Longing for Normal

by Darcy Pattison

  Creak-a-creak creak. The little kids were at it again. Annoying, but better than spitballs on the glass jars.

  Marj frowned. She spoke louder, like louder would make it easier to understand. “We’ll sell the bread. With that money, we’ll buy monkey bars. Swings. Slides and tunnels. Would you like a new playground?”

  Silence.

  “Hurrah!” I called weakly.

  Marj waved her hands overhead: “A new playground! Hurrah!”

  Behind me, another kid yelled, “Hurrah!”

  “Let’s all cheer for a new playground. Ready?” Marj raised her arm, and then dropped it. “Hurrah!”

  A weak cheer dribbled from the crowd.

  “One more time!”

  “Hurrah!” Louder, this time. The kids sensed a reason to pay attention again: a chance to make noise.

  “Hurrah!” Marj called.

  “Hurrah!” Finally, the sound was louder. Still not enthusiastic. Still not real cheering. But noise, anyway.

  While they yelled and called, I thought about the Project. Griff had worried about it, because this was a Pyramid Scheme.

  The Internet explained a Pyramid Scheme just like Marj had described. One person passes on something to a second. Those two pass on to two more, which makes four; those four pass on to four more, which makes eight; and so on, until you get the 512 people participating. Mostly, the Pyramid Scheme was used by shady salesmen. When it worked, it could make lots of money. But it almost always failed. ‘Cause somewhere, someone would fail to pass it on, or fail to sell it to the next person.

  Say, for example, that on the fourth week, half the eight kids didn’t bring the sourdough starter to pass on. Then, instead of having 512 loaves at ten weeks, there would only be 256. On any given week, if even one kid forgot to bring the sourdough starter, it would mess up the final count.

  And then there’s the question of who would buy the bread at an auction. Griff said, “It’s like an old-fashioned pie supper. Wives will ask their husbands to buy their bread. Friends will buy friend’s bread. It’s a community thing.”

  Yes, the Bread Project was a failure just waiting to happen.

  Well, at least Marj had made it through the assembly without any major problems. Just a few more minutes and we’d be done.

  Mr. Benton was back on stage now, trying to quiet the kids. “Time to listen.” After several tries, the noise went back to a slight creak-a-creak.

  He held out a paper bag, “This bag has the names of all the sixth graders, and we’ll start there. The lower grades will get their sourdough starter just a few weeks before Thanksgiving.”

  Marj reached in and pulled out a folded yellow slip of paper. She shook it open. She smoothed it out on the podium. She looked at the paper, looked up at the students, looked down, then up again. “Okay. The first person to receive the sourdough starter is an important person.”

  I held my breath. I had tried to get Marj to pick Toby first. Mrs. Zane would make sure the project got off to a good start. But Marj had insisted on the luck of the draw.

  Marj cleared her throat. “I need this student to come up to the stage. Alli Flynn.”

  Oh, no. Porter’s foster kid. Could it get any worse?

  ALLI

  Sitting there in the auditorium, I yawned. Sleeping at Mr. Porter’s was bad. Stiff bed, scratchy blankets. Mostly, I lay there last night looking at the patterns on the ceiling from the streetlights. Wondering when Ted would let me come home.

  The wooden auditorium chairs weren’t comfortable, either, but I let my eyes close. Resting. Daydreaming. This whole Bread Project thing, it sounded like a disaster. Even I knew that every week some kid would forget to bring back their jar.

  1-2-4-8-16-32-64. It would be the sixth or seventh week before anyone outside sixth grade would get the starter. The last three or four weeks, there would finally be enough jars of starter for the lower grades.

  Idly, I wondered how many jars there would be if you kept going until New Year’s, just five weeks later? Bet we would have to do a similar math problem in some class.

  “–Alli Flynn.”

  Startled, I sat up. Looked around. Elbowed the girl on my right. “What do they want with Alli Flynn?”

  She squinted and stared at my throat, obviously surprised by my rough voice. “That girl is supposed to go up on stage.”

  “Why?”

  “She gets the first jar of sourdough starter.”

  “Oh.” I was stunned. Me?

  Mr. Benton said my name again. “Alli Flynn. Come up, please.”

  He wanted me up there on stage. In front of all these eyes. I was okay talking to people one at a time. But crowds? That was different.

  But I had no choice.

  The girl shrank back, so I could get out to the aisle. Nervous, I stuck my hands in my pockets and let my hair swing down to hide my face. I was too skinny, and this second-hand plaid uniform was so baggy and so long. Miss Porter hadn’t had time to fit it or hem it.

  Crowds. Too many nameless people. I couldn’t tell what they were thinking, hated not knowing the people who looked at me. Wanted to say: Stop staring third-grade-girl with the huge bow in your hair because I don’t even know your name.

  While I walked forward, Mr. Benton came down the steps heading for the fourth grade section. Some kid over there was wailing.

  At last, I reached the stairs. The wooden steps sagged, creaked. And the last step was only half the height of the others. How old was this school building anyway?

  And then I was on stage.

  Appropriate (Latin derivation: a-p-p-r-o-p-r-i-a-t-e.) For the last week, I’d felt like an actress. The real Alli Flynn was back in her familiar bedroom, getting ready to start sixth grade with her friends, practicing spelling bee words with Ted. This Alli Flynn was pure actress, nothing about her was real.

  “Alli Flynn, you’ll be the first person to take home a jar of sourdough starter.” Mrs. Winston held out a jar that was half full of a white liquid. “Will you promise to follow these directions carefully? And next Friday, will you bring back a cup of starter to pass on to the next person?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” My voice quivered, and I could barely hear myself. Oh, bad acting, I thought.

  “Speak up.” Mrs. Winston gave me a small smile of encouragement. “You’re sure. You’ll bring it back next week?”

  I leaned into the microphone and said loudly, dramatically, “Why, yes, ma’am, I promise.”

  At that, Mrs. Winston’s eyebrows went up, and I thought she might smile at me. But she just whispered that I could go and sit down now. I clutched the jar to my chest. I slid my feet along, shuffling, trying not to echo as I crossed the stage. Careful of the odd-height step, I stopped at the top. When I started down, though, my heel caught on the hem of my too-long uniform.

  I lurched forward. Then jerked back, losing my balance. Heart thumping, arms waving.

  Oh! The bread jar flew upward. Kindergartners gasped. I reached for the jar, then fought to keep my balance and not fall off the steps. There! I touched the jar, palms flat. It steadied in my hand. But stretching, reaching, my balance tipped again. And so did the jar.

  It was like bad juggling: the jar bobbled up, then down, glittering in the stage lights.

  I saw that boy, Eliot, diving over little kids, stretched out, reaching.

  Then it hit; the jar hit the auditorium floor and shattered. Sprayed the front row with sourdough starter. I barely saw that just before I landed, sprawling down three steps headfirst.

  “Oh! Oh! Oh!” Mrs. Winston wailed into the microphone.

  I sagged, afraid I was hurt bad. But I didn’t feel pain anywhere, so I pushed up and tried to sit on a step.

  For a long minute, my eyes registered the activity around me, but I felt nothing: A dark-haired kindergarten boy jumped around and slapped at the sourdough on his shirt, screaming. Eliot was suddenly there, holding the kid, keeping him from hurting himself. A teacher pointed at me, and I looked down. My right kne
e bled, a scrape or a cut. Three other teachers corralled the whining kids, keeping them away from broken glass. A teacher from the back of the room–she had short, spiky hair–sprinted down the aisle, calling for the janitor. Finally, Mr. Benton pushed aside some jars, put a hand on the edge of the stage and jumped up. Took the microphone away from Mrs. Winston, who was still wailing.

  With a quiet voice, he took control, organizing teachers and calming students.

  I looked down at the broken glass. At the splatter of thin dough. My face moved, tried to smile at how ironic this was. It wasn’t the way they wanted, but the Bread Project was already spreading.

  A man with a bushy mustache, the janitor I guessed, pushed a yellow mop bucket in front of him and trundled down the center aisle and started cleaning up the glass and the mess. Six or seven younger kids marched away to wash sourdough starter off their clothes. Some were probably going to the nurse’s office, too, for Band-Aids. I was still frozen, stunned at the chaos.

  Mrs. Winston came beside me, gently offering me a hand and pulling me up. She smiled and nodded and murmured, “That’s a shame.”

  At her kindness, tears filled my eyes. I had ruined everything; it was my fault. Just like with Mandy. Six weeks ago, Mandy and I were getting ready to go to the swimming pool. I was chattering on Mandy’s cell phone to a friend, and I tossed my hot pink beach towel over my shoulder.

  “Don’t drag your towel on the ground,” Mandy said automatically.

  I didn’t even hear her. Or didn’t listen. Only later, when I replayed the scene in my mind did I remember those words. At the time, though, I just dashed down the steps toward the car.

  Except Mandy was following right behind me and stepped on the towel.

  It was my fault.

  She fell down the steps and lay there in her black swim suit, with the edge of the pink towel still under the flip-flops on her feet, and she was holding the ball of her stomach, moaning, and it was my fault, and we still don’t know if the baby will be okay or not.

  I did the right things after that. I called 911–the cell phone was in my hands. I called Ted. I sat quiet at the hospital. I sat quiet in the car. I sat quiet all that night. The doctor said the baby–a girl, it was a girl!–seemed to be okay for now, but they would have to wait a couple weeks to know for sure.

  I helped with the cooking and cleaning that next week, until Mandy’s mom came. I did things right.

  But it was my fault. Then and now.

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to do it.” I tried to stand and rush down the steps and hide in the crowd. But Mrs. Winston used her thumbs to wipe away my tears. She didn’t see that my knee was bleeding. She just murmured, “You okay?”

  At my nod, she pulled me up and kept hold of my hand and pulled me back to the microphone. Mr. Benton stepped aside and let Mrs. Winston take the mike. She looked around at the audience and cleared her throat.

  The room quieted. Except for the kindergartners at the front squeaking their chairs.

  I stood there, miserable. Looking down at my shoes. Would they send me to a different school?

  Mrs. Winston laid a hand on my shoulder and spoke to the crowd. “This was just an accident, an unfortunate accident.”

  I was ready to apologize, but–I didn’t understand–she wasn’t giving me the microphone, wasn’t letting me say, I’m sorry.

  She cleared her throat. “It’s always difficult when you plan something and then it starts with an accident. But this time, it’s easy to fix. This evening, I’ll make sure Alli Flynn gets another jar of starter.”

  Wait. I looked up at her face. She was giving me another jar of starter? After that mess? She was giving me another chance?

  The auditorium was silent.

  “New playground equipment!” Mrs. Winston was fake-cheerful. “Monkey bars and swings! Slides and tunnels!”

  Silence.

  Mrs. Winston glanced over at me, then suddenly bent to look at my knee. “Oh, let’s get you to the school nurse.”

  Mr. Benton took over the microphone again while Mrs. Winston held my arm and hustled me down the steps and up the aisle and through the maze of hallways to the nurse’s office. All the while, I marveled: She didn’t blame me. Just an accident, she said.

  At that moment, I would have done anything for Mrs. Winston.

  ELIOT

  Off and on the rest of the day, I watched that girl, Alli Flynn. She was like a sleepwalker. In Mr. Crum’s pre-algebra class, she ignored everything that was happening. Once, Mr. Crum called on her, but she just yawned and said, “I don’t know.”

  I flinched at her voice. At the party the night before, she had barely said five words, but even then I noticed her rough voice. It was like a washing machine that was off balance, sort of liquidy and thumpy and harsh at the same time.

  I didn’t want to listen to that voice.

  But I had to talk to her about the Bread Project and get her straightened out. How do you talk to a girl, though, without getting teased?

  The bell rang and I escaped Crum’s class and raced to World History, and I didn’t see Alli again until after lunch when I raced into Physical Science just under the bell and stopped cold.

  What was that smell? I pinched my nose and whirled to the teacher, “Sulfur?”

  Miss Garrett had short, spiky hair and wore khaki trousers, but still looked more dressed up than the older teachers. They all wore the school T-shirt with faded jeans.

  “Yes,” she said, “We’re doing an experiment today.”

  Now Miss Garrett’s voice, it was like a small, brass bell, full of good cheer.

  I stumbled away from the smell, toward the back. But the only open seat was behind Alli. She was in the front seat, the row beside the door, up against the wall. Maybe I’d get a chance during class to talk to her.

  “Hey,” Alli said, as I passed her, “Watch it!”

  I hadn’t meant to hit her with my backpack, but she’d never believe that. I slouched into the seat and let my backpack plunk onto the floor. As expected, Alli glared at me. Irritating voice, irritating girl.

  I liked listening to Miss Garret’s bell-voice. She told us about going to college and why she loved science, using the words, “gung-ho” about five times. Then she talked about where she had traveled that summer and how she had just gotten engaged. “We’ll get married at Christmas, so I won’t miss any days with you. In January, my new name will be Mrs. Shane Baxter.”

  I turned ninety degrees, putting my back to the wall and sticking my knees into the aisle, so I could see the rest of the class. The girls had sloppy smiles at the news of a romance. The guys were looking out the window or at something on their desks. Me, I was happy that all this chatter kept us from doing that demo lab with sulfur. Maybe she would be easy to get off topic all the time, and we wouldn’t have to work very hard in science this year.

  Finally, Miss Garrett called roll and made each person stand and tell one scientific fact they found hard to believe. “It will help me get to know each of you better,” she said.

  We groaned, but Miss Garrett insisted.

  Marissa Blue said, “I can’t believe men really walked on the moon.”

  That was good for a five-minute off-the-topic conversation. But finally, Miss Garrett moved on.

  Alli stood up and smoothed down her uniform. Too bad she couldn’t smooth out her rough voice. “I can’t believe,” she croaked, “that a person’s hand has 1500 bacteria on every square centimeter. I read that in the newspaper this morning.”

  I shivered. And remembered. Each of my hands carried millions of bacteria. Millions.

  Actually–billions.

  It had been three years since I’d felt like this.

  I wiped my hands down my pants. That made them feel even dirtier. I shivered again, harder this time, until I had to clench my fists to make them stop shaking. I closed my eyes and took deep breaths. I hadn’t taken meds for panic for over a year now. Was it coming back?

  Miss Garrett
suddenly said, “Alli, is your knee bleeding?”

  I opened my eyes. Alli was bent over looking at the knee that had been cut that morning. Blood had soaked through the bandage.

  “Go the nurse’s office and ask her to change that.” Miss Garrett held out a hall pass.

  “Don’t know how to get there,” Alli said. “It’s my first week.”

  “Oh, you’re new this year.” Miss Garrett looked at me. “What’s your name?”

  “Eliot Winston.”

  “You know where the nurse’s office is?”

  Around us, the room went suddenly still. Miss Garrett’s head came up, and she scanned the room to see what was wrong. She had no idea.

  Brad Garcia, from the back of the room, said, “Miss Garrett, you’re new here, so you don’t know–”

  But I cut him off. “It’s okay. I have to go there sometime. It’s okay.”

  And before anyone else could speak, I stood, took the hall pass from Miss Garrett’s hand and stalked out, not looking back to see if Alli was following or not, walking numbly toward the school nurse’s office, like I’d done a jillion times in the last four years at this school. Only difference? Griff, my Dad, he wouldn’t be there.

  

  Alli jogged a couple steps to catch up with me, then matched my pace. “So glad to be out of there,” she said. “That smell. Awful! You think science will smell that bad every day?”

  “Your knee isn’t bothering you much,” I muttered.

  “Nope. Wasn’t complaining. But a good excuse to get out of there.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Hey, I’m excited about the Bread Project. That lady, she’s your mom, right? She was real nice to me. I’ll try to do everything right.”

  “What?” I needed my privacy. Never mind that bet with Toby. I needed this girl to be unreliable, to let the Bread Project die a natural death. Instead, she sounded very sincere. I had to convince her to kill off the sourdough starter and never pass it on.

  But we were already at the doorway of the nurse’s office. The new nurse had a long ponytail and looked young like Miss Garrett. A brass sign on her desk read, “Miss Clay, N.C.S.N.”