I see his I’m so lonely face, but it’s as if I’m still hearing the condom package tear, the image is so intense in my head. I will not look at his broken heart or listen to his sorrys. Not any longer.
“Don’t you dare act like this is okay,” Kayla says through gritted teeth. “Don’t you dare think you can just—”
“But . . . but Alexi will be fine. I mean, now that we all know. We can work this out, Kayla. We can—”
“Are you serious? Are you totally out of your mind? You’re really thinking that’s an option? You’re lucky I don’t call the cops right now and have you arrested for statutory rape.”
Bodee nods, and I amp up on Kayla’s rage.
There’s no dignity in him when he cries, “But Kayla, I . . . I don’t know where to go. What to do.”
“Not my problem.”
“But you love me,” he says.
“Yeah,” she says honestly. “But there has to be someone out there who is . . . better to love . . . than a guy who rapes my little sister.”
“Kayla,” he pleads.
Kayla’s finished, but I finally find my voice, my words. “Don’t you Kayla her, Craig. Don’t you ever Kayla her again, you son of a bitch.” Bodee reaches for my hand as I catch my breath. He squeezes, and I know the rage I feel is on my face. “There’s no coming back, Craig. There’s no making this right. There’s only you resigning from your job and moving away from Rickman. There’s just you, out of this house. Out of our lives.”
Craig sits there, speechless and shell-shocked.
“You heard Alexi, get up,” Kayla says, and kicks his leg to jar him from the couch.
My tears dry as I watch the full realization pass over Craig’s features. “Leave. Now,” I say, and my voice is calm and strong and determined. At last.
Craig rises then and stumbles out the front door, and as I stare at the unopened Sprite on our hardwood floor, I hear his truck start up.
And I think: The Littrells don’t have to buy Sprites anymore.
Craig’s the only one who ever drank them.
He’s gone.
There’s no spoken agreement to keep this between us, but when Mom and Dad get home from Harvest Fest, Kayla says, “I broke up with Craig tonight, and it’s over. I’m finished with him for good. It’s time for me to . . . to get on with my life.”
Mom starts to say, “Oh, honey,” but Kayla throws out a hand, cuts off the sympathy.
“He won’t be around anymore. Dad, there are a couple of boxes of his crap at the back door. Will you burn them?”
Mom and Dad exchange a look. I can see they think this is Kayla being Kayla.
Dad says, “What if you change your mind tomorrow?”
“I won’t,” she says, and looks at me.
“Okay,” he says, and gives her a long squeeze. I imagine he’s thinking, She will be sorry, but this will teach her a good lesson.
Mom and Dad will probably cry when they realize their almost son-in-law is really gone, but for now they give all their support to Kayla. As tough as she is, when she’s under the crook of Mom’s arm, she sobs. I know there will be a day when I’m in this same safe place, telling Mom the real story.
Mom told Bodee most girl things could be fixed inside forty-eight hours. It’s taken Kayla and me about ten years to even get started.
I hug Kayla too. “You’ll tell Mom, right?” she asks in my ear.
I can’t imagine how, but I know I have to. I nod. “Over the weekend.”
“I’ll help you,” Kayla says.
In the shelter of our family circle, I look over at Bodee and think about what his mom said.
Because she was right. It doesn’t come with a bow on it.
I think God’s going to be tying this one up for a long time to come.
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chapter 28
“MOM, Bodee and I are going to walk to the fort.”
“School night,” she reminds us.
“We won’t be long.”
Bodee and I need to talk. Away from closets and air vents and bed slats. This afternoon was a roller coaster, from the planter at school to all the family hugs. We haven’t said much about the deposition, or Bodee leaving, or what I did when he left, or even the way things happened with Kayla and Craig.
“I thought you’d left for good,” I say, once we are in the woods.
“I thought about it,” he says.
“I know.”
“Because I thought you’d given up. And I didn’t think I could stand to watch it happen. But then I started to realize I wasn’t much better. Blasting you about not talking, when I wasn’t talking either. As you told me.”
“I’m not sure you’re capable of blasting,” I say, letting him know I’ve forgiven him for his harshest words.
He thanks me with that smile. “I decided if I couldn’t change you, maybe I could inspire you. What was it? What made you decide to tell?”
“You,” I say.
“But you didn’t know about the deposition.”
“No.” Sometime maybe I’ll find the words to explain. “But it was you.”
“Well, I wish you’d done it for yourself,” he says. “Because I did the deposition for me.” He thinks for a moment and then adds, “Well. For us.”
“Sort of blurry thinking, huh? Me. You. Us,” I say, releasing his hand so I can climb the ladder. In the fort, we share our window, bumping shoulders, staring down at the clearing even though it’s almost completely dark. As if it’s one of those 3-D graphics where some new image emerges if you stare long enough.
Something has.
Me: a girl who was raped. Him: a boy whose dad killed his mom.
Us: a girl and boy who survive.
“I did it for me. Us,” I say, using his words.
“Not for Hayden?” he says.
“No,” I say. “I don’t think there’ll be any more Hayden.”
“Why not?”
“You,” I say, and take his hand.
“Me?”
“You. I choose you.”
I turn from the window, and Bodee turns with me. He doesn’t seem to mind when I loop my arms around his back and lay my cheek on his shirt. “Bodee, who am I?” I ask, from the circle of his arms.
“Alexi.”
“Wrong,” I say, and look up to meet his eyes.
He has a curious expression, and I wonder what it looks like under a mop of kiwi green instead of just plain lemonade.
“Well, who are you then?”
“I think I’m somebody new. I’m not sure yet. That okay with you?”
Bodee lifts my hair and kisses my neck, and then my fore-head, and my cheek. His lips part and I anticipate his question.
“You don’t have to ask for a kiss,” I tell him.
And he doesn’t. That kiss is the best one of my life.
Maybe it’s because Craig’s gone.
But probably it’s just because it’s Bodee, and he’s here.
When we finally break apart, he says, “Lex, who am I?” A smile, not the full one, curves his mouth.
“I’m not sure,” I say, knowing the answer is not as simple as saying his name.
“Name?” he says playfully.
“Bodee,” I answer.
“Another?” he says.
“The Kool-Aid Kid?” I ask, touching the undyed blond hair and twirling a length of it around my finger.
“Another?”
“I . . . don’t know another.”
“You want to know a secret?” he asks.
I nod.
“You’re the girl from fourth period.”
“I am?” I say, not understanding what this means. “But . . .”
“Alone. Before this crowd. Alone, in this terrible dream. Who am I in this visible silence? Can they hear me scream?” he sings very softly without taking his eyes o
ff mine. The very first lyrics the Captain left for me.
I stare at him blankly for a second, and then I get it.
“You’re Captain Lyric?” It’s too storybook to be true. “But why? How?”
“Because you were hurting, and I didn’t have the words. That first day of school by our lockers, I saw your neck. I know about things like that from my mom. I wanted to do something, but I didn’t know what.” He brushes his thumb over my lips. “You always have your earphones in, so I took a chance.”
We sit on the floor of the fort, and he tells me how sometimes he wanders the hallways during lunch. And how that first week, Heather and I sat there talking in fourth period after the bell rang, and he saw me. That’s how he knew which desk was mine. How he wrote those first words in the empty classroom after we’d gone, and then waited to see if I would write back.
“But you told me you had a girl in your sights.”
Bodee grins. “I didn’t mean she was in my fourth-period class.”
“And I asked you if I knew her and you—”
“Lex, I just hoped you could look at yourself one day and understand what I see when I look at you.”
“But the party?” I say. “When I asked to meet?”
“I went there that night to tell you.”
“But you weren’t wearing black,” I say.
“Lex, you’ve seen everything I own. I didn’t think you’d mind.”
“I don’t. But . . . oh.” I remember the kiss with Hayden. “I wanted it to be you. I wish I’d known.”
“Yeah. Me too.” He’s thinking about that kiss he witnessed too.
“But why was Hayden even there? Why was he dressed in black?” I have so many questions. But I want this to be true so badly that I have to check and recheck everything.
“Heather,” he says simply. “But don’t be mad at her; she wanted to fix things for you so much that she told Hayden about Captain Lyric. The desk, the meet, everything.”
“And Heather told you?”
“Yes,” he says, and takes my hands loosely in his. “Eventually.”
“Bodee, why didn’t you tell me before now?” I ask. There have been so many opportunities.
He sighs. “The first time you mentioned the lyrics you were so happy.” He looks away. Then down at his feet. “I wasn’t sure that you’d be as happy if you knew it was me. We promised—”
“No skipping ahead,” I say, remembering our walk home from school the day of the dance.
“No skipping ahead,” he repeats.
“For what it’s worth, I’m glad I fell for you instead of just your words.”
“Me too.” He surveys me, weighs me, it seems, and then says, “While I’m confessing, you need to know something else. I told someone about Craig.”
My limbs turn to jelly. “Who?” Honest Bodee. He said he would tell, and he did.
“Liz.” He grits his teeth and waits, but then he can’t wait. “You mad?”
I think for another long moment. “No.” Liz is the perfect person to know.
“You need a friend.”
“I have you,” I say, giving him a hug.
“You need more than me. There’s still a long way to go, Lex. For you. And for me. For Kayla. With your parents, when they learn the real reason Craig is leaving Rickman. It’s not going to be as easy. And what if I spend the night with Ben or you go on another campout? You need someone else who knows. Who loves you.”
I think about this all the way to the house, zooming in on the subtle way Bodee said he loves me without saying it. I think about how wise he is. He never rushes. And I won’t either. There’s plenty of time for saying those words and many others in our future.
And he’s right about Liz, and I’m glad I don’t have to retell the story for her to understand. Because when I think of Craig, I still want to tear things apart.
But today is better than yesterday. And this hurt is still a hole in me, but it’s a shrinking hole.
Tonight, I’m in bed and Bodee is lying beside me with his sneakers on. And it’s late and we’re so tired. And completely talked out.
I have the urge to count.
The compulsion is overwhelming. Even now, one hundred and three days after . . .
One.
Two.
Three.
Four . . .
We’ll keep on counting until we get up to twenty-three . . .
Five . . .
But now I don’t have to worry about blinking . . .
Six . . .
Because . . . seven . . . I can count Bodee’s kisses with my eyes closed.
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acknowledgments
I have two fingers pointing to the sky, because I know God walked with me, inspired me, loved me, opened doors for me, etc., during the writing of Faking Normal. I would not be here without Him. He is the reason I understand there is peace and love after pain, and He will always be the boy who loves me anyway. (Like Bodee is for Alexi.)
Thanks, shout-outs, praise, blessings, and love:
To my agent, Kelly Sonnack. Whenever people ask me about my agent, I tell them she’s amazing and tough and brilliant, and I trust her to the moon and back. If she had told me to make all the characters in Faking Normal baby porcupines, I would have tried. Kelly, thank you for loving this book and for having a vision for my career. (And for working with Taryn Fagerness to back the book beyond the states.)
To Rosemary Brosnan. You gave me the best birthday present of my life. You are a treasure of knowledge, encouragement, honesty, belief, and all the words of praise don’t fit here, but please know, from the bottom of my toes, I thank you for letting me be on your team.
To Andrea Martin. Thank you. I feel like if we were in the FBI (don’t you wish we were?), you would be the best handler in the world.
To the entire team at Harper: Karen Chaplin, Andrew Harwell, Alyssa Miele,
Brenna Franzitta, Valerie Shea, Cara Petrus, Kim VandeWater, Patty Rosati, Olivia deLeon, Susan Katz, Kate Jackson, and all the people I don’t know yet but who work so hard. Thank you for being in my corner and making this experience amazing. I owe you all Goo-Goos.
To these amazing industry folks: Sarah Davies, Tricia Lawrence, Erin Murphy, Tina Wexler, Ruta Rimas, Josh Adams, Beverly Horowitz, Liz Szabla, and Kevon Lyon. You gave encouragement when I needed it.
To Ruta Sepetys and Sharon Cameron. There would be no book without those conversations we had in L.A. Thank you for saying, “You have to write this book,” and for listening to me. (And for letting me live in your homes.)
To my critique partners and dear, amazing friends: Erica Rodgers, Kristin O’Donnell Tubb (long live Annie & Eve), Rae Ann Parker, Hannah Dills, Jessica Young, Genetta Adair, Patricia Nesbitt, Janice Erbach, Sharon Cameron, Ruta Sepetys, Alina Klein, Kate Dopirak, and Jolene Perry. You helped shape Faking Normal and your fingerprints are all over the story.
To my SCBWI family and the community of writers in all my cities: Portia Pennington, Susan Eaddy, Katie McGarry, Bethany Griffin, Colette Ballard, Kurt Hampe, Mary Uhles, David Arnold, Ashley Schwartau, Cassie Frye, Lauren Thoman, Tracy Barrett, Lin Oliver, Stephen Mooser, Kim Turissi, Sara Rutenberg, Jennifer Jabaley, S. R. Johannes, Victoria Schwab, C. J. Redwine, and Myra McEntire. It takes a village.
To my accountability group and friends: C. J. Schooler, Katie and Matt Corbin, Leah Spurlin, Brooke Buckley, Jami Unland, T, and Sarah Elizabeth. You read. You listen. You love. You’re there. I’m forever in your debt.
To Dr. Bruce Harris for all the healing you offered me.
To my State Street UMC kiddos and LWC students. You inspire me. I am forever your student.
To my Potter family. You let me write on vacation and ramble about books and publishing.
To Adam. You took me to Prince Edward Island. You never complain when I buy books instead of
groceries. You understand the pursuit of dreams. I’m believing for NY for you! Be the crash. Rhinos forever.
To my family. Mom, Dad, Matt, Angela, Bryce, Brooklyn, Grandmother, Nana, Barbara, Mike, Dave, Sheridon, Taylor, Daniel, Destin, Kristen, Claiborne, Shelby, Kurtis, Matt, and Pat—I love you. Thank you for loving me.
(And to Jennifer Garner, who I’d love to meet one day. Long live Sydney Bristow.)
Finally, to all you readers. Of the two of us, you are my better half.
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About the Author
Photo by Jen Creed, 2013
COURTNEY C. STEVENS grew up in Kentucky and lives in Nashville, Tennessee. She is an adjunct professor and a former youth minister. You can visit her online at www.quartland.blogspot.com.
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Copyright
HarperTeen is an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers.
Faking Normal. Copyright © 2014 by Courtney C. Stevens. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
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