Halfway Normal

by Barbara Dee

  No after-school activities. Just a (healthy!) snack, homework, and REST.

  No socializing on weekends, and no sleepovers (until they say so).

  Avoid germy kids!! (And remember, all kids are bacterial bipeds.)

  No school bus (a virus on wheels).

  No school lunch (E. coli–teria).

  Use hand sanitizer a billion times a day, especially after touching all concrete nouns.

  Avoid the school bathroom unless you REALLY, REALLY have to go. Afterward, scrub hands for two full minutes with soap and scalding water! Do NOT use air blowers to dry hands; use paper towels only. (But if you touch paper towel container, return to Go and repeat all hand scrubbing! For two extra minutes—or until skins falls off!)

  Stay home if ANY symptoms: e.g., sneezing, coughing, upset stomach, fatigue, burping, skinned knees, torn fingernails, cavities, paper cuts, split ends. When in doubt, STAY HOME, preferably hiding under a blanket.

  All right, I’m exaggerating, but not a ton. And the truth was, I was so excited about going back to school and having a life again that I would have agreed to anything (Avoid using the letter e in all sentences!) So really, none of the Parent Rules was a major problem for me. But it was like they didn’t believe it, like they assumed I needed them to recite the rules at breakfast, and then again on the drive to Aaron Burr Middle School.

  “If you get tired during the day, just go to the nurse’s office,” Mom said. “Mrs. Donaldson is our point person at Burr. They called her from the hospital, so she knows exactly what to do. And she has a cot set aside just for you, if you need it.”

  “I know,” I said. “You told me that yesterday. Also the day before.”

  “Well, sorry, sweetheart, but it’s really important. You have less stamina than you think.”

  “I’m not so worried about Norah’s stamina,” Dad said. “I’m more worried about other kids’ germs.”

  “I’m more worried about their cooties,” I said.

  Dad laughed. Mom didn’t.

  “Norah, this isn’t a joke,” she said, sighing.

  Dad winked at me, but I pretended not to see it in the rearview mirror. I didn’t want to play Whose Side Are You On. Not this morning, of all mornings.

  And now, as I was running up the stairs to the third floor, I found myself wondering if Mom was right: Maybe I didn’t have such terrific stamina. My heart was thumping and my breath was short, although possibly that was just from nerves. Because eighth grade math? What if it was too hard? Even with all the work I’d done with Ayesha, I didn’t consider myself a math-and-science person. And Ayesha liked me, so maybe she’d overbragged about how well I’d done.

  Also, the thought of classes with the Big Kids made my stomach knot. I didn’t know any of them, and they didn’t know me. Although, in a way, that was kind of a plus, I told myself: They wouldn’t be before-and-aftering me. Except not being with Harper was a definite minus. I wondered what she’d think when I didn’t show up in her math class. Maybe she’d worry I was sick again.

  “Is this Room 316?” a boy asked just outside the classroom.

  “Uh, yeah,” I said. “It says so right on the door.”

  He squinted at the number. “That’s a six? To me it looks like a zero.”

  “It’s a fat six,” I agreed. “But all the room numbers are sort of fat-looking.” Something occurred to me then. “Are you new here?”

  He smiled. “Yeah, just moved to Greenwood. I’m Griffin,” he added, holding out his hand.

  He wanted to shake hands? Was that a thing eighth graders did? I couldn’t imagine it was. Maybe at his old school, kids were freakishly polite, but I was pretty sure not here.

  Still, I shook his hand. And right away I thought, I should Purell. Except that would seem rude. And strange.

  “I’m Norah,” I said.

  “Nice to meet you, Norah,” he said. “And nice haircut.”

  “Thanks.” I liked it too, but it felt weird how other people kept commenting. Especially people like Griffin, who didn’t realize I used to be bald.

  Then I noticed he was holding Artemis Fowl, a book I read three times during chemo. And maybe stupidly, I blurted: “Someone told me it’s a pixie cut. But not like the pixies there.”

  I pointed at his book.

  His eyes grew. “You’ve read Artemis Fowl?”

  “Yeah. It’s one of my favorites. Although there are pixies in Harry Potter, too, right?”

  He nodded. “Also Spiderwick. I think there’s some in Wee Free Men, too.”

  I realized I was staring at him. This boy—Griffin—was extremely cute. His reddish hair was spiky and messy in an I-don’t-care sort of way, his brown eyes were sparkly, he wasn’t too tall, and he read books. Good ones too.

  I didn’t know what else to say after that, so I walked into the classroom. Amazingly, he took the seat next to me.

  “I hate not knowing people,” he said, as if it were an explanation for his seat choice.

  “Yeah, me too,” I admitted. “I don’t know anyone here either.”

  He raised his eyebrows excitedly. “You’re new also?”

  “In a way. More like recycled, actually.” Now I definitely needed to change the subject. “Anyhow, if no one knows you, you could have fun with that.”

  “Yeah? Like how?”

  “You could be anyone you want, right?”

  “True. I could tell people I’m the human incarnation of the griffin. You know what a griffin is, in mythology?”

  One thing I knew was mythical creatures. “Aren’t they half lion, half eagle?”

  “Yeah. Body of a lion, but head, wings, and talons of an eagle.”

  I nodded. “In Harry Potter, Dumbledore has one on his knocker. And the name Gryffindor means golden griffin.”

  “That’s right,” he said, smiling. “I used to have a sign outside my room: ‘Griffin Door.’ ”

  “Used to?”

  “Yeah, not anymore.” His smile flickered. “You read a lot?”

  “It’s practically all I do.” Immediately, I realized how strange that sounded. “Anyhow, you’re lucky. I wish my name was a mythical creature, but it’s just Latin for ‘honor,’ which is kind of boring.”

  Griffin shrugged. “So make up a norah.”

  “I guess I could. Maybe.”

  Eighth graders began invading the room then, greeting each other, hugging, laughing loudly. They were enormous, and looked a million years older than me, especially the girls, who had curves and boobs. Some of them had on eye makeup, a few had dyed parts of their hair purple or blue, and most of them were wearing black and gray, colors that didn’t even count as colors.

  Versus me, with my short brown hair, my teeny size, and my flat chest. I crossed my arms in front of the Cheeto-colored tee, which suddenly seemed to be screaming GIRLS’ DEPARTMENT, even if it didn’t have pandas or ballerinas or ice cream cones.

  “Hey, can I ask you something?” Griffin was saying. He seemed embarrassed. “Could I please borrow a pen? I forgot one.”

  “Oh, no problem.” I quickly unzipped my backpack. On the bottom, underneath the binders and folders we’d bought yesterday, was my small sketchbook, and my pen, colored pencil, and marker collection. “Take any one you want.”

  He peered into my backpack and took out a green gel pen. “Wow, you sure have a lot of writing utensils.”

  “What?”

  “Pens. Pencils. Markers. Why do you have so many?”

  Because I spend a lot of time in waiting rooms. “I like to draw. Well, not really draw. Doodle.”

  “Yeah? Can I see?”

  It was kind of a weird question to ask someone, but he seemed interested. I mean, not like he asked it to be nice—more like he was actually curious. So I took out my sketchbook and flipped through some pages, showing him zentangles, random swirly shapes, then some dragon-ish creatures I’d invented.

  “Those are awesome,” Griffin said, lingering over the dragon-ish creatures. “Really.
”

  I blushed. “Thanks.”

  He shook his head. “You should see how I doodle. I’m terrible.”

  I laughed. “How can you be terrible at doodling?”

  “I just am. All I do is cubes. I’m the world’s most boring doodler.”

  “That’s silly. I bet if you got yourself some really good pens—”

  “Hey, bro, could you please move your desk like two inches?” Some kid was shouting and jabbing my shoulder. It took me a second to realize he meant me; I was “bro.”

  Why was I “bro”?

  Oh. Because of my short hair. And also my flat chest and orange tee.

  I felt my entire body break into a sweat. I couldn’t answer this kid. Or move, either.

  “What’s the matter, you deaf?” the boy demanded. He raked his long dark hair out of his eyes in a way you do only if you’re in love with yourself.

  “Are you talking to Norah?” Griffin asked the kid loudly. “Just chill, okay?”

  Now a very tall blond girl with a pointy nose and too much mascara walked over and pursed her lips at the boy. “Rowan, you’re such an idiot. That’s a girl you were just talking to. You should apologize.”

  She smiled at Griffin, a smile I didn’t like. And she didn’t even look at me, even though I was the one she was supposedly sticking up for.

  “Sorry,” Rowan muttered. You could tell he wasn’t even embarrassed by his mistake.

  “It’s fine,” I muttered back.

  The tall blond girl didn’t take her eyes off Griffin. “Hey, I don’t know you. I’m Thea.”

  Griffin extended his hand again. “Griffin Kirkley,” he said, smiling.

  Thea giggled in a way that reminded me of the coin return in the hospital vending machines. Immediately I hated her, as well as Rowan. And I almost hated Griffin, too—except right at that moment he dropped his hand from Thea’s grip. “This is Norah. She’s new here too.”

  Thea glanced at me. “Hey, Norah,” she said in an airy voice.

  “Hi.” I pretended to search my backpack for something. There was no reason to think Thea knew me from before. But even so, I didn’t want her attention, and I was relieved when she finally stopped chatting with Griffin and took a seat on the other side of the classroom.

  The class began with Ms. Perillo handing out textbooks, talking about her expectations, her test policy, her homework policy. (Before middle school, did teachers have “policies”? I couldn’t remember any.) Then she wrote some problems on the whiteboard. As I copied them into my green binder, I had to admit that this was the right class for me; in fact, they were starting with stuff I’d covered with Ayesha months ago.

  But kid-wise? I wasn’t sure. Everyone seemed rude or not especially friendly. Griffin was nice, but he wouldn’t stay nice, probably, not once the other kids started to notice him. There was no point assuming I’d made a friend, I told myself; I seemed like such a baby compared to everyone else—and obviously he’d realize that soon enough, if he hadn’t already.

  So for the whole class period I didn’t talk to him, or even look at him.

  Well, except for when he slipped me a piece of paper on which he’d drawn a stack of cubes.

  SEE? he’d written underneath. WORLD’S MOST BORING DOODLER.

  DOODLES

  Norah, what happened to you?” Harper cried. “Why weren’t you in math?”

  Just before the start of second period English, I was back on the second floor, meeting up with Harper outside the classroom. “I got switched to eighth grade,” I said. “But just for math and science.”

  When she pushed her long light brown hair out of her eyes, I could see they were worried. “You did? How come?” she asked.

  “Ayesha got me too far ahead, I guess. But it’s okay,” I added quickly.

  “You sure? Wouldn’t you rather be with us? I bet if your parents complained—”

  “No, no, I really like the teacher.” I felt my face tingle. “And anyway, I’ll be with you guys for everything else, right?”

  “You’d better be.” Harper searched the classroom as we stepped inside. “All right, so where should we sit?”

  Right away I spotted two empty seats next to Silas. Harper knew he was my good friend, so it surprised me that she was even asking the question. “With Silas, of course,” I told Harper.

  “Um, maybe not.”

  I looked at her. “How come?”

  Harper rolled her eyes. “I think he’s saving those seats. One of them, anyway.”

  “He is? Who for?”

  She cupped her hand over my ear. “Kylie. In math, I heard him telling people.”

  “And did she sit with him?”

  “Nope,” Harper said, making a popping sound on the p.

  It was hard to process what I was hearing. Silas Blackhurst had always been my neighborhood bike-riding buddy, a skinny kid with scabby knees and a chipped front tooth who shared my taste in bad jokes. The thought of him with a crush on Kylie Shen—it made no sense.

  Although, to be honest, I’d sort of lost touch with Silas lately. The whole time I was in the hospital and all the months I was home recuperating, he sent me silly texts and links to YouTube videos. But he never visited. So maybe I’d missed something.

  Harper led us over to some empty desks in the back of the classroom, and I sat, never taking my eyes off Silas. When Kylie and Aria walked in the door, his face lit up; when they sat next to this chatty dark-skinned girl named Addison Ventura, his shoulders slumped. Probably everybody could read his body language, even Kylie, if she wanted to. I mean, it was so obvious it was embarrassing.

  “Crap,” I murmured to Harper. “Poor Silas.”

  Harper shrugged. “That’s how it was first period too.”

  “Why does he even like Kylie?”

  Harper seemed surprised by the question. “Can’t you tell? She’s really pretty and cool. And fun.”

  I didn’t argue, because I knew that Kylie was exactly the sort of girl boys crush on. My problem was that I couldn’t see Silas being one of those boys. He’d never liked girls before. He’d never even noticed that I was a girl. We’d just always been friends: two kids on bikes, patrolling the neighborhood for evil elves. On the lookout for jokes, the dumber the better.

  A youngish woman with long brown hair and cherry-red lipstick appeared at the front of the classroom, introducing herself as Ms. Farrell. Instead of teacher clothes, she was wearing black leggings and a tee with the cover of Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland—and she’d decorated the walls with photos of dogs she’d rescued and given names like Hermione and Frodo. Right away I could tell Ms. Farrell wasn’t boring—and when she announced that for our first unit we’d be reading Greek and Roman myths, I was ecstatic.

  But not yet, she said. Today she wanted us to write a paragraph or two describing one thing we wanted people to know about us.

  Aria’s hand shot up. “You mean it could be anything? Like our favorite pizza topping?”

  Ms. Farrell smiled. “It should be something meaningful, like something you believe passionately, or your favorite pastime, or an experience that affected you in some deep way. Something people should know so they get who you really are.”

  “What do you mean by ‘people’?” Malik challenged her. “People in general? People in this room? Or just you?”

  “Let’s say people in this class,” Ms. Farrell replied. “But if it’s something only I should know, please make a note of that, and I’ll make sure we don’t share it with the class.”

  My heart sank. This was exactly the kind of assignment I’d been dreading. What could I possibly write about myself? My favorite sport is growing hair. My favorite pastime is resting. I passionately believe in blood donation . . . I mean, I passionately did NOT want to write a cancer thing. My life wasn’t The Norah Levy Story, Starring Cancer. And cancer wasn’t what I wanted people—or even just one teacher—to know about me.

  Okay, but what was? After the last two years, I felt holl
owed out, like an old tree trunk.

  I peeked around the classroom. People were ripping paper out of their notebooks, sighing, writing, tapping their toes, twirling their hair, biting their fingernails, crossing out words, erasing. Even Silas, who hated to write anything longer than a text.

  And now Harper was eyeing my still-empty page. “Just write anything,” she murmured.

  “Like what?” I murmured back.

  “I don’t know. I’m writing about an art project. Write about a book you read.”

  I groaned. “You know how many books I’ve read, Harper? It’s all I’ve done.”

  For a second I thought about Griffin, how I almost blew my secret. Fortunately, I hadn’t told him something like: Yeah, for the past two years, I’ve basically stayed in bed, reading about mythical creatures.

  A hand on my shoulder. When I looked up, Ms. Farrell was smiling down at me. As soon as I saw that smile, I knew she knew everything. And it was stupid to think she wouldn’t have known. Probably all the teachers knew. Even the office ladies and the janitors.

  “Are you having trouble thinking of something to write, Norah?” she asked kindly.

  See? She knew my name! I didn’t tell her, so how else would she know it?

  “Yeah, I guess,” I admitted.

  “Well, try to keep it simple, then,” she said. “I always tell students who are having trouble thinking up a topic, or getting started: Just focus on what’s right in front of you. Think small, not big.”

  “Okay, thanks,” I said. Ms. Farrell walked away, leaving a fancy-soap smell behind her.

  Focus on what was right in front of me? Right in front of me was a purple gel pen. My favorite “writing utensil,” as Griffin called it. What a weird expression. Forks and knives were utensils, not pens. Although it was kind of cute he said that. Come to think of it, he’d never returned my green “writing utensil.” I needed to get it back from him, which meant we’d have to have another conversation.

  And thinking about that cheered me up a little, I guess.

  So, just before the end-of-period bell rang, I wrote:

  My favorite writing utensil is my purple gel pen. I use it for doodles, which I wouldn’t call my favorite pastime, but it does pass the time—haha. What I passionately like about doodling is that it doesn’t matter. Nobody asks what your doodles mean or counts them or compares them to last week’s doodle. No one wants to know if your doodles are finished, because finishing isn’t the point when it comes to doodles. Also, no one tells you that your doodles look better than they do, because who cares what doodles look like, anyway? They’re completely private, which is the best thing about them.