NORMAL
Authors: Danielle Pearl
Normal.
by Danielle Pearl
Copyright 2014 Danielle Pearl Smashwords Edition
Copyright 2014 by Danielle Pearl
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing.
Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/ use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owner.
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Table of Contents
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Dedication
For Roman, my husband and best friend, whose drive and dedication through adversity is even more inspiring than his success.;
Present Day
I
t's the kind of situation most people would dread. Starting at a new high school, in the middle of my senior year, in a new town, in a new state. I know no one. No one knows me. That's what I'm counting on.
It's not like it is in the movies. You know - where you walk into the building in slow motion and every unfamiliar head turns in your direction, some internal radar having announced an outsider in their midst. Or maybe it is like that in some schools, in small towns anyway. I suppose it would have been like that in my old hometown in northern Florida. Not the part of Florida with Mickey Mouse, or retired grandparents, or even the part with the spring breakers. Or
parts
with spring breakers. I grew up in the part that could just have easily been in Alabama, or South Carolina. A small, southern town in Baker County where everyone has known everyone since birth, and their parents, and
their
parents. Linton, Florida is where my father is from, but thankfully not my Mom.
Mom grew up here - Port Woodmere, in Long Island, New York. Not exactly the big city, but thirty miles is close enough, and the three hundred or so in my new senior class certainly cast a beautiful shadow on the fifty two of my former class. Total population of my new high school? One thousand, three hundred and nineteen.
Perfect.
The first thing I notice is the way people are dressed. Back home, my jeans and gray tee shirt would have blended into the rest of the student body like a uniform. My favorite black motorcycle boots in place of sneakers are the only thing that would've stood out, if anything.
Here, although all the guys are in jeans, they're certainly not the kind they wear back home, but the three hundred dollar kind. The girls are mostly in skirts, or even dresses, and they look even more expensive. It doesn't bother me though. My outfit was chosen with care for one single purpose. Not to be
in
, not to fit
in
, or to impress the
in
crowd. I don't want to be "in" anything except
in
visible. And it appears that I am.
I keep my head down as I navigate my way to the main office, just in case someone does notice me as a
new girl
. As someone who doesn't belong.
Someone who doesn't belong
anywhere
anymore.
The receptionist is typing away on her keyboard looking disinterested in her task, and doesn't even look up as I approach. I stand there a few moments waiting for some acknowledgment, some
can I help you
,
or even a glance. Nothing. For a second I wonder if I actually am invisible after all. I clear my throat.
I'm rewarded with a raised eyebrow and an impatient glare in response. At least it's an acknowledgment.
"Um, hi," I stammer. I hand her the form I was told to bring today.
"Oh, a transfer," the receptionist, whose name plate reads "Ms. Sussman", mumbles unimpressed. "Aurora Pine," she reads from my form.
"Rory," I murmur automatically, and she gives me a look.
Right
. She doesn't care about my preferred nickname. She's an administrator I'm likely never to interact with again. Especially if I plan to remain invisible.
Ms. Sussman continues to click away at her keyboard until something spits out of the printer behind her. She hands it to me, along with a few other sheets of paper which I realize are a Student Handbook and a map of the school, and wishes me luck.
How big is this school that I need a freaking map
, I wonder. My old school was a box. Two floors, four hallways each, all surrounding a courtyard. Definitely no map necessary.
This building is enormous. The kind you see on television. Red brick, white columns, even a freaking bell tower. The one thing both schools have in common,
of course
, are the athletics fields. Especially the football field. It's naked of its white painted yard lines and numbers since it's February, but it's clear that significant funds have been invested in this part of the grounds.
I was under the impression that high schools up north didn't make the same kind of fuss over football that they did back home. I'd hoped anyway. I shudder. I hate football players. I hate the sport, hate the people that play the sport, the people that watch it... the people who are convinced it's the most important damned thing in the world.
I sigh and open the map, trying to find Hall 6 in Wing B.
Could this have been organized any more poorly?
I quickly realize that there is an older part of the building - the part with the red brick facade, and a newer part. Clearly the old building wasn't big enough to accommodate the student population and sometime in the eighties - judging from the unsightly architecture - they expanded it. Unfortunately it doesn't seem as if they bothered to take the layout of the old structure into any kind of account when they drew the plans for the extension. The two parts of the building don't seem to have anything to do with one another, besides the fact that they're attached, of course.
It takes me fifteen minutes to find my way to my first class, which is of course my most detested subject, calculus. I'd arrived at the school early enough to have time to go to the office and still be on time for class, but hadn't accounted for the hallway maze. There is no homeroom in this school. They just tack on ten extra minutes to the start of your first class and call it homeroom. I don't get the point. I guess they take attendance, but they take attendance in each individual class anyway, don't they?
I stand outside the door to room 313 and take deep breaths. Math has always stressed me out, as much as classes ever stressed me out anyway, but having it first thing in the morning just makes a bad situation worse for someone who is definitely not a morning person. I feel my pulse start to quicken and briefly consider just ditching since they're already twenty minutes into the period. Now
that
would be a great way to start out at my new school, cutting class - something I've never done in my life.
Old Rory would never have skipped class. But New Rory... I suppose I don't even know her well enough to even make that determination yet.
Beads of sweat break out on my brow and I close my eyes and count backwards from ten. Twice.
Yes, math has always stressed me out, but the panic attacks - those are relatively new. Usually there are particular stressors that trigger them, stressors related to what happened last year. Not something like being late to calculus. I step back from the door and lean against the adjacent row of lockers, pressing my forehead to the cold metal, hating myself for being so damn weak. This isn't me. Or this
wasn't
me.
I guess now it is me.
The counting isn't helping. I reach around to the front pocket of my backpack and feel for the shape of the pill bottle in the front pocket. I loathe them. I've been trying to depend on them less and less, and sometimes other coping methods, like the counting, really do help. I was so proud of myself this morning for not taking a pill to deal with my first day jitters, even though that really is an understatement as to how I was feeling.
Nervous, anxious
- also understatements. But no panic attacks, not until now.
Somehow just feeling the shape of the bottle, just knowing they're there if I really need them, helps me start to calm. I start counting again, but instead of counting nothing, I count how many pills I think are left in the bottle, knowing how desperately I want the last time I refilled the prescription to be the last time I fill the prescription. Because yes, they help the panic attacks, but they also make me feel completely numb
.
For a while, after everything happened,
numb
was all I wanted to feel. In the aftermath, it felt like things just couldn't stop going wrong.
You know how when parents divorce and they assure their kids - or
kid
in my case as I'm an only child - that it wasn't their fault? Well my parents said that, too. Well my mom did. Only I know it isn't true.
My parents' divorce, both announced and finalized in the last nine months, was one hundred percent, without question, and undeniably, my fault. Not that my father
would
deny it if I confronted him, I'm sure. But that will never happen. My father's response when I told him I never wanted to see him again for as long as I lived? "I'm sorry you feel that way."
Not "I'm sorry for betraying you." Not "I'm sorry I hurt you". Because he's
not
. He still thinks everything that happened was all my fault. And that truth is, though I'd never say it out loud, sometimes I still think he's right.
Thank God for Mom - my rock. My protector, my defender. She left her husband, my father, because he wasn't on my side, and uprooted our entire lives to get me away from that damned school. From that goddamned town.
I rub my fingers over the pocket of the backpack again. There were thirty pills in the prescription I filled a week and a half ago. I took one that first day. Two the next day, when I unpacked the box with my old cheerleading uniform before I took scissors to it and threw it in the trash. I took one last Tuesday when the neighbor's creepy son leered at me when he took his trash cans to the curb as I was returning from my run, right before I headed to the store to buy more modest running gear.
I took two on Friday when Mom's childhood friend, Karen, came over to welcome us "back", though I've never lived here before, and started asking questions about my dad. That leaves twenty four pills.
I'm still breathing heavily, but my pulse is slowing. Counting pills has staved off the attack.
Just then the door to room 313 bursts open and out saunters a classmate. A sideways glance shows him raising his eyebrows with appraising interest when he notices me leaning up against the wall with my chest heaving. My forehead is still pressed against the locker and I only see him in my peripheral. This is embarrassing as hell. I'm no longer invisible.
Damn it.
"Uh, are you okay?" he murmurs, his voice deep, like gravel.
I nod against the lockers but don't turn, hoping he continues off to the restroom or wherever he was headed so I can wait for my panic attack to continue to subside in peace.
