The Art of Being Normal Read online

  ‘Stay here and don’t answer the door,’ I tell Tia. She’ll only slow me down if I take her with me.

  I put my hoodie on and walk fast, my head down, sweat trickling down my back and sides.

  Outside the shop there’s a bunch of lads from my old school. Luckily they’re distracted, mucking around on their bikes, so I pull my hood up, fastening the zip to the top so all you can see are my eyes. I buy crumpets, Tizer, washing-up liquid and a chocolate Swiss roll that’s past its best-before date.

  When I get home I stick the Tangled DVD on for Tia and give her a pint glass of Tizer and a slice of the Swiss roll while I wash the pots and stick a couple of crumpets in the toaster. When I sit down on the settee she scampers over to me and plants a wet kiss on my cheek.

  ‘Ta, Leo,’ she says. Her mouth is all chocolaty.

  ‘Gerroff,’ I tell her. But she keeps clinging on, like a monkey, and I’m too tired to fight her off. She smells of the salt and vinegar crisps she ate for breakfast.

  Later that night I put Tia to bed. Mam is still out and Amber’s staying over at her boyfriend Carl’s house. Carl is sixteen, a year older than us. Amber met him at the indoor ice rink in town last year. She was mucking about, trying to skate backwards and fell and hit her head on the ice. Carl looked after her and bought her a cherry flavour Slush Puppy. Amber said it was like a scene from a film. Amber’s soppy like that sometimes. When she’s not being soppy, she’s as hard as nails.

  I’m watching some stupid action film on telly with lots of guns and explosions. It’s nearly finished when the security light outside the front door comes on. I sit up. I can make out shadows behind the swirly glass. Mam is laughing as she tries and fails to get her key in the lock. I hear a second laugh – a bloke’s. Great. More fumbling. The door finally swings open and in they fall, collapsing on the stairs giggling. Mam lifts her head up and notices me watching. She stops giggling and clambers to her feet. She puts an unsteady hand on the doorframe and glares.

  ‘What you doing up?’ she asks, kicking the door shut behind her.

  I just shrug. The bloke gets up too, wiping his hands on his jeans. I don’t recognise him.

  ‘All right, our kid?’ he says, holding up his hand in greeting, ‘I’m Spike.’

  Spike has inky black hair and is wearing a battered leather jacket. He has a weird accent. When he says he’s from ‘here, there and everywhere’, Mam starts laughing like he’s said something really hilarious. She goes off to the kitchen to get him a drink. Spike sits down on the sofa and takes off his shoes, plonking his feet on the coffee table. His socks don’t match.

  ‘Who are you then?’ he asks, wiggling his toes and putting his hands behind his head.

  ‘None of your business,’ I reply.

  Mam comes back in, a can of Strongbow in each hand.

  ‘Don’t be so rude,’ she says, handing Spike his can. ‘Tell Spike your name.’

  ‘Leo,’ I say, rolling my eyes.

  ‘I saw that!’ Mam barks. She takes a slurp of her cider and turns to Spike.

  ‘Right little so-and-so this one is. Dunno where he gets it from. Must be from his father’s side.’

  ‘Don’t talk about my dad like that,’ I say.

  ‘I’ll talk about him how I like, thank you very much,’ Mam replies, rummaging in her handbag. ‘He’s a good-for-nothing bastard.’

  ‘He. Is. Not.’ I growl, separating each word.

  ‘Oh really?’ Mam continues, lighting a cigarette and taking a greedy puff on it. ‘Where is he then? If he’s so bloody marvellous, where the bloody hell is he, Leo? Eh?’

  I can’t answer her.

  ‘Exactly,’ she says, taking a triumphant swig of cider.

  I can feel the familiar knot in my stomach forming, my body tensing, my skin getting hot and clammy, my vision fogging. I try to use the techniques Jenny taught me; roll out my shoulders, count to ten, close my eyes, picture myself on a deserted beach, etcetera.

  When I open my eyes Mam and Spike have moved on to the settee, giggling away like I’m not even in the room. Spike’s hand is snaking under Mam’s blouse and Mam is whispering in his ear. She notices me watching and stops what she’s doing.

  ‘And what do you think you’re looking at?’ she asks.

  ‘Nothing,’ I mutter.

  ‘Then get lost will ya.’

  It’s not a question.

  I slam the living room door so hard the entire house shakes.

  5

  Family legend goes that Mam’s waters broke as she was waiting to collect a chicken bhuna, pilau rice and peshwari naan from the Taj Mahal Curry House on Spring Street. Family legend also goes that she was still clutching the naan when she gave birth to Amber an hour later. I took another half an hour. Auntie Kerry says I had to be dragged out with forceps. I must have known that I was better off staying where I was.

  My first memory is of my dad changing my nappy. Amber reckons you can’t remember stuff that far back, but she’s wrong. In the memory I’m lying on the living room floor and the telly is on behind Dad’s shoulder, and he’s singing. It’s not a proper song, just something made up and silly. He has a nice voice. It’s only a short memory, just a few seconds, but it’s as real as anything.

  After that, the next memory I have is knocking Mam’s cup of tea off the coffee table and scalding my chest. I still have the scar. It’s the shape of an eagle with half of one wing missing. I was two and a half by then, and Dad was long gone. I wish I could remember more about him but I can’t – that one memory is all I’ve got. I’ve tried searching for him on the internet of course, but there are hundreds of James Dentons out there, and so far I haven’t found the right one.

  I wonder what he’d think if he could see me now – standing in front of the bathroom mirror wearing an Eden Park School blazer over my T-shirt.

  It’s the following night, and the last day of the summer holidays. Mam called in sick for her shift at the launderette this morning and spent the day in bed with a ‘migraine’. She must be feeling better now though, because ten minutes ago I saw her leave the house and climb into a rusty white car, Spike behind the wheel. Not that I care.

  I stare at my reflection, at the smart-looking stranger staring back. It’s the first time I’ve tried on my blazer since the beginning of the summer holidays, and it’s weird how different it makes me look. There are no blazers at Cloverdale School, just yellow and navy sweatshirts that go bobbly after one wash. When I modelled the blazer for Mam she burst out laughing. ‘Bloody hell, you look like a right ponce!’ she said, before turning up the telly.

  I straighten the lapels and relax my shoulders. I ordered the size up so it’s a bit baggy on me. I don’t mind though; this way I can fit a hoodie underneath. It smells different to my other clothes – expensive and new. It’s burgundy with thin navy stripes and a crest on the right breast pocket with the school motto – aequitatemque et inceptum – stitched underneath. The other day, I went to the library and looked up what it meant on the computer. Apparently it’s Latin for ‘fairness and initiative’. We’ll see.

  Mam and I went to the school for a meeting back in the spring. Eden Park itself was exactly how I’d imagined it, all green and lush with tree-lined streets and little cafés selling organic-this and homemade-that. And even though Eden Park is a state school, just like Cloverdale, the similarities stop there. Not only did the place look different that day, with its smart buildings and tidy grounds, it felt different too; clean and neat and ordered. About a million miles away from Cloverdale.

  My therapist, Jenny, came with Mam and me to the meeting. Mam put on this weird voice that I know she thinks makes her sound posh. She always uses it when she’s around doctors and teachers and trying to be on her best behaviour. We met with the Head Teacher, Mr Toolan, Miss Hannah, the Head of Pastoral Support, and Mrs Sherwin, the Head of Year 11. They asked lots of questions, then me and Mam waited outside while they talked with Jenny. A few times pupils walked past us and gave us funn
y looks. They looked rich. I could tell by their neatly ironed uniforms and shiny hair and Hollister backpacks. Me and Mam must have stuck out like a sore thumb.

  After loads more talking and questions, I was offered a place for Year 11. Jenny was really excited for me. Supposedly people move house just so they can be in the catchment area for Eden Park. Jenny reckons it’ll be a ‘fresh start’ and ‘an opportunity to make some friends’. Jenny’s obsessed with me making friends. She goes on about my ‘social isolation’ like it’s a contagious disease. After all these years she still doesn’t get that social isolation is exactly what I’m after.

  ‘Leo?’

  I step out into the hallway. Tia’s bedroom door is ajar as usual, so she can see the landing light.

  ‘Leo?’ she says again, louder this time. I sigh and push open her door.

  Tia’s room is tiny and a complete wreck, clothes and cuddly toys everywhere and crayon scribbles all over the walls. She sits cross-legged under the duvet cover she inherited from Amber. Once covered in a Flower Fairy print, it’s now so faded and worn that some of the fairies are missing faces or limbs, ghostly white smudges in their place.

  ‘What do you want?’ I ask wearily.

  ‘Will you tuck me in?’

  I sigh and kneel down next to Tia’s bed. She beams and shimmies into a lying-down position. Snot clings to her tiny little nostrils. I pull the duvet up under her chin and turn to go.

  ‘That’s not proper,’ she whines.

  I roll my eyes.

  ‘Please, Leo?’

  ‘For Pete’s sake, Tia.’

  I crouch back down and begin tucking the duvet underneath her, working all the way down her spindly little body until she looks like a mummy.

  ‘How’s that?’ I ask.

  ‘Perfect.’

  ‘Can I go now?’

  She bobs her head up and down. I get up.

  ‘Leo?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I like your jacket.’

  I look down. I still have the blazer on.

  ‘Oh yeah?’

  ‘Yeah, it’s well nice. You look really handsome. Like Prince Eric from The Little Mermaid.’

  I shake my head. ‘Ta, Tia.’

  She smiles serenely and shuts her eyes. ‘You’re welcome.’

  6

  ‘David!’ Mum yells up the stairs. ‘Time to get up!’

  I turn on to my stomach and pull a pillow over my head. A few more minutes pass before my bedroom door creaks open.

  ‘Rise and shine,’ Mum singsongs, creeping across the carpet and peeling back the duvet.

  I snatch it back and pull it over my head, making a cave for myself.

  ‘Five more minutes,’ I say, my voice muffled.

  ‘No way. Up. Now. I won’t have you making Livvy late on her first day at big school.’

  I heave myself out of bed and look in the mirror. I look awful – sweaty and pale with dark circles under my eyes and crease marks across my cheeks. I never sleep well the night before the first day back.

  By 8.30 a.m. I’m sitting in the passenger seat of the car. Livvy is posing for a photograph on the doorstep while Mum weeps behind the lens. Livvy is very photogenic; everyone says so. Mum and Dad often joke her real dad’s the milkman. No one ever makes similar jokes about my parentage.

  ‘You’re going to take after your dad,’ aunts and uncles always tell me knowingly, as if it’s some sort of compliment I ought to be grateful for. I don’t know what they’re thinking; Dad’s hardly Brad Pitt.

  Livvy cocks her head to one side and smiles angelically. The way the sunlight hits her, I can see the outline of her bra through her blouse. She already wears a 32A. She and Mum went shopping for it in the summer holidays, coming home with a plastic bag from Marks and Spencer, acting all giggly and secretive.

  ‘Look after her, David!’ Mum says as she drops us off outside the school gates, her eyes still wet.

  As we start to walk up the drive, I place a protective hand on Livvy’s shoulder. Immediately she grunts, shaking it off.

  ‘Don’t walk so close to me!’ she hisses.

  ‘But you heard Mum, I’m meant to be looking after you,’ I point out.

  ‘Well don’t. I don’t want people to know we’re related,’ she says, quickening her pace. I let her go, watching as she strides confidently towards the lower school entrance, her long hair flying out behind her.

  ‘Nice,’ I mutter to myself, recalling a time when Livvy used to follow me round the house, sweetly begging me to play with her.

  I hear two voices calling my name. Immediately I grin and spin round. Essie and Felix are heading towards me, waving madly.

  Essie is tall (almost a head taller than Felix) with messy black hair that she dyes at home herself, green eyes and stupidly long legs. Beside her Felix is immaculate as usual, his fair hair combed into a neat side parting and his face tanned from the Florida sun.

  I skip towards them and we collide in a messy group hug.

  ‘When did your little sister get so fit?’ Felix asks as we separate.

  ‘Ew, don’t be such a perv, she’s only eleven!’ I cry. At the same time Essie punches him on the shoulder, sending Felix staggering back a few steps.

  ‘Ow!’ he cries, clutching his shoulder and letting out a comedic yowl.

  ‘Er, hello? Girlfriend? Right here?’ Essie says.

  Felix and Essie got together at the Christmas ball last year. I left the dance floor to go and buy a packet of crisps and a can of Coke and by the time I returned, they were chewing one another’s faces off to an Enrique Iglesias song. I didn’t even know they fancied each other so it all came as a bit of a surprise. Felix and Essie claim it was as much of a shock for them (‘I blame Enrique,’ Essie often says, usually when Felix is annoying her).

  ‘How was Maths Camp?’ I ask Felix. Felix goes every year. I can’t imagine anything more hideous.

  ‘Awesome,’ he replies cheerfully.

  ‘I missed you both so badly,’ I say, as we head towards the upper school entrance, instinctively falling into step with one another. ‘My birthday party was beyond miserable without you.’

  ‘Don’t talk to me about miserable,’ Essie says. ‘I’ve been in step-monster hell for the past six weeks. Can you believe she tried to make me take my nose ring out?’

  ‘Oh God, don’t get her started,’ Felix moans. ‘It’s all she talked about last night.’

  I stop walking.

  ‘You guys hung out last night? Why didn’t you call me?’

  Essie and Felix exchange looks.

  ‘It was kind of boyfriend/girlfriend hanging out,’ Essie says. ‘If you know what I mean.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Felix echoes, turning a bit red and pushing his glasses up his nose. I notice his skin is peeling around his hairline.

  ‘Oh, right,’ I say. ‘Never mind.’

  We keep walking.

  Although I’m obviously thrilled my two best friends in the entire world are in love, I still can’t help but get slightly freaked out by the idea of them ‘together’. I don’t know if they’ve had sex or anything yet and I haven’t asked. Which bothers me. Up to now, we’ve always told each other everything and all of a sudden one topic, and a pretty major one at that, is unofficially off limits. To me anyway.

  This year I’m in form 10C. I get there early so I can reserve a seat near the front, as close to Mr Collins as possible, even if that means sitting next to Simon Allen, who inexplicably stinks of plasticine. At least this way I can guarantee people like Harry Beaumont and Tom Kerry won’t be sitting anywhere near me. For about the thousandth time I wish I was in the same form as Essie and Felix, but they’re both in 10H, next door, light years away.

  Bam! The spitball strikes me hard on the back of my neck. I twist round in my seat. Harry is pretending to tie his shoelaces. Everyone around him is sniggering. I peel the spitball off my skin and flick it on to the floor where it lands with a dull splat. It’s fat, moist and heavy. He’s been prac
tising.

  ‘Hey, Freak Show!’ he calls.

  I pretend not to hear him. ‘Freak Show’ has been Harry’s nickname for me for years. A lot of other kids call me it too, but Harry’s the one responsible for its longevity.

  ‘Aw, c’mon, Freak Show,’ he says, coaxingly. ‘That’s not very polite is it? I’m making an effort to have a nice conversation with you and you’ve got your back turned to me.’

  I sigh and twist round in my seat again. Harry has got up and is now lounging on Lexi Taylor’s desk while she giggles like a hyena behind him. Lexi is Harry’s current girlfriend. She thinks she’s super-hot because apparently modelling bridesmaid dresses in the fashion show at the Eden Park Summer Fair last year somehow makes her Naomi Campbell.

  ‘Was that your little sister I saw you arrive with this morning?’ he asks.

  ‘What’s it to you?’

  ‘No need to be touchy! I was only asking.’

  I sigh. ‘Yes, she’s my sister. Why?’

  ‘It’s just that she looked, well, almost normal.’

  Laughter ripples across the classroom. Harry basks in it, a slow grin spreading across his face. I try not to let my irritation show.

  ‘So what I’m trying to work out is this,’ he says. ‘Which one of you is adopted?’

  Mr Collins breezes into the classroom, oblivious. ‘Welcome back everyone! Harry, on a chair please.’

  Harry slides off the desk, smirking.

  ‘I reckon the smart money’s on you, Freak Show.’

  7

  Lunch time. I take a can of Coke from the fridge and put it next to the plate of lukewarm congealed macaroni cheese already on my tray.

  ‘Well, I heard he got expelled,’ a Year 11 girl with frizzy brown hair in front of me is saying.

  ‘Who?’ her friend asks.

  ‘The new kid in 11R.’

  ‘Expelled? What for?’ someone else asks.

  ‘I don’t know. It must be something bad though. I’ve heard it’s almost impossible to get expelled from Cloverdale.’