Define Normal, Page 2

Michael handed me his stub.

  As I scribbled my name, as illegibly as possible, I said, “If your teacher asks, tell her I’m your guardian.” Which wasn’t a total lie.

  He wiped his runny nose on his sleeve and took back the slip. Then he shuffled out to the TV.

  We ate in the living room while watching Wheel of Fortune. By seven o’clock I was getting worried, so I scraped together what was left from dinner and took a plate up to Mom’s bedroom. The sun had set and eerie shadows fell across her rumpled bedding.

  For a moment I just stood in the doorway and stared. Why, I didn’t know. It was a familiar sight. When the lump in bed stirred, I said softly, “Mom? You awake?”

  “Who is it?” Mom shot up. “Kurt, is that you?”

  “No, Mom. It’s me. Antonia.” Your slave child, I thought.

  Mom fell back on the pillow.

  “I brought you some dinner.” Forcing a smile, I fibbed, “It’s Kentucky Fried. Your favorite.”

  She rolled back over. “I’m not hungry,” she mumbled.

  “Okay, fine.” I set the plate on her dresser, harder than I meant to. A chicken wing jumped off. It slid across a stack of pictures that had been spread out all over the bureau. Most of the pictures were of Mom and Dad when they were younger. The chicken wing left a greasy smear on one of the pictures.

  I started to wipe it off, then noticed it was a picture of us at Christmas. Mom was sitting in front of the tree, hugging Michael. She looked like she was pregnant with Chuckie, so it must’ve been … three years ago? Yeah, must’ve been. Mom was wearing a Santa hat. I remembered she’d put on the whole Santa suit earlier in the day when Michael declared, “There’s no stupid Santa Claus. Tyler told me.” I remembered her saying to me, as she buckled the belt, “I want him to believe. Just one more year.”

  She’d looked pretty convincing with her big belly. Especially going around the house ho-ho-ho-ing in this deep voice. Silly. But Mom was always doing crazy stuff like that. She was so happy that whole time she was pregnant.

  In the picture I was sitting beside Mom, holding up a new sweater set that Santa had brought. I still wore that set occasionally, even though it was way too tight.

  Dad must’ve taken the picture, since he wasn’t in it. That was the last Christmas before …

  My eyes strayed up to Mom’s mirror. I freaked. For a second, I thought I saw him. Then I realized it was only me. Mom always said I had Dad’s eyes and crooked smile.

  The smile faded and all I saw was this tired-looking person with stringy brown hair hanging in her eyes. Mom would be horrified if she saw how long my hair had gotten. Maybe I was hoping she’d notice.

  She let out a little whimper and I looked down at her. A wave of sympathy washed over me. “Try to eat, Mom,” I said. “You need to keep your strength up.”

  “Why?” she asked.

  When I didn’t answer, she exhaled loudly and sat up.

  “Did you take your medicine today?” I asked.

  She raked her fingers through her hair. In reply, she said, “Hand me my cigarettes, will you, Antonia?”

  I glanced down at her nightstand. An ashtray overflowed with cigarette butts. When had she started smoking again? I wondered. Then I saw a big black mark where a lit cigarette had burned a hole. Great. Now I’d have trouble sleeping, worrying whether she was going to set the house on fire.

  “You’re out of cigarettes,” I lied, noticing that the pack had fallen behind the nightstand.

  Mom clucked in disgust and stood up. “Run down to the 7-Eleven and get me a couple of packs, okay?”

  “They won’t sell cigarettes to me. You know that.”

  She mumbled some obscenity. Then she dragged past me and headed for the bathroom. “You’re going to have to be more help around here, Antonia,” she snapped on her way past. “I can’t do everything myself.” She slammed the door in my face.

  Chapter 4

  Jazz was late for our Friday session. Good, I thought. Maybe she realized how ridiculous this arrangement was, too, and dropped out. It’d be like her. Did Dr. DiLeo actually expect Jazz Luther to honor her agreement to put in fifteen hours? I wondered what she’d done to deserve the punishment.

  With a whoosh, the door flew open and Jazz swept in. “I’m late. I know,” she said, flopping into the chair cattycorner from me. “My watch crapped out. Crap.”

  She tapped an inch-long, blood-red fingernail on the watch crystal and held her wrist up to her ear.

  “Well,” I said. “I think our time is up.”

  She blinked at me and burst into laughter. Jabbing my shoulder with one of those lethal talons, she replied, “You’re bode.”

  “What?”

  “Bode,” she repeated. “You know, bode.” She clucked her tongue. “It’s, like, okay, acceptable, cool.” Jazz flipped her frizzy hair over her shoulder.

  “Thanks,” I muttered. “I’m, like, honored.”

  She curled a lip.

  She looked different today. What was it? Her clothes were the same, maybe a low-cut tank top under the purple jacket. Same shredded jeans and boots. Wait. The hair.

  “Like it?” Jazz asked. “That’s why I’m late. I ditched lunch and went to my mane man instead.” She twisted her head and ran her palm along the hairless left side. Her scalp had been shaved from ear to crown. One side only.

  “It’s, uh …”

  “Bode, right?”

  Mowed was more like it.

  Jazz grinned. “My parents are going to cronk.”

  Cronk? Geez, we didn’t even speak the same language. I knew what she meant, though.

  “They’ll probably ground me for life,” she said. “Which would suit me fine because I’d be outta there. Away from that rat hole.”

  How far away? I wanted to ask, but didn’t. Instead I said, “You really think your parents will ground you?” Maybe she wouldn’t make it to school Monday. Or the day after. Or ever again.

  Jazz sighed. “I wish.” She tipped back in her chair and plunked her feet on the table. “They’ll just yell and threaten to send me to prep school. Again. Or to my sister Janey’s. Then I’ll tell them how, when they dumped me on her last summer, she totally corrupted me by taking me out partying. And if they weren’t neglecting me so bad I’d be normal. You know, lay the old guilt trip on “em.”

  “Do you really talk to your parents that way?” I asked.

  “Course. Don’t you?”

  “No way.”

  “What, they’d smack you?”

  My face flared. “No, my parents never hit me. They’ve never laid a hand on me.”

  Jazz removed her feet and leaned forward. “Never? Not even to, like, hug you?”

  Our eyes met briefly before mine dropped. This is a total waste of time, I thought. Exhaling exasperation or weariness or both, I riffled through my backpack for my counseling folder.

  Jazz said, “I’m sorry. Sometimes my mouth takes off without my brain. So, your parents don’t hit you. That’s good. At least that’s not your problem.”

  “Look.” I slapped the folder on the table. “We’re not here to talk about my problems. We’re here to help you.”

  Jazz smiled. “So, you admit you have problems.”

  I wrenched the folder off the table and stood. “I’m leaving. If you’re not going to take this seriously, then let’s just forget it. I have better things to do.”

  “Like what?” She sneered. “Homework?”

  “Yes, like homework. I’m giving up my homeroom for you, which means I have to do homework at night, which means I don’t get to bed until late, which means—”

  She cut me off. “Let me guess. You got a permanent case of PMS?”

  She must’ve felt the fire shooting from my eyes because she said, “Hey, chill, Tone. Just because I’m joking around doesn’t mean I’m not serious. Haven’t you ever heard of laughing through the tears?” Her voice wavered a little, as if she were on the verge of tears.

  It drew me back down to
my chair.

  Jazz covered her face with her hands and burst out sobbing. Then she hiccuped twice and removed her hands.

  She wasn’t crying. She was laughing!

  She sucked in a fake sob and laughed again.

  I lurched to my feet and charged out the door.

  “Tone,” she yelled after me. “Wait, I’m kidding. Come back.”

  “Never,” I muttered. “I’m never coming back.”

  “Dr. DiLeo, I can’t do this,” I told him. “I can’t counsel a crazy person. You’ve got to find someone else.”

  He leaned forward in his chair, elbows on knees. “What’s the problem exactly?”

  Exactly? She’s on drugs. I couldn’t say that, although it was probably the truth. “She mocks me,” I said. “She’s mocking the whole program. She doesn’t take it seriously.”

  He shook his head sadly. “I thought if anyone could reach her, you could.”

  That made me feel bad. Like she was doomed without me.

  He met my eyes. “Did you start at step one on the list? Trying to find something you have in common?”

  “We never got to step one,” I replied. “She’s so …” I couldn’t even come up with a word.

  Dr. DiLeo offered, “Unique?”

  That wasn’t it. Weird. Whacked. Freaky. Punk. “We don’t have anything in common,” I said. Thank God, I didn’t add.

  Dr. DiLeo straightened his wire-rims. “I bet you could find something,” he said. “You’ve met twice. What have you talked about?”

  “Nothing,” I answered. “I mean, she does all the talking. She told me how I could get a free tattoo with a body piercing.”

  He rolled his eyes. “Do you want me to sit in on the session?”

  “No!” That’d be worse, I thought. She’d never show me her tattoos. “I want you to find someone else. I’m not the right person for—”

  “You’re the perfect person, Antonia,” he said, cutting me off. “You’re responsible, intelligent, caring …”

  “You can’t find anyone else, can you?”

  “How’d you guess?” He grinned.

  I glared.

  Dr. DiLeo sobered and said, “Maybe if you opened up a little, she would, too. I know she comes on strong, but you have to take control, Antonia. Start slow. Talk about school or your family. That should be something you can both get into. I bet if you share your feelings, she’ll share hers.”

  Share my feelings? No way. Not with her.

  Dr. DiLeo reached out and touched my arm. I recoiled. “You can do this, Antonia. I know you can. She needs your help. I need your help.”

  Yeah, everyone in the world needed my help. So who was helping me?

  Chapter 5

  My bus broke down on the way home, so I was half an hour late. The house was quiet when I rushed in. Too quiet. And it smelled like smoke. “Michael? Chuckie?” I dropped my pack in the hall and raced to the kitchen.

  Mom was there, sitting at the kitchen table with Chuckie in her lap. It looked as if she’d just trimmed his hair. Good, he needed it worse than me. “Hello, Antonia.” She smiled up at me.

  “Mom.”

  “I’m sorry for what I said last night,” she began. “I know you’re doing the best you can. We all are.” She smiled weakly, like it hurt.

  I wanted to rush over and hug her. But I couldn’t. My feet wouldn’t move.

  Mom started rocking Chuckie and humming. That’s when I noticed what he was doing.

  “Chuckie!” I charged across the room and grabbed the scissors out of his hands. Naturally he screamed bloody murder. “You’ll cut yourself,” I told him. “Here.” I retrieved a dump truck from under the table. “Play with this.”

  Chuckie squirmed out of Mom’s lap and zoomed his truck over my foot and across the floor. Mom lit up a cigarette.

  “What’s that smell?” I asked.

  “Oh, we had a slight accident.” She waved toward the stove. The stove top was empty, but a smoking pan lay in the sink. Something was burned to the bottom. “I was going to make us all eggs and bacon,” she added. “Guess I forgot how to cook.” She sort of chuckled.

  Wow. It’d been a while since she’d actually cooked us dinner. I noticed she was wearing a dress and had combed her hair. Maybe she was better. My spirits lifted.

  The ashes from her cigarette floated to the floor and settled on a pile of laundry. “Where’s Michael?” I asked, shoveling up the laundry to save us from a flash fire.

  “I sent him to McDonald’s.”

  “Alone?”

  She blinked down at me. Her eyes filled with tears. “I’m a terrible mother.” She covered her face and burst into tears.

  I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I apologized silently. “No, you’re not. He’ll be okay. I’m just a big worrywart. You know me.” It was meant to reassure her, although I didn’t feel reassured.

  Mom continued to cry while I separated the whites from the colors. Then I remembered we were out of detergent. For some reason it made me mad at Mom. Stop it, I scolded myself. She’s sick. She can’t help it.

  Feeling guilty, I rose and walked back to the fridge. “Do you want eggs and bacon? I can make you some.”

  Mom snuffled. “No, thank you.”

  “Mom,” I said. “You have to eat.”

  She lowered her hands and held my eyes for as long as she could, which was about a second.

  “You have to,” I repeated.

  Taking a deep breath, she stubbed out her cigarette and said, “Eggs and bacon would taste good.”

  “Good.” I smiled at her. Better. She is better. Inside the fridge, an opened package of bacon lay on the top shelf, half frozen and uncovered. It must’ve been in the freezer for a year. Did bacon go bad? What if I poisoned her? Yeah, what if? Antonia! Quit it.

  Just then Michael returned with two bags of food. Thank you, God, I prayed. “Why don’t we have eggs and bacon some other time?” I said to Mom, shutting the door. “We don’t want to waste a real meal deal.”

  Mom laughed. “What would I do without you, Antonia?”

  Good question, I thought. I took a bag from Michael and began unloading.

  Mom ate one french fry and shoved the rest away. Rising wearily, she said, “I think I’ll go lie down for a while. I’m not really hungry.” At the door she turned and said, “Oh, Antonia. I had to use some of your savings to pay the electric bill.”

  A box of supersize fries slipped from my hand and scattered all over the floor.

  Don’t think about the money. Don’t! I ordered myself. Think about something else.

  I switched off my light and climbed into bed. Jazz materialized in my mind. Good. I wasn’t happy about counseling her, but I couldn’t let Dr. DiLeo down. Not if he really needed my help. And I was curious about Jazz’s real problem, don’t ask me why. The vision of her bald scalp came into view. I could just imagine her parents cronking. For some reason it made me smile, and I drifted off to sleep.

  Over the weekend, I studied my peer counseling notes and handouts, and even practiced a few approaches. Dr. DiLeo was right: I needed to take control. That was the main thing, getting past step one.

  When I yanked open the conference room door, Jazz was already there. She had earplugs on and was rocking out to music from her hand-held CD player. Probably some obscene shock rock. Her eyes were closed and her fingers tapped across the table as if she were working the keyboard. She didn’t even notice I’d come in.

  I lifted an earplug and said, “Hello? Anybody home?”

  She jerked back to reality and flicked off her CD player. Quickly, she dropped it into her jacket pocket. Too quickly. Which made me wonder where she’d stolen it.

  I said, “Okay, Jazz. Let’s get going.”

  “You go ahead.” She slumped across the table. “Wake me up in an hour.” She covered her head with her hands.

  Take control, I ordered myself. “I want you to answer some questions.”

  She grunted.

  I began at
the top of my list. “What’s your favorite color?”

  She twisted her head toward me. “Black,” she said.

  I jotted down her answer.

  “What’s yours?” she asked.

  My pen paused midair. “I don’t know. White, I guess.”

  She lifted her head and snorted. “White is the absence of color. Duh.”

  Control, I reminded myself. “What’s your favorite subject in school?”

  “Lunch,” she said.

  I snorted. “Seriously.”

  “Seriously?” She cocked her head. “Lunch.”

  I exhaled wearily. The urge to get up and go was strong, but I forced myself to forge ahead. “Do you have any brothers or sisters? Besides Janey.”

  She blinked. “How’d you know about Janey?”

  “You said you stayed with her last summer. She took you to a party.”

  Jazz rolled her eyes. “I lied. Janey wouldn’t know a party if it crashed at her house and burned her butt. She doesn’t know what fun is. She’s just soooo special. So perfect. She reminds me of you.”

  Just as I was about to spear her with my pen, she added, “But I still love her. You know?”

  That brought me up short. Blinking away from Jazz’s piercing gaze, I wrote down, Janey. Perfect.

  “In answer to your question,” Jazz said, “I have only the one perfect sister. How about you?”

  “No sisters,” I said. “Two little brothers.”

  “Lucky.” She sounded as if she meant it.

  “Oh, yeah,” I replied sarcastically.

  “What? You don’t like them? Are they brats or something?”

  I shrugged. “Sometimes.”

  “Like how?”

  I sighed. “Do you mind? I’m asking the questions.”

  Jazz threw up her hands. “Sorr-ee. What is this, let’s play police interrogation?”

  I just looked at her. She probably was an expert on police interrogation.

  She held up her right palm. “Continue, Officer Dillon. I promise to tell the truth.”

  A snicker might have escaped my lips. “Who’s your favorite teacher?”

  She choked. “You’re kidding, right?”

  I waited.

  “Well, wow. I just can’t pick a favorite. There are so many to love.” She studied her blood-red nails. “All teachers hate me. Surprise!” She framed her face with spread-out fingers.