Define Normal

by Julie Anne Peters

  Jazz widened her eyes at me. “You’re crazy.”

  I shrugged. “Sink or swim.”

  She shook her head, but consented to another lesson. Afterward, as we headed to her room to change, Jazz said, “You look like a prune.”

  “So do you,” I replied. “Is there such a thing as a punk prune?”

  Jazz laughed. “If I’m a punk prune, you’re a priss prune.”

  I laughed. So did she.

  “You two must be famished.” Mrs. Luther met us on the stair landing. “You’re welcome to ask Antonia to have dinner with us, Jasmine. Your father’s meeting us downtown at Gabriel’s at six. We could drop Antonia off at her house afterward.” She smiled at me.

  Jazz sighed. I knew that sigh. She was sick of me.

  She didn’t have to worry. “Thank you, but I can’t,” I told Mrs. Luther. “I promised my mom I’d be back by dinner.”

  “Oh. All right.” She sounded disappointed. On her way past, she squeezed my shoulder. A tingle lingered.

  As Jazz flung open her bedroom door and tossed her wet towel on the bed, she said, “See? Isn’t she awful?”

  Awful? She seemed awesome to me. Jazz didn’t know what awful was.

  After changing, we went back downstairs. Mrs. Luther cornered us in the living room. “I can’t let you wait for the bus in this weather,” she told me.

  My gaze strayed to the front picture window, where a storm spattered frozen rain against the glass. Mrs. Luther added, “You’ll catch your death of cold, especially with wet hair.” She jangled her keys. “Where do you live, Antonia? I’ll drop you off.”

  No, you can’t! I screamed inwardly. “Clear on the other side of town,” I said. “It’s way out of your way.”

  “Nonsense. We’ll just leave a little early and take a detour.”

  Before I could object, she was gone. Jazz said, “She’s made up her mind. End of discussion.”

  Beginning of nightmare, I thought.

  On the ride through town in her brand-new BMW, Jazz’s mother weaved in and out of traffic and cursed drivers. She had a real bad case of road rage. So what? I thought. At least she drives. The classical music playing on the CD was soothing. When Mrs. Luther hummed along with it, the sound was sort of hypnotic. After a while, I zoned out.

  Okay, I reasoned to myself, what could go wrong? Maybe in the dark, through sheets of sleet, Jazz wouldn’t see where I lived. Compared to her palatial mansion, my house was slave quarters.

  When I tuned back in, Jazz and her mom were having an argument. “Couldn’t you at least wear something without holes?” Mrs. Luther peered in the rearview mirror at Jazz in the backseat. “You have an entire closet full of new designer dresses and suits. I wouldn’t even mind if you wore the Levis you bought last week.”

  “I am wearing them,” Jazz said.

  Her mother gasped. “You mean you cut out the knees?”

  “And the butt.”

  I twisted around from the front seat to stare at Jazz. She grinned back at me. She’d taken care to cake on the black mascara extra thick.

  The heat from Mrs. Luther’s white knuckles radiated through her leather gloves. Her hands clutched the steering wheel tighter.

  As we got close to my house, I noticed for the first time how the gate was busted and the screen door hung by one hinge. “Here,” I said quickly. “You can let me off here.” At least Mrs. Marsh’s house was newly painted.

  I reached for the door handle, then hesitated. Something was wrong. It wasn’t the peeling paint or the sagging porch. Our house was dark as death.

  Chapter 12

  Not even the TV flickered through the front window. Which was strange. Michael always had the TV on at night. No lights illuminated windows upstairs. The house looked abandoned.

  Unfortunately, except for the porch light, Mrs. Marsh’s house was dark, too.

  “It doesn’t look like anyone’s home,” Jazz’s mom said.

  Jazz muttered, “Duh.”

  “Th-that’s okay,” I replied. “They probably went out to eat.” Which was possible, since the car was gone. The car was gone? I freaked.

  Mrs. Luther said, “Antonia, I don’t feel comfortable leaving you here alone, especially if your family’s out for the evening. Why don’t you just come eat with us? We can call your parents from the restaurant to let them know where you are. I’m sure they’ll be back by the time we finish. Then I can meet them.”

  My blood froze. No way. Never. Not in this life. I smiled at Mrs. Luther. “Okay. Do you mind if I change first? I still feel kind of wet.”

  “No, not at all.”

  I yanked on the door handle. From the back Jazz said, “I’ll go with you.”

  “No!” It came out a harsh bark, which made Jazz flinch. “It won’t take a minute. I’ll be right back.”

  How could I hide the fact that my house was next door now? If I ran around back … Oh, forget it, I thought. It’s pouring rain. Maybe they’ll start fighting again and forget to notice.

  Racing to the door, I remembered I didn’t take a house key. The sleet running down my hair and neck made me shiver. Luckily the front door wasn’t locked. Which made me shiver again, this time from panic.

  “Michael?” I called. “Mom? Chuckie?”

  Silence. I flicked on the hall light and raced through the downstairs. Nothing. No one. I sprinted up the stairs to the bedrooms. Empty. At least they hadn’t been murdered in their beds.

  “Stop it,” I commanded myself. “They just went out to dinner.” I could hope.

  In my room, I stripped to my underwear and pulled on a skirt and sweater. Hastily I brushed my damp hair back into a ponytail.

  “Michael?” I called again on the way down, don’t ask me why. The house smelled funny. Like mold and garbage and cigarettes. I vowed, closing the front door behind me, that tomorrow I’d dedicate the day to housecleaning. If tomorrow ever came.

  “Is your father in design graphics?” Mr. Luther asked me. He and Mrs. Luther sat across the table from Jazz and me. “I know a Tony Dillon at Omega Arts.”

  “No, sir,” I said. “He’s a … a …” How could I say roofer? Mr. Luther was so dressed up, so elegant. So rich. I coughed and sipped my iced tea, stalling.

  Jazz yelled, “Hey, waiter dude. I need some ketchup.”

  Her father scowled at her.

  “What?”

  He sighed wearily. Thankfully it distracted him, and he sawed off a hunk of prime rib. It made my mouth water just to watch him chew. He smiled. I smiled.

  “Eat.” Jazz elbowed me. “Don’t let your lobster get cold.”

  I poked my fork into the lobster tail and tore off a chunk. Copying Jazz, I dipped it in the little cup of butter. The lobster melted in my mouth. “Mmmm …” My eyes closed involuntarily. It tasted so good.

  Jazz elbowed me again. I still felt guilty about ordering the most expensive thing on the menu, but it didn’t faze Jazz. She even got fries and a chocolate shake on the side.

  “Does your mother work?” Mrs. Luther asked.

  The lobster lodged in my throat. I nodded. “She’s a, uh …”—I swallowed—”image consultant.” I didn’t add, When she can get out of bed.

  “Really?” Mrs. Luther’s eyes lit up. “Does she do colors? I’ve been thinking about having my colors done again. Maybe I could ask your mother—”

  I coughed again. Jazz slapped me on the back. It dislodged the lobster, but not the fear. In a faint voice I replied, “She’s taking some time off right now. Until my little brother starts school.”

  “Geez,” Jazz grumbled. “Stop giving Tone the third degree, will ya? Let her eat.”

  I smiled up weakly, silently thanking Jazz.

  “It’s just that she’s such a pleasure to talk to,” Mrs. Luther said. “Laurent,” she addressed her husband, “do you know Antonia actually changed clothes for dinner? She said she wanted to dress appropriately.”

  I didn’t remember saying that. Maybe it was true. Or maybe I wanted
an excuse to go inside and see if my family had been murdered.

  “You look very nice,” Mr. Luther said.

  My cheeks burned. “Thank you, sir.”

  “She has such nice manners. Doesn’t she have nice manners, Laurent? You could learn something from Antonia, Jazz.”

  Now I felt like crawling under the table.

  Jazz muttered, “I changed for dinner, too. In case you hadn’t noticed.”

  They both stared at her. Then, as if there’d been a temporary time warp, they turned to each other. “Constance acquired an original Howell for the gallery opening,” Mrs. Luther told her husband. “She’s extending the Native American exhibit through May.”

  Jazz smirked at me. Under her breath she said, “Don’t you just love them? Aren’t they just precious?”

  My house was still dark when we pulled up a little after nine. No one had answered the phone the several times I’d called from the restaurant, so I wasn’t surprised. “Maybe we should come in and wait with you,” Jazz’s mother said.

  “Oh, no.” No no no. “I’m sure they’ll be back any minute.” I tried to sound reassuring. To all of us.

  “Is there someone you could call to come stay with you?”

  “Mother,” Jazz sighed heavily “She’s not a baby. Believe it or not, most parents trust their children enough to leave them alone in the house for a few hours.”

  Mrs. Luther sighed heavily. “It’s not that we don’t trust you, Jazz. We don’t want you to be one of those horrible latchkey—” She stopped. Her eyes met mine.

  “Usually Mom’s home when I get here,” I said.

  Mrs. Luther exhaled relief. But Jazz muttered, “Saved your butt, huh, Mom?”

  “It’s okay if I’m alone, Mrs. Luther,” I added. “Really.” I opened the car door.

  “I don’t know—”

  “Maybe she left me a message,” I cut in. “Yes, I’m sure she did. I probably just missed it, since I was in such a hurry. I’ll go check.” I slid out and raced for the door. The sleet had stopped; now it was icicle cold. Or maybe that was me.

  On the way to the kitchen I flicked on all the lights. A minute later I ran back out to the curb. The passenger side window scrolled down electrically. Jazz had moved to the front bucket seat. Holding up a folded sheet of paper, I leaned in and said, “I did miss it. It must’ve fallen off the fridge. They went to a double feature at the new mall.” I thumbed up the street. “They should be home any minute.”

  Mrs. Luther hesitated. “All right, Antonia,” she finally said. “You seem like a responsible person.”

  Jazz clucked. “Compared to me, she means.”

  Her mother added, “You call me if they’re not home by ten.”

  I thanked her again for dinner. I thanked Jazz for the swim lesson.

  “Yeah, no sweat,” she said. As the window scrolled up, Jazz eyed the note in my hand, then looked back at me. She held my eyes.

  She knows, I thought. She knows the paper is blank.

  Chapter 13

  I sat by the phone, waiting. What else could I do? Call the police? Call 911? Sure, and say what? My family is missing?

  The clock ticked and ticked. It got later and later, darker and darker. Every time the refrigerator kicked on, I freaked.

  “Okay, Antonia. Think this through,” I said aloud. “Let’s say she finally got up the nerve to drive again. Where would she take two little kids on a Saturday night?”

  There were tons of possibilities. The movies—why not? Because we didn’t go to the movies. Crowds made Mom nervous. How about the rec center? No, it closed at eight-thirty. For a drive? My stomach clenched. At night? Off a cliff?

  My head fell into my hands. “Please, God,” I whispered. “Please make them be okay.” Just then the phone rang.

  I snatched up the receiver. “Hello?”

  There was a heavy silence. Then a weak voice said, “Antonia? Could you come and get us?”

  “Michael!” My heart crashed through the floor. “Where are you? Are you all right? Where’s Mom? Is Chuckie with you?”

  Michael sniffled.

  “Okay,” I said more calmly. “Just tell me where you are.”

  “I don’t know.” He sniffled again. “In a hotel.”

  “What hotel? Where?”

  “I don’t know!” he shouted.

  “Okay, take it easy. Is Mom there?”

  Michael paused. “She can’t come to the phone.”

  A vision materialized in my head. A crashed car. A woman lying in a pool of blood. It made me shudder, and I banished it. “Can you see the name anywhere? Is it on the phone or the door? Is there any writing paper with the hotel’s name on it? Look around, Michael.”

  He said, “I’m not in the room. I snuck out.”

  A siren blared in the background, then a roar. A close one. Airplanes, I thought. He must be in a phone booth by the airport. “Is there a neon sign anywhere by the hotel? There must be something. Look.” I didn’t mean to sound frantic.

  “I can’t read it,” Michael said in a tiny voice. “I don’t know the words.”

  “Well, spell it.”

  He spelled, “W-y-f-a-e-r-i-n.”

  I wrote it down. Sounded it out. Something like Wayfair Inn. “What else do you see?”

  “A bar across the street. We stopped there. Me and Chuckie stayed in the car.”

  A bar? “Can you read the bar’s name?”

  “No.”

  Great, I thought.

  “But I remember it,” he added. “Lucky Lady Saloon. Mom said, “Lucky lady, that’s me.’ And she went inside.”

  My heart sank again, this time with a thud. “Good, Michael. Okay. I think I can find you. Is there a number on that phone?”

  He read me the number. I had to ask. “Is Chuckie okay?”

  “Yeah,” Michael said. “He’s asleep.”

  He’ll be scared to death if he wakes up in a strange place, I thought. “Go stay with him,” I told Michael. “And Mom, too. Take care of them until I get there.”

  “Antonia?” The weak, wavery voice returned.

  “Yeah?”

  “Mom’s sick.”

  My throat constricted. “I know. Don’t worry. Everything’s going to be fine.”

  Michael inhaled a long breath. “I don’t think so,” he said.

  There was no Wayfair Inn in the phone book, only a Wayfarer, but it was near the airport. The Lucky Lady Saloon. I looked it up, too, and confirmed the location. How did they get clear out to the airport? And why? Where was she going? Why would she stop at a bar? She didn’t drink. At least, not a lot. Sometimes she used to go but for a beer after work with her girlfriends. But that was a long time ago. I wasn’t even sure she had girlfriends anymore. I unfolded the bus map. “Oh, man,” I thought aloud, “it’ll take me hours to get there. I’ll have to transfer twice.” Dad never let us ride the bus at night. He said the crazies came out at night. The homeless, the winos, the thugs.

  “Like you care,” I muttered. “Why aren’t you here to help?” Then I lost it. Waving the bus map at the ceiling, I screamed, “It’s all your fault! If you hadn’t gone and—”

  The phone rang. I lunged for it. “Hello?”

  A familiar voice said, “Tone? Hi, it’s Jazz.”

  “Oh,” I said dully.

  “Mom made me call. Did your mother get home?” she asked.

  My head reeled. If I lied and said yes, she might not believe me. She might ask to speak with Mom. Mrs. Luther would, for sure. Then I’d have to lie again. So many lies. I hated lying. I was already going to hell for leaving Michael and Chuckie alone today, so what difference did it make?

  It made a difference. I didn’t want to lie to Jazz. I was her peer counselor.

  “Antonia?”

  “Do you know anyone who drives?” I asked her.

  She thought for a minute. “Yeah.”

  “Great. I need a ride somewhere.”

  Chapter 14

  The BMW pulled up
to the curb fifteen minutes later. I felt betrayed. When Jazz got out to let me in up front, I snarled at her, “I didn’t mean your mother.”

  Jazz glared at me. “My Corvette’s in the shop.”

  “So, where are we off to?” Mrs. Luther asked cheerfully.

  I slid in and gave her the address I’d copied from the phone book. As we headed toward the highway, my breath got shorter and shorter. My whole body shook. Even though the heater was blasting, I pulled my jacket tight around me.

  Mrs. Luther chattered at me over the CD player. After a while, after I didn’t answer her a couple of times, I guess she gave up. Jazz just stared at me from the backseat. I could feel her eyes drilling black holes in my head.

  My stomach felt queasy. If that lobster dinner hadn’t cost forty dollars, I would’ve upchucked on the leather seat. No kidding. What was going to happen when we got to the hotel? Discovery. Disaster. Everything was going to come crashing down. I bit my trembling lip. A gush of salty blood trickled over my tongue.

  “And Jazz plays the piano. Did you tell Antonia about your music?”

  Jazz said, “Yeah, when I introduced myself. I said, “I’m Jazz Luther. You know, the famous pianist.’”

  Her mother ignored her. “She plays beautifully. Her teacher says she has the talent to attend Juilliard. But Jasmine refuses to compete or give a public recital.”

  “No, I don’t,” Jazz said. “You won’t let me.”

  Jazz played the piano? That got my attention. I tried to envision her at the keys, playing a recital, going to Juilliard. The image wouldn’t stick.

  Mrs. Luther went on, “She’s going to have to act more mature if she ever plans to audition for Juilliard.”

  Jazz clucked. “Who says I do?”

  Listening to them bicker was better than the war raging inside my head.

  The flickering neon sign was exactly as Michael had described it. The A and Y were burned out. It wasn’t a hotel, though. Just a rundown, sleazy motel off the highway ramp. I’d forgotten to ask Michael what room. It didn’t matter. He was huddling outside one of the red doors.

  I took a deep breath. “You can just pull in over there.” I pointed. “By that kid.”