Define Normal

by Julie Anne Peters

  I shot an evil grin at her.

  She threatened me with a fist. “Did I mention there’s a thousand-dollar prize?”

  “What!” My eyes popped out.

  “But the money doesn’t matter. It’s the experience that counts.”

  “Then you can give the money to me,” I said.

  She snorted. “What would you use it for?”

  Without thinking, I replied, “I’d buy my mom some flowers.”

  Jazz blinked at me. “That’s a lot of flowers.” She leaned forward on her elbows and said, “Have you seen her? Talked to her?”

  Looking away, I mumbled, “Yeah. Last night. Karen took me to the psycho ward.”

  Jazz opened her mouth.

  I held up a hand. “You don’t want to know.”

  “I do if you want to talk about it.”

  I didn’t. I did. Oh, brother. Okay. I started babbling, telling Jazz all about the creepy feeling and the weirdo patients. I told her how my mom was all drugged up and acting like a zombie. “Karen says once the antidepressant takes effect, which could be like weeks or even months, she’ll be human again. Karen knows because she’s clinically depressed too.”

  Jazz’s jaw unhinged. “Your social worker is a mental case?” She shook her head. “You sure know how to pick “em.”

  I glared. “I didn’t pick her. And it’s not a mental condition, it’s physical.”

  Her eyes softened and she held up two fingers. “Just kidding, Tone. I know that.”

  My throat caught. Jazz said suddenly, “Let’s talk about something else. Could you believe lunch? What was that crap? Ram called it maggot meatloaf.”

  I chuckled. It reminded me that I’d saved a couple of chocolate chip cookies from my lunch for her. As I handed them over, she stuffed one into her mouth and garbled, “Tone, you’re a lifesaver.”

  The period ended and we stood to leave. “I was going to stay home the next couple of days to practice the putrid polonaise”—Jazz rolled her eyes—“but if you want, I could come for fifth period Friday.”

  “No, that’s okay,” I said. “You need all the practice you can get.”

  “Hey!”

  I grinned and left her there, hands on hips. It made me feel warm inside, like maybe peer counseling was important to Jazz. Like maybe I was helping her.

  Dr.DiLeo intercepted me on my way out after school. Falling into step beside me in the main hall, he said, “I heard about your mother, Antonia. And the foster home situation. I’m so sorry”

  We dodged the boys’ track team jogging down the hall toward the gym. “If there’s anything I can do … If you still want out of the peer counseling program—”

  “No,” I said quickly “It’s fine. I’m fine.”

  Dr. DiLeo frowned at me. “You know if you ever need to talk, my door is always open.”

  Thanks, I thought. You can shut it. I have someone to talk to.

  He squeezed my arm and walked away. I wished everyone would stop squeezing me. I might break.

  Instead of Luis, Karen was waiting to pick me up after school. Something’s happened, I thought. Something bad.

  I raced to the car. As I slid in the passenger side and slammed the door, I asked, “Is she all right?”

  “Who?” Karen frowned.

  “My mom.”

  “Yes, she’s fine. I’m sorry.” Karen shook her head. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

  With a sigh of relief I strapped myself in. As Karen pulled away from the curb, she said, “I got your things.”

  In the backseat were six or eight grocery bags filled with clothes. “Thanks,” I said. “Was the toilet flushed?”

  She looked at me funny.

  “Never mind.” That was stupid.

  Karen said, “I think so. It didn’t smell.”

  Good, I thought.

  Then she said, “We found your father.”

  My stomach cramped. Every muscle in my body tensed. When she didn’t say anything else, I said it for her. “He’s not coming for us, is he.”

  She exhaled audibly. Sounding mad, she said, “He isn’t working right now. He doesn’t have any way to support you.”

  That must’ve been why the checks stopped coming.

  Karen stopped at a red light and turned to face me. “Do you want to talk about it?”

  “What’s to talk about?” I shrugged. “He left. He isn’t coming back. I stopped expecting him to a long time ago.” My eyes held Karen’s. “Mom’s the one who can’t deal with it. She still thinks he’s going to walk in the door any day now. That everything’s going to be back to normal. Maybe you should talk to her.“

  A horn honked behind us and Karen cursed under her breath. She gunned the motor and tore out. I had to add the last part, didn’t 1? Now I felt like crying again.

  That night, like every other, I shut myself in my room to do homework. Not my room, Yolanda’s room. In the middle of recopying my math equations, my pencil broke. “Damn!” I cursed and threw the pencil across the room. Then I just burst into tears. What was wrong with me? I was as bad as Mom.

  Which freaked me out. What if I caught her disease? What if I ended up like her?

  “This is all your fault,” I fumed, staring at the ceiling. “Why did you have to go? You knew how she was. Didn’t you care? About her? About us?”

  Apparently not, I answered for him. How many times had I been over this? It was useless. My wounds were healed. I didn’t even miss him anymore. I wouldn’t care at all that he was gone except it left Mom with this gaping hole in her heart. She still loved him; she couldn’t let go.

  The thought of her locked up in a psycho ward intensified my tears. They just kept coming. They were soaking my math paper and blurring all my answers. Now I’d have to start over—again. Damn!

  God, Tone, chill, a voice in my head said.

  I took a deep breath.

  Finally gaining control, I opened Yolanda’s desk to look for another pencil. In a side drawer I noticed a tape recorder. Next to it were a bunch of cassette tapes. Most were old rock groups or Latina singers no one ever heard of. One was this weird-looking Australian band called Sonic Boomerang. How stupid, I thought. I could use a good brain blast, though. I pulled out the recorder and loaded a tape.

  Sonic Boomerang wasn’t bad. I turned up the volume. At least the noise was numbing enough to get me through my homework.

  There was a loud knock on the door. I panicked. Punching the stop button, I thought, Great. I’ve bothered Tillie and Luis. Now they’re going to kick me out. They should, I thought. I’ve been so ungrateful.

  “It’s me, Antonia.” Michael’s voice penetrated the wood.

  My heart started again. “Come on in,” I said.

  “Open the door,” he hollered.

  Exasperated, I closed my algebra book and wrenched open the door. He stood there, a TV tray grasped in both hands. “Tillie sent you this.”

  I let him in and told him to set the tray on the desk. There was a plate of cheese and crackers and a can of Dr Pepper. How’d she know I love Dr Pepper? Also on the tray was a little vase with a daisy in it.

  Michael said, “She’s a real nice lady, huh?”

  I glared at him. “Look, don’t get comfortable here. As soon as Mom’s better we’re going home.”

  “You can,” he said.

  “Michael!”

  “I like it here. I want to stay.”

  “Sorry, that’s not the way it works. We still have parents, Michael. One, anyway,” I corrected myself. “We still have a home.”

  He didn’t look convinced. Maybe because I didn’t sound convincing.

  Michael picked up my hairbrush and ran his index finger along the bristles. “What if Mom doesn’t come home?” he said.

  “She will. She’s better already.”

  “She’s crazy,” he said.

  “She is not.”

  “She’s crazy and I don’t care if I never see her again.”

  “Michael! She�
��s our mother.”

  “I don’t care. I hate her. I hope she never comes back. Never. Just like Dad.” He flung the hairbrush across the room. Then he raced out, slamming the door behind him.

  I shut my eyes and hugged myself. What if he was right? The vision of Mom in the psych ward—I couldn’t get it out of my head. It scared me. What if she never got better? What if …

  I banished the thought and wandered over to the window. It was dark out, ink black, with billions of stars blinking overhead. That’s how I feel, I thought. Like a star. Not the kind everyone admires and adores. Not the kind with a fan club and a stack of autographed pictures to send out. A star in the sky. Distant. Detached. Blinking. On-off. On-off. It was just me now. Antonia Renee Dillon. No parents. No family. No home.

  Chapter 21

  I woke up Sunday morning thinking about Jazz. I’d had a dream about her, which was a welcome relief from the nightmares I’d been having about Mom. In the dream Jazz won the Chopin competition and was awarded this giant gold trophy overflowing with money. It made me wonder if she wasn’t sending me psychic vibes.

  I jumped up and rushed out to the living room. Tillie and Luis were reading the Sunday paper. “Would it be okay if I used the phone?” I asked.

  They didn’t answer right away, just exchanged uncertain glances.

  “It’s a local call,” I assured them, in case they were worried I might run up their phone bill.

  Luis said, “Why don’t you use the phone in the den? It’ll be more private.” He smiled at Tillie. “Remember how long Yolanda used to talk on that phone? I thought it was going to grow right on to her ear.”

  Tillie laughed.

  “I won’t tie it up long,” I said.

  Tillie said, “You talk as long as you want, honey.” She reached out to touch me, but I recoiled. She might think she was Michael’s and Chuckie’s mom, but she wasn’t mine. Yet.

  I retrieved Jazz’s phone number from my backpack and closed myself in the den. After three rings, Mrs. Luther picked up.

  “Hello, Mrs. Luther,” I said. “This is Antonia.”

  “Antonia!” she cried. “How nice to hear from you. How are you, dear?”

  “Okay,” I lied.

  “How are Michael and Chuckie?”

  “Good,” I said. “Great. Can I talk to Jazz?”

  There was a long pause. Mrs. Luther sighed and said, “She can’t come to the phone right now.” Her voice had changed. She sounded mad. Or sad.

  Probably mad. No doubt Jazz was out late celebrating with her friends. She was probably still in bed, dead to the world. “I was just wondering how she did at the piano competition.”

  Mrs. Luther didn’t respond right away. “I’ll let her tell you,” she finally said. “Have you seen your mother? How is she?”

  “Good,” I lied again. “Will you tell Jazz I called? Tell her to call me when she gets up?”

  “Yes, I will, dear,” she said in another sigh. “You take care. Give your brothers a hug for me.”

  “Sure.” I almost added, You’ll have to stand in line.

  Jazz never called me back. I hung around downstairs all day waiting. It wasn’t until that night that it struck me. She didn’t have the Abeytas’ phone number. There was probably some stupid rule about giving out foster-home numbers. God, I hated the rules. I hated it here.

  The next morning, after Luis dropped me off, I waited for Jazz by the front door. When I spotted her punk groupies rounding the corner of the science wing, I sprinted across the front lawn to catch her. “Hey, Jazz,” I said, out of breath. “How’d you do Saturday?”

  She blinked. “Like, what was Saturday?” Her eyes darted nervously from side to side.

  Oops. I’d forgotten.

  “Hey, it’s someone from the priss patrol,” a guy with spiked hair said. “Quick, shields up.” The other two people crossed their arms in front of their faces.

  “You guys,” Jazz said. She yanked down the spiker’s arms.

  One of the girls said, “Catch the penny loafers. Those are like so over.”

  “Leave her alone,” Jazz sniped. “Come on, let’s go.” She herded the group away. She said something in private and everyone howled. My face flared. Over her shoulder, Jazz held up two fingers. With both hands she spelled out PC.

  I didn’t acknowledge the message. Just turned and marched back to the building, trying to swallow down the hurt and humiliation.

  Jazz was late. After ten minutes passed, I wondered if I’d misread her message. I wondered if I’d misread Jazz Luther.

  The door opened and she dragged in, yanking out a chair and slumping into it. “Don’t ask about the competition,” she said.

  That shut my mouth fast. She must’ve lost. Mad as I was at her, I never wished her to lose.

  “Sorry about this morning.” She raised her head. “They didn’t mean anything by it. It wasn’t personal. Just a game we play with them.”

  “Them?”

  She cocked her head. “You know, the jocks and straights and Jesus freaks.”

  “You left out prisses.”

  “And prisses.” She dropped her head again.

  “I thought you were into respecting everyone’s individuality,” I said.

  She raised her head and glared.

  My gaze lowered. I didn’t want to fight with her. “I called you Sunday morning to see how you did in the— you know.”

  “Yeah, I heard.” Jazz sat back and dug out her compact. “Just so you know, I’m not allowed to have phone calls. I’ve been grounded for life.”

  “Why?” I frowned. “What happened?”

  She clicked open the compact and examined her makeup.

  “Did it have something to do with the piano competition?”

  “Oh, didn’t I tell you?” She snapped the compact closed. “I quit the piano.”

  “Quit?” My jaw bounced off my chest. “You can’t quit. Why? How? When did you quit?” I sounded like a blithering idiot.

  “In answer to your last question”—she calculated on her fingers—”that would be Friday.”

  “Before the competition?” My eyes widened. “Why? What happened?” My mind was reeling. Then a vision materialized. The vision of a dress. “Your mom insisted you wear the dress?”

  “Bingo.” Jazz aimed a lethal fingernail at my face.

  “What did Gregoire say? Didn’t he—”

  “Oh, yeah,” she broke in. “I forgot to say, I fired Gregoire. He’s a jerk.”

  I gasped. “Can you do that?”

  “What? Call him a jerk?”

  I sneered at her. “What happened really?”

  She exhaled wearily. Tossing her hair back over her shoulder, she said, “He came over Friday to give me the program; go through the music one more time. This was right after Mom and I got into it about the dress. Mom asked Gregoire what he thought. Like he cares what I wear.” She stopped. Her face hardened. “Gregoire said that of course I would have to look presentable. It was expected.”

  “You mean—”

  “That’s exactly what I mean,” she almost spit at me. “He’s a pretentious phony, just like my mother. So I told them if I had to dress all prissy to play in public, I wasn’t going to play in public. In fact, I wasn’t going to play in private either.”

  All I could do was gape at her.

  A slow smile crept across Jazz’s black lips. “You should’ve seen my father cronk when Mom told him I was quitting the piano.” Folding her arms, she slid back in her chair and added, “But I won.”

  I found my voice. “How do you figure? You didn’t play, so you lost the competition.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “I didn’t lose.”

  “You didn’t win,” I said.

  She opened her mouth to retort when I cut her off. “You don’t have to quit the piano over this, do you? I mean, you made your point.”

  “I hate Gregoire,” she muttered.

  “So find another teacher. You can’t quit, Jazz. You’re too
good. What about your goal? Your dream to go to Juilliard?”

  She cocked her head at me. “That’s why they call it a dream, Tone. Because it’ll never be a reality.”

  Chapter 22

  Karen came by the Abeytas’ that evening to check on us. We were fine, great, according to Tillie and Luis. “Such nice kids, they could stay here forever,” Tillie told her. She hugged Chuckie in her lap on the sofa. Next to her, Michael beamed. Next to him, Karen stared at me across the family room. I continued to read my book.

  “Antonia, why don’t you walk me out?” she said, rising to her feet.

  I exhaled loudly and slapped my book closed. Totally rude. Don’t ask me why I was taking it out on Karen. Because I was a horrible person, that’s why.

  When we got to the car, she said, “I stopped by the hospital today. Your mom’s looking better. Have you called her?”

  I shook my head.

  “You can, you know. If you want to go visit again—”

  “No,” I said sharply. My eyes strayed down the street.

  Karen squeezed the stiff hand at my side. “Don’t give up hope,” she said softly.

  Hope, I thought. What was that?

  Jazz was right. Any dream I ever had of living a normal life with my own family in our own house was simply that. A dream.

  It seemed like the only thing I looked forward to anymore was peer counseling. I hurried to the conference room on Wednesday, late because we had to clean out our lockers during homeroom. Jazz was already there. She didn’t even notice me at the door, panting. She had her CD player out, earplugs in, eyes closed. Her fingers tapped on imaginary piano keys across the conference table. That’s when it hit me—all those times she’d had her earplugs in, she’d been listening to classical music. Whatever piece she was playing must’ve ended because she stopped and inhaled deeply.

  As I slid into my chair, I clapped and cheered, “Brava!”

  Her eyes flew open. She yanked out the earplugs and said, “Sorry. I was just …” She started to shove the CD player into her pocket.

  “No, wait.” I reached over and laid my hand on hers. “What were you playing?”