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

said. “He serves the needs of the people. That has redeeming social value. What do you mean, he wa—” She stopped.
    This was dangerous ground. I had to change the focus. “What about your mother?” I said quickly. “Does she work?”
    “Uh, yeah,” Jazz replied. “She works at making my life a living hell.”
    It was useless. She was never going to open up to me. I closed my folder.
    Jazz said, “I hate my mother. In case you haven’t guessed.”
    My eyes met hers.
    “Don’t look so shocked,” she said. “The feeling’s mutual.” She climbed onto the table and assumed the lotus position. “Ohmmm,” she droned. “I suppose your mother’s perfect, like you.”
    A short laugh escaped my lips.
    Jazz stopped
ohming.
    I stared over her head. “I don’t want to talk about my mother.”
    Jazz’s eyes narrowed. “I keep trying to find things to talk about, but you keep changing the subject.” She sounded mad.
    “Me?” My spine fused. “You’re the one who doesn’t stay on the subject.”
    We both turned away. The air between us charged with electricity. Finally Jazz said, “I’m sorry I’m just in a crappy mood.” She unwound from her lotus and sprawled lengthwise across the table. “My mom and I had another fight this morning. She wouldn’t let me out of the house until I changed.”
    “Into that?” I blurted. She was wearing biker shorts, a halter top under the vest, and skull-and-crossbones earrings.
    Jazz clucked. “I changed at Ram’s.” She rolled over onto her side and propped her head up on an elbow. “She can’t accept who I am.”
    I said, “Maybe she just wants you to be more …” I couldn’t say what I was thinking, which was “normal.”
    “Like Janey?” Jazz finished. “I’m not Janey. I’m not perfect or special, okay?”
    Her voice sounded shaky and I saw tears in her eyes. For real. She hid her head and rolled onto her stomach. I didn’t know what to say. What do you say when someone’s about to experience an emotional breakdown? I wasn’t trained for this.
    But she didn’t break. She murmured, “Sometimes I wish I
was
more like Janey. Or you.”
    “No, you don’t,” I said.
    She lifted her head long enough to lock eyes.
    I added, “If you were me, you’d die before you’d ever be seen in public in that outfit.”
    Jazz snorted. “Jealous, huh?”
    “You know it,” I said.
    She turned over and sat up, cross-legged. “Maybe it’s not us. Maybe it’s our mothers. You want to trade?”
    I rolled my eyes. “You don’t want mine.”
    She arched an eyebrow. “You hate yours, too?”
    “Yes. I mean, no.” My head dropped. “Yes.”
    “Why, what’s she like?” Jazz slid over closer to me. “Tell me, is she a bitch?”
    “I … she …” My throat constricted. Quickly I gathered my stuff to leave. “I’m sorry. I can’t talk about this.”
    Jazz ambushed me at the door. “Hey, Tone, I didn’t mean—”
    “I know.” I cut her off. “It’s just that—” The bell rang and we both jumped.Already? I checked my watch. Shouldering my book bag, I chargedout the door. At the end of the hall, I glanced back to see Jazz standing stock-still, staring at me.
    Can you look forward to something and dread it at the same time? That’s how I felt about Friday’s session. It was sort of fun meeting with Jazz. It took my mind off… other things. At the same time I worried that we might pick up where we left off Wednesday. With mothers.
    My stomach roiled all morning just thinking about it. I had to take control. It was time to move on to step two: Restate the problem. Reflect it back to the person to make sure you understand. Jazz had told me her problem. She hated her mother. I could understand that.
    She was already there, in her chair, earplugs attached. Her fingers flew up and down the tabletop. It looked weird, as if her hands were possessed. She must’ve sensed my presence because she glanced up and freaked.
    “Are you having a seizure?” I