The Other Normals (25 page)

“Perry!” a voice calls behind me. “What’re you so happy about?”

Standing at the wall—a wallflower, who knew—is my brother. He has his head bent to one side and his shoulders slung back in the kind of pose he always uses to get people to notice him.

“Jake?” I do a double take. I hug him. I haven’t hugged my brother in a long time.

“Whoa, whoa! What’s the matter? Everything okay?”

“How’d you get here?”

“Excuse me? I work here. C’mon, Perry, you’re embarrassing me!” He hugs back reluctantly. He feels like a man. And he doesn’t smell like liquor.

“Jake—I didn’t expose myself to any women at this dance, right?”

“Not that I
know
of … Why?”

“And our parents, they’re not dead, right? No bad correspondences?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Just come outside for two seconds.” I pull him onto the dining hall porch.

JAKE LOOKS SO MUCH BETTER: CLEAR-eyed, open,
younger.
His hair is cut short, like mine. (Well, not quite like mine: I still have the three-quarter bowl going on because of the knife other-normal Ryu threw at me.)

“Tell me everything. Please. Pretend I know nothing. How’d you get here? What are you, a counselor?”

“I’m a counselor’s assistant. You know that. I saw you, like, five minutes ago.”

“You didn’t go to rehab?”

“
Rehab?
That’s weird—I had a
dream
about rehab. It was one of those middle-of-the-day nap dreams just before dinner. Why?”

I laugh. Inside, the crowd whoops as DJ Cowboy Pete cues up a thick summer jam. For the first time, I think it might be fun to go in and dance. Not obligatory, not part of some mission. Fun.

“Have you ever heard of a person named Mortin Enaw?”

“No. Is that a real name?”

“Have you ever been to a place called the World of the Other Normals?”

“No. Are you on drugs?”

“That’s the next question. Do you do drugs?”

Jake leans in close. “That’s none of your business.”

“I think I know who your correspondent is.”

“What?”

“I can’t believe he didn’t tell me. Thank God he stopped smoking pebbles. The whole time we were there, we were changing you, and now look at you—you look better!”

“What are you
talking
about?”

“I just—the universe isn’t all the same, okay? There are some universes where people do different things. There’s a universe where Mom and Dad are married and a universe where they never met. And I know for sure there’s a universe where you’re in rehab, and—”

“Perry, maybe you should go to the nurse—”

“And remember what you told me about the
Odyssey
and honor? You’re right, you
can’t
be honorable all the time. Heroes lie—”

“Perry.”
He grabs my shirt and shakes me.

“Whoa. Are you allowed to do that, as a camp employee?”

“I’m allowed to do whatever it takes to calm you down.”

“I need my book. The
Other Normal Edition.
And my pewter mini. The nurse said they were in Dale’s cabin. Can I get them back?”

“What are you talking about? What book?”

“Creatures and Caverns? The game I play?”

“You don’t play any role-playing games. Jesus. Girls hate that stuff. C’mon, we need to go back in. This is the only coed activity for a week, you know that?”

I DON’T PLAY ANY ROLE-PLAYING GAMES? How can I not play role-playing games? That would be like coming back to Earth and suddenly being gay!

“All
right
!” DJ Cowboy Pete says into his mic. I’m back inside; Jake is doing his counselor-assistant duties by breaking up a pair of campers who are dancing pornographically. “It looks like everyone’s having a great time, but are you ready—are you set—for the
chicken dance
?”

The crowd groans. I approach Sam. Ryu and his henchmen eye me—whatever crazy correspondences I’ve set into motion, they still seem to hate me. I couldn’t care less. “Hey, Sam, what’s the chicken dance?”

“Can’t talk, man.” Sam’s chatting with a girl. I back off. I guess I haven’t made him any more willing to interact with me. I try to look cool, standing with my head cocked, like my brother did by the wall.

“Please form a square,” DJ Cowboy Pete says. “This
is
a square dance, so don’t be shy. Boy-girl, boy-girl, find a partner and give it a whirl.”

The counselors start herding us into a human square. I see
that the people who aren’t proactive, who don’t grab someone, end up next to someone they don’t know or like. I spot Anna across the room and approach.

“Hi, I’m Peregrine. Remember?”

“Uh, hi. I think when we met, you called yourself Perry.”

“That works too. I’m getting more comfortable with both. You want to dance with me?”

“The
chicken
dance, you mean?”

“If that’s what we’re doing. It’d be a real honor.”

“Have you ever
done
the chicken dance? It’s not an honor.”

“I haven’t. Can you tell?”

Anna smiles. “You look different.”

“Better?”

“Less nervous. I guess I have to admit that’s better.”

We get in the square as DJ Cowboy Pete announces, “Here we go!” and starts up some music that sounds like a demented local mattress commercial. “The chicken dance goes like this!” He folds one arm in front of his face and sticks his wrist over his nose so that his hand sticks out like a beak. “With a beak beak beak!”

He waves his hand up and down, imitating a chicken’s beak.

“And a wing wing wing!”

He folds his arms out and sticks his hands under his armpits, flapping up and down.

“And a tail tail tail!”

He pushes his rear end out and bops it up and down.

“Bwak bwak bwak bwak!”

The music makes chicken noises in sync with the DJ. Then it repeats, “With a beak beak beak! And a wing wing wing! And a tail tail tail!” as he does the same absurd motions. Then it goes into an incongruous lilting bridge with an Italian feel. It’s the dumbest piece of music I’ve ever heard, and there’s no way anyone is going to—

I turn to my left, and there’s Anna, beak-beak-beaking. I ready my hand at my nose. Around the room, everyone in the square is chicken dancing, from the hardest-edged boys to … well …
me.

“Second time’s the best! Switch to your left! Chicken Dance a-
gain
!”

I switch positions with Anna, shaking my tail-tail-tail at her while the music cavorts along. I’m dancing! Not like last time, when I was dancing in a way that was going to get me made fun of. In the chicken dance, it’d be foolish to get made fun of; it’d be tautological.

“Let’s meet!” I yell at Anna over the music.

Propose that you meet in a romantic location to continue your conversation.

“What?”

“Let’s meet, me and you!”

“Like a
date
?” She laughs.

“Yeah, exactly like that!”

“I’m on the other side of the lake!”

“So? It’s a little trickle of water! I’ll walk across!”

“What are you talking about? It’s a
lake
.”

“It’s full?”

“Yes!”

“Huh. Then I’ll sneak over in a canoe!”

“You wouldn’t!”

“I would. I will!”

“One week, then!”

“One week from tonight?”

“Yeah!”

“Midnight! I’ll meet you at the girls’ waterfront!”

“You’re crazy!”

“I know!”

“Bwak bwak bwak bwak!”

We switch partners. I face Ryu. He stands there with his arms folded. “You think you’re cool?” he asks.

“Ryu! Why don’t you chicken dance?”

“No, don’t
touch
me, okay? I’m here to give you a message. You ever heard of White Lotus Crew?”

“Ah … no?”

“That’s who’s gonna kill you. You understand?
Kill you.
” Ryu puts his hands up to his nose and does a beak-beak-beak.

WE SLEEP ON THE FLOOR IN THE YURT. I understand academically that this is how yurts work, but it’s not until I’m down there, with my feet facing the center, in my underwear on top of my sleeping bag, that I realize what a terrible setup it is. Jaxson, Kolby, George, JB, Ryu, Sam, and I produce a heap of nocturnal sweat. Everyone’s odors combine to form one rank nimbus.

Even if I were in a fragrant spa, I wouldn’t be able to sleep; I’m worried about Ryu’s “White Lotus Crew.” I end up getting strange snatches of half-sleep where I dream I’m fighting a gas demon.

Breakfast is at eight in the morning, back in the dining hall. It’s bright and cavernous—all the boys from all the age groups fit inside at once. It smells so much like breakfast food—like eggs and bacon and those diced potatoes that you only find in hotel buffets—that I think I might pass out. My whole body aches. My leg feels freshly bitten. Across the room, the kitchen door swings back and forth. Inside are the steam and machinery needed to feed two hundred campers and counselors three times a day. The younger boys surround us like horrible
reminders of what we used to be. They’re yelling, chewing, scraping plates … kids are fighting over
orange juice.
Once you take soda away, it’s amazing what people will fight over. Our counselor, Ken, sits with our yurt, drinking a muscle shake.

“How are you two doing today?” he asks me and Ryu. “Getting along?”

“Ask him,” Ryu says.

“We’re fine,” I say, but Ryu gives me the death eyes and mouths,
White Lotus Crew.
I edge toward Ken. “Is there any chance I can change yurts?”

“Just let me enjoy my protein. Don’t you want some food?”

I look at what my yurtmates are eating: thin soggy waffles doused with syrup and flecked with hard butter on bright pastel plates with cloudy plastic cups of water and juice. I want fresh fish. I want crab.

“This is the stuff right here,” JB says, grabbing the syrup dispenser, whose sides are caked in layers of hardened syrup, and dumping it on his eggs. I never understood how people can do that.

“I’m going to talk to my friends in yurt three,” Ryu says, standing up.

“No you’re not—get—
Ryu!
”

He walks off without a look back. Ken sighs and refocuses on his shake. Ryu goes two tables away to confer with his henchmen, kicking a thumb at me.

“Is that the White Lotus Crew?” I ask JB.

“That’s right, son. Big one they
call Tiny; the other one they call the Silver Eel. You shouldn’t have messed with Ryu.”

“I still did? What did I do? Beat him up?”

“Yeah. You don’t know about White Lotus?”

“What are they, a gang?”

“Yeah. They stabbed a taxi driver.”

“What?”

“Initiation rite. Put him in the hospital for three weeks. Aren’t you from New York? Everyone knows White Lotus.”

“I go to kind of a—”

“White school?”

“Well—yeah. What do you mean,
stabbed
a taxi driver? Was he in on it?”

“Excuse me?”

“Was it like part of a performance-art piece?”

“Nuh-uh. He got
stabbed
.”

I watch Ryu discuss some plan with Tiny and the Silver Eel—his
fellow gang members.
He outlines a scheme on his palm like a football player.

“Have you ever stabbed anybody?” I ask JB.

“
Pfff.
Have
you
?”

“What if I have? Would you respect me?”

“I don’t know what you’d have to do to get me to respect you. Probably talk less.”

I don’t say anything.

“It’s the quiet people who get respect. You don’t know that? How come I’m even talking to you right now? Here I am giving out free advice. It’s because
I
like to talk. Don’t get it twisted.”

“I don’t understand. I beat Ryu in a fight. Doesn’t that mean he’s supposed to respect
me
now? Isn’t that how it happens—you defeat the bully and then he’s nice to you?”

“That only works with people who
aren’t
in gangs,” Sam says.

“Sam! You’re talking to me! Thank you!” I nudge Sam’s shoulder, but he shakes his head and goes back to eating his eggs. My body sags. I finish eating breakfast without another word, trying to earn people’s respect.

AS DALE BLASWELL CHAIRS ANOTHER Hideaway Village powwow, I examine him for signs that he corresponds to Officer Tendrile. Besides his mustache and general imperious attitude, I don’t get any clues. He explains that we need to fill out sheets to select
electives
for the next week: camp activities like canoeing, nature studies, archery.... Clearly the best is archery. They don’t have sword fighting or hand-to-hand combat, so I put
archery
,
archery
, and
archery
as my choices.