The Art of Being Normal (3 page)

‘David!’ Mum yells up the stairs. ‘Time to get up!’

I turn on to my stomach and pull a pillow over my head. A few more minutes pass before my bedroom door creaks open.

‘Rise and shine,’ Mum singsongs, creeping across the carpet and peeling back the duvet.

I snatch it back and pull it over my head, making a cave for myself.

‘Five more minutes,’ I say, my voice muffled.

‘No way. Up. Now. I won’t have you making Livvy late on her first day at big school.’

I heave myself out of bed and look in the mirror. I look awful – sweaty and pale with dark circles under my eyes and crease marks across my cheeks. I never sleep well the night before the first day back.

By 8.30 a.m. I’m sitting in the passenger seat of the car. Livvy is posing for a photograph on the doorstep while Mum
weeps behind the lens. Livvy is very photogenic; everyone says so. Mum and Dad often joke her real dad’s the milkman. No one
ever
makes similar jokes about my parentage.

‘You’re going to take after your dad,’ aunts and uncles always tell me knowingly, as if it’s some sort of compliment I ought to be grateful for. I don’t know what they’re thinking; Dad’s hardly Brad Pitt.

Livvy cocks her head to one side and smiles angelically. The way the sunlight hits her, I can see the outline of her bra through her blouse. She already wears a 32A. She and Mum went shopping for it in the summer holidays, coming home with a plastic bag from Marks and Spencer, acting all giggly and secretive.

‘Look after her, David!’ Mum says as she drops us off outside the school gates, her eyes still wet.

As we start to walk up the drive, I place a protective hand on Livvy’s shoulder. Immediately she grunts, shaking it off.

‘Don’t walk so close to me!’ she hisses.

‘But you heard Mum, I’m meant to be looking after you,’ I point out.

‘Well don’t. I don’t want people to know we’re related,’ she says, quickening her pace. I let her go, watching as she strides confidently towards the lower school entrance, her long hair flying out behind her.

‘Nice,’ I mutter to myself, recalling a time when Livvy used to follow me round the house, sweetly begging me to play with her.

I hear two voices calling my name. Immediately I grin
and spin round. Essie and Felix are heading towards me, waving madly.

Essie is tall (almost a head taller than Felix) with messy black hair that she dyes at home herself, green eyes and stupidly long legs. Beside her Felix is immaculate as usual, his fair hair combed into a neat side parting and his face tanned from the Florida sun.

I skip towards them and we collide in a messy group hug.

‘When did your little sister get so fit?’ Felix asks as we separate.

‘Ew, don’t be such a perv, she’s only eleven!’ I cry. At the same time Essie punches him on the shoulder, sending Felix staggering back a few steps.

‘Ow!’ he cries, clutching his shoulder and letting out a comedic yowl.

‘Er, hello? Girlfriend? Right here?’ Essie says.

Felix and Essie got together at the Christmas ball last year. I left the dance floor to go and buy a packet of crisps and a can of Coke and by the time I returned, they were chewing one another’s faces off to an Enrique Iglesias song. I didn’t even know they fancied each other so it all came as a bit of a surprise. Felix and Essie claim it was as much of a shock for them (‘I blame Enrique,’ Essie often says, usually when Felix is annoying her).

‘How was Maths Camp?’ I ask Felix. Felix goes every year. I can’t imagine anything more hideous.

‘Awesome,’ he replies cheerfully.

‘I missed you both so badly,’ I say, as we head towards
the upper school entrance, instinctively falling into step with one another. ‘My birthday party was beyond miserable without you.’

‘Don’t talk to me about miserable,’ Essie says. ‘I’ve been in step-monster hell for the past six weeks. Can you believe she tried to make me take my nose ring out?’

‘Oh God, don’t get her started,’ Felix moans. ‘It’s all she talked about last night.’

I stop walking.

‘You guys hung out last night? Why didn’t you call me?’

Essie and Felix exchange looks.

‘It was kind of boyfriend/girlfriend hanging out,’ Essie says. ‘If you know what I mean.’

‘Yeah,’ Felix echoes, turning a bit red and pushing his glasses up his nose. I notice his skin is peeling around his hairline.

‘Oh, right,’ I say. ‘Never mind.’

We keep walking.

Although I’m obviously thrilled my two best friends in the entire world are in love, I still can’t help but get slightly freaked out by the idea of them ‘together’. I don’t know if they’ve had sex or anything yet and I haven’t asked. Which bothers me. Up to now, we’ve always told each other everything and all of a sudden one topic, and a pretty major one at that, is unofficially off limits. To me anyway.

This year I’m in form 10C. I get there early so I can reserve a seat near the front, as close to Mr Collins as possible, even if that means sitting next to Simon Allen, who inexplicably
stinks of plasticine. At least this way I can guarantee people like Harry Beaumont and Tom Kerry won’t be sitting anywhere near me. For about the thousandth time I wish I was in the same form as Essie and Felix, but they’re both in 10H, next door, light years away.

Bam!
The spitball strikes me hard on the back of my neck. I twist round in my seat. Harry is pretending to tie his
shoelaces
. Everyone around him is sniggering. I peel the spitball off my skin and flick it on to the floor where it lands with a dull splat. It’s fat, moist and heavy. He’s been practising.

‘Hey, Freak Show!’ he calls.

I pretend not to hear him. ‘Freak Show’ has been Harry’s nickname for me for years. A lot of other kids call me it too, but Harry’s the one responsible for its longevity.

‘Aw, c’mon, Freak Show,’ he says, coaxingly. ‘That’s not very polite is it? I’m making an effort to have a nice conversation with you and you’ve got your back turned to me.’

I sigh and twist round in my seat again. Harry has got up and is now lounging on Lexi Taylor’s desk while she giggles like a hyena behind him. Lexi is Harry’s current girlfriend. She thinks she’s super-hot because apparently modelling
bridesmaid
dresses in the fashion show at the Eden Park Summer Fair last year somehow makes her Naomi Campbell.

‘Was that your little sister I saw you arrive with this morning?’ he asks.

‘What’s it to you?’

‘No need to be touchy! I was only asking.’

I sigh. ‘Yes, she’s my sister. Why?’

‘It’s just that she looked, well, almost normal.’

Laughter ripples across the classroom. Harry basks in it, a slow grin spreading across his face. I try not to let my irritation show.

‘So what I’m trying to work out is this,’ he says. ‘Which one of you is adopted?’

Mr Collins breezes into the classroom, oblivious. ‘Welcome back everyone! Harry, on a chair please.’

Harry slides off the desk, smirking.

‘I reckon the smart money’s on you, Freak Show.’

Lunch time. I take a can of Coke from the fridge and put it next to the plate of lukewarm congealed macaroni cheese already on my tray.

‘Well, I heard he got expelled,’ a Year 11 girl with frizzy brown hair in front of me is saying.

‘Who?’ her friend asks.

‘The new kid in 11R.’

‘Expelled? What for?’ someone else asks.

‘I don’t know. It must be something bad though. I’ve heard it’s almost impossible to get expelled from Cloverdale.’

I’ve heard of Cloverdale School. It’s on the other side of the city and has a reputation for being really rough and scary, always in the papers for failing its Ofsted inspection or kids trying to set fire to it.

‘I know why he got expelled,’ one of the boys chimes in proudly. ‘Apparently he went mental in a DT lesson
and chopped off the teacher’s index finger with a junior hacksaw.’

There’s a collective gasp. Apart from the frizzy-haired girl who says, ‘I’m not surprised. You can tell he’s a bit crazy, just look at his eyes.’

I follow their gaze to a boy sitting alone at a table in the far corner of the dining room. He has messy light brown hair and is glaring at a plate of chips. I’m too far away to tell if his eyes are ‘crazy’ or not.

‘How has he ended up here, then?’ someone else asks.

‘I dunno. All I do know is, I’m not going to go anywhere near him,’ another boy says. ‘To have got expelled from Cloverdale he must be a proper maniac.’

I pay for my food and find Essie and Felix at a table in the corner. I pass the popular kids in the centre of the room, shrieking and laughing and showing off – the star attractions. Their hangers-on are eating at the surrounding tables, forming a protective barrier, leaving the more out-there groups to populate the outer tables. Over in the opposite corner, the emo kids huddle around an MP3 player, listening intently, bobbing their heads in time to the music, hair in their eyes. A few tables over, the clever, nerdy kids are passionately debating the next
Star Wars
movie.

Essie, Felix and I don’t fit into any particular group. Essie reckons this is a good thing. It was Essie who came up with our name – the Non-Conformists (or the NCs for short), not that anyone ever calls us that.

‘Hey, Davido,’ Essie says as I slide into my seat. ‘We’re discussing which has more nutritional content, today’s
delicious macaroni cheese,’ she leans in and sniffs at her plate, ‘or a can of dog food.’

‘I vote for the dog food,’ Felix says cheerfully, his mouth full, spraying pumpkin and tahini millet ball crumbs in all directions. He’s allergic to pretty much everything so his mum prepares him a macrobiotic lunch every day.

‘I vote for the dog food too,’ I say, unfolding a paper napkin. ‘I once tasted some of Phil’s Pedigree Chum and it wasn’t actually all that bad.’

‘You did what?’ Felix says, putting down his carton of carrot juice.

‘How have we not heard this story before?’ Essie demands.

‘Mum caught me eating from Phil’s bowl one morning,’ I say. ‘I guess I must have just been really hungry. In my defence I was only about three at the time.’

‘And this is precisely why we love you, David Piper,’ Essie says. ‘Pass the salt, will you?’

I can’t quite pinpoint the moment Essie, Felix and I became best friends. I only know we somehow gravitated towards one another like magnets, and by the end of our first year at primary school, I couldn’t imagine the world without the three of us in it together.

As I pass the salt to Essie, my eyes fall on the new boy. He’s sitting two tables away, picking at his food. Up closer, he doesn’t
look
crazy. In fact, he’s sort of cute-looking with a snub nose, sandy brown hair falling across his forehead and the most incredible cheekbones I think I’ve ever seen.

I lean in.

‘Hey, do either of you know anything about the new boy in 11R?’

‘Only that he got expelled from Cloverdale and is meant to be a violent lunatic,’ Felix says, his voice carelessly loud.

‘Ssssshhhh, he might hear you!’

I peer over Felix’s shoulder but the boy is still having a stare-out competition with his chips.

‘I feel bad that he’s all on his own,’ I say. ‘Should I ask him to sit with us?’

Felix raises his eyebrows. ‘Did the words “violent” and “lunatic” not raise even the faintest alarm bells?’

‘Oh, don’t be so boring!’ Essie says. ‘Anyone who has got an official screw loose is more than welcome at our table. Go for it, Mother Teresa, spread some NC love.’

I hesitate, suddenly afraid.

‘If you’re keen, you do it,’ I say.

‘I don’t want to scare him off,’ Essie says. ‘A lot of men are intimidated by strong women.’

Felix and I roll our eyes at each other.

‘No, definitely best you go, David,’ she continues. ‘You’re nice and unthreatening.’

‘Gee, thanks,’ I say in an American accent, pushing back my chair and making my way over to the boy’s table.

‘Hi,’ I say, hovering at his side.

I notice a red ‘free school meals’ token poking out from under his tray. The boy doesn’t respond.

‘Er, hi?’ I repeat, worried he hasn’t heard me.

He sighs heavily and slowly angles his head to look up at me.

‘I’m David Piper,’ I say, extending my hand. ‘Nice to meet you.’

The boy ignores it and takes a swig from his can of Coke instead, wiping his mouth on the sleeve of his blazer. My hand hovers awkwardly in midair. He finally looks at it before sighing again and shaking it once, firmly.

‘Leo Denton,’ he says gruffly.

He raises his eyes to meet mine, and I have to catch my breath for a moment, because, wow, those Year 11 kids were totally wrong. Leo’s eyes aren’t crazy at all; they’re beautiful, hypnotic, like looking down a kaleidoscope almost – sea green with amber flecks around the pupil and just really intense, like they could see into your soul or something.

‘Can I help you?’ Leo asks.

I realise I’m full on staring.

‘Er, yes, sorry,’ I stammer, dragging my eyes away from his. ‘It’s just that me and my friends over there …’

I point over to Essie and Felix. Helpfully, Essie has plastered her top lip to her gums and Felix has flipped his eyelids inside out.

‘Er, well, we were wondering if you’d like to eat lunch with us?’

I hold my breath. Leo is looking at me like I’ve got two heads.

‘No thanks,’ he says finally.

‘We’re not weird, honestly,’ I glance back at Essie and Felix. ‘Well, we are a bit …’

‘Look, thanks, but no thanks. I’m done anyway.’

And with that, Leo pushes away his tray, picks up his can of Coke and heads for the door.

I amble back to our table.

‘He wasn’t interested,’ I report.

‘What?’ Essie cries, outraged.

I shrug and sit down.

‘Psychopaths do tend to be loners,’ Felix muses.

‘He didn’t seem very psychopathic,’ I point out.

‘They never do,’ Felix replies loftily.

I crane my neck to look out of the window, but Leo has already disappeared from view.

‘Olsen alert! Olsen alert!’ Essie starts to hiss.

‘Where?’ I say, turning my attention back to the table, instinctively sitting up straight.

‘Behind you. Over by Harry’s table.’

I slowly turn round in my seat. And there he is. Zachary Olsen. Otherwise known as the love of my life.

I have loved Zachary Olsen ever since we shared the same paddling pool, aged four. The fact I was once in such close proximity to his semi-naked body is sometimes too much to bear. The fact he clearly has no recollection that our semi-naked bodies ever shared a paddling pool in the first place is even worse. Zachary is everything I am not – a half-Norwegian love god complete with shaggy blond hair and tanned six-pack. He’s captain of the football
and
rugby teams. He’s crazily popular. He
always
has a girlfriend. He basically stands for everything we Non-Conformists claim is wrong with the world. And yet I am utterly in love with him.
Unfortunately he doesn’t appear to know I’m alive.

Today he has his arm slung around Chloe Hollins’s shoulder, indicating she is his current girlfriend (death to Chloe) and laughing at something Harry has just said. Even Zachary’s fraternising with the enemy does little to dampen my love for him. He could probably torture kittens and rob old ladies at gunpoint and I’d still adore him.

I watch as he and Chloe saunter out of the canteen, looking totally smug and sexy. Essie reaches across and gives my hand a squeeze. Which says it all really. I am a hopeless case. In about a billion different ways.