Chapter Twenty-Eight
Normalcy
When I wake up, my head feels completely normal. No aching. No pounding. I stretch my arms and squint against the sunlight streaming through my window. Somehow, my body feels lighter. I rub the sleep out of my eyes, then touch my fingers against my lips. Was Luka really about to kiss me last night? The question sends a ripple of heat through my belly.
I hop out of bed, feeling well rested for the first time in weeks. No, months. Could the medicine really have taken effect that quickly? I take my time getting ready, marveling at the lightness of my mood. When I step into the kitchen, whatever heated conversation my parents are having comes to a screeching halt. Mom shuts off the morning news. Dad closes the newspaper and pulls it into his lap. They have taken to hiding these things from me, as if doing so would lessen my obsession. Whistling, I unwrap a Pop-Tart and sit at the table, uninterested in the newspaper he’s trying to hide. I don’t care about it, because I didn’t have any dreams last night.
Not one.
“Did you sleep well?” Mom asks from the sink, raising her eyebrows at Dad.
“Like a rock.” I pop a piece of Pop-Tart into my mouth.
Dad sets the paper on the table. “You look good.”
“Thanks.” I wash the Pop-Tart down with a glass of water and remove the pill bottle from the front pocket of my backpack. I twist off the cap and rattle two into my palm. Funny how something that caused so much angst last night feels like my new best friend this morning. I swallow them happily, give my mom a peck on her cheek, my dad a peck on the crown of his head, shrug my backpack over my shoulder, and meet Pete in the foyer. Even his surly face cannot dampen my mood. Let him be surly.
I don’t care. It’s not my problem.
With a smile on my face—the first smile I’ve smiled in weeks—I slide my feet into my shoes, step outside, and spot Luka leaning casually against his car. My left pinky heats with the memory of his curled around mine. He squints at me through the morning brightness. “Wanna hitch a ride with me today?” he calls over.
Carpooling to school? This is new.
Feeling brave, I toss the keys to Pete and change course, no longer heading toward my car but Luka’s.
He cocks his head as I approach. “You’re looking cheery this morning.”
“Is that a bad thing?”
“No, not at all.” He opens my door with a grin.
“What?”
“Maybe you should share those pills with me.”
“Maybe I will.” I wink, then slide into the passenger seat, taken aback by my behavior. Was I just flirting?
Luka walks around the front of the car and gets behind the wheel. Being in such close quarters with him without Pete, especially in light of last night, leaves me feeling all kinds of jittery. “I take it you didn’t have any dreams last night?” he asks.
I put concerted effort into thinking back. I remember the shock of seeing Luka framed in my window. I remember him standing very, very close. I remember my dad knocking and Luka leaving and then I remember … waking up. “Not a single one.”
He places his hand on the back of my seat and reverses out of the drive. “Hmm.”
“What?”
“Worked fast.” He turns onto the highway that will bring us to school, his stare heating the side of my face. It’s like a beam of sunshine. “You look good,” he finally says.
The words are the same as my dad’s, but the effect of them is much, much different. Blood not only rushes into my cheeks, it spreads up my forehead and down my neck. I guess the pills haven’t cured my blushing problem. “Thanks.”
We ride the rest of the way in charged silence. It’s like the medication has made me hyper aware. I notice everything about him—the way the sun falls on his profile, his pointer finger tapping the wheel, his tan arm resting on the console between us, even the rhythm of his breathing. What’s crazy? He seems equally aware of me.
The spell isn’t broken until he pulls into the parking lot—a hive of teenage activity. Car doors slamming. Music playing. A group of boys kicking around a hacky sack in the front lawn as one of the stoners—too gutsy for his own good—stamps out a cigarette. Students walking in twos and threes, making their way toward another day of high school delirium, taking their sweet time in order to enjoy the rare sunshine and warmth that is so scarce in early December.
Luka pulls into a parking space and turns off the engine. “Wait here.”
Sunshine silhouettes his messy hair while he makes his way around the front and waves at a kid who calls out his name. He opens my door. It feels silly. I can open my own door. But I also like it.
We walk side-by-side through the parking lot, our knuckles brushing a couple times. People watch us, like always, but the animosity that was so glaringly obvious yesterday has vanished. Instead, the girls look resigned and the boys, curious. They stare intently, as if searching for whatever they missed the first few times around.
Inside, Leela stands at my locker. I experience a surge of love for this friend who has stuck by my side during one of the darkest months of my life. When she spots Luka, her cheeks flush. She gives me a giddy smile. You’d think after a month, she’d be accustomed to his presence. But then, you’d think I would too. Apparently, Luka is not the type you ever grow accustomed to.
“So,” she says, “it’s throwback night at the theater. They’re playing all these old-school, amazing films. Please say you’ll go.” Her attention shifts from me to Luka, her hands clasped beneath her chin.
He shrugs. “I’m a fan of movies.”
Leela claps her hands and gives a little cheer. “You in, Tess?”
I look around. Students, lockers, a drinking fountain, some windows, and a lot of chatter. No flickers. No pockets of inexplicable coldness. No weird lights or masses of darkness or creepy men with white eyes. I wonder if Luka sees anything. I wonder if anything is there, only blocked by the medicine. If so, I could never tell. Luka is so good at ignoring the things I cannot. I search for the slightest clue, but he leans against the locker looking every inch at ease.
He catches me staring and smiles a smile so irresistible my stomach does a loop-de-loop. And I’m smiling too. Because I feel so normal, so light. I beam at Leela, my best friend, while the popular boy who might have almost kissed me last night stands close to my side. “I think that sounds like fun.”
For the first time in my life, I get my birthday wish. I am normal. In fact, I’m better than normal. It’s like the medicine has not only fixed my mental problems, it has fixed everything. My parents no longer argue. The rumors at school have disappeared, and somehow, so has the graffiti in the girl’s bathroom. If Summer overheard the conversation between Luka and me in the library, she hasn’t said anything to anyone. My classmates are actually nice.
Luka and I don’t talk about weird stuff anymore. If he’s still seeing things, he doesn’t share and I don’t ask. I’d rather pretend none of it existed. If this bothers him, he doesn’t let on. Every now and then, I’ll spot a flicker of something—concern, maybe?—in his eyes or I’ll catch him watching me in a way I don’t quite understand, but overall, he seems relieved that I am happy and my dark circles are gone.
I don’t have dreams.
Not bad ones or good ones. My sleeping hours are blank. Sometimes I’ll wake up with an inkling of something, but it’s all so vague and blurry and easy to forget that I let the inkling float away, despite Dr. Roth’s pleas that I at least try to remember.
At school, our lunch table grows. We’ve jumped from two—me and Leela—to a full house, with extra chairs crammed in between. After Luka joined us, more followed. An artsy girl named Serendipity—formerly on the fringe of the popular crowd—came first. Shortly after, Bobbi followed and with her came Matt and a very repentant Jennalee, whose sugary sweetness makes me want to gag. Beamer, the kid with highlights and skinny jeans, comes too, along with a couple others. Summer stays away, sitting at the old table, head down
, Jared faithfully by her side. Sometimes, though, I catch her looking at me. I can never read her expression.
Despite my new-found friends, I spend the bulk of my time with Leela. And Luka. People ask what we are, but I never know how to respond. He hasn’t tried kissing me again, if that’s what he was trying to do all those nights ago when I took my first dose of medicine. All I know is that we spend a lot of time together and much of that time, there exists this unexplained thing between us, this odd sort of gravity, like we are two magnets being pulled together. It would be easy to chalk it up to wishful thinking on my part if not for Leela.
“Sheesh,” she likes to say, “the way he looks at you is so intense, even I feel light-headed. And he’s not even looking at me!”
Life—at least my life—is better than it’s ever been.
There are only three gloomy spots.
My brother remains distant, Luka’s mother’s disposition toward me does not improve, and the world spins into a bigger and bigger mess. My medicine has not fixed any of those. But it’s hard to worry. Luka doesn’t seem to care what his mother thinks. Pete’s been so well-adjusted up until this point that surely, teenage hormones were bound to hit him sooner or later. It doesn’t seem fair for any teenager to pass through these years without at least some measure of angst. And as far as the world? I don’t know. The unrest in Africa? The talk of a third world war? The escalating violence surrounding the fetal modification clinics and the massive increase in incarcerations? It’s hard to care. All of those things are so far removed from my life in Thornsdale. Besides, the chaos makes my father’s job one of the most secure in the country.
For Christmas, Leela organizes a secret Santa and I draw Bobbi’s name. I settle on a pair of earrings from this art deco place downtown and a chocolate bar, then sneak a small box of sugar-cookie scented car air fresheners to Leela. I found them while out and about and couldn’t resist. Sugar cookies are her favorite. Unfortunately, Beamer picks my name, which means I receive gifts more reminiscent of Valentine’s Day than Christmas. And even though Luka got Serendipity, I find a dream-catcher in my locker the last day before winter break, along with a note that says simply:
Merry Christmas, Tess.
Yours,
Luka
Something about the word before his signature makes my cheeks warm.
I spend a quiet Christmas with my family and the rest of the break hanging out with our lunch group—going to movies or trying different restaurants in Thornsdale or attending the occasional get-together, most often at Bobbi’s. She has a party on New Year’s Eve and I’m so nervous about midnight and Luka and kissing that I drag Leela with me to the bathroom the second the countdown begins, then spend the drive home regretting my cowardice.
Luka and I are rarely alone, which is both a relief and a disappointment. He has not climbed the lattice up to my bedroom window since that first night I took my medicine, but he does make a point of being out on his back deck whenever I’m out on mine, where we spend time talking across a span of too much distance.
On the first day back to school, Mr. Lotsam has us choose an article to read in the New Year edition of USA Today. It covers everything from the upcoming inauguration of our nation’s first independent president to a piece on B-Trix’s new album and the excitement surrounding her upcoming stateside tour, which (to Mr. Lotsam’s disappointment) the majority of class decides to focus on. I pass over a passionately written op-ed about individual privacy verses national security and whether or not the Department of Security and Defense is overstepping their bounds, and eventually settle on a surprisingly upbeat special interest story about life in our country’s largest refugee community.
At lunch, Bobbi and Leela regale us all with funny stories from their family Christmas gathering. Serendipity laughs so hard milk comes out of her nose, which makes me like her more than I already do. Afterward, we walk together to Honors English with matching smiles plastered on our faces.
When I step inside the classroom, there’s a man sitting at Mrs. Meecher’s desk. He has leathery skin, a cleft in his chin, and eyes as dark as his hair. Something about him gives me the creeps. I shake away the feeling and follow Serendipity toward a couple desks off to the right while he writes his name on the chalkboard.
Mr. Rathbone.
“While Mrs. Meecher is away, I’ll be your long-term sub.”
All of us shift in our seats, my disappointment sharp. I love Mrs. Meecher, with her flyaway hair and chalked-up blouses. She’s so caught up in her passion for literature that she runs the class more like an engaging book club than an honors high school course. Jason Brane—whose last name, pronounced brain, is completely appropriate—raises his hand. “What’s wrong with her?” he asks.
“She’s ill.”
We all exchange looks. As far as any of us could tell, Mrs. Meecher looked perfectly healthy before break and that was only a week and a half ago.
“How long-term will you be?” Jason asks.
“Indefinitely.”
Wren stumbles into the classroom—her hair shaved except for a strip of neon pink down the center of her head. A new hairdo, apparently. She glares at everybody who stares at her and slides into the empty seat next to me, smelling strongly of marijuana.
Mr. Rathbone either doesn’t care or doesn’t notice. He takes roll call and when he reaches my name, his gaze is heavy and steady and unnerving. A tiny raincloud infiltrates the sunshine that’s been my life and hovers over my head. I wonder if I’m imagining his prolonged attention. I wonder if I’m having a delusion. A wave of panic rolls through my body. Did I forget my medicine this morning? I squish up one eye, trying to remember. No, I took it. Right after I brushed my teeth, like I always do. Another wave of panic follows the first. Is it possible that the medicine is already starting to lose its effectiveness?
I shake the worry away. So what if he’s looking at me more than the other students? There could be any number of reasons why. For all I know, I could remind him of a niece who lives somewhere in Michigan.
As soon as he finishes, we get out our books—tattered copies of Mein Kampf. Hitler’s memoir is both disturbing and enthralling. But the sub shakes his head and tells us to put them away. Then he writes out two words on the chalkboard that elicit a collective groan.
Family Tree.
“Excuse me, Mr. Rathbone?” Jason holds up his book. “We’re supposed to discuss the final three chapters of this today. Several of us came to class with discussion questions.”
Mr. Rathbone stares at Jason with that same inscrutable face, then jerks his head at the two words on the board. “I’d like everyone to complete a family tree by next week. I want you to look into your genealogy. It’s good to know where you come from.”
“What does this have to do with literature?” Jason asks.
“I’m the teacher, Mr. Brane.”
I’m impressed Rathbone remembers Jason’s last name.
Wren raises her hand. “I object to this assignment. It’s racist against adopted people.”
Jason scoffs. “Racist is the wrong word.”
“Whatever. I object. I’m adopted and I have no idea who my birth parents are.”
A few students muffle their laughter. Wren isn’t adopted.
Mr. Rathbone picks up a stack of papers and begins passing them out. “You can use your adoptive parents, then.”
“That’s dumb. I don’t have any of their genes. Isn’t that where the whole word genealogy comes from?”
I skim the paper, a groan forming deep down in my chest. A paragraph about each person on our tree—living and deceased, including the legacy they left behind? I think of my grandmother for the first time in weeks. I do not, under any circumstances, want to do research on her or tell anybody about her legacy. The cloud this Rathbone character brought into my life expands.
Wren hits her head against the table. Her forehead makes a loud thud. Several students look over at he
r, me included. Despite her pink hair and black clothes, I feel a connection with Wren. We are united in our disapproval of this new teacher. I smile, trying to catch her attention, then notice that the small tattoo of the strange symbol on her wrist isn’t there anymore.
I lean forward in my chair, checking her other wrist. It’s not there either. She whips her head up, her eyes narrowed into slits. “What is your deal?”
“Your tattoo is gone—the one on your wrist. Was it henna or something?”
“You are such a freak. I never had a tattoo on my wrist.” And as if to prove her point, she holds up both of her arms to show me.
My ears catch fire. I can feel the class staring. I quickly drop my attention to the paper in front of me, feigning interest. Serendipity nudges me and gives me an amused look, like it’s obvious I’m not the freak. I smile back, but for the first time since taking my medicine, the heaviness returns. I know what I saw before. Wren did too have a tattoo on her wrist.