Not Normal

In seventh grade, I really start to wonder what’s wrong with me. I need help. I pick up the phone.

“Hello, Betsey? It’s Reenie.”

“Who?” Darn. Why can’t I have a nickname?

“Irene. Sometimes we walk to school?”

“Huh?”

“Or, I mean, I catch up to you?”

“Oh, sure. Hi.”

“I’m calling because…” Throat closing off. I’m not going to cry, don’t cry, she’ll help you, she’s nice. She’s not fat but she won’t make fun. You’re both the same, smart. “Because if I had to be marooned on a desert island, you’d be the friend I’d choose.”

Silence. Her parakeet chitters and squawks.

“Um, so I wondered…I wanted to ask you…”

Her silence gets silenter.

Gush of teary fear and need: “I have to know. I try to be nice and funny and have good heart. Why don’t people like me and be my friend?”

“Oh.” Relief. Then awkwardly, kindly: “Maybe if you do something about your appearance? Maybe launder your blouses more?’

“I’m messy. So that’s it?” Relief. Laundry. I’m glad she can’t see that I’m talking on the wall phone in our shameful crickety spidery basement, smelling the unwashed clothing from here.

“Gosh. Well. Thanks. I will. See you at school.”

Appearances aren’t supposed to count, what counts is inside. But I begin to wash and press with urgency. Press out the awkwardness, the fat, press friendship in.

But it doesn’t seem to take.

A few months later, per Mom’s request, I’m vacuuming my parent’s bedroom. The only sound louder and more unpleasant than the harsh abrasion of the motor is my inner monologue.

Thought Jane was my friend but she turned against me even though I try to keep my blouses clean now, but homework’s more important because you don’t get a grade on your blouse.

Scrape. Shove the upright over the nubby carpet.

But she had me over but now she’s busy, but why? What’s wrong with me?

Who can I talk to only my cousin Katy who I only ever see two weeks in summer. What’s wrong with me? I’m not normal.

Tears blister down.

Mom comes in for her paperback.

“Don’t forget to vac the bath mat this week,” she says.

I start crying in earnest.

“I’m not normal!”

“Oh for heaven’s sake. Of course you are.”

“I am not! I don’t have any friends and size twenty-two and a half is NOT NORMAL!”

“Don’t say that. You’re normal.”

I can’t believe Mom won’t admit it.

“LOOK at me. You can see I’m not normal! I’m NOT NORMAL!” Sobbing, sobbing like a toddler.

“If you don’t stop crying, I’ll do what I did when you were little. I’ll throw cold water in your face.”

“You wouldn’t dare.”

She leaves me blubbering, clutching the upright vacuum.

She returns with a blue aluminum tumbler of cold water and throws it in my face.

Icy rivulets. Cold is cold.