Longing for Normal Read online

  “New girl, sixth grade,” Eliot said. “Name’s Alli.” To me, he said, “Alli, this is Mrs. Zane. And her kids.”

  I nodded to Mrs. Zane and reached out to shake her hand. But the smallest blond kid, a girl with short, straight hair, dashed away, arms stretched up and yelling, “Ba-Woon!”

  Sure enough, the girl’s red balloon floated upward. There, bumping along the ceiling, were a half dozen other balloons.

  “Veronica!” The mother chased the girl down and grabbed her hand. “We’ll get you a new balloon.”

  The mother saw me watching. I nodded up at the floating balloons and shook my head in sympathy. She smiled back, and then scooped up her daughter.

  Veronica’s red balloon reminded me of another balloon, a big one. Ted, my foster father–my old foster father, I reminded myself–was a hot air balloonist. His balloon was totally huge, tomato red, and totally wonderful. The first time I saw it was my first day at Mandy and Ted’s house. First grade. We drove out to a field somewhere, and Ted laid out the balloon in the grass. As it inflated, I shouted, I ran around it, I patted it, and finally, I stood frozen, awed, as it stretched up, up, up. When it was fully inflated, I begged for a ride.

  That first time five years ago, I couldn’t see over the top of the basket. Ted held me up, tight and safe. We stared at the silent world below us. Cotton fields, rice fields. And he pointed out the school in the distance and explained that was where I would go the next day.

  Now? Mandy was expecting her own daughter, except things weren’t going so good. Mandy was on complete bed rest. I tried to help, bringing up a tray with a snack of cheese and crackers.

  But through the bedroom door, I heard Ted saying, “We agreed. We had a good home and there were kids who needed a safe place.”

  “But you never wanted to adopt.” I could imagine the way Mandy’s hand would flutter toward him, the way it always did when he disagreed with her.

  There was a long silence.

  “We didn’t know it would take so long for me to get pregnant,” Mandy said.

  “Alli has been safe with us,” Ted said, as if reassuring himself. “Happy.”

  “For a long time,” Mandy agreed.

  “How much more would anyone expect us to do?”

  “You’re the one who never wanted to adopt, you said that.” Mandy said. “Alli was only supposed to be here until we had our own baby.”

  And I felt like I had been stabbed. I had to grip the tray hard so it wouldn’t fall. I leaned against the wall and slid to the floor. Behind the door, there was just silence. I could imagine Mandy’s hand resting on the bump in her belly, the baby they both wanted.

  “We did agree.” Ted’s voice was cold. Just like his heart.

  I had left the tray outside the bedroom and fled to my room.

  I coughed now, burying the words, blocking the memory.

  A booth across the aisle caught my attention. I stared at yellow duckies floating in a plastic swimming pool, and tried to calm my breathing.

  "Just a nickel!" said the adult working that booth. He wore yellow gloves, I guess to keep his hands dry. "For a nickel you can pick up any duck you want. We'll see if a prize is written on the bottom."

  The prizes–stuffed animals and plastic toys–crowded the shelf above the pool.

  I backed away, whispering, "No. I'll just watch."

  A family strolled over to try their luck. Identical twins, dark-haired boys, each handed over a nickel. Julio and Juan, the parents called them.

  Juan won, but Julio didn’t. ‘Course, that started a fight, so they had to try again. More nickels.

  Calmer now, I leaned on the corner of the booth and listened. Eliot was saying, “Mrs. Zane, could I talk to you for a minute?”

  “Sure, honey. What do you need?”

  “Could you talk to Marj? About the Bread Project–”

  “She doesn’t know if she wants to do it?” Mrs. Zane said.

  There was that Bread Project thing again, what was it? I glanced back at the yellow duckies. Julio and Juan had both won this time, and they high-fived.

  “Right,” Eliot said, and his voice was tense, like this was something important. “And–”

  But Mrs. Zane wasn’t listening. The three middle brothers were throwing balls at milk bottles, while Toby cheered for them. Absently, she said, “The Project is a great idea, isn’t it? Perfect, in fact.”

  “No!” Eliot said. “I don’t think–”

  Then the smallest blond boy knocked over all his milk bottles, and Mrs. Zane put her fingers to her mouth, and boy, did she whistle.

  That whistle, so shrill and piercing. It was so loud the whole gym got quiet.

  Ba-boom, ba-boom, the drumbeat from the loud speaker’s music filled the silence.

  An aisle away, but still easy to hear, someone said, “Just the Zany Zanes again.”

  To my surprise, Mrs. Zane laughed. “The Zany Zanes, that’s us.”

  Smiling, I said, “The Mighty Whistler.”

  “No,” Mrs. Zane said, “just a mom with a lot of hot air.”

  I laughed, making Veronica squirm in her mother’s arms, twisting to see who was laughing.

  Which made me laugh even more.

  Veronica’s face lit up, the balloon finally forgotten, and she was laughing with me.

  By now, the Zane brothers were racing around the corner to start down the next aisle. Quickly, Mrs. Zane followed the trail of three blond tornadoes. Just before she disappeared, she called back, “Don’t worry, Eliot. I’ll talk to Marj, and we’ll get the Bread Project going.”

  Left behind in peace, Toby said, “Thought you didn’t like the Bread Project.”

  “I don’t,” Eliot said. “Marj says it will honor Griff’s memory. But it was his idea and without him–” Eliot tilted his head back and looked at the balloons that still bounced on the ceiling. His voice quivered, “Without Griff, what’s the point? With him gone, well, I just want to be left alone. To make it through this school year by myself, my way. No one poking around, asking me how I’m feeling. It’s private.” He squeezed his eyes tight and whispered, “It feels so private it’s hard to even SAY that it’s private. Don’t want my business out there like this whole Project would make it.” He shook his head and looked at Toby then. “But your Mom won’t listen. Mrs. Lopez won’t listen.”

  “No one really listens till you hit 40 years old.” Toby shrugged. “So, just try Mrs. Lopez again later.”

  Eliot coughed and rubbed his eyes, and I worried that he might cry right there. Instead, he sighed. “Yeah, later.”

  I stepped forward, curious now. “What is the Bread Project?”

  They both jerked around at the sound of my voice.

  “Well.” Eliot pushed his hair off his forehead. “It’s a fund raiser for the school, an idea my dad had.” He stopped and blinked.

  Toby finished it: “But his Dad’s not here; he died this summer. Someone else needs to think of a fund raiser and not use his idea.”

  Eliot looked away. Casually, like he didn’t care about anything, he waved at the booths around us. “It’s the same baby games we get every year.”

  So, he didn’t want to talk about it. I understood that: I had things I didn’t want to talk about either.

  He was right about the games: knock down the milk jars, throw beanbags into a lion’s mouth, and guess which cup had the ball.

  “Like every other school party,” I agreed.

  Toby asked, “You been outside yet?”

  “Nope,” said Eliot.

  “They set up one of those water games, where you throw a baseball at a target and–” Toby’s eyes gleamed, “–if it hits bull’s eye, it dumps someone into a tank of water.”

  Now that made me mad. Mr. Porter dumped me off instead of asking if I wanted to see the most interesting game at the party. He was probably even in charge of that game and didn’t tell me about it, just left me with Mrs. Lopez. And Mrs. Lopez dumped me off on Eliot and Toby. Well, she
wasn’t here now, and I didn’t have to pretend to like these boys any more. “Go on,” I said. “I’ll come out later.” As soon as they left, I’d go outside by myself.

  Eliot didn’t have to pretend to like me, either. “Sure. See you later.”

  They walked away.

  And there I was again, alone.

  So what? I could still take care of myself.

  ELIOT

  “Who’s getting dunked in the water game?” I asked.

  “Teachers. PTA. Even Mr. Benton,” Toby said.

  To hide my grin, I started walking toward the back doors. Over my shoulder, I said, casually, “Bet you can’t hit the target and drop someone into the water.”

  Toby caught me and spun me around. “Bet I can.”

  I waited, relieved that Toby had taken my bait. He was a good baseball pitcher, just not as strong as adults, so he had a shot at winning.

  Toby rocked from heel to toe, toe to heel and stuck out his chest. “I’ve got ten dollars that says I can hit that target. Standard terms.”

  Our standard terms meant that for every five dollars I lost, I did an hour of mowing at his dad’s apartments for him. Not that I lost often. Most of the time, I helped Toby mow anyway, just so he’d get done faster. Losing didn’t change much for me.

  But ten dollars wasn’t enough: I crossed my arms.

  “OK, twenty,” Toby said.

  I was hoping for more than that. Starting school, I needed lots of cash. Marj had bought me school uniforms, some supplies. But lunch money, socks, I’d have to do on my own, so I wouldn’t have to bother her. And pencils. I always push hard when I write and break pencil leads, so I go through them fast.

  When I didn’t say anything, Toby’s chest puffed out even more, and he said, “It costs a dollar for three baseballs.”

  “I’ll pay for the balls.”

  “OK. Twenty-five.”

  “Done.” I slapped Toby’s hand, and we headed outside. “If you can’t drop someone into the water with just three balls, you owe me. If you do drop them, I owe you five hours of mowing.”

  This summer, when Toby and I started betting about everything, I had learned. Repeat the bet exactly. Otherwise, Toby would argue, and I’d get nothing. We both knew what was going on, of course. Toby is a friend, but we both have our pride: he couldn’t just hand over cash, I had to earn it.

  We stopped at the back door where the school buses unloaded. Without meaning to, I looked down the south hallway. It was silent.

  Toby looked straight ahead. “Been back to Griff’s office yet?”

  “Nope.” I was struck by a wave of sadness so deep there were no words for it. I laid my palm on the concrete block wall, needing the reassurance of something solid. The hallway stretched away into darkness.

  Quietly, Toby pulled open the door and stepped outside. A warm breeze blew in. I shivered, appreciating that he left me alone. He had no idea how empty, how hollow I felt. No one could know. It felt like a heavy stone of misery had been crammed inside a tiny bottle that was squeezed inside a fist so tight that no one could pry it open.

  They couldn’t do that Bread Project, they couldn’t.

  Oh, I knew that people wanted to talk about Griff, wanted to share stories. Everyone knew him; everyone loved him. So, I had started a website about Griff’s life and sent messages about it to people on his email list. They were sending in old pictures or writing stories about him. That was a public face, and I could deal with it because on the Internet you can hold people at an arm’s length. And you could keep it secret from Marj and your teachers–at least for a while. I just couldn’t do the Bread Project here, not at the school where I would have to deal with it every day.

  I’d talk to Mrs. Lopez again tonight, and this time, she had to listen. I took a deep breath, then another, until I was calmer and could follow Toby outside.

  In the parking lot, the water tank sat under a bright streetlight, surrounded by a low fence to keep people back a ways. So, here’s where the fifth and sixth graders had hidden. Brad Garcia, Kinesha Johnson, and a dozen or so other sixth graders were watching. Good. The only way to push back the sadness was to stay busy. Lots of people and lots of action were very good.

  I jerked my head away from the crowd and stared at the tank. “Who’s on the dunking board? Can you see?”

  “Kinesha’s mother, Mrs. Johnson,” Toby said.

  Beside us, someone said, “Mr. Benton is up next.”

  Toby grinned. “That’s who I’m going to dunk.”

  We pushed through the crowd to the front. The water tank was old aluminum, pitted everywhere. Four feet deep, about ten feet across. The platform for the dunking victim hung about four feet above the water. To get on it, you climbed five steps at the back of the tank. At the side, the platform connected to a target. A faded target with faded white circles, not even a red bull’s eye. Mostly just gray aluminum.

  Working the water tank was Mr. Porter, the sixth grade social studies teacher. Under the streetlight, his face was as pitted as the aluminum tank. Even his eyes were gray irises within a faded white circle. I had been at this school for the last four years and I had never seen him smile. Wasn’t looking forward to being in his class this year.

  One of the dads, a guy with long arms, stepped up to the throwing line. He tossed the ball up and down. Then, almost without looking or aiming, he wound up and threw.

  Clang! The ball bounced off the target.

  We yelled disappointment, along with everyone else: Mrs. Johnson stayed dry.

  She whistled “Amazing Grace,” off-tune, like she didn’t care if she fell in or not.

  Yeah, right. I could see she was holding on tight.

  I kept track of the next six throws. Four hit just left of center and two went wild. Would have gone across the street and knocked out a car window, except someone was smart enough to set up a net to catch the balls.

  Another dad stepped up. Tipping back his baseball cap, he called, “Ready to get wet?”

  “You couldn’t hit a barn,” Mrs. Johnson hooted back.

  This dad was a southpaw, a leftie. He wound up, then whipped his arm around. Clang!

  Dead center!

  Mrs. Johnson must have felt the mechanism beneath her move: her mouth puckered in surprise—Oh!—then she plummeted—Splash!

  Hoots and hollers, everyone cheered.

  Mrs. Johnson came up spluttering, but grinning. “Towel. Where’s the towel?” She wiped off her shiny brown face and toweled her hair while wading to the stairs in back.

  Mr. Porter had reset the platform and now called, “Who’s up next?”

  Mr. Benton raised both hands, “That’s me.”

  A whoop rose from the kids. A chance to dunk the principal!

  Mr. Benton was African-American, tall and dark, with a shaved bald head. Parents liked him all right, and for a principal, he was okay. Tonight, he wore basketball shorts, a school T-shirt and flip-flops, ready to get wet.

  While Mr. Benton climbed onto the Victim’s Throne, we rushed to line up. I’d been ready for this, and held off younger kids for Toby to get near the front, third in line. Waiting, Toby rocked back and forth again. Nervous.

  A little kid, maybe a third grader, was the first to throw. “You’re gonna get wet!” he called to Mr. Benton, and his friends all laughed and cheered.

  Over the heads of the two in front of us, Mr. Porter spotted me and asked, “So. Is the Bread Project on or off?”

  I lifted a shoulder. “Don’t know.”

  “Well, I hope that project is off,” Mr. Porter said. “Everyone baking bread as a fund raiser? I told Griff last spring, when he first started talking about it, it won’t work.”

  At last, someone who was against the Bread Project. But not someone who was likely to help. Embarrassed, I concentrated on Mr. Benton, who was kicking his long legs in the water.

  “There you are, Toby. Are you about to throw?” Mrs. Zane suddenly appeared. She still had Veronica on her hip, and the
smaller boys trailed after her. Her eyes widened. “Oh, Mr. Benton is on the dunking seat. What fun! Look, boys!”

  The blond boys squirmed past me and into the front of the crowd, pushing against the short fence that held everyone back.

  “Mr. Porter. So nice to see you.” Mrs. Zane reached past me to shake Mr. Porter’s hand, then said, “How’s the new foster girl working out? What’s her name?”

  Foster girl? Mr. Porter and his sister? I groaned in disgust. My days in foster care were long gone, but I would never forget how bad they were.

  “Her name is Alli Flynn.”

  “Where is she tonight?”

  Mr. Porter pointed behind us.

  Startled, I spun around: Alli was two people back. I thought she had stayed inside, but here she was. I hadn’t known she was living with Mr. Porter. Poor kid. He would be one of the worst foster parents. Always thinking how he was doing her a big favor.

  Mrs. Zane called, “Hello, Alli. Going to throw?”

  Alli nodded back.

  Mrs. Zane said, “Mr. Porter, it was so thoughtful of you to bring her to the party. She needs to meet people, and you’re already doing a great job with her.”

  “Thank you.” Mr. Porter shrugged, his thin shoulders jerking up, then down. “It’s my first time, but I’ll do my best.”

  I ground my teeth and thought of Alli as I’d first seen her, abandoned in the gym. Would I be in her shoes soon? Never.

  Looking at Toby and me, Mr. Porter said, “Are you going to throw balls or just stand there?”

  Startled that we were up already, I dug into my jean pocket and pulled out my last dollar. The paper was limp from the folding and re-folding. I exchanged it for three baseballs.

  “Ready?” I asked Toby, and he nodded.

  The target seemed to be right on: hit it square in the center, and the person would drop.

  “OK, the target is a bit off,” I said. “Pull to the left and you’ll drop him.”

  Toby glanced at me and tightened his jaw. Then he focused on the gray and white circles.

  His brothers started a chant, “Drop him! Drop him! Drop him!” And the crowd took it up.

  Toby made a show of winding up. He flung the ball. Clang!