Sort of Normal von Liz Ashlee

Carter

My pseudo-stalker has no concept of the no-shirt, no-shoes, no-service rule.

He grins at me, showing off his wolfishly sharp teeth, as he places a bottled water in front of me so I can ring it up. He produces a wallet and leans against the counter, waiting.

My eyebrows raise as I give a pointed look at the sign that says in bold, capitalized, underlined font, "No Shirt, No Shoes, No Service." The sign has progressed in stages from a small, barely-readable reminder on the front door to what feels like a gigantic billboard by the cash register. I'm not sure what else to do but put the phrase in skywriting.

And this customer, Boone Fell, probably has some ambition to star on the reality TV show Naked and Afraid. Thank God he hasn't gone so far as to ditch his pants.

Yet.

"I stop here durin' my run, Carter," he says in a thunderous southern drawl I know better than my own voice. "What—do you want me to dehydrate?"

I don't answer him, because what I have to say isn't exactly appropriate. Yes, I do want you to dehydrate. Preferably in clothes. Granted, it's not the worst thing I could say, but I know it's enough to make my boss angry. He's never liked me on account of a one-night stand he once had with my mama, which probably went well up until she stole his TV to sell. I’m surprised he even hired me, but from what I’ve heard, the manager doesn’t bother going to him with potential new hires. It’s really no use, given how many people start working here and then quit.

"You're getting so crafty with that sign, Carter," Boone says, getting closer to inspect it. "You know, if you end up going to college, you should give some serious thought to a degree in marketing.”

I know he's mocking me, but his words still catch me off guard. Somehow, he knows I've been thinking about not going to college.

"C'mon," he says, reading my mind, "I listen to the things I hear about you. I pay attention. I've gotta if I'm gonna keep track of your schedule. You know how hard it is to schedule my daily runs around you?"

I picture my heart with a chain-link fence around it—also barbed wire and electricity—as I level my gaze with his. I've known Boone Fell since I was in diapers, back when I used to live beside him, our trailers practically twins. Growing up, he was sweet, and it felt like he would move heaven or hell for me. For the longest time, he was the only dependable person I knew and maybe even the only person who cared about me more than drugs, alcohol, sex, and all of the other vices known to man. It was easy to love him then. It didn't help that his dimples were disarming yet innocent, that his now short hair was shaggy—which always made his blue eyes play peekaboo—and that he was sort of awkward in a gangly, young boy sense. Now, he's a man who knows how to use those dimples to get what he wants—the same with those eyes—and he's muscular, tall, and moves like a predator stalking its prey.

The problem is, I've known this version of Boone for long enough to recognize I'm his repeat prey; it never fails once he catches me, and he sort of just leaves me dying out in the sun. For Boone, the game he plays with me has always been about the chase. I wish I would've realized that sooner when he had more of me to catch.

"It'll be ninety-nine cents," I tell him in a most even voice. Some days, like today, I just try to ignore him. Other days, I snap back. No matter what I do, though, it wears me out. He tires me out.

He digs through his wallet for change. Only Boone would (a) not have a credit card and (b) want to give me the exact change rather than a dollar bill like most people.

"You know, I was wearing shoes. I put them outside the front door, because of our little inside joke here. I was also wearing socks, but I thought, what the hell, and decided to make my feet naked—free."

He carefully sets out nine dimes and starts into the pennies, clacking each against the counter. I don't know if he intentionally tries to be annoying and loud, but he's a pro at it.

"It's not an inside joke, Boone. It's a rule."

"She speaks!" he says, looking up at me. "I love your voice and personality, Junebug."

"Boone …" I bite down on the side of my tongue; I've already said too much. It barely takes anything to egg him on. He's like a toy that you can crank up but can't stop.

When he's finished with his pennies, I feel his gaze roam over me. I can't look at him. Instead, I mess with my ugly blue work shirt. Since he started coming in, I've started resenting this shirt. I've also started paying more attention to my hair and actually doing my makeup. I shouldn't care as much as I do.

"I'm sorry," he says. It might have a lot more power if it weren’t the millionth time I've heard those words come from him. He's gotten awfully good at saying them. "I just want to see you and—"

The door jingles and one of the girls I went to school with walks in, looking as if she were disgusted to have to set foot inside of a gas station. Disgust was always her default, and I doubt things have changed in the year since we graduated high school. Her eyes, though, immediately light up when she sees Boone. I'm not sure why. I mean, Boone's attractive and can be sweet and funny when he wants, but I can count on one hand the number of girls I've seen Boone with. I guess he's just an enigma that everyone wants to make theirs.

The cynic in my head screams, "He's not worth it!" The romantic: "He's mine!"

"Hi, Boone," the girl says, wiggling her fingers. She’s wearing a pair of yoga pants and a tank top with her black hair pulled back in a messy bun. Anywhere else she might look like she’s ready to take a nap, but here she’s runway ready.

"Uh, hi?" Boone says. He suddenly goes from playful and annoying to quiet and stoic. He straightens, reaching a full height well above mine, and doesn't bother turning around. "I'm almost done here."

"Oh, you're fine, I haven't gotten what I want yet," she says. I think her name is Lacey or Lara or something L-related. She was one of the popular people but not popular enough to remember. "I just wanted to say hi. Do you remember me? I'm Jenny. We had gym together."

Well, I was way off on that one.

Boone frowns and folds his wallet back up. "I'm sorry, that was a while ago, and my brain's fuzzy when it comes to high school. It's good seeing you, though."

He waves her off, and she walks away, ducking her head down low, her cheeks red.

"You could've been nicer. She was just saying hi," I say softly.

"Yeah, but I come here to talk to you. I even said it was good to see her—all gentleman-like." I start to say his name again, but he holds up a finger. "Please don't, Carter."

"Why?"

"Because I miss you, and I don't wanna hear how you feel about me. I don't need a reminder of how much I've fucked up. I just—" He shakes his head, and his smile starts to return. "I should go. I'm babbling, and it's probably a sure sign of heatstroke or something. Probably close to seein' mirages. I'll see you tomorrow."

"Wear a shirt," I tell him as he backs away.

"I'll wear a shirt when you stop caring."

That's the thing—I'll never stop caring, and he'll never wear a shirt, and this happens every day, and I don't think it's ever going to stop.

#

After my shift, I come home to find my half-sister, Kara, sitting at the kitchen table with her husband, Gabe. They’re perfectly at ease in the relaxing, slightly-chaotic dining room Kara’s filled with antique furniture and odd decorations. Whereas Kara is reading a book, Gabe has his head laying on the table while he's holding Kara's hand. The two of them are basically the perfect couple, proof soul-mates exist. Kara's been dating Gabe since high school, and when she decided to take custody of me, Gabe wanted to be a part of my life, too. Kara slipped right into the role of sister, mother, and friend, and Gabe into my brother, father, and friend.

Kara spots me first and puts her book down. "Hey, kiddo."

"Hey," I reply, setting my purse on the kitchen counter and then sitting down across from her. Gabe got called in for a shift he wasn't scheduled for this morning, so he looks half-asleep. It's a wonder he didn't go straight to bed.

"How was your day?" Kara asks.

"Uneventful," I say, even though talking to Boone Fell is anything but boring. I haven't told them about his daily visits; they're not exactly Boone's number one fan. They used to like him, but then things happened, and I told Kara everything because that's what I do, and now they sort of hate him. "It was good, though. What about yours?"

"Same. I finished a copy-editing job, got paid, and now I'm trying to talk Gabe into taking us on a vacation." She's been working as a freelance editor since college because it's what she likes and what she's good at. I think she was surprised people liked her work enough to pay her for it, but Gabe and I never doubted she would be a success.

"You can break him," I tell her with a laugh. "You always do."

"Hey, my weakness for the two of you is a strength. Ask her where she wants to go," Gabe orders, barely lifting his head to give me a wry grin. He’s the exact opposite of Boone—clean-cut, dark-haired, well-dressed, prompt. How is it Kara and I are related, but we have completely different tastes in men? Especially when I do not want to want Boone Fell.

"Where do you want to go?"

"I want to go to Alaska!" Kara cheers, holding up her novel. It's clearly a romance, with the man and the woman on the front dressed up like snow bunnies in, no doubt, Alaska.

"I thought you said you wanted to go on a vacation," I say. "As in beaches and sun and relaxation."

"They have all of that in Alaska … It's just colder. Besides, we live ten minutes away from a beach."

"Not a vacation beach," Gabe points out. "But if you want to, we can go to Alaska."

"No, I've been talked out of it already. I don't even like the cold. Or snow. Books just make me want to go places," she sighs and sets her face on her palm.

Kara is pretty in a way that puts her on an entirely different level than me. If I didn't inherit our dad's caterpillar eyebrows, I'd wonder if my mom lied to me about who my father was. Kara's long blonde hair is soft and straight without her ever even touching it, her skin is completely clear, and she's got eyes that always seem to be smiling. I'm a curly brunette who has to climb shelves to reach things and who has the definition of back-road curves. I guess while I've always loved her, I've also always resented her for being so perfect. Our dad isn't the best, but he gave her and her mom a foundation for an actual life. All he left my mom was some money for an abortion she didn't go through with because she knew she could get more by blackmailing him.

That worked until I was four, and Dad came clean with Kara's mom, Deirdre. Dad thought it meant he was done with me, but years later, Kara found out about me, got to know me, and adopted me. My mom didn’t mind handing over custody, given she didn’t have any interest in being a mom.

Suddenly, I have the urge to hug her. This wave of emotion always comes fast and unexpected because I'm just so … thankful for her. If it wasn't for Kara, I would never have escaped the lifestyle my mom and half-brother, Declan, had or the suffocating trailer we lived in. I also wouldn't have found out what a "home" is.

There's no avoiding the guilt of everything. At the end of the day, I escaped and Declan didn't. Kara gave him an opportunity to, and he didn't want it, so I left him. Maybe if I would've stayed or tried harder, he'd still be here. Alive.

"Is something wrong, Carter?" Kara asks softly.

Gabe immediately sits up, stands, and heads to the refrigerator. Before I can answer her, a spoon clanks to the table, followed by a pint of chocolate ice cream. I smile up at him feebly, knowing this is his way of showing he's here for me. When I first moved in with them, I always had trouble sleeping, so I would sneak downstairs. Somehow, Gabe would get up, too, and we'd end up eating ice-cream together. Sometimes we talked about why I was up; sometimes we didn't.

"I'm just—" I look back down at the ice cream and run a finger around the rim. Tears flood my eyes, a natural disaster waiting to happen, as my chest tightens. "It's a year today."

Gabe pulls the chair up next to me and wraps an arm around me. He pulls my head against his chest and kisses it. Kara scoots closer to me and starts rubbing my arm and brushing away my tears.

"I know, sweetie," she whispers. "We didn't want to bring it up and upset you."

"I miss him," I say. My voice is tangled and hoarse against Gabe's chest.

"I know you do," Kara tells me, "because I miss him also, and I know it has to be worse for you. Declan loved you so much, Carter."

At the sound of his name, it becomes hard to breathe, especially hearing it from Kara. Did I choose her over him? The thought has ricocheted around in my mind since the day I told him I wanted to live with Kara. Up until that point, he thought I was going to live with her because I had to.

You're choosing to leave me? he'd asked with bleary eyes. I can remember looking around and seeing all the things I was leaving that weren't him. Like the kitchen we never cooked in but was a walkway many men took back to Tish's bedroom. Or the broken liquor bottles and bags with who knows what in them. Or the couch we slept on that was lumpy, ripped, and sometimes flea-infested. I wanted to leave all of that behind, not him. Maybe he couldn't see that since he was just as tattered and ruined as everything in that room.

Even though Declan wasn't Kara's biological brother, she always left one of the bedrooms empty for him to use. Her only rule was Declan couldn't do drugs while he stayed with us, and he could never do that, so he barely used the room. He mainly visited us in the space between his highs.

"W-Why did it ha-have to be … why didn't h-he get—" I’m speaking nonsense. Questions I think about almost every night when I see him in my mind, lying on the floor of the trailer, lifeless.

Why did it have to be him?

Why wasn't it my mom? She was the bad mom—the bad person. She never even tried to love me or Declan or anyone other than herself.

Why didn't he ever get clean?

Why wasn't I enough of a reason?

"Shhh," Kara murmurs. "You're starting to panic. Breathe with Gabe."

I fight to align my breathing with Gabe's, listening carefully to his deep, exaggerated inhales and exhales. Eventually, even the pounding rhythm of my heartbeat slows to match his. I focus on the physical to drown out the emotional pain.

"I'm sorry," I say quietly.

"It's okay," Kara assures me.

"Yeah, kid," Gabe agrees.

"I got you all wet, though," I tell him.

He shrugs. "Worthwhile battle scars."

"Especially since they wash out," Kara jokes lightly. "Are you better now?"

"I am," I admit. "I think I needed that."

"It's good to cry sometimes. It's better than bottling everything up.”

"I love you," I tell her.

"And we love you, too. Why don't you go up and take a bath or something? Gabe's going to go to bed, and I was thinking I could go get a pizza, and we could rent a movie?"

"Something funny?" I ask.

"Of course," she says.

"Sounds like a good plan," I say.

"What about the ice-cream?" Gabe asks.

"That comes after the pizza," Kara tells him. "You're a horrible influence."

"If that's the worst thing Gabe does as my guardian, then I think we'll be fine," I say with a laugh.

I leave them and head up to my room. Kara painted it a deep maroon because that was the color I told her was my favorite when I first moved in. One day I left a white, sanitized room and came home after school to a mature, maroon room with a black, glittery bedspread and a wall full of books. All of the furniture matched and was new, and it's still the most I've gotten to call mine. Before Kara, I never even had my own hairbrush, let alone room.

As I'm grabbing some pajamas, I notice something out on my window sill. My whole body freezes. I haven't seen a flower on there since I lived at the trailer. I know it has to be from him, but I don’t know how it got there.

I slowly approach the flower, hoping the wind somehow managed to blow it up. But that couldn't have happened, because this is a perfectly intact yellow lily with a note tied to it.

Whenever he would do something wrong, I always half-expected to find a flower here, but I never did. I thought he forgot about our tradition. There were so many days I just wanted some sort of word from him, even if it wasn't an apology and instead just a simple "Hi," as he'd sometimes do. I never ever expected there to be a flower today.

I open my window and tentatively grab the flower, careful not to knock it over the edge. My fingers shake as I remove and open the note.

Dear Junebug,

Sometimes it's hard for me to say and do the serious stuff, especially when I'm saying it to you. Growing up how we did, you learned to shut down—not open up. I wanted today to be different because I know what today is, but I just didn't know how to. So, I'm trying to make up for it by writing this. I'm sorry and I'm sorry you lost him. I know today's hard for you. I know how much you must miss him. I miss him, too.

But I also miss you. A year ago today, I also lost you and that's the hardest anniversary I'll ever have to face. Losing the dead is one thing, but the living? I wish I could repair it all. I wish this was like a plumbing problem—something I can solve with a pipe or screw or Draino.

It's not. I know it shouldn't be. I just wish it was.

Yours,

Boone