Faking Normal

by Courtney C. Stevens

  Her face apologizes. “You mind if I talk to Lex?”

  “No, ma’am.” As Bodee gathers his books, I wonder if he’ll be back, or if we’re both upset enough that it’s an under-the-bed instead of on-it night.

  “You okay?” Mom asks, referring to Kayla’s rant.

  “She’s always mad about something.”

  “It is hard. Craig’s been a part of this family for a long time. I’ll hate to see him go, and I know you will too. The two of you have always had a special relationship, but Lex, you can’t fix this.”

  “I won’t.”

  “Good. There’s no need for you to feel guilty or responsible or to think Craig will listen to you. If they’re supposed to be together, then they’ll have to learn how to fight.”

  “You and Dad don’t fight.”

  Mom pats me and tsk-tsks. “Of course we do. We just know that when we do, we still love each other more than we love having our own way. We don’t agree on everything.”

  They probably disagree on vacation destinations or colors for the bathroom remodel, I think, as she leaves the room. They don’t fight over telling her parents she was raped by that guy who’s been a part of this family for a long time.

  Down the hall, Mom’s door clicks shut, and I slip up to Bodee’s room. There’s no proof he’s there, but I have a hunch I know where he is. Bending over, I lift the bed skirt.

  “Can I join you?” I ask.

  He squints against the light. “Sure.”

  I lay flat and shuffle sideways, my nose just inches from the frame, until I’m hip to hip with Bodee.

  “Nice place,” I say.

  “Thanks.”

  I angle my head and shoulders toward him, until my cheek is against his shoulder; I am diagonal and he is straight. “What are you thinking about?”

  “My mom,” he says.

  I take his hand.

  “I’ve been wondering what she would tell me to do if she were still alive.”

  “And?” I ask.

  “She’d say to get out from under this hot ol’ bed and go sit in Lexi’s room until she can fall asleep,” he says.

  “Wise woman.”

  “The very best,” he says.

  And we scoot out of there quicker than I scooted in and follow Bodee’s mom’s advice.

  UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

  HarperCollins Publishers

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

  chapter 24

  THE next morning I remember that my cell phone vibrated on the nightstand right before I fell asleep. I ignored it, thinking it was Hayden. But as I check it now, I see it was Heather. She’s back from Madsville one day earlier than I predicted.

  Pick you up in the a.m.

  I choose another outfit I can match a scarf to, strip my bed, and gather the little pile of neck-scratching clothes from the closet. Jamming them in the washer before anyone notices I’m in the laundry room, I pray the blood comes out of the sheets.

  “You need a ride?” Mom yells while I’m still putting on makeup.

  “No,” I yell back.

  I add mascara, snatch my book bag from my bedroom, and join Mom and Bodee in the kitchen. “Heather’s coming,” I say.

  Mom breaks the seal on a package of muffins and slides them across the bar toward me. “Crisis over, huh?”

  I nod, toss Bodee a muffin, and peel the bottom from mine while Mom waxes on.

  “Forty-eight hours. Bodee, just a little fact for you, most things with girls can be fixed in forty-eight hours.”

  “That’s why there’s no hope for me and Kayla,” I say.

  “Alexi,” Mom says, her chirpy mood disappearing. “Don’t say that.”

  “Truth. I speak the truth,” I say, and toss the muffin paper in the garbage. “Let’s go,” I say to Bodee before Mom can offer any more commentary.

  “How will she be?” Bodee asks as Heather pulls in the drive.

  “No idea.”

  The front seat is empty, and Liz is in the back.

  I hear Heather say, “Cold out there, Bodee. You riding with us or not?”

  I growl a little as I get in beside Liz. Out of politeness, I hope, Bodee climbs in beside Heather.

  And Heather acts fine. Like the campout is forgotten, the seat-switch topic is taboo, and she’s got nothing to say about any of the other stuff. And I don’t bring them up or mention Collie or the fact that she is actually following through with hitting on Bodee.

  Liz throws out a conversational bone. “Mom says we can have the Halloween party at my house. She’s already figured out a menu.”

  “Uh-huh.” My eyes are on Heather. I stare with intent at the back of her head and wish I knew steps one through three on how to do a lobotomy. “What”—I mouth and point at Heather—“is she doing?”

  This begins the dual conversation. The one for the whole car. The one for only the backseat.

  “Experimenting,” Liz mouths back, then says, “I already have a basic guest list, but I’ll need you two to see if I’m leaving anyone out.”

  “Hurting Collie,” I whisper.

  “He hurt her. Couldn’t reason with her about . . .” She points silently at Bodee and then says, “The decorations are going to be awesome.”

  “Everything you do is awesome,” Heather says. “So, Bodee . . .”

  (I hate the way she says his name.)

  “Would you wanna go to Liz’s party with me?”

  “I’m not much of a party guy,” he says after a moment.

  “That sounds just like something Alexi’d say. Boring to stay home all the time. Come on, it’s just for one night. We’ll have fun.”

  And if you don’t, she’ll shift you to the backseat before you can blink.

  “When is it?” Bodee asks.

  Heather puts the car in park and says, “Next Friday night.”

  “I’m supposed to visit my brother. Ben.”

  I hold back a sigh of relief.

  “But maybe I can come by after,” Bodee adds.

  Dull knitting needle. He is supposed to tell her no.

  “It’s not perfect,” Heather says, and smacks his thigh. “But it’ll do. Maybe I’ll color my hair like yours. What color do you think suits me?”

  “Cherry might be nice,” he says.

  “What flavor is this?” She tugs on the little lock of hair behind his ear.

  “Tropical Punch.”

  “We’re late,” I announce, and vault from the car. I tell myself it’s his life. Her life. If they want to have Kool-Aid dates, they can. But not at my house.

  Hayden’s waiting at the door. “Guy with the right words at your service.”

  “Sounds good,” I say, and wish I meant it.

  He smiles, and I spread one on too, but I don’t forget Bodee said yes to Heather.

  And I keep not forgetting about it. When he sits in my room at night. Or when we stick to the agreement not to kiss again. Or when he rides in the front seat with Heather every day for a week and a half. Or when Craig avoids me in the hall at school. Or when I tell Hayden I’ll see him at Liz’s party.

  I don’t forget.

  I can’t.

  On the desk this week, we worked our way through Joni Mitchell, a rap song I almost couldn’t remember, and the Beatles. Yesterday, Thursday, at Heather’s insistence, I added:

  If you’d like to meet, come to Liz Pullman’s house tomorrow night. Wear all black.

  “It’s going to be Hayden,” Heather says.

  “You know or you guess?” I ask.

  “Gut feeling.”

  “He sure hasn’t said anything to let me know it’s him,” I say.

  She twirls a braid, and I know we’re shifting from me to her. “You think there’s any chance Bodee likes me?”

  “Sure,” I say, but he hasn’t said a word about her. Or the girl from fourth period.

  “Does he talk about me?”

  “We don’t talk much at home.”


  At least not lately. We spend no less time together; in fact, we spend more. Nearly every minute at the house. He makes sure I don’t take pain out on my neck, and I haven’t for six days. I make sure he doesn’t end up doing pull-ups under the bed.

  But there was a brief relapse last night following another tough conversation.

  “You thought any more about telling?” he asked.

  “No. You thought any more about your deposition?”

  “Stop making them the same,” he argued. “They’re not.”

  “No, because Craig won’t try to kill me.”

  My cruelty doesn’t push him away, but it does silence him. And send him under the bed.

  In one way, I’m better. Telling Bodee has released some of the pressure. But in another way, I’m worse, because I can’t tell him I’m better. We define “better” differently.

  Better is a day I don’t think about digging at my neck, not a day I think of telling on Craig.

  There’s a cold war between Bodee and me, with no hope of tearing down the wall. Lately, the only thing that sends me to the closet is when I see him with Heather. Granted, I don’t think he’s interested, but he indulges her.

  “You and Bodee, you’re thick as thieves,” Heather says once she signs her name to the worksheet. “If you don’t talk about me, who or what do you talk about?”

  “His mom. Mostly.”

  “Oh, that makes sense. You’re like his antidepressant or something,” she says.

  “Sure.”

  “I talk to Hayden about you.”

  “And I still talk to Collie about you.” Okay, only once. But once counts. After the campout fiasco, I finally took his call, and he apologized for kissing me. He babbled on about how weird it was and that he never meant for it to happen. And how he wishes I would stop closing him out. He misses our friendship.

  And I do too. Damn collateral damage of July. Maybe, over time, we’ll heal.

  She flinches at the mention of his name. “Liz says she invited him.” She lowers her voice. “I heard he’s going with Maggie.”

  My eyes widen, but I recover before she notices. “You’re going with Bodee.”

  “Weird, weird year. If you’d told me last October that Collie would kiss you and I’d invite Bodee Lennox anywhere, I’d have said you were crazy.”

  The bell rings, and I say, “And I’d have said you were right.”

  Friday, the day of the party, there are only four words on the desk.

  I WILL BE THERE

  “You’re not wearing a costume,” Bodee says when he sees me waiting for Heather at the kitchen table.

  I avoided him this afternoon, and he knows it, because he’s walking on the balls of his feet. He does that when he’s nervous.

  “What you see is what you get,” I say.

  He laughs at the irony. “See you later.”

  Heather doesn’t hide her disappointment at my non-costume when she picks me up thirty minutes later than we planned. She’s an Egyptian queen, but all I notice is her hair, which is still natural and not the cherry-red color of Kool-Aid.

  “You like?” she asks, shaking her bare belly and her hips, which are clad in pants that are more old-school MC Hammer than the Queen of Sheba.

  “You’ll freeze,” I tell her.

  “Not if someone shows up to keep me warm,” she says.

  Gritting my teeth, I say, “Yeah.”

  My heart thuds around in my chest, the way loose two-liters rattle around in the trunk of the car, as we drive to Liz’s. Cars line both sides of the street, and I wish I’d done more looking at the guest list and less brooding. Cobwebs stretch from one magnolia to another, and there are neat rows of tombstones in the front yard. Just to get in the front door I have to wedge between a vampire, Michael Jackson, and one of those counting sheep from the mattress commercials.

  “There’s a guy in all black on the back patio,” Liz whispers as she hugs me.

  “Is it Hayden?” I ask.

  “Not sure.” And she’s not. “Could be; he’s big enough.”

  “Go on,” Liz says, and pushes me out the door. “Check him out.”

  “Nice costume,” I say, and sit. The plastic love seat wobbles as the all-black dementor, slides over to make room for me.

  He holds up a finger, which he has trouble unearthing from the folds of his black sheets, and indicates I should wait. The Captain bends to his left and lifts a small whiteboard from under the bench. At the top, he’s scrawled DESK and underlined it in a heavy marker.

  I laugh at this quirky idea and take the marker from him. Our handwriting looks funky as I write my name to the left of DESK, a question mark to the right, and hand the marker back, hoping he’ll write his name, too. He shoves it back.

  Thanks for meeting me, I write.

  THAT’S NOT A SONG, he writes back.

  I made you a mix tape

  That I worried you’d hate

  But you called me at three a.m.

  With it playing

  Softly saying

  Song number three

  Is about you and me

  and I’ve felt the same way for a while

  CLEVER . . . WRITE ANOTHER.

  I’ve been saving this lyric since September, but now seems the right time to use it.

  I want to know who you are

  a name and a face

  a heart to unbreak

  I want to know who you are

  Laughter from beneath the sheet, and I know this is the reveal.

  Time.

  Stands.

  Still.

  It’s Hayden. Hayden Harper dressed like a dementor and laughing like a clown. Enjoying every minute of this charade.

  I laugh with my mouth too, but my heart cries. So gullible. The lies I tell myself are the ones that really sting. Only now, while I’m looking at a football player, do I realize how much I thought I’d be staring at Bodee.

  “You surprised?” he says, and takes my hand.

  “No. Heather’s been saying it was you for weeks.”

  He puts on a grin. “Disappointed?” he asks. But the way he asks it shows me he believes that’s not possible. Who wouldn’t be thrilled to see his now-sweaty black hair and steel-gray eyes?

  “Only that the mystery is over,” I lie.

  “I’ll still write you songs. Like that Cameron Roots one you just wrote down. That was great,” he says.

  I correct him. “Bandana Rhoades.”

  “Thank God for Google,” he says with a laugh.

  The lyrics aren’t inside him.

  They are only words. I knew this about him already.

  But Captain Hayden is my reality. He’s here in front of me, and he’s the blank slate I need. He doesn’t know about Craig, or the closet or my neck. He knows nothing about me, and he never will.

  Damaged. Broken. Ruined. If I can hide these things from my family, how much easier they’ll be to hide from Hayden. We can glide right through junior year with pictures and desk songs, and a pile of group memories. Liz will get back with Ray, probably tonight. And Heather will eventually forgive Collie. And then it will be three girls and their three football players.

  Take it. Take it, I tell myself. But this fits like a discounted pair of jeans with IRREGULAR written on the tag: you search and can find nothing wrong with them.

  Take it.

  So I do.

  Kissing Hayden is different this time. It’s not awkward and it’s not saturated in whiskey. All I need to make my life normal is in this kiss. Deep, penetrating. I only come out of the kiss-trance as he tries to touch my neck. I shimmy a little, and he pulls me into his lap and forgets all about my neck.

  I try to forget he is not Bodee, so I kiss him harder.

  Which he likes.

  He’s in the middle of liking it when the screen door slams, and I know we aren’t alone.

  “I was hoping that would happen,” Hayden whispers as I shift from his lap.

  Bodee. Not
in black. Not coming for me. Not Captain Lyric.

  Not happy.

  “Hey, Kool-Aid,” Hayden says.

  “Don’t call him that,” I say, and stand up.

  “Last time I kissed you, he punched me. So I’m thinking, ‘Hey Kool-Aid’ is pretty mild.”

  “Bodee,” I say as apologetically as I know how.

  But Bodee turns and leaves.

  Hayden tugs me back into his lap. “Let him go,” he says, and kisses my cheek.

  “You don’t understand.”

  “Oh, I think I do.” There’s a cleft in Hayden’s chin that I’ve never noticed before, and it bobs arrogantly in front of me. “He likes you, and you feel sorry for him. So you accidentally encourage him. But trust me, you’re not doing Kool-Aid any favors by turning on the big doe-I’m-so-sorry-you’re-sad eyes. Girls like you don’t go with guys like him.”

  “He’s important to me,” I say, and ignore the rest.

  “Okay. Go on. Talk to him.” He releases me. “But come right back, Alexi. I’ve got another game we can play with the marker board.”

  The crowd in the house has increased since I went to the patio. I shove Marilyn Monroe into Elvis, and then Captain America into Betty Boop (Maggie) to get to the front door.

  Bodee’s almost to Ben’s truck down the street when I catch up to him.

  “Wait. Please wait,” I yell.

  Please and Bodee are peanut butter and jelly. He stops.

  “He’s the Captain,” I say, hoping this will explain my actions.

  “I’m sure he is.”

  I kick at the reflector embedded in the road. “Why are you so mad at me? You came to this party to be with Heather.”

  Crack. Crack. Crack.

  “Do you like him?” he asks.

  “Do you like her?” I fire back.

  “No, you know that,” he says.

  “What about fourth-period girl? Do you like her?”

  Now it’s his turn to kick something. Ben’s truck tire. “Yes,” he says.

  “Well, then, we’re even.”

  “I can’t believe you’d choose him. Him, Lex. He’s a . . .”

  . . . normal life, I think. My chance at a normal life is on the patio, not here in the middle of the street. Besides, it’s better for Bodee. He needs his fourth-period girl, uncomplicated, unruined, unbroken.

  Not me.

  These scrolling thoughts burn like rubbing alcohol, but I pour another bottle on my festering heart and raise my chin. “I’m choosing him,” I say.