Faking Normal

by Courtney C. Stevens

  “Sure,” I say. Mom probably thinks I’m fretting over the changes in our household. Bodee moving in; Kayla moving out.

  “Are you going to the dance this weekend, Bodee?” Mom asks.

  “No, ma’am.”

  “’Cause you can, you know. John and I want you to feel free to do whatever you like, to go out some or have friends in. Alexi’s borrowing Kayla’s stuff; I’m sure Craig wouldn’t mind if you borrowed something too. Y’all are about the same size.”

  Are they? I’ve never thought of Bodee as anywhere near Craig’s size, but now that Mom says it, I see they’re closer than I thought. I figured Craig’s khakis were belted on Bodee pretty good at the funeral, but maybe not.

  “Thank you, ma’am, but I don’t plan to go.”

  “Shame. I’m sure it’ll be a lot of fun. John and I had so much fun at those dances when we were at Rickman. But oh, that was a million years ago now. Things have probably changed.”

  “Yeah, Mom, like dinosaurs no longer roam the earth,” I say, and see her grin before heading to the door. “Come on, Bodee, there’s Heather pulling in.”

  “Have a good day,” Mom says.

  Before I close the door behind us, I know from the look on Mom’s face that she’s happily reliving Rickman High School homecoming, circa the 1980s or something.

  “Please. Shoot me if that’s ever me,” I say to Bodee on the way to the Malibu.

  “I thought you liked dances,” he says.

  “Hell, no.” I point to the front seat and mouth. “I’m only going because of them.”

  Bodee smiles for the first time in days.

  The day-to-day lines added to my desk are the only other highlights during the rest of my week.

  Monday:

  I’d like to hold you in the mountains

  LIKE TO KISS YOU BY THE SEA

  Tuesday:

  Take you far, far from here

  TO A PLACE WHERE YOU FEEL FREE

  Wednesday:

  ’Cause we are safe

  WE ARE TRUE

  Thursday:

  We are going to make it through

  CRASHING WORLDS, FALLING STARS

  Friday:

  Breaking all of who we are

  I WANT INFINITY WITH YOU

  “This week’s weirder than usual,” Heather says as she leans over and peers at my desk on Friday. “Y’all didn’t say much.”

  “I think we said more than normal.”

  Heather twists her braid into a bun and sticks my yellow #2 through the middle. “What will Hayden think when he figures out you’re in love with some random guy who writes on your desk?”

  “He won’t care.” I pack my books away. “Not unless it’s about football. And I’m not in love.”

  “You’re in somethin’ with him. Like you’re in somethin’ with Bodee. You know we could hear y’all whispering when you got in the car this morning.”

  I roll my eyes. “Forget it, Heather. Captain Lyric’s a figment, and you can’t be in love with a figment. He exists in this room only.”

  “So? I’ve been in love with that guy on MTV since seventh grade, and he only exists on TV. Captain Lyric’s a whole lot closer than that.” Heather points at the door of our classroom. “He’s out there somewhere.”

  “But I don’t know who he is.” This is the real issue. That I could fall in love with this guy. If I knew who he was.

  But all I know about him are the words he chooses from someone else’s songs. If it’s a love story, it’s a short one. “And for your information,” I add, “Bodee and I were talking about him not going to the dance. Again, let’s review: he lives In. My. House. We are not in love. We aren’t anything.”

  “Huh. That’s too bad, ’cause I think he’s growing on me.”

  “You date him then.” I regret saying this immediately. Bodee’s not a pawn, and he’s not mine to give away. Of course, Heather’s attached at the hip to Collie, and she’s not interested in Bodee. But the thought that she could be gives me the same feeling I have after I find a hair in my nachos.

  Heather grins; she’s on the verge of letting go with a hyena laugh. We’re in class, so she jams a fist in front of her mouth and crosses her eyes. It doesn’t help. We’re still loud.

  “Ms. Littrell, may I please see you at my desk?” Mrs. Tindell asks from the front of the room.

  Uh-oh.

  Everyone looks up. I’m like one of Mom’s second graders as I walk the aisle to our teacher’s desk. The rest of the class awaits my punishment.

  Mrs. Tindell’s voice is so quiet that no one else can hear her. “I know you’ve already finished your work. Would you mind returning these books to the library for me?”

  “Of course not.” Sigh of relief. I reach for the books, but she touches my hand.

  “So you know, Ms. Littrell. I find this preferable to telling you and Ms. Jackson to . . . keep your traps shut . . . again . . . so everyone else can work. Understand?”

  I’d find it preferable if she’d actually teach us something, but I say, “Yes, ma’am. Uh, thank you.” I take the books from Mrs. Tindell and leave the classroom with everyone staring holes in my back.

  The library is on the other side of the school. By the time I get there and leave the books in the return bin, the bell rings. My stuff is still in psych, but it’s hard to be late to lunch. The lines are so long.

  On my way down the hallway, someone slides into step with me.

  “Hey, Alexi,” Hayden says. “You ready for tonight?”

  He’s wearing the mandatory Friday home-game khakis and red jersey, and it’s an understatement to say he looks nice. Some high school guys are like men already. Hayden and Collie both are. Maybe it’s their chiseled faces and muscular football bodies, but it’s intimidating.

  “It’ll be fun,” I say, trying to drum up some enthusiasm.

  “I’m on the homecoming court. Janna’s escort. Just wanted to say sorry about that.” He huffs and then stops short. “That’s not gonna ruin your night or anything, right? I’m not big on drama.”

  I realize I could get dropped right now if I act pissed, but I say, “Me either. No big deal.”

  “Thanks. Just wait with Heather outside the locker room. Collie and I’ll be out after we shower.”

  “Um, I know this is stupid, but do you mind meeting my parents first? They don’t like me riding in cars with guys they don’t know.” Is this drama? I hope not.

  Hayden shrugs like he’s heard this before. Maybe Janna’s parents wanted to shake his hand too, back when they first started going out. “Sure,” he says. “Lot of parents are like that in Rickman. Pretty crazy, if you ask me. Even a psycho can act normal long enough to do a meet-and-greet.” He grins. “I mean, I could be some whacked-out serial killer or rapist, and they’d never know from a handshake. Why even bother?”

  I check the ground for blood, because I’m pretty sure mine just drained right out of my face and fell straight down my body.

  His big football hands shake my shoulders. “Alexi, you know I’m no serial killer or rapist. God, I’ll meet your parents. I was just saying . . .”

  “I know you’re not,” I assure him as I slide my shoulders away from him and think this is the kind of drama that will have me dateless in the blink of an eye. “But somebody did assault a girl over the summer. So you probably shouldn’t joke about it.”

  The words are out of my mouth before I can stop them. They’re vague, but it’s the first time I’ve said . . . anything like that. Why Hayden? Why now? Maybe because he doesn’t matter. We’ll have homecoming, and then we’ll have nothing. He’ll probably take Janna back by this time next week.

  “Dang. Where’d you hear about an assault?”

  Thinking fast, I say, “The bathroom.”

  Hayden exhales. “Probably no truth to it. Some girl went all the way with a dude and then felt bad about it. Happens to guys all the time, and it makes me furious. Once you’re labeled a ‘rapist’”—he curls his fing
ers up to air-quote the word—“you’re always a rapist.” Another indignant sigh. He gives the impression it’s on behalf of the entire football team this time.

  There’s a nuclear explosion mushrooming inside my head. Fried neurons floating in a vacuum where my brain is supposed to be. The urge to scurry out of his sight like a cockroach is overpowering. “Yeah, um, that’s probably it. See you tonight.”

  I duck into the closest bathroom. Three girls stand at the mirror reapplying makeup—probably freshmen, since I don’t recognize them. They’re talking about the huge number of calories in school food. I make it to a stall at the end and forgo any thought of sanitary hygiene. Collapsing on the open toilet seat, I sob quietly into my hands.

  I am one of those girls Hayden has such contempt for, the ones he thinks are so unfair when they cry “rape.”

  Because I didn’t try to stop him.

  He had no indication, absolutely nothing from me that he wasn’t doing what I wanted.

  Except for the tears. They rolled from my eyes and wet my hair and ran into my ears.

  But he never looked at my face. I know because I never blinked. I can’t count the slits in the vent without blinking, but that night it was as if my eyelids were wired open. I saw everything. Everything. His eyes were closed when it started, when he reached for me for comfort, and I froze. When he kissed me and I stayed silent. And his eyes were closed while he worked. Because he didn’t want to remember I wasn’t his girlfriend. He didn’t want to realize he was doing to me the things he wanted to do with her.

  The end-of-lunch bell rings. I don’t move. Even as the bathroom door revolves for girls in need of a pee or a mirror. They hurry in, they hurry out, and no one sees me hiding in the stall.

  Bells ring at the beginning and end of fifth period. Technically, I am cutting class. But I simply cannot move.

  I hear the bells ring at the start of sixth period and again at the end of sixth period. I still don’t move.

  Packs of girls end their day in the bathroom. Little snippets of conversation drift under the stall door. Kate Applebee is the favorite for homecoming queen. (I agree.) The Spanish II teacher, Mr. Moore, is gay. (I agree.) Dane Winters has the best ass in the class. (I agree.) The dance will be ballin’. (I don’t care.) I want to leave. And I should call out that I’m here and can hear everything they say.

  But I can’t.

  Eventually, the girls are gone. And so is the noise in the hallway.

  I have been crouched here with tears running down my cheeks for two and a half hours. The phone in my back pocket vibrates with four messages from Heather and three from Liz. They have my purse and my psych book. They’re waiting. They’re at the car. Still waiting. Where am I?

  They’re not happy. Where am I?

  It is the need to lie that wakes me up and gives me the courage to move. I text Heather and Liz.

  Don’t wait. Sorry. Talking to a teacher about SAT. See you in dresses.

  If my fingers can move, so can the rest of my body. I stand up. My legs surprise me by walking out of the stall. Slow, secret tears don’t mess with your eyes or ruin makeup the way a gully-washing cry-fest does, so I’m able to dab my face with a paper towel and look mostly normal.

  Faking normal is a skill I learned seventy-seven days ago, but tonight it’s going to require everything I have.

  UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

  HarperCollins Publishers

  ..................................................................

  chapter 9

  THERE’S one lone figure slouched against the long brick planter outside the front doors of the school. He has green hair, and he looks up as I push open the doors and walk outside.

  “Bodee, you didn’t have to wait,” I say. The empty parking lot looks like a concrete desert. It is extra hot for October.

  “Yes, I did.”

  I open my mouth to tell him I was talking to a teacher about the SAT, but then I don’t say the words.

  “Rough day.” Bodee isn’t asking; he’s stating instinctively what he seems to know about me.

  “Yeah,” I say. There is a silent consensus to head home, so he joins me and we walk toward the street together.

  “Thanks for not making something up,” he says.

  “I guess you’d know if I did,” I say.

  “You don’t want to talk about it.”

  Again, he’s stating a fact. He’s opening a door, but he already knows I won’t walk through. The power of Bodee is in the way he reads me, sees through me, and then understands the truth behind the facade. He’s the guy who can walk straight through the House of Mirrors on the first try. It’s almost annoying. No one should ride tragedy like a pro surfer while I drown.

  “Not in the mood to talk,” I say. Talking will lead to more crying, and more crying will lead to puffy eyes, and puffy eyes will lead to questions from people who aren’t as undemanding as Bodee.

  “It’s Hayden,” he says.

  “No, not Hayden.” I sigh. “Something Hayden said.”

  “A man is partially made up of his words,” Bodee says. After that, we just walk.

  Then Bodee boots an acorn, sending it spinning into the grass. We keep walking, and he kicks at the stub of a pencil from someone’s backpack. And then he’s shuffling his feet left and right. Anything on the sidewalk has to go: more acorns, scattered rocks from a driveway, and candy wrappers and cigarette butts. Trash left by a horde of students when the school day ends. I join in, and together we clean the sidewalk with our emotions.

  When the stretch ahead of us is clear, when there’s nothing left to kick, Bodee speaks.

  “Mom gave me ten dollars before . . . um, you know.” He stops and faces me. “I could go to the dance tonight if you . . . if it’ll help.”

  Dull knitting needles. A dozen of them to the heart. “Oh, Bodee,” I say.

  I might sob right here and not worry about the puffy eyes. How does it happen that a boy I hardly know has become the only person in the world I trust? Decide fast, Lex. Do I ask him to spend the ten dollars? The little money he has (that his dead mother gave him) for a dance where he’ll stand in a corner just to make sure I’m okay? Or do I tell him to keep it and reject one of the sweetest things anyone has ever offered me?

  “I won’t interrupt your date,” he adds.

  “I know.” I have to accept his offer, but I don’t know if it’s for him or for me. “Yes, please. Come to the dance.”

  I want him to hold my hand, and magically he does. Not boyfriend style, and only for a squeeze. But long enough that a tiny seed of hope grows inside me.

  “If you come, you have to dance with me,” I say. It’s only fair. His ten dollars more than earns him one dance.

  “What about Hayden? Will he know I’m not trying to date you?”

  “I’ll explain.”

  Bodee knows I’m not explaining anything to Hayden. He knows this means I will lie, but he nods.

  “I haven’t danced with anyone before,” he says. Little tinges of pink bloom across his cheeks, and I haven’t seen that since the night he stacked up his boxers in front of me.

  “Good,” I say. “I’m a terrible dancer.”

  “We aren’t . . . trying to . . . date each other. Right?”

  “Nope. The last thing I need is a boyfriend,” I say, and mean it.

  “Good.” Bodee exhales, and I hear his relief. “You’re my . . . first friend, Alexi. Except for my mom. And I don’t . . . I’d rather not skip ahead.”

  “No skipping ahead,” I agree.

  This thing with Bodee is shaped with expectations, but they’re easy. And right. Like when I hold one of my stone carvings or a piece of pottery in progress and can tell I’ll like the artwork. Even when it’s not quite complete.

  Friends.

  “I can use the lemonade on my hair.” He sends a glance sideways. “Look normal.”

  “Don’t you dare,” I say. “I’m dancing with a green-haired guy.”
<
br />   I say a little prayer of thankfulness. Mom and Dad believe they invited Bodee into our home to help him, but the truth is, he’s helping me.

  “Thanks for waiting,” I tell him when we reach the house. “And for tonight.”

  “That’s okay,” he says.

  And it is.

  The two and a half hours in the bathroom are forgotten. The time with Bodee is like a dose of vitamin C. Soul-healing.

  I check my watch. It’s four o’clock, and I have an hour to get ready before Heather arrives to pick me up. “I gotta go in,” I say.

  “I know. See you tonight.”

  After a quick shower, I dress in my favorite of Kayla’s black dresses. I’m taller, but she’s bigger than I am in places. So I show less boobs and more legs than intended. I’m only moderately pleased with the outfit, so I take extra time with my hair, which means Heather’s horn blows before I finish my nails. I paint the last two toes in a hurry, leaving a dab of silver on the carpet, and slide into a pair of heels, stuff my phone into my clutch, and yell “Bye” to Bodee. Mom has to do her mom bit, looking me over and giving me compliments, before sending me out the door.

  “Smokin’,” Heather says as I wiggle into the front seat of the Malibu.

  “You too.”

  Heather’s wearing a strapless, empire-cut teal dress that makes her eyes look like blue fire. Collie will take one look at it, at her, and try to talk her out of it. And this might be his lucky night. She slides huge pink sunglasses over her flames and says, “That dress says you’re ready to make memories.”

  “Absolutely.” I’m surprised at my own excitement. This morning the dance was an obligation, but now that Bodee’s going and it’s safe, I’m happy to put on the swank, glad to wear the bling.

  “Love these nights. One reason to tolerate high school. I’m so glad you quit band. I’d miss you like crazy tonight if you had to sit with them.” Heather leans her head against mine and holds a camera out at arm’s length to take our self-portrait. We both show our teeth. “The game is going to be awesome. Then the dance. And afterward, there’s a party at Dane’s. I don’t have anywhere to be until Monday morning at seven fifty-five. That’s what I call a weekend, baby.”