somebody had found at a tag sale for ten dollars. No wonder he wanted a way to distract people.

  I pulled out the griffin drawing he’d printed out, but just for making sure I was getting the details right. I didn’t want to copy it—it seemed too static, and my plan was to make the griffin seem like it was taking off. Not in flight, but getting ready for flight, one paw up, the wings arched.

  The whole time I was drawing, Griffin didn’t say a word, which I was grateful for, because I was already plenty nervous. I drew slowly, because I couldn’t erase, and didn’t want to smear. Plus, I wanted it to look good.

  When I finish
ed, he shouted: “Norah, that’s awesome! Thanks so much! It’s exactly what I wanted!”

  I beamed. And exhaled.

  We grinned at each other.

  Then he grabbed his instrument and ran inside the band room.

  * * *

  Just before leaving the building, I checked my watch. It was 3:25. Dismissal was 2:35, so I was fifty minutes late. I’d need to give my parents some excuse: Overslept on the nurse’s cot? Review session for a French quiz? Couldn’t open my locker? Yeah, that one: and I couldn’t find the janitor to help me unlock it.

  I smiled apologetically as I got into Dad’s car. Mom wasn’t there, for some reason. “Sorry,” I began, “but my locker wouldn’t open and—”

  Dad spun around. His face looked scrunched and strangely pale. “NORAH, WHERE WERE YOU?”

  I swallowed. “Oh. I mean, I just told you, my locker—”

  “Do you realize what time it is? We were frantic!”

  “Why?”

  “Why? Why?”

  “Dad, did you think something had happened to me? If anything was wrong, they’d have called you, right?”

  “Norah, don’t use that tone with me!”

  “What tone?”

  “The one you also used on us last night, when you called our rule ‘stupid.’ ” He got out of the car and slammed the door. “I’m going to look for your mother.”

  Not “Mom.” “Your mother.” “Mom is here? Where did she go?”

  “Searching for you inside the building. Where do you think she is?”

  He stormed off. I felt dazed. Dad was the relaxed, jokey parent, the one who never yelled. Why was he overreacting just because I was fifty minutes late? People were late sometimes; it didn’t mean they had a relapse of cancer.

  It was so unfair. The first good day of my life in the last two years had turned into this. Whatever “this” was.

  A few minutes later, Dad showed up with Mom behind him. As soon as I saw her face, I could tell she’d been crying.

  Crap.

  She got into the car without saying a word, took off her glasses, and stared straight out the windshield.

  “Sorry, Mom,” I said. I didn’t even bother to tell the fib about the locker.

  She turned around to face me and exploded into angry tears. It was extremely awkward, because normally Dad would be the one consoling her, but they never hugged each other anymore. So I had to do it, even though she was furious with me and her body felt tight and stiff.

  Finally, she pulled away and reached for a tissue in her purse. She honked her nose and put her glasses on again. Then she said: “Norah, don’t you do that to us ever again.”

  “What did I do? I’m sorry I was late, Mom, but I didn’t do it to you.”

  “Is that what you think? That your safety and well-being doesn’t affect us?”

  “No. No! I just meant it wasn’t about you.”

  “What was it about, then?”

  A boy I maybe like. Okay, not “maybe.” Like. “I just wanted to check out Afterschool.”

  “Afterschool?” Dad’s eyes were huge. “Norah, are you kidding? We discussed this with you just last night! I thought we’d made it clear: You’re not ready yet!”

  “Well, I disagree.” I folded my arms across my chest.

  My parents gaped at me.

  “Norah, why are you acting like this?” Mom asked in a quiet, shaky voice. “You’ve always been so mature and responsible. Even when you were sick, we could always count on you—”

  “And you’ve never treated us with disrespect,” Dad added.

  “But I don’t disrespect you!” I protested. “I just wish you’d respect me.” Now I started crying, too. I didn’t see the tears coming; they just snuck up on me. “I’m sorry I scared you, okay? I should have called. But you’d have just told me I couldn’t stay, and I wanted to stay. And I swear I wouldn’t stay if I thought I couldn’t. Physically.”

  “Norah, honey, you may not be the best judge of that,” Mom said, handing me a tissue.

  “But I’m not a baby!” I shouted. “And anyhow, it’s my body! Who knows how I feel better than I do?”

  My parents didn’t answer.

  So I kept going. “This is so unfair. You guys never used to treat me like this! And how come you let me go back to school if you didn’t think I was ready?”

  Dad sighed. “We do think you’re ready. Just not for everything all at once.”

  “But I’m not asking for everything. Only for this one thing!”

  Suddenly, I spotted Ms. Farrell leaving the building and getting into her car, a small blue convertible three spots over from us. Oh, great: What if she drove past and saw the three of us sitting in Dad’s car, shouting at each other, all ragged and sniffly?

  “Can we please just go home now?” I begged.

  “Gladly,” Dad replied, and put the key in the ignition.

  SOMETHING I NEED TO TELL YOU

  Nobody talked the whole ride home. Did this mean the fight was over? I wondered. It didn’t feel over, but my parents both seemed exhausted. Dad went into his office “to work on an article,” he said (but I saw him in his easy chair with earbuds in), while Mom “rested her eyes” on the living room sofa. I decided to hide out in my bedroom with the door shut. Maybe if we had a break from one another, we’d all calm down, I thought.

  Around five thirty, there was a knock on my door, and Mom asked if she could come in. I tilted my laptop away from the door so she couldn’t see the page I was reading: Mythical Creatures.

  She sat on the edge of my bed, beckoning me to come over for a snuggle. It felt very comforting, actually, especially when she stroked my hair.

  “It’s growing out, sweetie,” she said. “Although I have to say, I’m a little sorry. That pixie cut looks so cute on you.”

  “Yeah, I like it too. But I can’t wait for my hair to get really long again.” I hadn’t planned on reporting this, but it just spilled out: “Someone thought I was a boy yesterday.”

  Mom looked outraged. “You? You look nothing like a boy!”

  “Actually, I do. Not just because of my hair. Because of my whole body.”

  “Oh, Norah. Your body’s been busy fighting off cancer! You need to give yourself time.”

  I groaned. It’s what she said about everything: Not now. Later. Wait. Even for taking bat mitzvah lessons, which you were supposed to do in seventh grade. “A bat mitzvah is not about being a certain age,” Mom had insisted when I’d brought it up. “It can happen whenever you’re ready.” But when, according to her, would that be? Five years from now? Ten? Fifty?

  It felt like all I ever did was sit in waiting rooms, waiting for things. And after losing two entire years, I just needed everything to happen. Fast.

  Why couldn’t Mom understand that?

  She kissed my cheek. “Not to change the subject, but I wanted to apologize for how emotional I was in the car this afternoon. It must have seemed like a complete overreaction.”

  “Yeah, it did,” I said. “But sorry I was late and didn’t tell you.”

  Through her glasses, Mom’s eyes looked red. “Are you also sorry you went to Afterschool after Dad and I vetoed it?”

  I nodded.

  “Okay, good. I think we all need to communicate better. Dad, too.” She paused. When she started talking again, her voice sounded tight and a little hoarse. “And as long as we’re communicating, there’s something I need to tell you: I have to go back to California.”

  “Wait, what? You do?”

  Mom blinked. I could see she was forcing herself to stay calm, not get weepy. “Yes, honey. I wish I didn’t have to. They’ve been holding my teaching job for me, but they can’t wait forever, so I told them that as soon as you were settled in school, I’d return.”

  “Oh,” I said.

  She paused. It was longer than a pause should be. “Don’t worry, baby, I’ll be back here to see you in just a few weeks. But while I’m away, I need to know that we’re all on t
he same page, and that you’re not going to pull something like you did today.”

  “I promise,” I said, swallowing hard. “When are you leaving?”

  “I thought I’d fly out after your checkup next Monday. If all goes the way we think it will.” She knocked on the wooden frame of my bed to warn Lou Kemia not to try anything.

  “Okay,” I said in a small voice. All of a sudden, I felt like a toddler on the first day of preschool, desperate to crawl into my mom’s lap and beg her: Don’t go. Please. I promise to be good!

  She seemed to read my mind. “Sweetheart, it’s time.”

  “I know,” I said.

  “Besides, Dad needs to resume his life. I can’t hang around this house forever, and that girlfriend of his—”

  “Nicole.”

  “—Nicole needs to come out of hiding. It’s really not fair to her, and I know they’ve had dates, but I can tell Dad misses her being part of his everyday life.”

  I nodded.

  Mom cupped my face in her hand. “Hey, be honest with me, honey. You like her?”

  “Yes,” I admitted. “She’s really nice, and she’s an excellent cook.”

  “She’s a foodie. But if that’s what Dad wants . . .” Mom laughed, but right away her face got serious again. “So do I have your word, Norah, that we can trust you? And that you won’t simply not show up at dismissal again?”

  “Yes! But will you at least consider me staying for Afterschool just one day a week? As long as I’m feeling okay, which I promise to be honest about?”

  She sighed. “You don’t give up easily, do you?”

  I shook my head.

  “I’ll discuss it with Dad,” she said.

  “You will?”

  “Norah, don’t get so excited. I just said we’d discuss it.”

  “But what does that mean, that you’ll ‘discuss’ it?”

  “It means I say something, then Dad says something, and then I—”