The Other Normals (5 page)

“They look friendly,” Mom says.

No they don’t. They look like a skyline: there are kids who’ve had the Growth Spurt and kids who haven’t; jutting Adam’s apples and child-sized clothes … but no potential friends. No one with my bowl haircut. Two of the bigger boys drum up
dust with a basketball, spinning, showing off their long limbs, and I track from them to two boys unloading a trunk, to two boys comparing logo-ed caps, and I realize:
I’m the only white kid.
I see Hispanic, black, and Asian in equal amounts. I’m the asterisk.

I power down my window. The group’s buzz of gruff speech hits me. I recognize that I’ve never
been
in the racial minority before. It feels different. It feels scary.

JAKE, DAD, AND I HAUL MY TRUNK OUT of the SUV and carry it to the center of the gathered campers. A counselor—a big, good-looking guy named Travis—checks me off a list.

“Eckert? Can I see your backpack?”

“Why?”

“It has to be inspected.”

I hand it to him. Inside, besides my character sheet, are my
Rule Book,
my dice, and my mechanical pencils. Travis tosses the bag into a bin on wheels, like something used to haul trash away from a demolition site. “We have to check for drugs, alcohol, and candy.”

“There’s no candy in there! That’s mine! Give it back!”

“‘Give it
back
!’” my brother mocks. “‘I need it
back
!’”

“Stop it, Jake!”

“Can you open your trunk, please?”

I unlock it. Travis pokes around my tighty-whities while checking things off his list. I watch the bin that holds my backpack. Another counselor wheels it to a picnic table, where more counselors remove comic books and DVD players
from the bags within.

“All clear,” Travis says. He leaves me with my dad and brother.

“You’re never getting that back,” Jake says.

“Shut up!” I shove him, pushing with two hands on his chest. He doesn’t move an inch (I guess I really am Strength 2) and he shoves me back (I would put him at Strength 28), targeting my kidney. I fall into Dad. It hurts more than Jake could know—I woke up with a nasty bruise on that area this morning. I can’t explain it; it’s a kidney-shaped bruise over my actual kidney. I guess I sleepwalked into something. Ever since I fell asleep on the bathroom floor, I’ve been waking up with strange bruises.

“
What’s going on?
” Mom shrieks, hustling toward us. The boys go quiet except for embarrassing comments:

“Oooooo
, snap.”

“Here she comes.”

“Watch this crazy white woman.”

“I leave you three alone to have male-bonding time for two minutes, and you start shoving each other? This is why you’re going to summer camp, Perry:
antisocial behavior.
”

“I’ll handle this,” my father says. He kneels in front of me. “Perry, you have to let them take your game if that’s what they think is best for you. It isn’t real. It’s kid stuff. And you’re not a kid anymore. You’re putting off real life. I know real life is hard”—he quiets down—“I was married to your mother. But you have to face it. In your own way, you’re as bad as Jake.”

“Hey! Fuck you.” Jake spits in the dirt. “There’s nothing wrong with me.” He stomps back to the car.

“What are you gonna do with
him
while I’m at camp?”

Dad sighs. “We’re taking him to rehab.”

“About time!”

“We’re trying to get him into a good college. It’ll make his profile more interesting. Don’t worry about him, kiddo. Worry about you. Make friends. Meet girls. Okay?” I don’t respond in any way, but Dad hugs me and walks back to the car like he really got through to me.

“Here,” Mom says. She hands me a shopping bag with something hard inside. The bag is much bigger than the item, which is cool and angled. I slip it into my pocket, surprised. “Be safe,” she says. As she hugs me, I see a bald kid’s head behind her.

“Sam!” I cup my mouth so the exclamation doesn’t escape. I don’t need Sam seeing me with Mom. He’s probably seen me already and is avoiding me because of the volatile nature of my family.

“What?” Mom asks.

“Nothing, it’s fine. You can go. There’s somebody here I know!”

“Where?”

“
Don’t look!
Just go. Please, Mom, don’t ruin this and introduce us, please.”

“Thank you for your text message,” she says. She holds up her phone:
wish you were here.

“I was …” I start trying to explain that I was trying to send that to
Sam
, that I have so few people in my phone that I must have sent it to “Mom” instead of “Sam” … but then I think better of it. “You’re welcome, Mom.” I almost tell her I love her, but what would be the point?

“Enjoy what I got you.” She looks strangely beautiful for a moment before going back to the car; thirty seconds later they’re gone.

SAM STANDS WITH A GROUP OF THREE kids. One is short; the other two are the tall ones who were dribbling the basketball. Why didn’t he tell me he was coming here? I blurt, “Hey, Sam!”

He turns around quickly without being able to control himself, the way you do when you hear your name. He sees me. His face drops. He looks away. The smaller kid with him has a flat nose and pointy ears like an evil imp. The taller two could be twins, with dreadlocks, except one is much darker-skinned than the other. I get it: these are Sam’s
old
friends, older than me, and he’s going to need time to catch up with them. He’ll talk to me later.

I pull the plastic bag out of my pocket and reach inside, making sure no counselors see. It’s a pewter miniature.

Mom! How’d you know? It’s as big as Sam’s miniature of Peter Powers. It shows a young man crouched by a forge, looking up, and you can see both the heat in the forge and the scorching heat of his eyes. It’s Pekker Cland! He has a war hammer at his side, and I instantly decide that Pekker Cland will specialize in war hammers. I can picture his red skin and
yellow hair. I wrap my hand around him. With Pekker, I’ll be okay. I’ll have to write Mom a thank-you note—

“Yo, let me see that,” a voice says behind me.

I turn. It’s someone I’ve never seen before: an Asian kid, about my height, with flashing black eyes and a cocky snarl.

“What is it? A doll? Let me see it, yo.” He sticks out his hand.

“Do I know you?”

“My name’s Ryu. Let me see the doll.”

“Ryu like … from the video game?”

“Yeah,
exactly
like from the video game. Now let me see your doll,
faggot
.”

With that word, as if it’s a command, two henchmen appear at his side: one big Asian guy and one medium-sized one with hair that drapes over his eyes in two small tails.

“It’s not a doll, it’s a pewter miniature,” I say. “And it’s mine.”

“I didn’t say whether it was
yours
or not. I said I wanna see it.”

“Why?”

“Because you look like a bitch and I wanna see it.” He snatches at it. I pull it away. He claws at it again—I flail my arm and
crack
him in the temple.

“Agh!”
Ryu takes his hand away from his ear to reveal a thin red cut. The sun catches his blood against his skin.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to, I just—”

“Hey!”
The counselor, Travis, runs toward us, but I feel strong arms grab me from both sides: Ryu’s henchmen. Ryu steps forward. He pushes a small tight fist right at my head.

WHEN I COME TO, I SEE A BRIGHT WHITE light, very close.... Am I
dead
? Have I died without having sex? Won’t that mean I’m in heaven? I reach up to check my face—

“Ah! Ah! Stop right there!”

A nurse tilts into view. She’s young and pretty. She blocks the light. “How’re you feeling?”

“Pain …”

She pulls the light away from my face. I’m in a dentist’s chair in the middle of a woodsy room. It must be the nurse’s office, with dirty windows and bins of Band-Aids and itch cream, and posters telling me how to identify poison ivy. I have an ice pack in my limp hand. “Silly! Press that against your eye. Keep holding it.”

A man enters the room. He’s tall and sturdy, with a ponytail and a wide, dark mustache; he looks like an environmentalist trucker.

“Peregrine Eckert,” he says. “I’m Dale Blaswell, Washiska Lake camp director. The head honcho here, buddy.”

“My name’s not Peregrine. It’s Perry.”

“Says here ‘Peregrine.’”

“Peregrine’s my birth name. My mom wanted to try something natural. They legally changed it when I was six.”

“You’re Peregrine on my forms, so you’re Peregrine to me. Your head hurt?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s because you were punched in the face. You care to get litigious about it, or can you read signs?”

“What is this place? Nothing here is like the brochure—”

“You can’t learn about life from a brochure!” Dale comes close. “At Camp Washiska Lake, we live in pods. And Hideaway Village is your pod. That’s your unit. Your clan. Your brothers. And one of the things you don’t do with members of your pod is
fight
them, understand? When we fight, everyone loses. See?”

He points to a motivational poster in the room with two dogs snarling at one another. It says,
WHEN WE FIGHT, EVERYONE LOSES
.

“I didn’t start it, though.”

“That’s not what I hear. What I hear is, you whacked Eric Chin in the head with a metal doll—”

“The miniature! Where is it?”

“We took it along with the rest of your gaming materials, Peregrine. You’re not here to bury your nose in books.”

“No, no, please, I need those back. I’m stuck here for eight weeks!”

“Stuck
here? You’re
lucky
to be here. What you need to do is continue to ice your eye, and we’ll see you tonight at the
Village-Villa square dance.”

“What? I can’t dance!”

“It’s not a dance, it’s a square dance. An introductory social event to meet the girls from Oasis Villa. They come from all the way across the lake.”

“Good for them.”

“You have a problem with girls?”

I don’t answer.

“With that kind of attitude, no wonder. I’ll tell you what you won’t have a problem with, though: fighting. If you do it again—”

And then Dale’s mouth keeps moving but no words come out. I just hear silence—not even the tone of the room—a whoosh of
nothing
like a glitch in the universe—

“—Peregrine.”

Dale leaves with his ponytail swinging. Sound is back like normal. Maybe I got hit harder than I thought. I shake my head. The nurse raises a finger. “How many fingers am I holding up? Do you know who the president is?”

“May I please have a piece of paper?”

“Why?”

“Just something to write on and a pencil. Please.”

She gives me a handout about acne. I write on a pockmarked face with a camp-issue pencil:
Ryu = Eric Chin.

“You’re lucky we’ve been icing your eye, otherwise it would be a huge red lump right now, and tomorrow it would be a shiny bruise,” she says.

I put the acne handout in my pocket. I get up. “Where do they put the things they confiscate?”

“Those would be in Dale’s cabin; I wouldn’t worry about them.”

“I don’t think you understand. I’m getting my miniature and my backpack and I’m going home. I don’t know what this place is, whether you’ve been feeding me medication or hypnosis treatments or what, but you’ve got an empty lake and a welcoming committee of kids who punch you in the face and people who come with a mute button. I’m outta here. And I’m taking my friend Sam with me.”

I open the door and rush out of the room.

A GIRL SITS ON A BENCH IN THE WAITING area, knitting, in a baggy sweater and jeans. I’m still pissed off at the nurse but when I see her, I jump behind a fire extinguisher to hide until I can figure out what to say to her.

“Hey! Is someone back there?”

Shoot. She puts her knitting aside; she’s making tiny mittens. She has beige skin and black hair. I can’t guess what wondrous combination of ethnicities has produced her. I step out holding the fire extinguisher.

“What are you holding that for?”

A response comes to mind, a response so perfect I think this whole situation must have been set up by a reality-TV camera crew. That would explain Camp Washiska Lake, actually: the signs for the lawyers, the random encounters and villains, the confusing audiovisual stimuli … maybe this is a reality show!

“I need this because you’re so hot,” I say, brandishing the fire extinguisher.

I’D LIKE TO SAY THERE’S A SLIVER OF TIME between when I offer my line and when she responds—some pregnant period when there’s the possibility that she might laugh, or come back with a complementary phrase (“I
am
”), but all she says is, “Do I
know
you?”