The Art of Being Normal

by Lisa Williamson

  After school I head to detention. I haven’t had one since I was in Year 8, when Essie, Felix and I tied ourselves together for Children in Need and caused a mass pile-up at the bottom of the stairs in the art block. This is my first solo offence and I can’t help but feel a little bit badass as I sign in with ancient Mr Wilton.

  Two sullen Year 9 girls are sitting in opposite corners of the classroom with matching tear-stained faces. I slide into a seat in the front row and take out my maths homework and pencil case. A few seconds later Harry walks in, his nose looking even more purple than it did a few hours ago. He glares at me before making his way to the back of the room. A few seconds later Leo enters. His eyes sort of float over me as he walks past and chooses a seat by the window. He slumps down deep in his seat, so low his chin is almost level with the desk.

  ‘Welcome, everyone,’ Mr Wilton growls. ‘Your one hour detention starts now.’

  He starts a stopwatch, sits down behind his desk and promptly falls asleep.

  I try to do my homework, but I can’t concentrate. Harry is listening to music through his headphones and must have it turned up to the maximum because I can clearly hear the lyrics and tinny bass line. To my left Leo has a copy of Twelfth Night propped open. I don’t think he’s reading it properly though. I can just tell by the way his eyes are staring at the same spot on the page, like they’re about to burn right through the book. He must notice me watching because he looks over sharply. Quickly I pretend to scowl at a maths problem in my book. I try not to look again.

  The rest of the hour creeps by, the hands of the clock dragging their way round the face. Finally Mr Wilton’s stopwatch starts beeping. I begin to pack away my things. As he passes, Harry knocks my pencil case off the edge of the desk, sending it clattering open.

  ‘Laters, Freak Show,’ he calls over his shoulder.

  I sigh and drop to my knees. My pencil sharpener has burst open and there are shavings everywhere.

  ‘Why does he call you that?’

  It takes me a moment to register that Leo is speaking to me.

  ‘Sorry?’ I say, blinking up at him.

  ‘Freak Show. Why does he call you that?’

  I consider my answer. Leo punched Harry in the face for me, which surely indicates he’s on my side to at least some degree. I’m assuming he also heard Harry spout the contents of my notebook before punching him, which also bodes well. But at the same time, I can’t help but feel cautious.

  ‘It’s kind of historical,’ I say, scooping the shavings into my hand and tipping them back into my pencil case.

  Leo frowns. ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Harry’s been calling me that since we were, like, eight years old,’ I reply, standing up and shoving my pencil case into my backpack.

  ‘But why?’

  ‘I don’t know. Because I’m different?’

  ‘Isn’t everyone?’

  ‘Not at Eden Park School.’

  I pull on my coat and we begin to walk down the deserted corridor.

  ‘So you just let him?’ Leo continues.

  ‘It’s not a case of letting him …’ I say. ‘Let’s just say it’s complicated.’

  Leo raises an eyebrow but doesn’t say anything else.

  ‘Harry Beaumont is kind of the unofficial king of Year 10,’ I say.

  ‘But why? He’s a dickhead.’

  ‘He’s on the football team and runs the one hundred metres for the county. Oh, and he’s on the Ball Committee, which automatically grants him god-like status around here.’

  ‘Ball Committee?’

  ‘You didn’t have balls at Cloverdale?’

  Leo lets out a single laugh. ‘No.’

  ‘We have two, one before Christmas and one in the summer. And Harry is in charge this year. He’s promising a snow machine at the Christmas one. Whoop-de-doo.’

  ‘And people care about this stuff?’

  ‘They really do.’

  Leo shakes his head.

  ‘At least I’m not alone when it comes to dealing with Harry’s abuse,’ I add brightly. ‘He has it in for pretty much anyone who doesn’t fit the mould. Yesterday was just my turn, that’s all. Thanks by the way, for knocking his lights out. Much appreciated.’

  ‘Don’t mention it,’ Leo mutters, pushing open the main doors.

  We step outside. It’s begun to rain. I fish in my backpack for my umbrella.

  ‘Want to come under?’ I ask as I open it up.

  ‘No thanks.’

  We begin to walk down the drive.

  ‘You shouldn’t let him,’ Leo says after a moment.

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘Harry. You shouldn’t let him call you that.’

  ‘It’s only another two years. Then, if my parents let me, I’m going to a sixth form college in the city rather than stay on here, and Harry will be a figment of my imagination.’

  ‘So until then you’re just going to put up with it?’

  ‘I know it sounds really pathetic, but it’s honestly just easier to try and ignore Harry. You never know, he might get bored eventually. Hey, it would be different if I knew I had a personal bodyguard on hand to beat him up every time he gives me grief, but I have a feeling yesterday was probably a one-off …’

  ‘Yeah,’ Leo says quickly. ‘I’m on probation so probably best I keep my head down.’

  I look over at him in surprise.

  ‘You’re on probation? Just for what happened yesterday?’

  ‘Yeah,’ Leo says. ‘Er, new policy I think. Zero tolerance or something.’

  ‘Oh, right. God, I’m sorry.’

  Leo shrugs. ‘Not really your fault, is it?’

  He doesn’t say it with a whole lot of conviction though.

  The rain is falling faster now, hammering down on the fabric of my umbrella. I try again to coax Leo under, but he pretends not to hear me. His eyes look even greener in the eerie grey light. It’s weird, but the rain sort of suits him.

  We reach the gates just as the number fourteen bus comes juddering up the hill.

  ‘That’s me,’ Leo says, taking his bus pass out of his pocket.

  ‘What’s Cloverdale like?’ I blurt.

  He gives me a sharp look.

  ‘Why do you wanna know?’

  ‘It’s just you hear all this stuff about it so I was curious …’

  Leo sighs. ‘You really want to know what Cloverdale is like?’

  I nod eagerly.

  ‘It’s a shit-hole,’ he says. ‘Pure and simple. See ya.’

  I watch as he breaks into a jog towards the bus stop, his blazer flying out behind him like a cape.

  16

  As I make my way to the back of the upper deck of the bus, I replay the conversation with David in my head. It’s so messed up. This Harry kid repeatedly gets away with picking on all these kids, and here I am with four weeks’ detention and probation; my entire future at Eden Park School at risk, just because I actually stood up to him. I feel angry just thinking about it. Like I want to find out where Harry lives and punch him again, only harder this time. A familiar feeling bubbles in my chest like hot lava. I remember describing it to Jenny once. She wrote something down in my file with this little frown on her face.

  ‘Volcanoes are unpredictable, Leo, uncontrollable,’ she said. ‘They erupt. We need to work at keeping the one inside you dormant, or at the very least, from causing as little mass destruction as possible.’

  I’m so agitated I get off the bus three stops early so I can walk the rest of the way and cool off.

  I’m walking across the bridge, when a car drives past and I do a double take. It’s a beaten up red Ford Fiesta. Before I have the chance to think, I’m bolting after it, running so hard I think might explode, splattering blood and guts all over the pavement. I finally catch up with it at the traffic lights, peering inside, my chest heaving up and down. The driver is an Indian lady wearing a bright pink sari. There are a couple of kids in the back. The lady doesn’t notice me but one of
the kids presses his face up against the window, squishing his nose against the glass and crossing his eyes at me. I stare back until the lights change and they speed away.

  It was stupid of me to even think it could be Dad behind the wheel. He’s long gone from here, I know it. I can feel it in my bones.

  Sometimes, if I can’t sleep at night or I’m bored on the bus or in lessons, I imagine this parallel universe where Dad is still around. In it he takes me to football games, helps me with my homework and calls me ‘son’, like he’s really proud of me. He makes Mam nicer too; younger, prettier, happier. Parallel-universe Mam always remembers to buy loo roll, cooks massive roast dinners on a Sunday and laughs a lot. With Dad around, our house isn’t a pig sty. It’s spick-and-span and if things get broken, they get mended or replaced. I try not to think about it too much though, there’s no point when it’s all just a stupid fantasy anyway.

  When I get home, Spike and Tia are sitting on the settee watching cartoons with the curtains closed. The sink is full of dirty plates and mugs and there’s a new kidney-shaped stain on the carpet.

  More and more of Spike’s belongings keep appearing around the house: a rusty old toastie maker in the kitchen; a set of weights in the lounge; a book of ‘inspirational’ quotes; tattered and dogeared, propped up behind the toilet rolls in the bathroom. It’s like his crap is mutating on a daily basis.

  ‘Leo!’ Tia squeals the second she spots me, jumping up and running over to me, chucking her skinny little arms around my waist.

  ‘Watcha, kiddo!’ Spike says.

  I roll my eyes and wish he would just call me by my actual name for once.

  Tia is still wrapped around me, her cheek pressed against my belly, her feet balanced on mine.

  ‘Dance with me?’ she begs.

  ‘No. C’mon, gerroff, T,’ I say. Reluctantly she lets go of me, her lower lip sticking out in a sulk.

  ‘Where’s Mam?’ I ask Spike.

  ‘Upstairs. Getting ready for bingo with Kerry later,’ he replies.

  ‘Surprise, surprise,’ I mutter, going into the kitchen and opening the cupboards. As usual they’re bare apart from an ancient can of tuna and half a packet of stale cream crackers. I can’t remember the last time Mam did a proper supermarket shop.

  ‘Big jackpot going. You never know, tonight might be her lucky night,’ Spike says, rubbing his hands together. ‘Imagine that, eh, kids? Your mam a millionairess?’

  ‘Like Kim Kardashian?’ Tia asks.

  ‘Exactly like Kim Kardashian,’ Spike says.

  I shake my head. Who are they kidding? I open the fridge. Something in there stinks, I don’t know what. I shut it again.

  ‘I was thinking, how do you kids fancy fish and chips tonight?’ Spike asks. ‘My treat.’

  Tia lets out this big gasp. ‘Really?’

  ‘Yeah, why not. Leo?’

  Part of me wants to say ‘no’, just to rain on his smug parade. But already I have the smell of fish and chips in my nostrils and I’m practically drooling.

  ‘Whatever,’ I say.

  ‘Fish ’n’ chips, fish ’n’ chips,’ Tia chants, jumping up and down on the settee.

  ‘What about Amber? She’ll want some too, I bet.’ Spike says.

  ‘She here?’ I ask.

  He jerks his head upwards.

  ‘Ask your mam if she fancies anything while you’re at it,’ he calls after me as I trudge up the stairs.

  I bump into Mam on the landing. She has a pink towel wrapped around her body and another on her head, turban-style. Both are stained from the bleach she uses to dye her roots every few weeks. Her skin looks waxy and pale without its usual layer of make-up.

  ‘You’re late,’ she says, adjusting her towel under her armpits. Her arms themselves are scrawny and bird-like.

  ‘Like you care,’ I reply.

  ‘Oi, I heard that,’ she snaps.

  ‘You were meant to,’ I mutter, trying to push past her.

  She grabs hold of my sleeve and pulls me back so we’re facing each other. I’m only a few centimetres taller than her, but because she’s so skinny it feels like much more.

  ‘I’ve told you once, and I’ll tell you again,’ she says, getting in close so I can smell her breath – toothpaste and fags. ‘Just because you’re going to that posh school now, it don’t mean you’re any better than the rest of us, all right?’

  ‘What? Wanting to do well is a crime, is it?’ I ask.

  ‘There you go,’ she says. ‘Mouthing off again. The sooner you finish your exams and start earning your keep, the better.’

  ‘What, like you?’

  Her mouth flaps open, but she doesn’t say anything. Mam never holds down a job for long. She’s been at the launderette since May – a bit of a record for her.

  Mam’s gaze lingers over my blazer.

  ‘What does that mean anyway?’ she asks, prodding at the embroidered crest and screwing up her face.

  ‘Like you actually want to know.’

  ‘What? I’m not allowed to ask my own kid a question now?’

  ‘It’s the school motto,’ I say reluctantly. ‘Latin for “fairness and initiative”.’

  She lets out a short laugh.

  ‘Fairness? Well, that’s where they’re going wrong. Because life isn’t fair, Leo, and the sooner people are taught that, the better off they’ll be.’

  She folds her arms, like she’s proud of herself. I could open my mouth to argue with her, try and explain that’s not what the motto is saying, but I can’t be bothered. Because even though she got that bit wrong, she’s right about one thing – life isn’t fair.

  ‘Are we done?’ I ask.

  She just shakes her head and sweeps past me, into her bedroom. A few seconds later the roar of the hair-dryer starts up.

  I rub my face with my hands before pushing open my own bedroom door to find Amber sitting on her bunk, painting her toenails Barbie pink.

  ‘Spike’s going down the chippy. You want anything?’ I ask. I realise I forgot to ask Mam. Not that she would want anything anyway. She seems to survive just fine on cider and nicotine.

  ‘Just a couple of saveloys for me, ta,’ Amber says, leaning forward to blow on her toes.

  ‘That’s it? No chips?’

  ‘No thanks, I’m cutting out the carbs.’

  Amber’s always on some sort of weird diet.

  ‘You’re mental,’ I say, tugging off my tie. ‘If you get any skinnier there’ll be nothing left of you.’

  ‘Whatever, I’m huge,’ she says, pinching at a non-existent roll of fat on her stomach. ‘By Hollywood standards I’m practically obese. Why’re you so late?’

  ‘Detention,’ I admit.

  She sits up straight. ‘You’re joking?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘What’d you do?’

  I tell her all the bits I remember, finishing with Mr Toolan’s warning – one more step out of line and I’m out.

  ‘Jenny’s going to go ape-shit,’ Amber says.

  I groan. There’s no way Mr Toolan isn’t going to tell her. And I’ve got an appointment with her on Friday. What shit timing. I can already picture her face; all sad and disappointed, which is somehow way worse than her being angry.

  ‘What are you going to do?’ Amber asks.

  ‘Nothing much I can do except try and keep out of trouble from now on.’

  ‘So this kid you stood up for, who is he?’

  ‘No one.’

  ‘That’s too bad. I thought you were going to say you’d finally got yourself some mates.’

  ‘Why is everyone so bloody obsessed with me making friends?’

  ‘Because. It’s normal,’ Amber says.

  I look up at her. ‘Normal? And since when have I been normal, Amber?’

  Because ‘normal’ kids don’t have six files’ worth of notes on them. ‘Normal’ kids don’t see therapists. ‘Normal’ kids don’t have mothers like mine, who tell you life isn’t fair with messed-up glee, like the u
nfairness of life is pretty much the only thing they know for sure. I’ve spent my whole life being told I’m the complete opposite of ‘normal’.

  Normal. I say it over and over again as I pace up and down on the flimsy rug, agitation gushing down my arms and legs, making me want to lash out and go wild. Amber leans down and grabs hold of my shoulder.

  ‘All right, bad choice of word. I’m sorry. Calm down, Leo.’

  I shake her off, but stop pacing.

  ‘Here, come up,’ she says, moving across to make room.

  I pause before climbing up the ladder to join Amber on her bunk. We sit cross-legged, our knees touching, the top of my head brushing the ceiling. I’m still trembling.

  ‘I just don’t get why you’re so against the concept of opening up to someone,’ Amber says softly. ‘Having some kind of meaningful relationship with someone who isn’t your sister or your therapist.’

  I almost open my mouth to tell her about Alicia, just to shut her up, but at the last second I stop myself.

  ‘I just don’t want you to let what happened in February dictate the rest of your life.’

  I stiffen. Amber never mentions February. It’s an unspoken rule between us. What happened that day was enough to taint the whole month; turn it dark and murky. My eyes fall shut and all of a sudden I’m back in the woods, the cold on my body, tears pouring down my face, puke in my mouth. I open my eyes. My breathing is fast and raggedy.

  ‘Sorry,’ Amber says. ‘I didn’t mean to upset you. Come here.’

  She puts her arms around me. I let her. My breathing begins to return to normal.

  ‘I just want you to be happy, little bro. Move on and that,’ she whispers into my hair.

  ‘I know,’ I say. ‘Just let me do things my way, OK?’

  She sighs. ‘OK.’

  By the time we make it downstairs, Mam is getting ready to leave, a slash of red lipstick across her mouth, lighter in hand.

  ‘Be lucky!’ Spike yells after her.

  She totters down the path with one arm raised, her fingers crossed. For someone so convinced life isn’t fair, she plays an awful lot of bingo.

  We eat dinner on our laps in the lounge while watching repeat episodes of Total Wipeout on the telly. Spike and Tia laugh like drains the whole time. Amber nicks half my chips. She doesn’t mention February again.