A kid in an oversized suit led us to a pew in the back of Bethel Hall. Most of the seats up front were already filled, with a smattering of people in the other pews. My first prayer was that Chuckie could contain himself for two hours. My second prayer was that Mom would make it through.
There were eight pianists on the recital program. All Gregoire’s students, I figured out, when he got up to introduce himself and play the opening piece. Jazz played last.
The other students were good. Not as good as Jazz. No way. One student was an old lady who had started playing piano at the age of seventy-two. She wasn’t bad, for seventy-two. The other students were younger, more advanced. At least to my untrained ear.
I spotted Mr. and Mrs. Luther sitting in the front pew. They didn’t see us. Mrs. Luther was intent on the performance, while Mr. Luther videotaped everyone. I didn’t see Ram or any of Jazz’s other friends.
After the fourth or fifth piano piece, Chuckie got fidgety, so Mom took him outside. Michael scooted over next to me on the slick seat. “This is boring,” he whispered. “When does Jazz play?”
“Soon,” I said. I showed him in the program.
Finally it was her turn. I felt anxious, nervous. The anticipation was making me mental. If it was doing that to me, I could imagine how Jazz felt.
What happened next totally blew my mind. This girl, this normal-looking person, strode out onto the stage. It wasn’t Jazz. Or if it was, she’d been transformed.
Her hair was brown. A normal-looking shade of brown and it was brushed over the left side and into a knot secured by a pearl barrette. A subtle style that could cover a bald scalp.
She wore a dress.
The
dress. The blue velvet dress with the white ribbon sash, tied in a bow in back. She had on white hose and high heels. Her face showed just a hint of makeup. A little blue eyeshadow, some pink lipstick. No jewelry reflected in the lights—no earrings, no eyebrow rings. No visible tattoos. She smiled timidly.
Mr. Luther moved in with the camcorder to get a better angle. He crouched down in front of the piano. Jazz’s eyes swept the audience. I read her expression—sheer terror. Her gaze lit on me and held. Then she took her seat and adjusted the bench.
Jazz closed her eyes. It was so quiet in Bethel Hall, you could’ve heard the fluttering of angels’ wings. Or maybe that was my heart. In a flash, she was off.
Jazz’s fingers danced across the keys. I watched as people leaned forward in their pews. There was this collective intake of breath as Jazz flew through the Mozart sonata.
Mom sneaked back with Chuckie. He was dead asleep. He didn’t even wake up at the tumultuous applause.
Next Jazz played
Prelude to the Afternoon of a Fawn.
I almost lost it. It was so beautiful, so moving.
All too soon she was finished. She stood to bow and was nearly blown off her feet by the force of applause. Someone yelled, “Brava!” Someone else hollered, “Encore!” People picked up the chant. We all clapped in unison, repeating, “Encore, encore.” It woke Chuckie up and he rubbed his eyes. When he joined in the clapping, it made him giggle. Made me giggle. Even Michael smiled.
Jazz sat back down on the piano bench while the audience resumed their seats. Her encore sounded familiar. Only because I’d heard her play it before. The Chopin polonaise.
I closed my eyes and rested my head on Mom’s shoulder. I felt this calm, deep sense of something. Joy, maybe. Or hope.
Mom whispered in my ear, “She’s wonderful.”
“Isn’t she?” I beamed. I felt proud, as if Jazz were my creation. She wasn’t, of course. She’d sneer at the mere suggestion that she was anyone’s creation but her own.
The recital ended and everyone congregated outside. “Antonia, hello!” Mrs. Luther grabbed me in a bear hug. “And Michael and Chuckie.” She reached out to touch them both. She enclosed Mom’s hand between both of hers. “Mrs. Dillon, Patrice. It’s so nice to see you again. I’m Margie Luther, Jasmine’s mother.”
“Oh, hello,” Mom said, smiling. I knew she didn’t remember meeting Mrs. Luther. Mrs. Luther knew it, too. “Your daughter plays beautifully,” Mom said. “Did you teach her?”
Mrs. Luther laughed. “Not me. I’m tone-deaf as a rock. No, I think she got her musical talent from some long-lost relative. No one in either Laurent’s or my family plays any instruments. Our other daughter either. We’re all so ordinary next to Jasmine.” She glowed.
I wish Jazz could’ve been there to hear that. To see her mother’s face. She’d made her so happy.
Mrs. Luther motioned her husband over and introduced him to Mom. Chuckie gave Mr. Luther a big hug around the legs. Mr. Luther wasn’t even embarrassed; he just hugged Chuckie back.
“Here she is now, the prodigal daughter.” Mr. Luther turned the camcorder on Jazz.
“Da-ad.” She made a face into the lens. She crossed her eyes at me and I laughed.
Mrs. Luther began to tell Mom what lovely manners we all had, what nice children we all were. I wanted to climb out the stained-glass window. Mr. Luther aimed the camcorder at Jazz and me and said, “Okay, you two. You’re on. Say something profound for posterity.”
“I’ll show him my posterity,” Jazz muttered and started to turn around.
I caught her arm. “Be nice,” I said.
We both faked smiles for the camera.
Jazz said, “Let’s get out of here.” She grabbed my wrist and yanked me down the front walk.
W
e wandered across the lawn and down a hill to a nearby playground. Pausing beside a cluster of purple crocuses, Jazz picked one and said, “I’m glad you came. Got your hair cut; I almost didn’t recognize you.”
“Me? What about you?”
She held up a hand. “Don’t say it. This is the ultimate humiliation, looking like a priss. I don’t know how you stand it.”
I sneered. “Then why did you do it? Let me guess. To please—”
“You’re wrong,” she broke in. “Okay, you’re right. Can you believe it?” Sticking the crocus behind her ear, she added, “What you said about people watching me and not listening to the music was right, too. I didn’t want that to happen. Not today.”
“It didn’t.”
“But don’t think I’m sacrificing my temple. Tomorrow it’s back to worshiping at my own altar.”
“You go, girl,” I said.
Jazz howled like a coyote. She peered up the hill to make sure no one, or everyone, was listening.
We both plopped down on swings and began to sway. Jazz pushed off and leaned back. “Hey, your mom looks great,” she said in passing.
“Yeah, she’s so much better.”
“Are you?”
I froze.
Jazz stopped swinging. “Sorry,” she said. “Sometimes my mouth—”
“No.” I met her eyes. “I am. Thanks to you. You’re an awesome peer counselor.”
“Yeah, right.” She looked away.
“You are,” I said. “You really helped me, Jazz. You know you did.”
Shaking her head, she murmured, “I wanted to call you so bad, but I didn’t think you’d ever want to talk to me again.”
“I didn’t think you’d want to talk to me.”
We both looked down. Jazz said, “I think we need to talk. Especially about what happened.”
“Yeah.” I ground my shoe in the gravel.
“Because,” she went on, “we need to figure out how to get DiLeo. He deserves a slow, agonizing death. Like rat poison in his Tic Tacs.”
I laughed and held up two fingers.
She just seethed.
“We could probably report him,” I said. “It’s got to be unethical, what he did.”
Jazz shook her head. “We better not. They might trash the whole PC program.
“No way,” I said.
“Way,” she countered.
My eyes widened at her. It was a worthwhile program; a lot of people could use peer counseling. A lot of people like me.
“Seriously, Antonia,” Jazz cut into my thoughts. “You really helped me too. My mom and I actually sat down and had a real conversation. About you.”
“What?”
“Don’t freak,” Jazz said. “I didn’t tell her anything we talked about in confidence. But it sort of led to this discussion about trust. What it means. And life. What’s important to us. Not that anything will change, but we didn’t end up screaming at each other. That’s something.”
That’s major, I thought. “You’re going to hate me for saying this, Jazz. But I think your mom is a really nice person.”
She made a psycho face.
“You’re a lot alike. Deep down,” I added quickly. “Where it counts.”
Jazz turned away. “If you can get past the punk, you mean.”
“If you’d let people,” I countered.
Jazz twisted around in the swing. “So, have you joined math club yet?” she asked.
“I changed my mind.”
She stopped twisting.
“I’m joining swim team instead.”
At her shocked expression, I held up two fingers. She snorted and twisted back around in the swing. “Speaking of swimming, next Saturday Mom wants to throw me this big birthday bash.” Jazz rolled her eyes. “It’s going to be a swim party and she wants me to invite all my friends. Will you come?”
I hesitated. “You really want me to?”
“No, I just told you about it so you’d feel deliberately left out and need long-term psychotherapy.” She cocked her head at me. “Yes, I want you to come. According to my father, you’re the only
normal
friend I have.” She curled a lip. “Plus, Ram’s mom is, like, really depressed and drinking again. I thought maybe you could talk to him about it, since you sort of understand what he’s going through. If you want to, I mean.”
“Yeah, sure. I could do that.” A wave of warmth spread through me. I’d
love
to do that. “On one condition,” I said.
“What?”
“You play the piano for everyone.”
She opened her mouth to object, but I cut her off. “Sink or swim,” I said.
She closed her mouth. “I’ll think about it,” she muttered.
“Think fast. I need to know.”
“Geez, have a hemorrhage.” Her eyes widened at me. Heaving a heavy sigh, she said, “Yeah, I guess it’s time they knew the real geek.”
“Jasmine?” Mrs. Luther called down the hill. “Come on, your father wants more movies.”
Jazz narrowed her eyes. “I’m going to bust that stupid camcorder over his hundred-dollar haircut.”
“No, you’re not,” I said. “Because you love the attention.”
“Antonia,” she said, smirking, “you know me too well.” She pushed off her swing.
As we started up the hill, I said, “There’s something else I wanted to talk to you about, Jazz. I was just kidding before. I am going to join math club.”
“You’re a glutton for punishment.”
“Don’t I know it. It’s pretty boring with all those nerds, though.”
“No doubt. What do you do, recite rational numbers in unison? Or is it verse? “To be or not to be squared.’”
“Will you shut up a minute?” I whapped her. “What I wanted to ask is, will you join with me?”
She stopped dead. “Math club?”
I arched a hopeful eyebrow.
Her eyes strayed over my shoulder. “God, can you just see Bartoli’s face when I walk in with you?”
“She might surprise you. You surprised her.” I told Jazz about the afternoon Mrs. Bartoli heard her play. How shocked she was.
Jazz’s eyes gleamed. “So, are you thinking what I’m thinking?”
I smiled. “Major ornamentation. Total decoration of the temple. I might have to borrow some clothes, though. All my leather stuff is at the cleaners.”
“Antonia,” she linked her arm through mine, “you are—”
“Bode,” I said. “I know. Bode and bad. I just can’t wait to see her cronk.”
Define “Normal” Reading Group Guide
1. Define what you think “normal” means. Is everyone normal? Is normal the best way to be? Is normal the same for everyone? Who gets to decide?
2. Have you ever judged a person on looks, only to find out later that he or she wasn’t at all what you expected? Has that changed the way you view people?
3. Whom do you identify most with in the book — Antonia or Jazz? Why?
4. Make a list of the ways in which Antonia and Jazz are alike. Make a list of the ways in which they’re different.
5. Freedom of expression is one of the privileges we enjoy in our country, and Jazz has certainly exercised her right. How has her choice to “decorate her temple” affected her goal to become a concert pianist? How has it affected her relationship with her parents? Why do appearance and attitude play such important roles in our lives?
6. After her mother became ill, Antonia chose to isolate herself and deal with the problem on her own. Do you think she made the right decision? What would you have done? Where could Antonia have gone for help?
7. How do you think Antonia and Jazz changed from the beginning of the book to the end? What does this say about the value of friendship?
8. This book has been called contemporary and edgy. What does that mean?
9. Did the story end the way you thought it would? Did your feelings about Antonia and Jazz change? Do you think in real life they could be friends? There’s so much discussion these days about acceptance and tolerance of others. Why do you think people have a hard time appreciating and embracing one another’s differences?
10. Pretend a year has passed since the events that transpired in
Define “Normal.”
What do you imagine has happened to Antonia and Jazz? In other words, what story would you create for the sequel?
FOR ANYONE WHO HAS EVER FELT OUT OF PLACE
“She was perfectly normal. ”
“What do you mean? ”
I turned around again. “What do you mean, what do I mean?
”
I clucked my tongue in disgust. “You know, normal. Happy, healthy. Someone with friends and family. Shelley had all kinds of friends. She was
realty popular. ”
“So if you’re not popular, you’re not normal? ”
“I didn’t say that. ” Did I?
RAVE REVIEWS:
“The book’s radiance comes from the lovable humanity of the nimbly nuance
d characters. ” —
Kirkus
“Peters has a gift for adding some original flavor to solid school-and-friends dramas. ” —
The Buklletin
“A quick, enjoyable read that will also attract reluctant readers. ” —
Booklist