chapter 7
I have to stop scratching my neck or I’ll never be able to pull my hair up for the wedding.
And the wedding’s official now that my parents know. There were happy tears in the mashed potatoes tonight. And hugs. I imagine there will be plenty more, too, before their Christmas wedding. Holy moly, that’s quick. They’ve done everything else slowly. Why do they have to do this so fast?
I don’t know if there’s time for my neck to heal.
And . . . I’ll need to be happy.
I’m fresh out of happy.
The air vent’s slivers of darkness reel me in; my one way to cope that doesn’t involve digging at my neck. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. I am up to nineteen before I blink and ruin the count. I start again because sleep hates me. Again and again until my brain gives in and allows the numbers to take me to dreamland.
In dreamland there’s a pool.
Not our pool, because there’s no wooden fence around the patio, but it looks like ours. A bunch of guys are there, sitting on the edge, swinging their feet and looking lazy, and kicking up little splashes of water.
“Hey. Okay. Hey. Okay. Hey. Okay,” they chant. Automated and eerie, like the cry of a bobcat. I want to rip at the scabs on my neck.
The guys all have on black goggles that mask their faces. One minute they’re all the same guy, but the next minute each individual face is different, and I know them: Dad; Collie; Dane Winters; Bodee; two boys from homeroom I’ve known since preschool; Matt from church; Craig; Hayden from our lunch table; and the band director, who has more hair on his chest than a shedding dog. There’s Liz’s on-again, off-again boyfriend, Ray, and then a guy I don’t know whose face is painted up like Captain America. I’m pretty sure there are more, but they’re too blurry to identify.
The painted-up guy must be Captain Lyric. I stare at him because I have to know who he is. But he shimmers in and out of focus until his face is like all the rest.
“Alexi. Alexi. Alexi.” My name on their lips is hypnotic.
“I’m lonely,” they say together. Now they’re splashing a fountain of big fat drops of water to the center of the pool. “We’re lonely. Lonely. All so lonely.”
The guys on the right side speak. “You understand lonely.”
I can’t wake my brain enough to recognize I’m dreaming. And I’m paralyzed with fear. And mute.
Then it’s not like a dream anymore. I know this pool. Know these guys.
And one of them knows me too well.
My eyes lock on his. I try to scream Stop. It’s more of a wheeze than a word.
Everything is wrong. A hand covers my mouth, but it’s not mine. I don’t have any hands. Or arms. This mutant isn’t me, but it is.
The guys on the left side of the pool say, “She always understands.”
“She didn’t understand me,” Dane says.
“Or me,” Collie says.
“Or me,” Matt from church says.
Another kick-splash. “But she won’t tell,” they all say.
“She never tells,” Bodee says.
“And we’re practically family,” Craig says. “Families know everything.”
I want to scream Families don’t know everything, but I can’t.
“I don’t know anything,” my dad says.
“He doesn’t know anything,” the rest of them say as laughter sparks around the pool.
“It all happened on his patio,” Hayden says. “But he doesn’t know anything.”
It’s like a memorized script as the rest of them chime in. But then something changes. Their hands reach toward my face before I can turn away. Each one claws at a side of my mouth. They jerk, and I scream and taste the pillow as my skin rips, and tears spurt from my eyes at the pain.
And then I’m awake. Sweating and shivering and dry-mouthed, the taste of blood on my tongue.
Before my alarm. And I don’t want to think about the dream.
I sleepwalk through the day until fourth period.
Heather’s in a chatty mood. “We were nice to Bodee in the car,” she says as if they deserve an award.
“You were,” I agree, though I barely remember the ride to school.
“So, tell me. What do y’all do at night?”
“Do? Bodee and me? We don’t do anything.” My voice rises, and I check to see if Mrs. Tindell notices, but she’s buried her nose in a novel. “It’s not like we’re the only ones there. Last night we sat at the table with the fam for two whole hours while Kayla and Craig talked wedding details.”
“You don’t seem super excited for them. Jeez, if my sister was marrying a guy like Craig, you know, like with a job and no kids or jail time, I’d be flipping. But Hallie’s got this thing for the gutter, so I doubt that’s gonna happen.”
“Sorry I’m not all rose petals and ‘Canon in D.’ I slept like crap last night. My head feels like it got run over by a tractor.” Not a lie. “And anyway, they’ve been together so long that it’s not like this was big news. Sort of like Collie saying he likes your boobs. Heard it a million times.”
Heather rolls her eyes. “He doesn’t say that. Not a million times.”
“Kidding,” I say, knowing Collie mentioned Heather’s boobs to me only once. And it was after he’d had a couple of beers.
“He is sort of horny,” she admits.
“I don’t want to hear this,” I say.
Heather’s voice is unusually whiny as she says, “You said I could talk to you about him.”
“Not today. I’m too exhausted to discuss your sex life.”
“Yeah, my nonexistent sex life. Do you think he’s getting it somewhere else?”
I fold my head into the crook of my arm, a disappearing technique I’ve learned from watching Bodee. “Not today, Heather.”
“Fine. Sit over there and brood.”
“I’m not brooding. I’m thinking. You should try it.” I don’t lift my head.
“You don’t have to be pissy. Are you too tired for Captain Lyric?”
“No.” I show her the desk.
After yesterday’s lines are the new ones I wrote today before Heather arrived in class.
Nothing is sure but you
Nothing is safe but you
Nothing’s left in this world
Only you
“Great. A power ballad.”
“Hush. I’m just thinking about the wedding,” I say, because I know what lines come next. Promise me a wedding day. That you’ll stay—forever. And ever. Only you. Will the Captain write them as my end-of-the-week lyrics?
“You’re lucky Mr. Wixon likes you,” Heather says.
“I made a deal with him,” I say, knowing that our old custodian, Mr. Wixon, may wear overalls to work, but he’s a starry-eyed man at heart.
“Of course you did.”
“We write in pencil, and we erase them on Friday. He Cloroxes the desks over the weekend. We’re not hurting anything,” I say.
Heather smiles. “Hey! Does he know who else writes them?”
“I didn’t ask. I’m not ready to ruin this.”
“You’re so weird. I can’t believe the suspense isn’t killing you,” she says, shaking her head.
I’m operating under the assumption that I am as much of an enigma to him as he is to me. It’s romantic (and tragically stupid?), but this is the perfect way to reveal myself. Everybody at Rickman has heard by now that Kayla and Craig changed their status to Engaged. If the Captain is half-awake, he’ll know. And make the leap that it’s just logical for Kayla’s little sister to write lyrics about a wedding. Right?
Maybe I should erase this clue. This constant ping-pong between wanting to know him and wanting to keep it all on the desk, safe and distant, bangs around in my head.
I leave the lyrics. Channeling brave. Looking forward instead of behind.
“You should be thinking about the homecoming dance,” Heather says. “He’s the person you should ask. Just leave him a little question out to the s
ide of the last lyric.”
“I am not asking him.” But dang, the temptation . . . it’s intoxicating. And paralyzing.
“Well, then, what would you say to Hayden if he asked you?”
“No. And he hasn’t. Asked.”
“Well.” Heather chews her bottom lip. “Maybe we talked about it. And maybe I told him that you liked him.”
“Heather.”
“Lex, I knew you’d never ask Captain Lyric, so something had to be done. The dance is next week,” she says.
Mrs. Tindell is up and on the roam. Heather looks expectantly at me, and I slide the completed worksheet from my folder.
“Finished already?” Mrs. Tindell asks when she reaches us.
“Yes, ma’am.”
Satisfied, she circulates to the next group, and I exhale.
“I know you don’t already have a date,” Heather whispers, while keeping an eye on Mrs. Tindell’s retreating back.
“No.” The homecoming football game and the dance afterward is a big deal. But I can go group stag. Lots of girls go together and dance way more than if they have dates. But if I want to go with Heather and Liz, I have to have a boy who is picture-ific and just mine.
I do want to be with them.
And I don’t.
Being with Heather and Collie on a date is like watching low-grade porn with my mom in the room. Heavy breathing. Hands in the places they shouldn’t be in public. Awkward.
Seeing them makes me remember . . . what I’m trying to forget.
Liz and Ray are the opposite. They’re together because they believe they’re called to be together. Until they don’t feel called anymore. So then they break up . . . until they’re called again. What the hell? They treat each other like a lion and an antelope bungee-corded together.
Maybe they’re lonely and too complacent to find someone else.
Heather raises a brow. I know what her question is before she asks. “No, I’m not going to the dance with Bodee,” I say.
“I was afraid that might be part of being nice to him,” she says.
“Not hardly.” The truth is I would go to the dance with Bodee. And I wouldn’t go just to be nice. But that’s too close. Too soon. Right now we’re both yard sales of emotions. A penny for pain. A dime for bitterness. A quarter for grief. A dollar for silence. It binds us together, but I don’t want him to pay the price for the parts of me that are used and broken. And that’s what the dance would be.
Besides, we live together. In the same house.
“That’s a relief. Hayden really likes you.”
“Hayden doesn’t know me,” I say.
Heather copies the last section of my worksheet and says, “He will after homecoming. Seriously, Lex, he’s a good guy.”
“That’s what Craig says too,” I say. According to Craig, there are only a few guys on the football team I’m allowed to date. Hayden’s one of them. Ever-protective, opinionated, determined-to-have-his-way Mr. Tanner. I want to tell him to shut up and leave me alone. I’m a big girl, and I can choose my own dates, even if they aren’t on his list. But he’d warn Kayla if I wanted to date some bad seed. And she’d tell Mom and Dad.
What does bad even mean anymore? Everyone is bad in some way. Except for Bodee.
“Well, there you go. If Craig believes it, then it’s true,” she says. “I think Hayden even goes to some church like you and Liz.”
“Well, gosh, Heather, now you’ve convinced me.” I flash fake googly-eyes at her. “Any guy who goes to church is bound to be Mr. Perfect.”
“Oh, you know what I mean. He’s got, like, a good soul or something, I think. And he’ll ask you himself if you want.”
“Wow. Thank you, date doctor.”
I want to tell her I don’t need her pity hookups, but she knows I won’t take the initiative to flirt enough to snag a date. Her efforts mean I matter to her, and that’s kind of nice, so it’s only fair that I show her some appreciation. And the benefit of going to homecoming with a football player is that you barely see them until the dance. Basically, I’ll be in the stands all night with Heather and Liz (and Ray). It’s doable.
“I’m sure I’m going to regret this, but why not? Tell him I’ll go if he asks,” I say.
The pent-up squeal Heather lets out just as the bell rings is loud enough for Alaskan wolves to hear. And we’re a long way from Alaska. “Perfect. See you at the table,” she says, stacking her books and grabbing her purse. She’s clearly trying to leave before I can change my mind.
I pick up our completed worksheets and speak to her empty desk. “No problem, I’ll just turn this in for you.”
Until tomorrow, Captain Lyric.
The hallway is crowded enough to give Times Square some competition. Hot and thankful for a lunch break, I put my shoulders down like a linebacker and barrel toward my locker. Next year when I’m a senior, the waters will part and I’ll walk like a queen of the high school empire, but for now, I feel like a freshman. In the way.
Bodee’s leaning against his locker, so I wave at him from down the hall. He’s not the waving kind, but he gives me a lime-green hair toss.
I remember that he’s usually not at his locker during this break.
“Got a question,” he says as I reach him.
God, I hope it’s about laundry or toothbrushes or even new boxers. Please don’t ask me to go back to the crime scene again after school. “Sure. Let me dump my books,” I say, spinning the combination on my locker.
There’s a tap on my shoulder.
“Hang on, Bodee,” I say.
“Uh, Alexi.”
The tapper is not Bodee. I know this without turning around, because Bodee’s voice isn’t that deep. Three books fall out of my locker as I cram my bag inside. Bodee squats beside me and helps me stack the books.
“An admirer,” he murmurs.
An admirer who didn’t help pick up my books. I slam my locker door and turn around.
Hayden: Collie’s friend. One of Craig’s football players. Sits at the lunch table. Deep voice. Dated Janna Fields all last year. And according to Heather, goes to some church. That’s all I know beyond the obvious. He’s picture-ific.
And probably here to ask me to homecoming.
Heather has wasted no time.
“Uh, Alexi,” he says again now that he has my attention. “I was talking to Heather about the dance.”
“Yeah, she told me in psych,” I say, wishing I had something to fiddle with. Where do you put your hands when a guy asks you out?
“Well, I was wondering if you’d like to go with me.”
“Um, okay. Yes, that would be nice,” I say. Hayden may or may not be all the things Heather says, but add direct to the list. He’s clearly no fan of chitchat or the get-to-know-you crap. He asked what he wanted; well, what Heather wanted, and I gave it to him. Done.
“Cool. Guess I’ll see you at lunch then,” he says.
“Yep.”
He walks away with a satisfied look on his face. No details about plans or times. Not even an exchange of numbers. He’ll see me at lunch; and this might be easier than I thought. Hayden strikes me as a guy who won’t think about me again until ten p.m. next Friday night. That’s fine by me. Because I won’t think about him, either.
Except to worry.
The warning bell rings, and I turn back to Bodee. Heat stings my cheeks, because he’s wearing my whole exchange with Hayden on his face. I’ve never seen him at a dance or at any after-school event, but something in his eyes suggests he might have had plans for this one.
“What’d you wanna ask?” I say.
“Nothing important,” he says, and walks down the hallway away from the cafeteria. Why does that make me feel like he’s just lost his mother all over again?
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
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chapter 8
BODEE is silent for the nex
t four days.
He speaks only when he has to and says only what is necessary. At the store when we buy a few things. At the dinner table or in the house with my parents. But in the car with Heather and Liz, he says nothing at all. Even at church, which is a mandatory outing at Littrell-topia. Bodee has a way of making his silence feel ordinary, like it’s not a weapon, so I can’t tell if he’s mad at me or if he just has nothing to say.
Heather and Liz double-date the weekend away while I do homework in the closet and make new playlists for the week. Mostly grunge, but ironically, a whole list of classical songs, too. The genres don’t usually make a good mix, but my brain needs both the ache and the peace.
Classical stuff makes me miss being in band. When I turned in my saxophone at the beginning of the year, my mom was the only one who argued.
“Mom, I’m not going to Juilliard,” I said, and then added some excuse of how I needed more time for homework with my AP class load. Total bullcrap. School’s easy and I love music, but I can’t spend that many hours in marching band. Too near the football field.
“Your call,” Mom said, but I know it worried her for me to give up something I’d enjoyed doing for so long.
All weekend, I don’t scratch my neck. Not once.
But I don’t sleep. And that makes me look like hell. In fact, that Monday morning before Bodee and I leave for school, my mom asks, “Lex, you feeling okay?”
“Yeah. I’m not sleeping so well,” I say. Better the truth on this one, since I have purple-as-a-plum circles under my eyes. She gives me a Mom look and tries for casual in her voice.
“Why, do you think?” She hands me and then Bodee a hot piece of toast.
“A lot on my mind, I guess. The wedding. Not practicing driving enough. The dance this weekend. You know, stuff.” I butter the toast and do a quick check of Bodee’s expression. It’s unreadable.
“Well”—Mom pats my cheek—“maybe you and I need some time away from the house. We could do some shopping in Nashville. I know you’re borrowing one of Kayla’s fancy outfits for homecoming, but we could maybe take some girl time. What do you think? Spoil ourselves a little before we have to get so busy with the wedding and the holidays.”
Faking Normal Page 6
