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Authors: Cathy Lamb

BOOK: A Different Kind of Normal
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Damini muttered.
“Pardon?” my mother said, her rings flashing. “What was that, dear one? A love triangle? A lover’s tiff?”
“Mother! She does not have a lover. She’s twelve!” I said.
“The lady doth protest too much, me thinks!” Tate stuffed yet another pancake in his mouth.
Damini muttered again.
“A woman never allows herself to be silenced,” Caden said. “Chin up, shoulders back. Raise your voice to be heard.”
Damini sighed, so put out, as only a twelve-year-old can be. I tried not to laugh.
“I don’t want to speak.”
“Here’s Shakespeare again: Before we proceed any further, hear me speak,” Tate said. “Especially since we’re working with a madwoman like yourself, Damini.”
“I’m not a madwoman and he made me mad!” Damini smacked her elbows on the table. “Mad mad!”
“Why?” Caden asked.
Damini had that stubborn expression on her face that we knew well. “He said no.”
“No to what?” I asked.
“No to . . .” Her face scrunched up and I thought she was going to cry. “No to a . . .”
“Yes?” Caden prodded, leaning forward, his shoulders making Damini seem even tinier.
“No to a night on the town? No to a sneak-away weekend?” my mother said. “No to a love shack?”
“Mother!” I said. “There’s no love shack here!”
“No to . . .” Tate said, sending me a quick glare. “Did Brett say no to trying out for the basketball team even when you want to play more than you want your own lungs? Someone said that I can’t try out for basketball and I’m still mad about that.”
I rolled my eyes and flicked another pancake Tate’s way.
“No,” Damini said, then burst into tears. “Brett said . . .” She sniffled. “He said . . .” She wiped her eyes. “He said he didn’t want to
kiss
me!”
My brother leaned back in his chair, eye-poppingly surprised, my mother smothered a laugh, and Tate said, “No one wants to kiss me, either, Damini. Join the No Kiss Club.”
“I said it nice, Daddy. I said, ‘Brett, I want you to give me a kiss,’ and he said, ‘Yuck. No, Damini, I’m not gonna kiss a girl,’ and I said, ‘I’m not just a girl, I’m your best friend!’ and he said, ‘Yeah, you are, but you’re a girl and I don’t want to kiss a girl,’ and that’s when I had a temper tantrum and I took off my leg and I hit him. He’s a brat!”
My brother’s mouth opened and shut. Alas, he didn’t even know what to say.
My mother said, “I think I’ll try that same tactic next time a man refuses to kiss me. In fact, Damini, can I borrow your leg?”
Damini didn’t realize my mother was kidding and she said, “Okay, Nana,” then pushed back her chair to detach her leg. She handed her leg to my mother over the syrup.
“Thank you, dear,” my mother said, taking the leg.
“You’re welcome, Nana.” She turned to her dad. “Am I in trouble now?”
“Let me get this straight,” Caden said, clearing his throat. Damini looked forlorn next to him.
“Am I to understand that you took off your leg—”
“I left my liner and my sock on my stump. . . .”
“And you hit Brett because he wouldn’t kiss you?”
Damini nodded, then whispered, “And I think he’s cute. I have since first grade! That’s a long time to wait for a kiss!”
My brother was gobsmacked. He could say nothing further. How do you handle a daughter who chases down another twelve-year-old for a kiss?
I winked at Damini. “That’s one way to get his attention, sweetie.”
“Yes, I think so, too, Aunt Jaden.” She was proud of her ingenuity. “Maybe next time his answer will be yes, and I can keep my leg on.”
“Maybe, Damini. You can live in hope,” I said. “Here. Have more pancakes.”
“Hope is another way of letting life take charge,” my mother said. “Hope is a drunk feather. Hope is mist on a rainy day.
You
take charge, Damini. Take charge of this love affair—” “Mom!” Caden gasped. “It’s not a love affair.”
“It’s the hope of a kiss!” my mother said, eyes wide, as in,
Don’t you get it?
“I live in hope that I’ll get a date for Winter Formal,” Tate said, tossing a piece of pancake in the air and catching it with his mouth. “It’s not looking good, not looking good at all. Maybe I can take your leg as my date, Damini. Does your leg know how to dance?”
Heloise the vampire growled again and we all cringed and said, “OHHHHHH!”
Hazel the bunny said, “Hop hop!”
Harvey said, “More food, please. I eat, I eat, I eat.”
Damini giggled. “Okay, Tate. After Nana uses my leg you can dance with it. I want to dance with Brett.”
My brother was holding his head, unable to utter a word. He had no idea what raising a daughter was going to involve.
“I
am
going to try to kiss him again, though,” Damini said, fire in her eyes. “Why did he run away?”
“He’s a boy, Damini. They run.” I did not miss the hurt expression behind the defiance. “Maybe don’t take off your leg again if he doesn’t want to kiss you. That was probably alarming.”
“Not a pink-hearts-and-roses sort of romantic act,” my mother said, raising perfectly arched eyebrows, her diamond bracelet sparkling off the sun. “But kinky. Some men dive into kinky stuff, dear. Chains, handcuffs, things of that nature. Perhaps later he’ll grow into being beaten by a leg? Better than a leather whip.”
“Mom!” Caden protested, aghast.
She rolled her eyes. “I meant a
chocolate
whip, not a leather one. An edible whip. Maybe a licorice whip.”
“Mom!” Caden protesteth again, his hand to his throat.
“We cannot all be masters,” Tate droned. “Again, Shakespeare. Some of us are the kissed, and others are the kissees. I think you’re a kissee, Damini.”
“I squish this,” Harvey said.
“Hop hop,” Hazel said.
“Squish and squish,” Heloise said.
The triplets put their hands into their chicken pancakes and squished them.
“No chicken in da pancake,” Harvey said.
“Cluck, cluck,” Heloise said.
“Hop hop,” Hazel the bunny said.
What a mess.
We cheered the mess, our glasses clinking.
 
My older brother, Caden, is about the size of a building. He has black hair, the same as our late father, Shel, and pulls it back into a short ponytail. He has the dark brown eyes of our father, too. He is fourteen months older than me. He was a star linebacker and wrestler here in Tillamina, wrestled in college, and graduated with a degree in physics. He then became a professional wrestler and made a fortune. As The Raptor, he was a beast. He won all the time.
He calls Tate, “my boy,” and has treated him as a son his whole life. Fishing, wrestling, camping, guy stuff. They love each other senseless.
He also has a deep, gentle feminine side. He loves the Brontë sisters and their work, and will cry over their real-life story when he thinks about it. He loves my greenhouse, the symphony, gourmet food, cooking shows, and romantic movies. He even reads romance novels. He did not stop crying for two months when Marla left him.
He doesn’t watch football anymore or wrestling shows because he doesn’t want to see people getting pummeled. He does not watch horror or suspense movies because he can’t sleep at night. He can sing all the songs to any Disney movie.
He is a manly man so doesn’t worry about being a man. If Damini, Heloise, and Hazel are wearing a pink ribbon in their hair, he’ll often wear one, too, through his ponytail. If the girls are having purple day, he’ll wear a purple T-shirt with Froot Loops cereal chains around his neck.
Caden has a flower shop called Witches and Warlocks Florist, a fun nod to our witchly family history.
His shop has turned into a national business, via the Internet and some fortunate marketing exposure, for example this headline: “Pro wrestler opens a florist shop named Witches and Warlocks Florist . . . says he loves roses, pink ribbons, and romance. Love spells are extra.” It does capture your attention.
Caden agrees to put together “butt-normal” bouquets in clear glass vases, but he prefers “heart-pounding bouquets with seductive beauty” in unique containers: colored glass, watering cans, African-type woven baskets, colorful boxes, and shiny pottery. He also loves to weave exotic flowers in and out of two-foot-tall twisted metal on a wood base with a vase. I can only compare it to getting a work of modern art with flowers in it.
He also adds to his bouquets ribbons, unique buttons, antique jewelry, and hand-painted plastic or glass butterflies, ladybugs, hummingbirds, and birds. He uses ivy plants and wire, chrysanthemums and daisies, to make dogs, race cars, bras, cats, wine bottles, lizards, fish, a snake for a reptile handler, and many witches on broomsticks.
How did the ex-pro-wrestler turn into a florist?
“Flowers is what I always wanted to do,” he told me, thumping his chest. “It started with Grandma Violet.”
When we visited Grandma Violet and Grandpa Pete during our summer vacations, she would have us go and pick flowers for neighbors who needed “some natural magic in their lives.” We would add pinecones, twine, fall leaves, branches from trees, cornstalks, grape leaves, and anything else we could find outside.
We brought bouquets to the sick and grieving, and also to Wendell Petroski, who had seven personalities. We were never sure who would open the door. Sometimes we said hello to Mrs. Trina Petroski, slightly slutty lady, or Greg, uptight hippie, or Austin, sad boy in trouble.
We brought Rennie flowers a lot because she had agoraphobia and never left her home, and we took them to Mrs. Quinn, who lost her old dog.
“He was a smart dog,” Grandma Violet said. “Mrs. Quinn said he could speak English when no one else was around.”
People adored the bouquets.
Hence, an overgrown, tough, sensitive, ultra-masculine, ultra-feminine florist owner was born.
TATE’S AWESOME PIGSKIN BLOG
Last Wednesday three kids named Raji, Michael, and Caleb tried to beat me up after school. (Those aren’t their real names, but I don’t want to embarrass them, so I’m not writing them down.)
 
They wanted to beat me up because they don’t like how I look. It’s not any more difficult than that to understand. They don’t like how I look, therefore, they hit me. They got in a few slugs.
 
They called me, “Fuck ass, retarded shit, and mongloid.” I said to them, “I’ve heard it before, assholes,” and Raji swung first.
 
I’m six foot three inches tall and I work out all the time with my weights. I’m not saying this to brag. I’m saying it to give you an impression of myself. I found out when I was a lot smaller than I am now that it’s better to know how to beat someone up than be beaten up. My uncle Caden has taught me a lot of moves.
 
Raji takes a swing at my head. Remember, I have a big head, named General Noggin. It’s not hard to miss, but Raji did miss because I ducked. I brought my fist up and caught him on the jaw. He flipped up like a Ping-Pong ball and landed on his back.
 
Michael and Caleb came at me at the same time and I had to handle Michael first, because he’s stronger. Caleb is small, and he punched Ernie. That’s what I call the ear on General Noggin that is the normal-looking one. The other ear I call Bert because that ear is built in a sort of rectangular shape and is the twin of Bert’s head on Sesame Street.
 
Plus, my fists are called Billy and Bob, for Billy Bob Thornton, frickin’ most awesomest actor ever.
 
I block Michael’s punch with my arm (no names for my arm, can’t name every body part, especially not THAT one, although I hear some dudes do), and then I swing my fist, Billy, into his face and off and out Michael goes. Flat on his back, too. Banged his head. Caleb hits me in the gut and I clench my stomach, then I glare at him. He’s all scared, his two friends are moaning on the ground, but he swings again and that’s when I deck him in the face, too. When he lands on his back he has the sense to lie there and not move. Raji and Michael charge at me together and I do go down, right on Bert’s side of my head. Poor Bert.
 
They get me for a second because I can’t catch my breath. Raji hits my Mickey Mouse, which is my normal eye and Michael hits Road Runner, which is the eye that’s up at a freakin’ odd angle. I thought Mickey Mouse was the best crawly animal when I was three so that’s how the eye that’s in the right place on my face got its name. I named the other eye Road Runner because Road Runner always gets in accidents that would kill any other animal, person, or space alien, but he still lives. That’s how my eye is.
 
I have this amazing vision in my Road Runner eye. It’s chill. I can practically see a worm squirming through grass. I can practically see China drinking tea. I can almost see Jupiter.
 
That’s the one thing about being me. I’m a cross between a kid, Frankenstein, a creature, and a firecracker because of my red hair. But I have these cool things about me. One of them is the vision. Another is that math problems turn and twist in my head, and I can see them all strung out, plus the diagrams, shapes, and 3-D images.
 
I was distracted. Back to the fight.
 
I’m getting my breath back with Michael and Raji on me, and I’m pissed off because I really don’t appreciate getting jumped, and I free Billy and Bob (my fists) and shove Michael’s and Raji’s heads together as hard as I can. I see this whole group of men in suits running toward us, and I know they’re running to help, which is nice, but not necessary as now all three of them are spread on the ground like amoebas that have been stepped on.
 
These men run over, and they’re sweating when they get there and one says, “You okay, Tate?” This is a small town and a whole bunch of people know me, my mom and my Nana Bird and my great-grandparents. I’ll tell you another time why everyone knows my Nana Bird. You know her, too, probably.
 
And I said, “Sure.” And I was. I stood up. I was bloody and I knew I’d have bruises on Bert and I could tell that Road Runner was getting all swollen up, and there were cuts on Billy and Bob but General Noggin wasn’t too bashed up.
 
I was still kind of sad. Not whiny sad, just sad.
 
Why would I feel sad? (Warning: here comes some emotions. Watch out!)
 
I am not all hitched up about getting attacked for how I look and I’m angry about one thing right now (basketball, Boss Mom, basketball!) so part of me has to admit that getting in a fight made me feel better. Some anger flew out.
 
But I feel sad for Raji, Michael, and Caleb. I don’t want to sound sanctimonious. Sanct-EEEE-Moan-Eee-Us. Get it?
 
But there they were, on the ground, bleeding and groaning. Three against one and they are beat to shit. I don’t feel bad for them because of the blood, though, I feel bad for them because of what they don’t have going in their lives. If they were happy they wouldn’t be beating General Noggin and me up.
 
I’m not going to sound all high and mighty, but those three must have crappy lives because they go after me. What kind of person does that? What kind of person has to beat somebody else up in order to feel better? What caused all that anger in these three guys to begin with?
 
They gotta hate themselves. Normal dudes with normal confidence aren’t going to do that.
 
I helped all three of them up. Raji’s crying, Michael’s wiping blood off and he’s shaking, and Caleb can hardly stand but he leans on me to get up.
 
Why do people do this crap?
 
I don’t know.
 
Do you?

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