A Shot at Normal

by Marisa Reichardt

He takes another bite of lasagna. Talks around it. “Not as scary as suffocating because your throat is closing up.”

  “True.”

  I dig my fork into the lasagna and take a bite. “Oh, wow.”

  “Good, right?” He takes another bite and so do I.

  My eyes dart to the sleek stainless-steel appliances and the soapstone countertops of Nico’s kitchen. So different from my house, where we still have my grandma’s avocado-green refrigerator and the linoleum floors to match. Nico’s house screams new and modern, while ours screams time warp.

  “You want more?” Nico gestures to the casserole dish. I shake my head, and he refastens the tinfoil and shoves the pan back into the fridge. “Movie?”

  “Definitely.”

  I follow him into another room with a flat-screen so big it practically takes up the entire wall. There are speakers affixed to the ceiling in the corners of the room and a big, cushy leather couch with built-in cup holders and seats that recline.

  “It’s like your own private movie theater,” I say.

  “That’s the goal.”

  “Lucky you.”

  “So we can stream something, or you can choose a movie from the old-school collection. But be warned, a lot of them are my mom’s.” He opens a massive cupboard filled with DVDs and VHS tapes. “Pick whatever you want.”

  I walk over to the cupboard. Run my fingers across the spines. “It’s almost better than a library shelf.” I look at him over my shoulder. “Almost.”

  “I won’t fault you for liking books better than films.”

  I pull some movies out and read the synopses on the backs like I would do with books at the library. I ponder one called 10 Things I Hate About You.

  “This one?” I say.

  “I’m not surprised you picked that one. It’s a modern-day Taming of the Shrew. And a classic teen film.”

  “No way. I’m so in.”

  I settle onto the couch while he sets up the movie. And by the time the opening credits start, he’s sitting next to me, my hand in his, which is exactly what I’ve been waiting for since we snapped our helmets shut outside the party. I zero in on every detail of the opening credits, especially when one guy points out all the different school cliques to the new guy as they walk through campus.

  “Is this what it’s like in the cafeteria?” I ask.

  “Your fascination with the cafeteria is adorable.”

  A few seconds later, Nico laughs at a joke I don’t get, but I don’t care because the sound of his laughter makes my heart trip.

  I try to keep my focus, but all too soon, my eyes wander from the screen to look at Nico. At the way his hair and eyelashes fall. At the faint sprinkling of freckles across his nose. At the way his jaw twitches when he thinks something’s funny on-screen.

  He turns to me. Smiles. “Hi,” he says.

  “Hi.”

  He leans closer. And then there’s no movie.

  There’s only us.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  My eleven o’clock curfew comes before the movie ends, and Nico’s mom is fine with him driving me home. I feel a little ache in my chest about tonight almost being over. I’m sad that I’m going home now. But I’m also excited for all my next times with Nico.

  He unlocks the car and we both get in, me with my skateboard between my legs.

  “Seat warmer?” he asks, his finger hovering over a button on the dashboard.

  “Seriously? Seat warmers. Sunroof.” I twirl my finger at the dashboard. “That fancy digital screen with the map on it and the radio stations. This car is the complete opposite of Bessie.”

  “Bessie?”

  “Our crappy family van. And yes, my dad actually named our car.”

  “Well, my mom’s car is too fancy. Why do you think she makes me ride my bike instead of driving? I only get to use it on special occasions. Like tonight. Otherwise, it basically lives in our garage or at the courthouse.”

  “Courthouse?” I remember my useless trip there, where every attorney looked at me like I was pathetic when I asked them if they could help me. “What does your mom do?”

  “Attorney.”

  “Really?” I perk up. “What kind of attorney?”

  “Boring real estate stuff.”

  “Oh.”

  He looks at me, confused. “Why?”

  “I need an attorney.”

  Nico laughs. “For what? Did you rob a liquor store and not tell me?” He backs out of the driveway and presses the remote attached to the sun visor to shut the garage door.

  “I’ve actually been trying to find an attorney to help me figure out how I can get my vaccinations. Since I’m a minor.”

  “Oh, right. Of course you’d need an attorney for that.”

  I shrug. “Yeah, well, it’d be nice if I could actually find one willing to help me.”

  “My mom might know someone. I can ask.”

  “Thanks. I’d appreciate that.” I’m not very optimistic, but it’s worth a try. “I can’t pay anyone. Not much, at least. I do have some birthday money saved up, but I thought I might need to use it to pay for actual shots.”

  He shakes his head. “We’ll figure it out.”

  He looks at me and smiles.

  My stomach leaps. My nerve endings shatter. And I smile back.

  “Okay, cool,” I say, turning on the seat warmer to indulge myself. “That’s really cool.”

  “It is.” He flicks his blinker, looks over his shoulder, and switches lanes.

  I burrow deeper into the bucket seat. It’s heating up, and I don’t hate it on the first night of November. I don’t hate anything about this night except for what happened with Teddy and Avery at the party.

  We pull up to the curb in front of my house, and Nico puts the car in park. Across the street, you’d never know a huge football game had gone down a few hours ago. Everything is dark and closed up for the weekend.

  “Wanna hang out again soon?” he asks.

  “Yeah.”

  “Cool.”

  “But can we take your mom’s car? I think this is the most comfortable ride I’ve ever had. Way better than a skateboard.”

  “I’ll ask.”

  “I bet she’ll say yes.”

  Nico leans across the center console. “Can we stop talking about my mom now?”

  “Oh, did you want to talk about your dad instead?”

  “Funny.” He pokes me. “But for the record, my parents are divorced and my dad lives in Washington. The state, not DC. I visit him in the summer.”

  “Ah. Okay.” I pretend to jot down notes in a notebook like the one Officer Cooper held in our living room the night of the scarlet A.

  Nico pushes my fake notepad away with his hand. “Can I kiss you good night now?”

  I put my hand to my forehead and fall against the seat dramatically. “If you must.”

  And he does.

  And I decide kissing Nico only gets better and better.

  TWENTY-NINE

  Monday morning. Kitchen School. Maps out. My dad has his boring black coffee. Poppy has her colored pencils. Sequoia has his almond milk. I have my dreams. It was a good weekend. With the football game. And the rush of winning. And Nico. But now Nico is back at school across the street and I’m stuck here with my family, talking about geography and places in the world.

  “If you could step outside and go anywhere you wanted, right this very second, where would it be?” Poppy asks as her purple pencil hovers over a map of the world.

  Sequoia’s thinking hard as my mom comes in from the garden and plunks her cardboard box of herbs on the counter.

  “Not the farmers market,” I mutter.

  “Oh! Oh! I know! The Middle Ages!” Sequoia shouts.

  “Duh. Real places,” Poppy says. “That we can go to now.”

  “I think the Middle Ages sounds interesting,” my mom says, sorting out bundles.

  “This is the problem with Kitchen School,” I say. “I’m supposed to be talking all
serious about going to Singapore or something, and instead I’m here with a second grader who wants to go on some fantasy time-travel trip.”

  “June,” my dad admonishes. “Tone.”

  “Okay, fine.” I fold my hands on the table like a serious student and look at my brother. “Why do you want to go to the Middle Ages?”

  “Dragons.” He crosses his arms, all proud of himself.

  Poppy slams her purple pencil down. “There weren’t actual dragons in the Middle Ages.”

  “How do you know? You weren’t there!” Sequoia shouts.

  Poppy picks up her pencil again and points it at him. “I know because I’m alive in the world. And I pay attention when Dad tells us history stuff. Dragons are something people made up to scare each other so everyone would stay in line.”

  “Not to mention they gave chest-pounding dude bros an excuse to go off on big adventures all in the name of slaying,” I add. I bet Teddy and those friends of his from the party would’ve fallen all over themselves to slay dragons.

  “That’s not true,” Sequoia insists.

  Poppy tosses an exasperated look at him. “What really happened is dinosaur bones were showing up all over the place and nobody knew what they were. So bam! They made up dragons.”

  My dad smiles triumphantly. “That’s one theory,” he says. “Does anyone remember others?”

  “Something about the Bible,” I mumble. “Dragons were Satan.”

  “Gold star,” my dad says.

  I twirl my finger next to my head. “Whoop-de-do.”

  “Oh, June, honestly,” my mom says, shaking out some herbs. “Don’t be such a teenager.”

  “News flash! I am a teenager. I’m sixteen years old. I can’t exactly not be sixteen years old. Therefore, I can’t not be a teenager.”

  My whole family starts laughing.

  “What?” I say.

  “You’re so literal,” Poppy says.

  “Literally,” my dad says, and everyone cracks up again.

  I push my chair back from the table. “Fine. I’m going to recess.”

  Sequoia rolls his eyes. “We don’t have recess.”

  “No kidding,” Poppy says, looking up from her map to watch me sit down again. “Now she’s being the opposite of literal. Ironic. Or sarcastic? Which one is it, Mom?”

  My mom studies me. “She’s being Juniper. That’s what she’s being. Acting like she’s a caged bird and we’ve clipped her wings.”

  “If we were in the Middle Ages, you could go out and slay dragons,” Sequoia tells me. “To have an adventure. And be a hero.”

  “You know,” my mom says, “we had Vikings in our family on Grandma’s side. Do you think our ancestors were dragon slayers?”

  Sequoia rubs his hands together. “Ooh.” His gaze wanders dreamily to the ceiling, like he’s imagining all of it.

  “I think it’s in our blood,” my mom continues. “To get out there and conquer the world.” She looks at me. “I understand you more than you think I do, Juniper Jade.”

  “We both do, Junebug,” my dad says, and winks at me. I wiggle uncomfortably in my chair. “After all, your mom and I did pack up an old Toyota and drive ourselves to Woodstock with only twenty dollars each. Yet somehow we made it through by innovation and perseverance.”

  “Please no. Not the Woodstock stories,” Poppy moans.

  “Wannabe Woodstock,” I correct.

  “The rains were great that day,” Poppy begins like she’s narrating an epic poem.

  “And the mudslides even greater,” I finish.

  “Oh, you two,” my mom says. “You know you wish you could’ve been there.”

  “Um, no,” I say.

  “Oh, come on,” my dad says. “It’s basically like that Coachella thing you want to go to now.”

  My mom stops with the herbs and sidles up to my dad, who is still sitting in his teacher chair. He puts his arm around her waist and pulls her closer. He doesn’t think about it. He just does it automatically. Because they have this unspoken way about them. It’s their history, I guess. The years together. The Wannabe Woodstock stories and living unconventionally and driving a beat-up Toyota into the sunset. Then getting married and having kids and teaching them about dragons in the kitchen.

  I feel tears prick the corners of my eyes.

  I complain a lot about my life, but at the heart of it, there is this. There is here. My family. All together. Laughing in the kitchen.

  Even in all their quirky weirdness, I love them.

  But what will happen to this calm after I get an attorney, assuming I can find one to take my case? Do we go to court? Could my parents get in trouble for being negligent? Will someone take Poppy, Sequoia, and me away from here and everything we know?

  From my mom and her box of herbs to my dad adding a last-minute note to his geography lesson. From my sister coloring in all the parts of the big, wide world on her map to my brother dreaming of dragons.

  Can I really risk losing this?

  Can I really risk losing them?

  THIRTY

  Later, my mom and I unload Bessie at the farmers market, setting boxes down and unfolding our table in our assigned spot. As we’re arranging the essential oils into rows, a woman with bobbed hair and a clipboard comes marching up to our booth.

  “Stop there,” she says to my mom. “I need a moment.”

  “I’m sorry, do I know you?” my mom says.

  “I’m Kayla Kaye from the city council.” She says it fast, so it runs together like one word. Kaylakaye.

  My mom wipes her hands on her apron. “How can I help you?”

  “We’ve received a petition.” Kaylakaye holds up her clipboard. “It was started by the Concerned Citizens of Playa Bonita.”

  Oh no. “Like the Facebook page,” I say.

  Kaylakaye continues, “The petition has been signed by five hundred people, the required number of signatures needed to ban your booth from the farmers market.”

  “You can’t be serious,” my mom says, laughing. “Let me see that.” She holds her hand out. “You must have me confused with someone else.”

  Kaylakaye pivots slightly, pulling the clipboard out of my mom’s reach. “You are Mrs. Melinda Jade, are you not?”

  My mom nods.

  “The Playa Bonita community has serious concerns about your product, Mrs. Jade. They’re afraid it could be contaminated.”

  My mom stares, wide-eyed. “With what?”

  “Well, it’s our understanding that your family recently contracted the measles.”

  “How do you know that?” my mom asks.

  “So it’s true?” Kaylakaye says.

  I toss her a hard glare. “I assume you saw us on Facebook?”

  She rolls her eyes. “Everyone saw you on Facebook.”

  “Well, we’re not contagious anymore,” I say.

  She grips her clipboard and clears her throat. “There are other concerns.”

  “Like what?” my mom says.

  I feel the weight of people and realize there’s a crowd gathering. It’s like the pumpkin patch all over again. They’ve been waiting for this. They knew. They all signed the petition. And someone here surely started it all in the first place. But who?

  Kaylakaye says, “Other possibilities of contamination. Other…” She clears her throat. “Other viruses, perhaps. We understand your family is against vaccinations.”

  I want to shout, Not me! I’m torn. I agree with Kaylakaye and all those people who signed that petition, but I also want to defend my mom. “Anybody here could have a virus. Even you. You could be exposing all of us to a cold or something right now.”

  She fumbles. “Yes, well, I understand that. But we’re not talking about colds. We’re talking about deadly viruses. Ones that were thought to have been eradicated in the United States.”

  My mom looks at Kaylakaye. Pleads with her eyes. “Surely you can be more reasonable.”

  “We have a right to stay,” I say.

&n
bsp; “I’m sympathetic, I really am,” Kaylakaye says. “But Playa Bonita has spoken, and as their representative, I’m afraid I’m here to tell you that you’ll need to go.”

  “Today?” my mom says.

  “Right now.”

  “We can’t even finish our booth this afternoon?” I ask.

  “I’m afraid not.”

  “Very well,” my mom says, then looks at me. “June, let’s pack it in.”

  My hands are balled into fists. I’m frustrated for my mom, but I’m more frustrated for me. Kaylakaye isn’t saying anything I haven’t already tried to say. How many people have to shun us before my parents get it?

  “You can’t be surprised by this,” I say, but my mom doesn’t respond. She just shoves things into boxes without organizing them.

  Kaylakaye tries to shoo the crowd away.

  The crowd doesn’t budge.

  They watch us as we pack, taking photos for Facebook and passing more judgment. I stare down every single one of them. I promise myself I’ll yell if they come one step closer. It’ll be a huge scene for all of Playa Bonita to see. Let them put it online. I don’t care.

  My mom keeps her gaze low, not making eye contact, as we cart our boxes away. It’s a relief when we finally climb into Bessie and peel out of the parking lot.

  “There are a dozen more farmers markets we can go to,” my mom rants, like she had to wait until we were out of earshot to speak up. “Surely some of them have openings. Even if we have to drive a bit, it’ll be fine.”

  I can see it now. Sweating in Bessie with no AC as we drive to markets an hour away from here only because nobody will know us.

  “Maybe we should just take a break,” I say.

  “Never,” says my mom.

  THIRTY-ONE

  On Tuesday a week later, when the school lets out across the street, Nico knocks on my door to ask me if I can come over later for dinner.

  “My mom invited a friend who she thinks can help you.” He lowers his voice so only I can hear. “She’s cool. An attorney and a marathon runner.”

  “At the same time?”

  He laughs. “Probably, knowing her.”

  I like that the woman who might be my attorney runs marathons. It means that she has endurance. That she knows how to keep pushing.