A Shot at Normal

by Marisa Reichardt

  “Juniper?” a voice calls.

  It isn’t because my coffee is ready.

  It’s coming from behind me, and I recognize it instantly.

  My heart skitters. Please just let me disappear. I don’t care if I have to become microdust that blends in with the cement floor. Just please don’t make me have to look Nico in the eye right now.

  “Juniper,” he says again.

  I turn around slowly, hoping I’m wrong and it isn’t really him.

  But it is. With his floppy hair and his big brown eyes looking up at me from the long table filled with students, including Jared, doing their homework. He has a book propped open and an orange highlighter in his hand. Literally my favorite highlighter color. I realize this is a dorky thing to call favorites on.

  “Hi,” I mumble.

  “Hi,” Nico says, smiling like he didn’t peel off on his bike, leaving me in his wake, the other night.

  “Hey, Juniper,” Jared busts in, all loud and enthusiastic. “Sit with us.” He shoves his camouflage backpack aside to make room for me.

  “I can’t right now. But thanks.”

  Nico stands and edges cautiously closer to me. When I take a step away, he shoves his hands into his jeans pockets and pushes back on his heels. “Hey,” he tries again.

  “Hi.” I look around the café, like maybe I’m meeting someone here. Like maybe I have friends, too. Like maybe I can sit at a long table with a bunch of people and know all their names just like he does.

  But I don’t know anyone here besides Nico and Jared. And I don’t even really know them.

  Thankfully, the barista calls my name for my coffee order. I swipe it up, gripping the warm cup in my hands.

  “Just sit with us while you drink your coffee,” Jared says. “Since you’re not contagious or whatever.”

  My face drops.

  I look at Nico, my chin wobbling. My voice comes out like a whisper. “You told him?”

  “I mean…”

  “I can’t. Oh my god.”

  I make a beeline for the door.

  “What the hell?” Nico says to Jared. Then, “Juniper, wait.”

  I don’t.

  I walk faster instead.

  Because I can hear his footfalls behind me.

  I push the front door open and hurry away, past the bike racks and the bus stop bench. One, two, three, five paces ahead of him.

  The mail carrier tells me to have a good day as I walk by.

  “Juniper!” Nico calls again when I have to stop at the corner. Stupid red light.

  I turn on my heel. Glare. “You told Jared about me?” I lower my voice. “About the measles?” I don’t say it quietly enough, because two people standing next to me on the sidewalk turn to check me out. Are they taking mental notes? On my height? My face? My hair? Will they take a photo like those women at the farmers market? “Why did you tell him?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe because I was freaking out a little and he’s my best friend. He told me I was overreacting.” He steps forward. “He won’t tell anyone. Jared’s not like that.”

  “He practically announced it to all of Starbucks just now.”

  “I’ll talk to him.”

  “Please don’t. Don’t say anything else to anyone. You’ve done enough already.” I jab my finger at the crosswalk button half a dozen times, willing the light to turn faster. “Don’t you have to do your homework?”

  “I do. I’m just…” Nico lets out a long sigh. “Can I please talk to you? For a minute?”

  I pull my drink to my chest. It’s warm against my heart. Comforting me somehow. Holding me together. “Why?”

  “Look, I’m sorry I left like that the other night.”

  “It’s fine.”

  “No, it’s not. I think I hurt your feelings.”

  I shrug. “Whatever.”

  He runs his hand through his floppy hair and it sticks out everywhere. I want to run my fingers through it to tamp it down.

  “I’m sorry,” he says. “I didn’t know what to do, so I left. But it was kind of a dick move.”

  “It’s fine. Really.”

  “It’s not fine. I’m trying to apologize here.”

  I look past him. I focus on the bookstore display window behind him. At the cars driving down the street in the distance. “Okay. Thanks for the apology.” I take a sip of my coffee, trying to feign indifference. It’s gross. It’s hot and bitter and I want to spit it out. How does my dad drink this?

  “Juniper, come on.” He stubs the toe of his red Converse against a crack in the sidewalk. “Can we please hang out again?”

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

  “Why not?”

  “I have a lot going on.”

  “Like what?”

  “Everything.” I’m so embarrassed that it’s hard to even look at him. “Our house being vandalized. Other things. I’m not a great person to be around.”

  “But I want to be around you.”

  I crinkle my eyes at him, genuinely confused. “Why?”

  “Because you’re cool. And smart. And funny.”

  “I’m really not cool. I eat pizza with cauliflower crust. My dad treats sinus infections by burning a hollowed-out candle in my ear canal. I wash my hair with shampoo my mom makes from egg yolks and lemons.” I wince. “Do you have any idea how bad that smells?”

  “But you don’t smell bad. You smell like…” He thinks for a second. “Coconut? Like sunblock.”

  “Right. My homemade deodorant. Even better.”

  He runs his hand through his hair again, and it flops all over. He needs to stop doing that. It’s reeling me in. “I don’t care about any of those things.”

  “I do. I’m embarrassed, okay? My family isn’t normal.”

  He laughs. “How do you even define normal? It’s not any one thing. It’s a perspective. There’s no such thing as normal.” He knocks his shoulder against mine. “And you know cauliflower crust isn’t even that weird, right? We do that at my house, too. And you can order pizza that way at California Pizza Kitchen.”

  “You can?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Oh.” I clutch my coffee cup.

  “If you want to swap embarrassing stories, I have a million of them. Want me to tell you all about the time my shorts fell down when I was running the mile in PE?”

  The light turns but I don’t move. “Go on.”

  Nico takes a step closer. “I’d had the flu. Lost a bunch of weight. They didn’t fit anymore. It was a whole thing.”

  “Really?”

  “Actually, no. But I’ll pretend it’s true if it makes you feel better.” He grins and I laugh.

  “Stop. That’s not funny.”

  “Then why are you laughing?”

  “Because you’re ridiculous.”

  “Okay. But if you want real embarrassing, I can come up with tons of stories for you. How about if every time I see you, I tell you one?” His eyes are bright and hopeful.

  “Why would you do that?”

  “Maybe because I think all the things you think are weird about you actually make you interesting. And I like that you liked Stand by Me almost as much as I did. And I like that you know random stuff about the lottery in Budapest.”

  “Bulgaria.”

  “Tomato, tomahto.”

  “Tomato, tomahto? How old are you?”

  “Sixteen.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Look.” He shoves his hands into his pockets. “I messed up. I bailed the other night and I shouldn’t have. But I hope you’ll give me another chance. Because I want to hang out with you again.” He looks at me hopefully. “Can we?”

  I kick my foot at the ground. Thinking. “What would we do?”

  “We can watch movies and eat pizza and play the lottery.”

  “Technically, you have to be eighteen to play the lottery.”

  “So I’ll have my brother buy our tickets. But we’ll have to wait until winter break
, because he goes to Northwestern.”

  I study his face. His big brown eyes and the curve of his mouth. “I guess we can go to the beach or something.”

  “I don’t generally do outdoor activities. You can probably tell from my pasty pallor.” He gestures to himself with a wave of his hand. “I’ve got bee allergies. And peanut allergies. An EpiPen. Benadryl. Is that a deal breaker?”

  “No.”

  “Okay, good. Because I love bees, but I can’t hang out with them.”

  “Well, yeah, bees are pretty awesome.” I study him. “So you never go outside?”

  “Well, I’m here now, aren’t I? I’m basically risking my life for you.” He grins. “I can go outside. It’s not that I never go outside. I just have to be good about being prepared. Like wearing long sleeves and stuff.”

  “Got it.”

  “So.” He nudges my elbow. “Do you want to come back and drink your coffee with us?”

  I don’t answer. Instead I take a sip of my coffee. Shudder. “This is so gross.”

  “You don’t like it?”

  “It’s bitter.”

  “Well, come back and add cream and sugar.” He smiles at me. Tilts his head toward Starbucks. “Come on.”

  “Okay.”

  He pulls out his phone as we walk. “You know where to find me, but can I add you to my contacts? Snapchat? Insta? Something else?”

  “No phone.” I point at my skull. “My dad says they cause brain cancer. Do you want to hang out with me or what?”

  “I so do, Juniper.”

  TWENTY-ONE

  Another week passes and I’m sitting in an uncomfortable chair in the waiting room of an attorney’s office in the middle of town. I finally found someone willing to make time for me on his lunch hour. As far as my parents know, I’m at the art supply store.

  The window over my shoulder looks out to the park across the street. It’s the same park where my mom packed a picnic dinner and made my whole family go watch a band sing cover songs from the eighties for the town’s Summer Sundays concert series this past July. The band wore long-haired wigs and black lipstick and pastel polo shirts with popped-up collars in a nod to every fashion trend from the decade. A guy and a girl took turns singing into a microphone while my mom and dad sat on top of the patchwork quilt they’d spread out to eat dinner and bounce along to the music. My mom fell all over herself when they played a Duran Duran song, and my dad got super into anything remotely punk because I think it made him feel cool.

  Poppy sat under a shady tree and read a book.

  Sequoia managed to make friends with a group of kids his age, and they chased each other around the park playing some Star Wars game I’m sure he didn’t completely understand because he’s never seen the movies. Maybe he’ll eventually get a chance to visit Mimi and Bumpa alone like I finally did—without our parents—and get a Star Wars introduction from Bumpa, who owns the entire collection on DVD.

  At the summer concert, I scanned the crowd for sympathetic eyes from other sullen teens whose parents had dragged them there. I couldn’t find any.

  Still, the thought of that night makes me a little wistful. Because it was before the measles. When my family could blend into a crowd like everyone else’s.

  “Ms. Jade?” The receptionist stands up from her desk, interrupting me from my pity party. “Mr. Graff will see you now. I’ll take you back.”

  I stand up and smooth out my clothes. I tried to look professional today, with a white button-down shirt tucked into a navy-blue pencil skirt, but when I went to put on my nice shoes, I’d outgrown them. My most decent option was a pair of strappy sandals more suitable for Coachella than meeting an attorney, but maybe I’m pulling it off, like the woman at the farmers market with her business suit and flip-flops.

  We pass a coffee station as we head down the narrow hallway with carpet so thick I nearly trip over it. The receptionist stops in her tracks and I almost bump into her.

  “Oh! Coffee?” she asks, like she’s suddenly remembering it exists.

  The coffee machine is set up on a small white folding table covered in sugar granules and ringed stains. A box of wood stirrers has toppled over, and they’re now scattered like a game of pick-up-sticks. The carnage makes it seem like everyone here is too busy doing important things to clean up after themselves.

  Maybe that’s a good thing. Maybe someone here will work hard for me.

  As much as I want to drink coffee just to make a statement about the fact that my dad won’t let me do it at home, I turn it down. That coffee I had with Nico the other day didn’t taste very good, even with the milk and sugar I added. Plus, I don’t need the caffeine. I’m jittery enough as it is.

  The receptionist reaches her hand out to knock on the door at the end of the hallway, and a bellowing voice directs us to “come on in.”

  The door swings open with a swoosh across the thick carpet. “Mr. Graff, I have Juniper Jade for you.”

  “Thank you, Evelyn,” Mr. Graff says.

  I walk into his office, and the receptionist pulls the door shut behind me.

  Mr. Graff pushes his half-eaten sandwich aside and stands up from his desk as marble rye bread crumbs fall off the front of his shirt and onto his desk. He’s tall and slender, with a receding hairline of fine blond hair. I’d guess he’s somewhere around my dad’s age. He sticks his hand out to mine, and the necktie he’d swung over his shoulder falls back into place along the buttons of his shirt. After we shake, I restrain myself from wiping the residue of his damp palm on my skirt.

  “Sit, sit,” he says to me. I take a seat in one of the two chairs opposite him and fold my hands in my lap. “What brings you in today?”

  “I want to sue my parents.”

  He shakes his head and chuckles lightly, but stops when I don’t join in. “Oh, you really mean it.” He pulls a to-go cup of soda closer and sucks the drink up through a paper straw until it’s drained and there’s nothing but the echoing sound of air and ice. “Why?”

  I twist my fingers together. “I want to be vaccinated, and my parents are anti-vaxxers.”

  He taps his chin. “Interesting.”

  “Really?”

  “Interesting, but not possible.”

  I sit up straighter. “Why not?”

  “Remind me of your age.”

  “Sixteen. Seventeen in April.”

  “Well, sixteen, seventeen in April, I say you should wait until you’re eighteen.”

  “But I can’t wait. I’m legitimately worried about my health.”

  “How so?”

  I tell him all about the measles and the hospital and my brother and sister. About Katherine St. Pierre and the rest of the Playa Bonita community.

  “You knew the baby who died?” he says.

  How do I explain that I didn’t know her at all, really? That I met her once? But I carry her around with me like I always knew her. I know her as a part of me now. And it’s a part of me that will always hurt. “She got the measles from me.”

  He looks confused. “Was she a family member?”

  “No. She’s someone I met at the farmers market before I knew I had the measles. I didn’t do it on purpose.”

  “No, of course not,” he says, shaking his head. “But it’s very sad, isn’t it?”

  “Sad is an understatement.” I look at him sharply. “So you can see why I don’t want to wait until I turn eighteen to get my shots. If I can help it, I don’t want what happened to that baby to happen to someone else.”

  “I understand.”

  “I want to make a difference.”

  “That’s virtuous.” He grunts. “Teenagers seem to be a little too virtuous these days.”

  I press my back into the chair. “It sounds like you don’t like teenagers very much.”

  “I love them. I have two at home. But they don’t always know what they want, even when they think they do.”

  “I know what I want.”

  “But do you really? You’re
talking about wreaking havoc on your family. Creating dissension between you and your parents. For what? To prove a point?”

  “I’m trying to save my life.”

  “Hmm.” He looks at me seriously. “Is there more to this? Is it not safe for you at home? Are your parents hurting you, Juniper? Anything you tell me is confidential.”

  “What? No!”

  “Okay. Good. That’s good.”

  “I love my parents. I just think they’re wrong about vaccinations.”

  “There’s always emancipation.”

  “What’s that?”

  He leans back in his chair. “Emancipation would give you legal independence from your parents.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Your mom and dad would no longer be responsible for you in any way, thus allowing you to make your own medical choices. As such, you’d have to prove you’re capable of taking care of yourself. Are you?”

  “I can cook and clean and do my own laundry.” I wonder if this is what a job interview feels like. I sit up straighter. “Actually, I can do a lot of things.”

  “Do you work? You’d have to prove you could support yourself financially. And you’d have to find your own place to live, separate from your parents. Those things are necessary for emancipation.”

  “I don’t have a job. I want one. But I don’t. And even if I did, I wouldn’t want to move out. I like living with my family. Poppy and Sequoia need me.”

  “So like I said, wait till you’re eighteen.” He eyes his sandwich like he wants me to leave so he can finish his lunch now. Like there’s really nothing more to say.

  I clear my throat, and he manages to look at me instead of his sandwich. “I got really sick from the measles, Mr. Graff. I don’t want something like that to happen to me again.”

  He sighs. “Juniper, I appreciate what you’re doing, but this is California law. Other states may handle it differently, but here, your only option is emancipation.”

  “So I’m basically defined by my zip code.”

  “Pretty much.” He leans forward, and his tie creases against his desk. “There’s no federal precedent for this.”