Define "Normal" by Julie Anne Peters Read Free Book Online

tube.
    Jazz held up the mirror. “Wait,” she said. She yanked out a Kleenex and wiped off the tip of the lipstick. “I don’t want you to get AIDS.”
    At my expression of horror, she laughed and held up two fingers.
    I sneered back. Exhaling a deep breath, I touched the lipstick to my lips. It felt slimy and warm. I’d never put on lipstick before.
    “Press a little harder,” Jazz said. Her own lips contorted while I spread it on thick.
    I studied myself in the mirror. A slow smile crept across my face.
    “Bode,” Jazz said. “Bode and bad.”

    “Okay,” I told her. “Give me the Kleenex.”
    “Didn’t I mention?” she said. “You need turpentine to take it off.”
    She didn’t hold up two fingers. I could’ve killed her. She whooped with laughter.
    All afternoon I had to hide my gray lips behind my hand. At least at home no one noticed. My lips matched the color of everyone else’s, since they’d all come down with the flu.

Chapter 9
    W e had Thursday and Friday off for teacher in-service days, thank goodness. I felt lousy and I couldn’t afford to miss any more school. I couldn’t afford to be sick either, since there was so much to do around the house. At least by Sunday we were all feeling better. Even Mom, who got up, took a shower, and got dressed. When she bounded down the stairs and into the living room, she said, “Let’s go on a picnic.”
    “Yeah!” Chuckie clapped his chubby hands.
    Michael stopped channel surfing. He looked at me. I knew what he was thinking. “That sounds good,” I said to Mom, slipping a bookmark in my library book and setting it on the coffee table. “We could have it in the backyard.”
    “Don’t be silly,” Mom said. “We’ll go to Cherokee Reservoir. Like we always do.”
    Michael’s jaw dropped.
    I just sat there, stunned.
    Mom padded to the kitchen. We all followed. “Antonia, you go find the cooler. I’ll fix us some sandwiches.”
    Twenty minutes later we were headed out to the car. The passenger door was a little hard to open. It might’ve been rusted shut, it’d been so long. While I put on Chuckie’s seat belt in the backseat, Michael strapped himself in. When his eyes met mine, he smiled. Then he turned on his Gameboy.
    I smiled, too. I couldn’t believe we were really going. I buckled up and waited. And waited. My eyes strayed over to Mom.
    Her right hand, still holding the car key in the ignition, started to shake. She released the key and gripped the steering wheel. Her knuckles turned white.
    “I’m sorry,” she said. “I can’t do this.” Her door opened and she slid out. As she walked briskly back to the house, hugging herself, Michael threw his Gameboy over the seat back and said, “I knew it.”
    I knew it, too. What had I been thinking?
    For some unknown reason I was looking forward to Wednesday’s counseling session. Maybe because I felt I was making some progress with Jazz. She seemed to open up whenever we talked about friends or family. If I could keep her on the subject, we might make a major breakthrough. Like getting past step one.
    The last question on my list was “Tell me about your parents.”
    “What parents?” Jazz uncapped her black lipstick and spread it on thick. Then she offered it to me.
    I shook my head. “I know you have parents. Quality time? Remember?”

    “Oh, them,” she said flatly.
    “What do they do?” I asked.
    “Consume.” She dropped the lipstick tube in her vest pocket.
    I exhaled exasperation. “You know what I mean. For a living.”
    “I have no idea.” She batted those mascara-caked eyelashes at me. “What do yours do?”
    My eyes dropped. “We’re not here to talk about my parents.”
    “If you don’t have to talk about yours, I don’t have to talk about mine.”
    “Fine,” I said. Dr. DiLeo’s words came back to me:
If you share your feelings, she’ll share hers.
I took a long breath. “Okay. My father is a roofer. At least, he was.”
    “That’s cool,” she