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Faking Normal
Copyright © 2014 by Courtney C. Stevens
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ISBN 978-0-06-224538-0
weren’t at a funeral, I’d probably shrug her off. But that would
be sort of selfish, since Mrs. Lennox was in Mom’s prayer group
all that time.
“How’s Bodee doing?” Mom asks.
“I don’t really know him,” I answer.
“You’ve been in school together for eleven years.”
I shrug. “He’s the Kool-Aid Kid.” Why do adults always
think kids should be friends just because their mothers are?
Sharing homeroom and next-door lockers doesn’t mean you
know a person beyond his label. Across the church aisle from
me is Rachel Tate, the girl whose mom did Principal James
on Bus 32. I’m Kayla Littrell’s carbon-copy little sister. Before
this week, Bodee was the Kool-Aid Kid. Now, he’ll be the kid
whose dad murdered his mom. That label will pass from ear to
ear whenever Bodee walks down the hall. But now it’s a pity-
whisper instead of a spite-whisper.
“It would be nice if you reached out to him.” I can tell Mom
wants to say more, but the music changes and she faces the
front.
There are no words to the music, and that makes me
sad. Every song deserves lyrics. Deserves a story to tell. Mrs.
Lennox’s story is over, so maybe she doesn’t need words, but
Bodee might. Reaching out to him is one of those Christian
things my mom talks about, but you can’t share a closet and a
stack of old football cards with someone you hardly know. So I
say a prayer and hope he’ll find a place of his own to hide.
FA K IN G N O R M A L 3
Mom squeezes Dad’s hand. The rest of the room shifts in their
discomfort for Bodee.
“That poor, poor boy,” Mom whispers.
Lyrics drift into my head as I watch Bodee drown.
Alone.
Before this crowd.
Alone, in this terrible dream.
Who am I in this visible silence?
Can they hear me scream?
ready,” Heather says. “And when that day comes, you have to
promise to tell me everything.”
“Of course.”
“You mean it? ’Cause it would make me feel so much better
if I knew I wasn’t the only one.”
My heart pounds as I choose my phrase. “I promise I’ll call
you first.”
A wicked little smile plays on Heather’s lips, and just like
that, her uncertainty disappears. “Even if it’s Bodee Lennox.”
“Even if.” The piece of paper Mrs. Tindell gave us at the
beginning of class is still blank, so I say, “Hey, we’d better do
this.”
“I’ll do one to five if you’ll do six to ten.”
I nod and open the book to the right page. This plan has
gotten us As so far. When our regular teacher, Mrs. Tomlin,
returns from maternity leave, this worksheet crap will finally
end. I read this chapter over the weekend, so my answers take
only a few minutes. I’m left with ten free minutes to consider
Captain Lyric, Dane, and Bodee.
Soul mate. Date. Question mark. In that order. None of
them would want me if they knew the truth. And I don’t really
want them, either.
I know I’ll make myself go out with Dane tomorrow night
to keep Heather happy. Liz takes some martial arts class I can’t
pronounce on Tuesday nights, so I can’t count on her to help.
Damn her Karate Kid skills.
“What should I wear?” I whisper.
16 CO URT N EY C . S T EVEN S
Heather stops scribbling. She says, “Do you read these lessons
ahead of time or something?”
Of course I do, which is why I always finish before she does.
I can’t help it; my mom’s a teacher. But I say, “No.” Because I’m
not admitting to this level of responsibility.
And because the homework distractions help keep me out
of the closet.
The closet is both my curse and my sanctuary. For at least
an hour every day, I hide there. Folded and tucked. Arms
wrapped around my knees while I will my mind not to live
in whacked-out “before and after” mode. Which is hopeless.
Because hiding behind my comics, football cards, stuffed
animals, or my old copy of Superfudge never really works.
“You thinking about Dane?”
“Can’t stop,” I answer.
The bell rings, and Heather tosses her folder into her
overlarge purse. “Yay, lunchtime. Pizza or prepackaged?”
Prepackaged food is generally safer, but my stomach can’t
handle a bag of Heather’s favorite white cheddar popcorn.
“Pizza.”
“See you in there.” Heather splits while I take the time to
straighten my desk. Tomorrow, if the universe hasn’t forsaken
me, his handwriting will appear below mine. Then I’ll have
fifty-three minutes to escape from reality into his words.
I walk the hallway with my head down and earbuds in
and don’t stop until I get to my locker. Too many people drop
trays when they try to carry both books and food, so I’d rather
FA K IN G N O R M A L 19
unload my stuff and then deal with the long lunch line.
I notice that Bodee’s not at his locker.
Maybe he doesn’t have my lunch period, or maybe he’s
already enjoying his new status as the football player’s friend.
Then again, if it was my mom who died, I’d be in the bathroom
crying off my mascara.
Knowing Bodee’s location is not my job, but somehow the
silence we shared on the bench connected us, and I find myself
wanting to know if he’s okay.
Or only pretending to be okay.
Bodee is really none of my business. But I did follow him
out of the funeral. And as I ask myself why I did, or why I’m
thinking about him now, I know the answer.
Because I’m pretending too.
c hapter 3
Mom tosses the plastic glass I left on the island last night
into the sink. “Would you rather we never asked your opinion?”
“It doesn’t count if you never take it,” I say.
“We will this time.” There are tears in her eyes. Which
isn’t all that unusual, but this has the makings of something
bad. Kayla and I have a list of things that make Mom cry. It’s
seven pages, front and back, and we bring it out occasionally
to tease her.
Heather’s horn blares.
“Go. You’ll be late. And neither of us is dying. I know how
you think.”
I open the back door and hide behind it. “Promise it’s
not bad.”
She stares past me but says, “It’s not bad.”
Liz lets me into the backseat of Heather’s Malibu.
“Another day in Littrell-topia?” Heather asks.
I snap my seat belt into place. “Family meeting tonight.”
Heather raises her sunglasses to glare at me through the
rearview. “You are not using that as an excuse to get out of
the game.”
“I wish,” I tease. “No, it’s after. She says it’s not bad.”
“Then I’m sure it’s not,” Liz says sympathetically. “Your
mom wouldn’t lie to you. So what do you think about this
Dane thing? Heather told me all about it on the phone.”
“So y’all talked boys last night?” I ask.
Heather’s not glaring now. She’s giving me the We didn’t
talk about sex look.
26 CO URT N EY C . S T EVEN S
But how can you tell with a guy who wears the exact same
clothes every day? I wonder if they really are the same ones or
just a look-alike set.
He smiles back.
It’s an audible smile, almost a happy sigh.
“Hey,” he says.
Oh boy, we’re back to the heys. I bend down to open my
locker. “Hey,” I say. “Hair’s still blue.”
“Yeah.” His locker door, which is just above mine, doesn’t
make a sound as he shuts it. But he actually looks at me. “Neck’s
still red,” he says.
My mouth falls open, and my hands go to work smoothing
and patting my already straight hair against my neck so no one
else sees the little wounds. “It happens in my sleep,” I say.
“Mine too,” he says. “I wake up and it’s a different color.”
Bodee tosses his hair in a way that is neither mean nor a
joke. His voice is soft, sort of like my dad’s. It keeps my own
voice calm as I say, “Don’t tell anyone.”
Those are zombie words. I immediately wish I hadn’t said
to Bodee what was said to me.
He smiles again. But this time, thanks to the hair toss, I can
see his eyes. They’re brown.
“No one to tell,” he says.
We walk to homeroom beside each other but with enough
distance to drive Craig’s golf cart between us. While I’ve logged
one fact about Bodee, brown eyes, he’s collected a piece of
information I haven’t shared with my closest friends yet.
28 CO URT N EY C . S T EVEN S
“Girl, you can’t be going out with Dane Winters and have
nothing to tell.”
Bodee lies on the other cheek. He’s facing me, but he looks
asleep and uninterested. “Heather set it up,” I say to Maggie.
“We’re going to the soccer game, and we’re not dating.”
“So there’s nothing between . . .” Her eyes dart between
Bodee and me.
I give her my best Do I know what 4,678 times 7,543 is? look.
“Good. O-kay. Awkward,” she says, drawing her own
conclusion.
Maybe there is something between Bodee and me. I just
don’t know what it is.
And it totally freaks me out.
School happens for the next three hours without my
noticing. That psych test I invented in homeroom was pro-
phetic: pop quiz on post-traumatic stress disorder. But I pass
with flying colors. Finally, my personal knowledge of stress is
useful.
The desk is my saving grace.
There, below my neat handwriting from yesterday, is the
tight script of his I’ve been waiting twenty-four hours to see.
HOLD ON TIGHT
AS I LOSE MYSELF AGAIN
Won' t be horses
Won' t be men
Put my soul back again
tempted to say yes. The guy likes to use girls to carry his books
instead of a backpack. Which begs the question: since he can
have any of the giggly chicks, why did he decide to go out
with me?
“Thanks, but I’m not hungry.”
“Are you sure? I don’t mind paying,” Dane says.
The offer is nice, but I shake my head. Maybe the next two
hours won’t be so terrible.
“Suit yourself,” he says.
Then he spends twenty-four dollars on concession-stand
food for himself. I carry two hot dogs and the popcorn so he can
carry his nachos and an energy drink. Which he chugs before
we get to our seats.
“Man, you’re handy to have around,” he says, and nudges
my shoulder. Then he adds, “That’s what she said,” like he’s
cracked the best joke of the century.
Collie drags one finger across his neck, giving his cousin
the cutoff sign, and says, “Alexi hates ‘that’s what she said’
jokes.”
“No, I don’t,” I argue, even though he’s right. I start wishing
the Seventh Circle of Hell would open wide enough to suck
in the entire Rickman County soccer field. Even Heather looks
embarrassed by Dane’s lameness.
“So do you like music?” she asks Dane.
The rest of hot dog number two goes into his mouth, but
he still answers. “Yeah. I love rap. What do you listen to?” he
asks me.
34 CO URT N EY C . S T EVEN S