The Art of Being Normal by Lisa Williamson Read Free Book Online Page A

her mum is going skiing for Christmas, leaving Essie and her younger brother to spend the holidays with their dad and his wife again.
    ‘I was just speculating,’ I mutter, poking at my food with my fork.
    ‘Did I tell you he’s in my maths class?’ Felix asks.
    ‘Are you serious?’ I say.
    I can’t help but be surprised that Leo is in the advanced class too. Immediately I feel ashamed for judging him so quickly. I mentally add ‘good at maths’ to the irritatingly sparse list of facts I know about him, made all the more irritating because I haven’t quite worked out why I’m so interested in the first place.
    ‘What’s he like in it?’ I ask.
    ‘No wielding of weapons so far,’ Felix says. ‘In fact, he hardly says a word. He can obviously do the work though.’
    ‘I can’t believe you didn’t tell me sooner,’ I say.
    ‘What is it with you and this kid?’ Essie asks. ‘You’re like fascinated with him.’
    ‘No I’m not. I just find him interesting, that’s all. Don’t you?’
    ‘Moderately,’ Essie says with a yawn.
    ‘You’re just annoyed he didn’t jump at the chance to eat lunch with us that time,’ I say.
    ‘No, I’m not, although based on that alone, the boy clearly has no taste.’
    She narrows her eyes at me. ‘You don’t fancy him do you?’
    ‘Just because I find someone interesting does not mean I fancy them.’
    ‘It’s OK if you do. I’m just surprised, that’s all. I didn’t think bad boys were your type. Poor Zachary,’ she says, sighing, ‘ousted by the new boy.’
    ‘I do not fancy Leo Denton,’ I say, probably a little too loudly because the girls sitting at the next table peer over their shoulders at us with rare interest.
    ‘I don’t fancy him,’ I repeat, in a low hiss.
    ‘OK, OK,’ Essie says, holding up her hands in mock-surrender. ‘I believe you.’
    ‘Thank you,’ I say.
    ‘Although thousands wouldn’t …’ she adds, smiling wickedly.
    I don’t see Leo again until after school. As Mum drives home past the bus stop, I spot him slumped against the shelter, his hands shoved in his pockets, kaleidoscope eyes staring out into space. It’s so weird, because the feeling I get when I look at him is totally different to how I feel when I see Zachary around school. I don’t have butterflies or feel like I’m about to vomit. I’m still capable of speech. I don’t turn the colour of a tomato. And yet I definitely feel something. I just haven’t worked out what the
thing
is yet, and it’s driving me mad.
     
    Every evening when he gets home from work, Dad sits down in his favourite armchair and reads the newspaper while drinking a cup of milky tea. Today I position myself on the sofa opposite him and pretend to study my Frenchvocabulary for Madame Fournier’s test tomorrow morning. I’m pretending because what I’m really doing is watching Dad’s face for clues – a telltale raise of the eyebrows, a furrow of the brow, perhaps a smile; some sort of hint of disapproval or otherwise. Because on page twenty-three of the newspaper there is an article about a teenage girl in America who has just been elected homecoming queen at her school. I’m not really sure what a homecoming queen does, apart from wear a crown and sash, ride in a parade and wave at people. But that’s not the bit of the story I’m interested in. Because the girl in the article, in her glittery evening gown and high heels, was born a boy.
    As he reads, Dad’s face remains frustratingly unchanged.
    I peek over the top of my vocab list as he takes yet another noisy slurp of tea, and leisurely turns the page.
    ‘Anything interesting?’ I ask casually.
    ‘Not really,’ Dad replies with a yawn.
    After half an hour he’s finished. He sets the newspaper down on the arm of the chair, and trots off to the kitchen to rinse his mug. As soon as he is out of the room, I swipe the newspaper and run upstairs, two at a time, slamming my bedroom door behind me.
    My bedroom is my