The Art of Being Normal (2 page)

‘Leo!’ my little sister Tia calls up the stairs. I close my eyes and try to block her out. It’s hot. It’s been hot for days now. The thermometer that hangs in the kitchen says it’s thirty-three degrees. I’ve got all the windows and doors open and I’m still dying. I’m lying on my twin sister Amber’s bunk sucking on a raspberry ice pop. It has turned my tongue bright blue. Dunno why. The last time I checked raspberries were red.

At night I sleep on the bottom bunk because Amber reckons she gets claustrophobic, but when Amber’s not around I like to hang out on her bunk. If you lie with your head at the end closest to the window, you can’t see the other houses or the rubbish bins or the mad old lady from across the way who stands in her front yard and just yells for hours on end. All you can see is the sky and the tops of the trees, and if you concentrate really hard you can almost convince yourself you’re not in Cloverdale at all.

‘Leo!’ Tia yells again.

I sigh and sit up. Tia is my little sister. She’s seven and a complete
pain in the neck. Mam let her have a pair of high heels for her last birthday and when she’s not watching telly she clomps round the house in them, talking in an American accent.

Tia’s dad is called Tony. He’s in prison, doing time for handling stolen goods.

My dad is called Jimmy. I miss him.

‘Leo, I’m hungry!’ Tia wails.

‘Then eat something!’

‘We’ve got nothing in!’

‘Tough!’

She starts to cry. It’s ear splitting. I sigh and heave myself off the bunk.

I find Tia at the bottom of the stairs, fat tears rolling down her face. She’s short for a seven-year-old and paperclip-skinny. As soon as she sees me her tears stop and she breaks into this big dopey smile.

She follows me into the kitchen, which is a mess; the sink piled high with dishes. I search the cupboards and fridge. Tia’s right, the kitchen is bare and God knows what time Mam’s going to be back. She left just before lunch, saying she was off to the bingo hall with Auntie Kerry. There’s no money in the tin so I take all the cushions off the settee and check the inside of the washing machine and the pockets of all the coats hanging in the hallway. We line up the coins on the coffee table. It’s not a bad haul – £4.82.

‘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.

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 funny 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.’