Faking Normal by Courtney C. Stevens Page A

leave the newly engaged couple, slack-jawed and wide-eyed with astonishment, and contrast Bodee’s quiet entranceby slamming the front door. Stomping the entire way, I climb the steps to the bonus room.
    Bodee’s room.
    He’s sitting on the edge of the twin bed, which Dad has decked out with the only available twin linens in our house. Mom will be horrified when she realizes Dad has rummaged in the attic and found my old Cinderella comforter. Bodee sleeping beneath the yellow princess is almost more than I can bear.
    “I was rude,” he says.
    “Stand up,” I tell him.
    He stands, and in one motion I flip Cinderella over so the plain yellow plaid side is faceup. “Better. And you are never rude.”
    Bodee Lennox is never really anything. I’ll bet most kids in our class didn’t know his name before the murder. And yet his face is not expressionless the way I once thought. That slight twitch of lips, a little half grin, says more than Heather does in a week. But the full-teeth smile, the one I saw today at his house, is like a work of Tolstoy.
    He’s not smiling now. “I shouldn’t have left like that. Mr. Tanner was being nice.”
    “Yeah, but Mr. Tanner should have thought before he said something so insensitive. Bodee, you know we’re not trying to replace your family. Mom and Dad know they can’t fix this for you. I know it. We just want . . . I just want this year to be . . . easier from here.”
    He is silent for a moment, and then he nods. “I want that . . . for you, too.”
    There’s so much to say in return. Like telling him my pain is nothing compared to his. Like asking how he sees things about me when no one else can. But words will only make me more vulnerable, so I say, “Me too,” and leave it at that.
    I’d hug Bodee if I could. A friendly hug. And maybe if he wasn’t hibernating in a den of grief, he’d hug me back. As I stand there not hugging him, I think if we were normal teenagers we’d probably squeeze each other and sigh, and let our hands roam around until we had a knockin’ boots of a one-afternoon-stand before supper and then never speak of it again.
    But we’re not normal. At least I’m not, and I’d bet on the ponies he’s not either. And I don’t feel the urge to touch his fuzzy, can’t-grow-a-real-beard face. Or run my hands through his Kool-Aid hair. But I like him in this room. Like him in my house.
    Instead I say, “I can help you put your stuff away.”
    Bodee nods; it’s his typical wordless assent.
    I stack the tent and the sleeping bag in the corner of the closet while Bodee unzips his duffel. This is not a job for two, but I’m not ready to leave.
    “Won’t take long,” he says.
    I reach for his worn copy of Hatchet . “God, I loved this book. Where do you want it?” I ask.
    “Under the pillow,” he answers.
    Bodee removes his underwear from the bag so quickly the stack tumbles into a disheveled pile. I’m not supposed to have seen, so I hold the book and fumble with his pillow until I’m sure he’s finished. It’s weird how something as ordinary as white boxers turn a face red.
    “I can hang those up,” I say when he pulls the khaki slacks from the bag.
    The tie, still knotted as I saw it last, a wrinkled white shirt, and pants come to me in a ball. They haven’t been washed, and I can smell the earth and sweat of last Saturday on them.
    “Why don’t I wash these first?”
    “I’ll do it once I buy detergent.”
    “You’re not buying detergent. It like, well, comes with the house. Like my shower soap and blue shampoo. And dinner.”
    Bodee tucks the strand of blue hair back, the one that’s been driving me crazy, and says, “And rides to school?”
    “Yes, and rides to school. And anything else you need.”
    An indeterminable number of white T-shirts, three pair of jeans, some socks, and the five boxes of Kool-Aid from the kitchen counter are the only other items he removes from the bag before shoving it under the