Define "Normal" (15 page)
While Jazz played, I worked on my homework. The live music was better background than any tape or CD. We were both so absorbed in what we were doing that when the bell rang we shrieked in unison. Gathering my things, I followed Jazz to the restroom. Even though it’d make me late, I
had
to go.
When I came out of the stall, Jazz was standing at the mirror. She offered me her black lipstick. I declined. She said, “What happened to bad and bode?”
I sneered at her and left.
Wednesday, when I arrived at the conference room, Jazz was perched on the table, tucked into her lotus position. Her eyes were closed, thumbs and index fingers pressed together. “Ohmmm,” she droned.
It made me happy to see her back to her old self. I shut the door behind me and considered joining her. She seemed deep in her meditation, though, so I slipped quietly into my chair.
“Bode,” Jazz droned. “And baaad,” she bleated like a sheep.
“Shut up,” I said.
“You take everything so personally.” She stuck out her tongue stud. “It’s just my new mantra. Bode,” she droned.
By habit, I reached down for my peer counseling folder, then thought, Oh, forget it. We’d pretty much blown the program.
Jazz slid off the table and looped a leg over her chair catty-corner from me. She crossed her arms on the table and rested her chin on them. “So talk,” she said.
I flinched. “What do you want to know?”
“What did you mean by your dad had enough of you? What were you, like a psycho-punker freak or, something?”
I rolled my eyes. “You wish.”
She grinned.
I didn’t. “It’s a lot of responsibility, taking care of two little kids.”
“Duh.” Jazz sat up. “It’s not
your
responsibility.”
I looked away.
“Where was your mom?” Jazz asked.
“She was there. Sort of. Do you mind?” I pointed to the tabletop.
Jazz’s eyebrows arched. She shot up after me and we both assumed our lotuses, side by side.
“Ohmmm,” I said.
“Bode,” Jazz said. She peeked over at me.
It made me smile. “After Chuckie was born,” I began, “Mom got pretty bad. He was a real cranky baby, which didn’t help.”
“Is that when your mom got depressed?”
“No. She was always depressed. Ohmmm. Not like … what you saw. Ohmmm. But she used to have spells. That’s what Dad called them. Sick spells, where she’d have to go to bed for a couple of days. If it lasted longer than that, Dad would start yelling at her, telling her to snap out of it.”
“Oh, man. That’s cold.” Jazz shook her head. “Then one day he just split?”
I nodded.
“And he never called you guys, or wrote, or anything?”
“He might’ve called Mom. The only thing I ever saw in the mail was the divorce papers. That’s when Mom really lost it.”
“How long ago was that?” Jazz asked.
I thought back. “Six, seven months.” I twisted to face her. “Six, seven years.”
“God, Tone. You are so strong. I never could’ve handled all that.”
I blinked away and shrugged. “You do what you have to do. The hardest part is, Mom and I used to be really close. Then she just sort of… went away.”
“Yeah, I know what you mean,” Jazz said. “My mom and I used to be pretty close, too. Then she just sort of … became a bitch.”
That made me laugh. Sliding off the table, I said, “Come on, let’s go to the auditorium.”
“It’s kinda late now,” Jazz said, glancing at her watch.
I peered over her arm. “Already? Wow. Time flies when you’re having fun.”
She whapped me.
We left together, closing the door behind us. “From now on, let’s just meet in the auditorium,” I said.
A cloud darkened her face. “I don’t want my playing to take the place of our peer counseling.”
“It won’t,” I said. “We can still talk. If you want we could meet every day. We wouldn’t have to actually count it—”
“Yo, Jazz,” someone called from the end of the hall. “Wait up.”
“See you tomorrow.” I veered off in the opposite direction.
“Wait.” Jazz caught my shirtsleeve.
Her punker pal sauntered up to her. “What’s this I hear about the piano? You and snooze music.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Jazz said.
“Eeks told me—”
“Eeks needs to get a life,” Jazz cut him off. Changing the subject, she said, “Ram, this is Antonia. Antonia, Ram.”
“Hi.” I smiled tentatively.
“Hey” he said. In spite of his orange spikes and nose ring, he was kind of cute.
“Don’t judge her by her looks,” Jazz said to Ram. “Antonia is a good person. The best. A better person than
you’ll
ever be.”
“Hey!” Even through his war paint, he looked totally offended. “She looks like a babe to me.”
Jazz kicked his shin. Spinning him around, she shoved him down the hall. “See ya, Tone,” she called over her shoulder.
“Yeah, see ya,” Ram said, smiling at me. “I hope.”
I floated through the rest of the day.
“P
rélude à l’après-midi d’un faune,
by Claude Debussy. Translated,” Jazz explained, “it means “prelude to the afternoon of a fawn.’ This is my favorite piece in the whole wide world.” She lifted her hands over the keys and, with the lightest touch, began to play.
Today I just sat back to listen. The music swirled down around me. I could picture it—a fawn following its mother across a mountain meadow. The warm breeze rustling the aspen leaves. I closed my eyes and let the melody sweep me away. So calming, so comforting.
Then the image changed. It wasn’t a fawn, it was me. And it wasn’t a doe, but my mother. We were having a picnic. At Cherokee Reservoir. Something I said made her laugh. A deep, resonant laugh that carried in the wind. I couldn’t remember the last time my mother laughed like that. The last time she’d been really happy. The last time I’d made her happy.
Suddenly the bubble burst. I wasn’t alone. Someone whispered in my ear, “She’s amazing.”
It was Dr. DiLeo, sitting beside me.
I smiled. “Isn’t she?”
He said, “Are you responsible for this?” He motioned to the stage. “Getting her to play?”
My face flared. “No way. She could always play.”
“I meant—” He stopped and smiled. We listened through a passage before he turned and whispered, “Is this your peer counseling time?”
“Not really,” I said. “I mean, we added some sessions. I felt I needed more time to help Jazz with her problem. One of them, anyway.”
“What about you?”
I looked at him. “What do you mean?”
He coughed. “Excuse me.” He reached in his pocket and popped a Tic Tac. While he was sucking away, I decided to ask Dr. DiLeo the question I’d been meaning to. The question whose answer I’d been dreading. “When are Jazz’s fifteen hours up?”
“Her fifteen hours?” He looked confused.
Someone else slid in on the other side of me. “Hello, Antonia,” Mrs. Bartoli whispered. “Who is that?” She motioned up to the stage.
“It’s Jazz.” I twisted to face her. “Jazz Luther.”
Her eyes bulged. She dug her glasses out of her blazer pocket and shoved them on.
I added, “She’s incredible, isn’t she?”
Mrs. Bartoli didn’t answer, just sat and stared. I loved her reaction. The shock, the disbelief. Jazz would love it, too, when I told her. If I told her.
“You look surprised,” I said to Mrs. Bartoli.
“Well, I…” She blinked at me and shook her head. “I just never knew she was so talented.”
“Oh, yeah,” I said. “She’s talented in lots of ways. Like she’s really, really smart. She gets straight A’s, almost.”
“No,” Mrs. Bartoli said. “Jazz?” She gawked up at the stage.
“I know,” I babbled on, “it’s hard to get past her looks, but deep down, she’s a really cool person.”
Mrs. Bartoli frowned at me. “Are you two friends?”
I nodded. “Good friends.” I didn’t know if that was true, but I felt close to Jazz. We’d been through a lot together.
Mrs. Bartoli seemed a little shaken, like she’d had this major revelation. She stayed to listen for a few more minutes, until her watch beeped. When she stood to leave, I told her, “Jazz’ll be practicing again tomorrow, if you want to come listen. Oh, Mrs. Bartoli?” I stopped her. “I was thinking about joining math club again. I know it’s kind of late in the year, but … would that be okay?”
“Of course,” she said. A smile curled her lips and her eyes softened. “I’m so glad, Antonia.”
The next day, about five minutes into Jazz’s performance, I felt another presence occupy the seat next to me. When I saw who it was, I freaked.
“Oh, my God,” she breathed. “It’s true. She’s playing.”
Oh, my God is right, I thought.
Mrs. Luther reached over and clutched my hand. “The Mozart sonata,” she said. “Isn’t it marvelous? Isn’t
she
marvelous? Ohhh …” Her hand squeezed mine.
We sat there together, lost in the music. I don’t know what she was thinking, but I was imagining this was my mom holding my hand, that we were experiencing a special moment together.
Mrs. Luther sniffled before releasing my hand and unlatching the purse in her lap. She pulled out a lacy hankie. Just as Jazz finished, Mrs. Luther blew her nose.
It caught Jazz’s attention. I saw her freeze. Her eyes narrowed before zeroing in on me.
I shrugged, hoping she’d get the message that I had no idea how her mother had found out.
Mrs. Luther stood and applauded wildly. “Brava, brava,” she cheered.
Jazz turned away.
Her mother raced up onto the stage. She yanked Jazz up by the shoulders and smothered her in a hug. “Oh, darling. You’re playing again. Thank the Lord. Wait until I tell your father.” She held Jazz out at arm’s length, then pulled her in again.
Jazz stood there like a rag doll, her face expressionless.
Mrs. Luther said, “You
are
going to play in that recital.”
Jazz pushed her back. “No, Mother. I’m
not.
”
“Yes, you are.”
They stood eye to eye. A bolt of lightning couldn’t cut through the tension. Then a tear rolled down Mrs. Luther’s face. “I don’t give a damn what you wear,” she said. “You are
going
to play.” She pulled Jazz in close again. “Oh, darling. Seeing you play again makes me so happy.”
Jazz’s hands lifted to spread across her mother’s back. A slow smile of victory spread across Jazz’s face.
My eyes welled with tears. I had to get out of there fast.
Saturday morning Tillie and Luis had planned to take us to Six Flags, but I begged off with a headache. “Would you like me to stay home with you?” Tillie asked, reaching up to feel my forehead.
I recoiled. “No, I’ll be fine. I think I’m just tired.”
She smiled sympathetically. “If you get hungry, there are lots of leftovers in the fridge. The cookie can is full, too, so help yourself. Don’t be a stranger.”
A strange thing to say to a stranger, I thought.
After they left, it took me an hour to work up the courage. Three times I picked up the phone and dialed. As soon as it rang, I hung up. I was so afraid.
“Afraid of what?” I asked myself aloud. “She’s your mother.”
On the fourth try, a receptionist answered. When I asked to speak to Patrice Dillon, the lady said, “Just a moment.” It was a long moment before someone else said, “Psychiatric. This is Nancy. Can I help you?”
“May I please speak to Patrice Dillon?” My voice sounded strained, far away.
“Who may I say is calling?”
“Her daughter.” I swallowed hard.
She hesitated. “Hang on.”
This was my chance. I could hang up now and forget it. But what if the nurse told Mom I was on the phone and when she answered I wasn’t there? It might make her sad. Might cause a relapse. Even worse, what if she was so drugged up she didn’t remember she had a daughter?
“Antonia?”
Her voice washed out my worries. “Mom?”
“Antonia, sweetheart. How are you? I’m so happy to hear your voice. How are you? What are you doing? Where are you?”
I chuckled. “I’m fine, Mom. I’m here, at the Abey—the foster home.” It might be against the rules to reveal their identity. Oh, so what? “The Abeytas’,” I said. “Tillie and Luis.”
“Where are Michael and Chuckie? Are they there with you?”
She remembered them. I breathed a sigh of relief. “No, they all went to Six Flags.”
“You didn’t go?”
“I wanted to talk to you. You know, in private.”
“Oh, sweetheart.” She sighed, long and loud.
“How are you, Mom?” I asked.
“Much, much better,” she answered.
“Really?”
“Really. I think I’ll be coming home soon.”
“When?”
“I don’t know exactly. The doctor said he’d like me to stay at least another week. Just to be sure …” She paused. “I think it’s a good idea. To be sure.”
“Me too,” I said. Oh, please be sure in a week, I prayed.
We talked for a long time. She asked about me and school and the boys. What the foster home was like. I told her it was okay, but not as good as home. That the Abeytas were nice, but not as nice as her. I think that made her happy.
“Boy,” Mom said, “the food here sure stinks. First thing I’m going to do when I get sprung is order a bucket of KFC, extra spicy, extra crispy. After I hug you guys to death.”
I giggled and said, “If we don’t hug you to death first.”
B
y my calculation the fifteen hours were up. Had been since last week. More than anything in the world I wanted to see Jazz on Monday. To tell her the news. I raced to the auditorium straight from fourth period, hoping, praying she’d be there. That she’d lost track. That she’d show up to play, at least. When I rounded the corner and caught a glimpse of pink hair, I let out a silent cheer.
Jazz lounged against the door, picking at her nail polish. “Come on,” I said, grabbing the door handles. “I have so much to tell you.”
She widened her eyes at me. “Did you get a tattoo or something? You’re, like, glowing.”
I sneered at her.
She pushed the door shut against my tug. “We don’t have to meet here anymore,” she said. “I get to play a real piano again. My own.” She grinned.
