Longing for Normal Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  ELIOT

  ALLI

  ELIOT

  ELIOT

  ALLI

  ELIOT

  ALLI

  ELIOT

  ALLI

  ELIOT

  ELIOT

  ALLI

  ELIOT

  ALLI

  ELIOT

  ALLI

  ELIOT

  ELIOT

  ALLI

  ELIOt

  ALLI

  ELIOT

  ALLI

  ELIOT

  ALLI

  ELIOT

  ELIOT

  ALLI

  ALLI

  ALLI

  ELIOT

  ALLI

  ELIOT

  ALLI

  ELIOT

  ALLI

  ELIOT

  ALLI

  ELIOT

  ELIOT

  ELIOT

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  LONGING

  FOR

  NORMAL

  by

  Darcy Pattison

  Mims House, Little Rock, AR

  Text Copyright © 2015 by Darcy Pattison.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  Mims House

  1309 Broadway

  Little Rock, AR 72202

  www.mimshouse.com

  Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.

  Publisher’s Cataloging-in-Publication data

  Pattison, Darcy. 1954-

  p. cm.

  Summary: A boy unites an immigrant community and rebuilds his family–using a simple sourdough bread recipe.

  Longing for Normal/by Darcy Pattison

  Hardcover 978-1-62944-041-5

  Paperback 978-1-62944-042-2

  eBook 978-1-62944-043-9

  1. Family life—Fiction 2. Schools–Fiction 3. Family problems—Fiction I. Pattison, Darcy II. Longing for Normal

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2014918923

  Printed in the United States of America

  For Haileigh, Bruce, Zeke and Gabe.

  You make family something special

  .

  BEFORE THE BREAD PROJECT BEGINS

  ELIOT

  Ba-boom, ba-boom, ba-boom.

  Standing outside the gymnasium doors, a drumbeat throbbed. Yellow light streamed from the second story windows. I couldn’t hear the music’s melody, just the drum beat: ba-boom, ba-boom.

  The Back-to-School party at Wilma Rudolph Elementary School had already started.

  I reached for the door handle, but Marj, my almost-adoptive-mother put a hand on my shoulder. Her hand trembled. “Don’t leave me alone in there,” she said.

  I understood: Dad and I had been at this school for the past six years and she was the new one here. “I know,” I said.

  I took a deep breath and hauled open the heavy door. Marj lifted her chin and entered.

  Following her inside, I heard someone yell: “Eliot Winston! Oh, you poor boy. Come here.”

  I winced.

  There she was, that Mrs. Lopez. Her voice could cut through anything, even concrete. She sat beside a poster that read: “Back to School Party! Join the PTA Here!” Another poster said: “Support your PTA! School T-shirts, only $5.”

  No way to avoid Mrs. Lopez, she wouldn’t let you. I led Marj toward the PTA table, but that was a problem. Because I had a mission: the Bread Project had to be toast. And I had a plan: talk Mrs. Lopez into talking everyone else into dropping the Bread Project. It should be simple, except I had to talk to Mrs. Lopez without Marj listening in.

  Mrs. Lopez met us halfway from the door and pulled me into a bear hug. “Poor boy!”

  I swallowed hard and pulled back, so I wouldn’t get thrown off-balance.

  But I was off-balance, just walking into the school building. Tonight, I had to figure out how to be back at school and be okay.

  “Ah, mi amigo.” Mrs. Lopez stepped back and held my shoulders at arm’s length. “It’s been a long summer, si?”

  Turmoil bubbled up inside: this was not the time nor place, though. I looked past her, trying to get a grip on my emotions. I made myself study the three aisles of game booths. Someone had made palm trees out of the poles that hold the volleyball nets and then stuck the fake trees at the front of each aisle. Little kids crowded onto the tire base of each pole, shoving and laughing. On one tire, though, a skinny girl sat alone. She was older, maybe fourth or fifth grade, and just sat there, eating blue cotton candy.

  Mrs. Lopez stepped aside. “This is tu madre, your mother?”

  My heart went skippety-skip. A sideways glance: Marj’s freckles looked friendly enough, even if she wasn’t smiling. But she didn’t answer the question, didn’t say she was my mother.

  My throat tightened, so I could only squeak, “Mrs. Lopez, this is Marj Winston. Marj, this is Mrs. Lopez. President of the PTA.”

  To see Mrs. Lopez’s smile was to understand the amazing abilities of a mouth. Her mouth was as wide as Shamu-the-whale’s, and everyone knew her business—including every one of her silver fillings. Nothing was private. She was nothing like Marj.

  Two weeks ago, Marj came home with her long fly-away hair all cut off. “Precision cut,” Marj said, as if soldiering her hair would put the rest of our lives back in order. To me, Marj still looked like rumpled laundry.

  “Finally,” Mrs. Lopez said. “I’m so glad to meet Griff’s widow. Such a sad thing.”

  Mrs. Lopez never avoided a subject but waded right in. She had almost thrown me off a minute before, but it was the right thing for Marj. Because there was Marj’s hand, ready to shake. She even curved her lips into an almost smile, like the thumping music had loosened her frozen face. I guess Marj needed people to be honest.

  “Yes, I’m Mrs. Winston. I’ve heard lots of good things about you.”

  “Oh, that Griff.” Mrs. Lopez laughed and waved a hand. “Always talking about school. I bet you know something about everyone here. You know all our secrets, si?”

  Marj lifted an eyebrow, “Perhaps.”

  And Mrs. Lopez laughed.

  Now that they were introduced, I remembered my mission: “Excuse me. Mrs. Lopez, could I talk to you about–”

  “About what?” she interrupted.

  I glanced at Marj, uncertain. What was she thinking about? Was she still nervous about meeting people, about being here at the school where Griff had worked?

  “Do I need to go away, so you can talk?” Marj asked.

  Mrs. Lopez said, “No, no! I’ll talk to Eliot later. First, there are some people who have been wanting to meet you.” Mrs. Lopez must have seen my aggravation, because she added, “You understand, right, Eliot?”

  Marj shrugged a question at me. Was this okay?

  I sucked on my bottom lip, angry with myself. I really needed to talk with Mrs. Lopez alone. I should’ve known Mrs. Lopez would grab Marj right away. It was like I had forgotten everything I ever knew about people at school. And would Marj be mad if I insisted on talking to Mrs. Lopez? Maybe. I didn’t know.

  I shrugged back at Marj. “Sure. We can meet people first.”
/>
  “You go on and look for your friends,” Marj said encouragingly. “I’ll be fine.”

  “What?” I blinked. “You just told me not to leave you alone.” And here she was taking off with a stranger to meet other strangers. And she was going to be fine?

  Before Marj could answer, Mrs. Lopez put an arm around her shoulder and said, “She changed her mind. When you lose your husband, well, it’s hard to think, hard to make decisions for a while.”

  Marj nodded, agreeing with her.

  I just stared from one to the other, amazed. But then I looked again: Under the bright lights of the gymnasium, Marj’s eyes were pale smudges of blue-gray. Last night, when everything was dark and quiet in the house, I had heard her crying. Neither of us was sleeping well.

  Mrs. Lopez continued, “Of course, she was scared coming in. She didn’t know us. But Griff told us all about her. She has amigos already, she just has to meet them.” She pulled Marj tighter, into a protective hug.

  Throwing up my hands, I shook my head. Maybe I did understand a little bit, maybe it was okay. But I had to try again with Mrs. Lopez: “Please, I just need one minute to talk to you. About the Bread Project–”

  “Ah, that.” Her brow furrowed, then cleared. “There’s time for that later, mi amigo. Find me later.” Mrs. Lopez’s easy-going ways were almost impossible to argue with.

  I opened my mouth. Then shut it. I did want Marj and Mrs. Lopez to talk and be friends. I did want Mrs. Lopez to introduce Marj around. But I didn’t want them to talk about the Bread Project. Now that I’d been dumb enough to mention it, though, they probably would. “Sure,” I said. “I’ll find you later.”

  Mentally, I shifted gears: “Say, have you seen Toby tonight?”

  “Si. He’s here somewhere,” Mrs. Lopez said.

  Despite everything, I felt a small thrill. School was starting, and Toby and I were in sixth grade, the oldest. The leaders.

  Another PTA mom took over the membership table. “Take a long break if you need,” she told Mrs. Lopez.

  Figuring they were done with me, I turned toward the booths and came face-to-face with a scrawny girl who came out of nowhere–she startled me. Her lips were blue, blue from eating cotton candy. Stumbling back, I mumbled, “Sorry.”

  Mrs. Lopez said, “Eliot, this is Alli. She’s new, and she’s sixth grade, like you. Can she go around with you and Toby?”

  ALLI

  Mr. Porter dumped me just inside the front door of the gymnasium.

  He walked in, saw this woman and said, “Mrs. Lopez, I have to work the game outside. Can you keep an eye on Alli? You heard she’s staying with us for a while?”

  Mrs. Lopez leaned over and pulled a stack of shirts out of a large box. “Your first try at a foster child, si?” She shook out a tiny shirt–must have been an XXX-small–and folded it, while Mr. Porter introduced me to her.

  “Si, leave her to me.” Mrs. Lopez pointed at some fake palm trees. “Sit over there for now.” She shook out another shirt and started smoothing it flat. “When things calm down,” she said, “maybe we can walk around.”

  “Can’t I walk around by myself?” I protested.

  Mr. Porter winced. My voice had that effect on some people. Talk softer, some said to me. But that didn’t help, my voice was just rough.

  Mr. Porter said, “No, you can’t go around alone. Not your first week with us. The state says someone has to be watching you.”

  I frowned, irritated at being treated like a child. But I finally shrugged, realizing that there was no fighting the red-tape. I’d just wait until Mrs. Lopez was busy, and then I’d look around.

  “Thanks,” Mr. Porter said to Mrs. Lopez. “You need anything else?”

  “No, you helped enough, getting all the tables set up, carrying in all our boxes. Gracias.” Mr. Porter shot me a last order: “Don’t wander off, Alli. Make sure Mrs. Lopez knows where you are. I’ll be outside, in back. Have a good time.” Then he walked off, energetic-like, with his hands in his jeans pockets.

  And there I was. Alone.

  So what? I could take care of myself.

  Volleyball poles and construction paper leaves–what a sad palm tree. But the base of the pole was a tire, a decent place to sit. I dug into the pocket of my school uniform, found the money from Miss Porter, Mr. Porter’s sister, bought blue cotton candy and sat down. To watch. To get an idea of what this place was like.

  Families started to trickle in. Mostly little kids. But now and then someone who might be in my grade, sixth grade. At my old school, I was supposed to be the spelling bee champ this year, supposed to be with my friends for one last year before moving up–instead, I had to change schools. And the first day here, I was abandoned.

  Abandoned: Latin derivation: Forsaken or deserted. A-b-a-n-d-o-n-e-d.

  Would sixth grade be easy at this school? How long would I be here? Where would I be for the seventh grade? Seemed like all I ever did was ask questions that had no answers. Like, was Mandy okay?

  “Eliot Winston!”

  I winced at the loud voice and missed the rest of what was said. I didn’t miss who said it, though, Mrs. Lopez. Over her other clothes, she had pulled on a school T-shirt in an awful shade of green. “Perfectly dreadful color,” as Mrs. Ferguson, the art teacher from my old school would have said.

  Mrs. Lopez marched up to a skinny boy, then grabbed and hugged him. Like a pit bull clamping down on a Chihuahua puppy. I guessed he was the fourth or fifth grade. Finally, the boy–Eliot, she called him–squirmed loose.

  ‘Course I didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but then nobody ever notices me.

  “Really, just one minute,” Eliot said. “About the Bread Project, just one–”

  Bread Project? What was that? The boy acted like he didn’t want his mom to know about it. Was it something important at this school?

  I stood and stretched and thought I’d walk around now that Mrs. Lopez was busy with that kid. Over by the door, huddling like they were afraid to move, were two girls wearing head scarves. Probably the new girls from the Herat family. When I registered for school yesterday, the counselor was talking about them. About the Kurdish family with nieces coming in soon. About this neighborhood, south Nashville, which had people from over 40 nations. Kurds, Somalians, Sudanese, Egyptians, Arabs, Indians, and lots of Hispanics from lots of South American countries. The counselor had a world map on her wall with pins stuck in it. Her third year at the school, she said, and she couldn’t believe immigrants were still coming in so fast.

  Just then, the gym doors pushed open, and a tall, dark-skinned boy entered, followed by his mom in a bright red sari. An Indian family, I guessed. Or Pakistani. Or something. The door almost slammed on the mother, and she reached out to jerk an earplug from the boy’s ear.

  “And keep that off so you can hear me,” she scolded. At the PTA table, she picked up a green T-shirt and held it to the boy’s back. “What size are you wearing now?”

  Mothers. They had a hard time keeping track of things. Like changing shirt sizes. And allowances. I patted the last dollar in my pocket. Mom and Dad–

  –no, Mandy and Ted. I had to remember not to call them Mom and Dad any more.

  Mandy and Ted had given me an allowance from the monthly state support check. But I’d heard stories about some foster parents who kept all the check to themselves. Mr. Porter had just frowned when I’d asked for money tonight. But then Miss Porter had pulled out two dollars, so he hadn’t said anything for sure.

  “Alli Flynn!”

  Mrs. Lopez was motioning to me. Oh, great. So much for looking around on my own. I strolled over. Just as I got to the PTA table, Eliot spun around—

  Hey! Were those arms or long pieces of spaghetti slapping at my face? “Look out!” I yelled.

  He jerked back and mumbled, “Sorry.”

  He was skinny and had brown hair.

  Mrs. Lopez said, “Eliot, this is Alli. She’s new, and she’s sixth grade, like you. She needs someone to show her around
. Can she go around with you and Toby?”

  Eliot looked me up and down.

  Mr. Porter had bought me used school uniforms before he even saw me, assuming I’d be the size of an average sixth grader instead of an average fifth grader. Okay, fourth grader, maybe. And then, he made me wear the uniform tonight.

  Eliot said, “You can’t be sixth grade. You’re too little.”

  We were about the same height: he was just an inch taller, so I didn’t see why he wanted to be insulting. But I said nothing. Too much trouble.

  To Mrs. Lopez, Eliot said, “Whatever.”

  “Eliot!” his mother said. “You know better.”

  Mrs. Lopez nodded approval at his mom.

  Eliot didn’t look at me. Just frowned, and said, “Yes, ma’am. She can go with us.”

  Mrs. Lopez led Eliot’s mom toward a group of parents.

  Eliot walked past me and I threw the paper cone–all that was left of the cotton candy–into the blue trash barrel and followed. Ignoring me, he walked on tiptoe, trying to see over the crowd. His head swiveled back and forth apparently searching for someone.

  No luck on the first aisle.

  Suddenly, he shoved forward down the middle aisle, like he was afraid someone would disappear. He glanced back to see if I was following, dodged two clusters of foreign-looking people, and kept going.

  I kept up: he couldn’t lose me. Not till I wanted to be lost.

  Eliot stopped in front of a group of white-blond kids. “Toby!”

  Five turquoise T-shirts stared at Eliot. No, six. Even the mother wore a turquoise T-shirt and jean shorts. They didn’t need to dress alike, not with that white-blond hair. They looked crazy, like identical Easter Eggs.

  The mother headed straight for Eliot and wrapped him in a turquoise hug. “You poor, precious boy!”

  Well, I felt sorry for him, too. Did every adult think they needed to hug him like that? And why were they doing that? What had happened to make him so–well, so precious?

  He was faster at getting out of the hug this time. The oldest boy just shrugged at Eliot. That must be Toby.

  The mother finally turned loose and stared at me. “And who is this?”