A Different Kind of Normal (36 page)

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Authors: Cathy Lamb

BOOK: A Different Kind of Normal
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It was a two-pointer for Baron, top of the key, it was the last basket of the game. The ball swooshed, the whistle blew, and his parents, who had had Baron as a surprise when the mother was forty-five, who were sitting next to me, flew out of their seats, arms raised high in the air, screaming.
They both cried.
Their Baron had made a basket
. To top it off, Tate, dear Tate, hugged the shocked and grateful Baron, and the other kids surrounded Baron, hugging him, slapping him on the back.
We had a winner. His name was Baron. In all the years I’ve known him, I have never, ever seen a smile like that on that kid’s face. Never.
I cried, too. I’m such a baby.
“Tate is the kindest damn kid I know,” my mother said to me. She had flown in from Los Angeles and made it in the second quarter. She wore a couture black dress with a Mid Court Mob shirt over it. “Certainly didn’t get that from me. I have a mean streak the size of the Mississippi River and you have Witch Mavis, but he has none of our mean and threatening volcanic qualities.
None.
”
She called down to him, fist shaking. “Busted their balls, Tate! You busted their balls!”
“Really, Mother?”
She wiggled her eyebrows at me, then flicked the crystals in my hair. “I say the truth.”
“He did bust their balls, he did!” Damini said. “Busted ’em wide open, Aunt Jaden! Wiiiiiide open!”
“Do you think this is proper grandmothering? See what you’ve done, Mother? Damini’s talking about balls!”
She put her hand on Damini’s shoulder. “You’re a witchly fire breather, Damini.”
“Yeah, I know it. I’m a Bruxelle! I’ve heard all the stories about the royal witch line and Faith and Grace.”
“They’re all true. Their spells worked. Don’t you listen to your aunt Jaden telling you different.”
“I won’t, Nana,” she said solemnly.
Caden led a cheer about Baron and the greatest shot in town. The rest of the team got in on it, too. The triplets ran onto the court to hug Tate. They were wearing hippie outfits with bandannas and peace signs. Damini threw her hands up in the air and screamed, “He’s a pain in my keester, but I still love him!”
TATE’S AWESOME PIGSKIN BLOG
Today I am going to post a photo of myself. See. Here it is. That’s General Noggin and I. Here’s a photo of my hands around a model of a brain. Remember my hands, Billy and Bob? As in Billy Bob Thornton, the greatest actor ever? Here are profile photos, too, so you can see the famous ears, Bert and Ernie. As you can see, I drew a smiley face on Bert.
 
Yes, I was born with that thing. Yes, my eyes, Mickey Mouse and Road Runner, are uneven. Here are Mickey Mouse and Road Runner studying neurological anatomy.
 
I’m done hiding on my own blog because it feels as if I’m insulting myself. This is me. I have a big head.
 
The thing is, if you’re different in America you get a different perspective of life. There are a lot of different people here. Not all of us are blond, thin, with blue or green eyes. We have all colors here, all religions, all shapes. But if you don’t fit in with the “norm” of America, then you often feel you’re on the outside looking in and you’ll never be fully in the club, this silent American club. You’re a beat off, a step away, you’re off rhythm.
 
I’ve been looking in, stuck on the outside of some glass bubble, my whole life, and a whole bunch of people don’t want me in the bubble and will hit me to keep me out.
 
But I’ve also been able to figure things out. Figure people out. I have had to do a lot of thinking, which is something I think a lot of people don’t do, and don’t have to do, because they fit in. They are just there. I think some people don’t even realize how good they have it.
 
But lately, I’ve been wondering. Fitting in perfectly means that you never have to reach outside yourself. You don’t have to go through the same kinds of challenges, prejudice, judgment. Is it actually the best thing to fit in with everyone else? It’s easiest. But, man, how do you grow? How do you learn to think on your own, or do you simply think what everyone around you thinks? How do you learn to be more compassionate of others, more generous, if you’ve never had to feel like you’ve been lost and stuck on the outside with no one being compassionate or generous to you?
 
I know people who seem to have perfect lives, no problem has ever split their world, but they seem shallow to me. There’s nothing of depth on the inside, nothing interesting. It’s as if being perfect has taken away their ability to have an intellect. They’ve never had to reach inside and pull out their strength, or their courage, and see who they are deep down. They seem ... empty somehow.
 
Do I like having a big head? Not really. But I don’t dislike it, either. This is me. Tate Bruxelle. Oh, and General Noggin, too, Billy and Bob, and Bert and Ernie. Mickey Mouse and Road Runner, practically the bionic eye.
 
Hello.
 
From all of us.
 
How you doing today?
Blog count: 8,000. The comments from people who read his blog? Tate came downstairs grinning. “I’m definitely getting braver about getting out of Tillamina and seeing the world. It seems a lot friendlier now.”
 
“We’re gonna win the state title, Boss Mom.”
“And I will be there with the Mid Court Mob cheering for you.”
“Nuclear fusion and splitting atoms, we’re gonna kick some butt.” Tate was tinkering in his Experiment Room with wires, a mini-motor, and wood. Now and then small sparks sprinkled around and about. He moved a research article aside that a neurosurgeon had sent him. No sense burning that up.
“Please don’t set the house on fire.”
“Boss Mom, I ain’t gonna be burnin’ no house down. I know what I’m doing. I’m a wannabe Einstein, he’s da man, but first I’m gonna kick some butt on the court.”
“I will enjoy the kick butt show. You don’t have fireworks in here anymore, do you?” I ran a hand over his curls, nervous already for the game.
Please don’t get hurt.
“No, I took ’em all out to the garage.”
“No mixing chemicals you don’t understand.”
“You’ve told me that a million times. I know what will explode when I put them together.”
“Then don’t mix ’em.”
“Back to basketball. We have the best team in the state. We’re gonna win the championship.”
“I think you’ll win, too.” The town was going crazy, thrilled to all ends. I hoped down to my toes that we wouldn’t play Sunrise. I did not need to see TJ Hooks shoving my son around.
“But I have a question for you, Mom.”
“And that question is . . .”
“When is my Other Mother coming up here so I can meet her?”
He saw my expression, it must have reflected the exhaustion, the wariness, the intense trepidation I felt about throwing Brooke back into his life.
“I have to meet her, Boss Mom. I have to.” He leaned back in his chair. “I have to. Please. Please, Boss Mom.”
Darn it all. “Okay, honey. I’ll arrange it. It’ll be soon. Remember—”
“I know she’s a recovering drug addict. Don’t romanticize her. Don’t expect anything. Don’t get hurt.”
“That one is most important, Tate. Don’t get hurt.”
Don’t get hurt, Tate.
 
I put on my yellow duckie rain boots and plodded through the puddles to my greenhouse on a rainy night. Tate’s team had won again, to the delirium of Tillamina. He’d come home and eaten eight pieces of Great Great Grandma Lacy’s Cinnamon French toast after using three of the pieces to create a French Toast building.
I checked on the herbs I had in red pots, then moved on to the herbs I had in green pots, then the yellow pots. I get a gardener’s thrill watching them grow day by day. I also planted seedlings: impatiens, snapdragons, and petunias.
As usual, I felt compelled to chop up herbs and blend in spices, though my hands trembled like an interior wire was shaking them and what I really wanted to do was run to Siberia. I took a pinch of cilantro, St. John’s wort, dill, and sea salt. I kept them in separate piles, then blended them together. I made designs on the crystal plate from Grandma Violet. I used the silver spoons from Faith.
By the third design I was shaking.
Death.
Death again.
Damn.
I took Tate to play chess with Maggie at her request.
He won. He did not hesitate to checkmate that lady in minutes.
She humphed. “You’re a skilled chess player, Bishop Tate.”
“And you’re a smart woman, Maggie Shoes, even though you’re not good at maneuvering your rook and you have to leave your queen protected more.”
“I’ll remember that.”
“Play ya again after I get another slice of that pecan pie in your kitchen?”
“Yes. This time I’m going to whip your young ass.”
When Tate won he said, “I whipped your ass, Maggie Shoes. Whipped it back to Wednesday.”
Maggie’s sticks will bloom with roses again next year. She will not be able to see them.
 
Tate’s team kept winning. There was a possibility that we might, might,
hopefully might
be going to the state play-offs in our league!
The crowds grew and grew. Ethan came to all the games with my family. He videotaped Tate playing so we could all watch it together later.
Tate kept making the most impossible shots.
Another newspaper article ran, this time in the statewide newspaper, about the team, the winning season, and the kid with the big head who kept hitting all those three-pointers.
Tate and I read one of the articles over breakfast one morning. He was eating a five-egg omelet, three pieces of toast, and orange juice.
Here are a few of the reporter’s questions:
Q.
This is your first year playing basketball, right, Tate?
A.
First year with real, live, breathing people on a team that is visible to other humans. I’ve been playing imaginary basketball for years. Even had cute cheerleaders on the side doing high kicks for me. This year I figured I had a lot of points to make up from previous years of not playing, so that’s why I keep shooting. It’s the revenge of a basketball geek.
 
Q.
You’ve made an incredible number of three-point shots. Any advice on how to do that?
A.
I’ll tell you what Boss Mom told me: Just throw the damn ball up.
 
Q.
You’ve had to endure a lot of taunting and ridicule out on the courts.
A.
Yeah, but General Noggin and I shut it out.
 
Q.
General Noggin?
A.
That’s the name of my head. General Noggin and I keep our brain in the game and I keep shooting. I try to ignore people who call me ugly, freak, gargoyle boy, fire head, ’cause of my hair, you know, Mongloid, asshole, and genetic mistake. But if there’s a young woman out there who wants to call me sexy, then that would be a symphony to my ears, Bert and Ernie.
 
Q.
When did you start playing basketball?
A.
I was playing basketball when I was four days old.
 
Q.
Seriously.
A.
That would be my serious answer.
 
Q.
You’re an athlete and a 4.0 academic. It’s rumored that you did not miss any answers on your PSAT.
A.
Hmmm. Well, on that day, I took my brain out of my head, with General Noggin’s permission, and gave my brain the pencil and he took the test. It seems he scored high. Freaked my teacher out, though, to have a brain with a pencil in its hand on my desk.
 
Q.
What are your plans?
A.
My plan is to get my second lunch. I’m starving.
 
Q.
I mean, for college, for life after high school ball? Do you think you’ll get a basketball scholarship?
A.
I don’t think I’ll get a scholarship. I am planning on studying brain and cognitive science, molecular neuroscience, biophysics, cell biology, and organic chemistry. I am writing a blog now so that when I get out into the world hopefully people will have seen my face already and won’t bust a gut when they see me.
 
Q.
What are your other interests?
A.
I read all the books and research articles I can about brains, which have a hundred billion neurons each and look like white and gray worms wrapped around each other. I’m also interested in biology and chemicals. I have some skill at catching Skittles in my mouth, eating twelve tacos at a time, standing on my head, even though it’s sort of cheating because of the size of it, and I am trying to learn how to dance. Right now I look like a snake that’s being slung around by a leopard, but I’m not giving up. I have to learn how to bust a move for the Winter Formal.
 
Q.
Do you think you’ll make the play-offs?
A.
Yes. And we will win all of the games and become the state champions.
 
Q.
That’s pretty confident.
A.
No, it’s a fact.

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