Something Like Normal Read online

  “Paige, let’s go up to my room,” Tabitha says quickly, pulling on my arm and leading me away from her glaring mother.

  “It was a pleasure meeting you, Mrs. Henderson,” I say in a sickly sweet voice, not meaning a single word of it.

  Of course I don’t get a reply.

  As we make our way through the foyer and up the polished staircase, all I can smell is citrus cleaning spray and loneliness.

  No matter how much money these rich snobs have, it’s never enough, but as the old saying goes, ‘Money can’t buy happiness.’ But it can buy artificial happiness, which is the reason why snobs like Tabitha’s mom were my best customers.

  “My room is at the end,” Tabitha says as we reach the top of the staircase.

  I look down the long corridor, and can see about ten doors that lead off from the red carpeted hallway. The place may be rich in possessions, but it certainly isn’t rich in love. This place is sterile and loveless.

  We finally reach her room, and when she opens the door, I like Tabitha all the more. This is the only room in the house that shows personality, and isn’t cold or barren.

  “Sorry it’s so messy,” she says, throwing clothes off the long, red sofa to the floor.

  She zips around the room, collecting strewn items of clothing and packets of candy, as I look around the huge bedroom, which is decorated in burgundies and golds. Tabitha has decked the walls with posters of her favorite bands and pictures of different holiday destinations around the world.

  I wonder if she stares up at these pictures, wishing she was anywhere but here.

  With her hands full, she tosses the goods into the bathroom and closes the door behind her, looking frazzled.

  “Tabitha, don’t worry about it,” I say as I plonk down onto the sofa.

  Tabitha follows suit as she leaps onto the bed, landing on her tummy, which bounces with her weight.

  She places her chin in her open palms and swings her legs in the air behind her, while looking at me apologetically.

  “So, sorry about my mom,” she says, embarrassed, her cheeks flushing slightly.

  I wave her off, tucking my legs underneath me.

  “We can’t help who our parents are,” I say with conviction.

  Tabitha sees my reaction and pauses before she asks apprehensively, “Do you like your mom?”

  I lower my eyes, not wanting to lie to her. It’s bad enough she thinks my name is Paige.

  “I don’t know.” I know I need to shut up, but after what I just witnessed downstairs, I owe Tabitha the truth.

  Well, as much as I can tell her.

  “You don’t know?” she asks gently, her eyes softening.

  I raise my eyes to meet hers. “No. She left when I was three, and it was only me and my dad.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” Tabitha replies. I couldn’t bear it if she looked at me any differently.

  “Don’t be.” I don’t want her pity.

  “What about your dad? Are you close?”

  I know she’s only trying to get to know me better, but these questions are beginning to make me uneasy. I yank the sleeves of my sweater down over my fingers, as the room has dropped fifty degrees.

  “No,” I simply reply as she awaits my answer.

  “Oh, Paige… that sucks. I’m—”

  I interrupt before she finishes. “Don’t say you’re sorry,” I bark, meeting her eyes. “Because I’m not.” I mean every word of it.

  Tabitha nods. “Well, it’s their loss because I think you’re awesome.”

  I look at her, innocently swinging her legs, unaware of how much her comment means to me.

  If I could cry, I would, but for now, this tearless feeling is enough.

  ***

  “I love it!” Tabitha squeals as I’m bent over her basin, looking up at her excited face as she examines the red in my hair.

  She is carefully washing out the dye with a candy smelling shampoo, which I recognize as her distinguishable scent.

  “So, what do you think about Tristan?” she asks, while rinsing my hair.

  “He’s nice,” I reply as I close my eyes because water is slipping into them.

  “What do you think of him in the looks department?” she randomly questions me.

  I think this classifies as girly talk, so I play along.

  “He’s nice,” I say again lamely, totally uninformed of the right protocol for talk such as this.

  Tabitha laughs. “Well, I know he thinks you’re more than nice.”

  “He what?” I ask, cracking open an eye to look at her.

  She’s nodding briskly, her red hair slipping into her eyes.

  “How do you know?” I ask out of sheer curiosity.

  “He told me,” she replies plainly while massaging my scalp.

  My stomach turns, and I wonder if they’ve been talking about what a freak I am.

  “It’s all good, Paige,” she giggles. “Anyone would think you’ve never had an admirer before.”

  Well, that’s because I haven’t. Well, not someone like Tristan, anyway. Not someone who’s nice to me for no reason, other than him being a sweet guy.

  “You have, haven’t you?” she asks when I close my eye, trying not to look too obvious.

  “Seriously? You haven’t?” She gasps, astonished, her hands still in my wet hair.

  I slowly shake my head, feeling really lame right about now.

  “No way! I can’t believe it! A hot, cool chick like you would have guys all over you, right?”

  I open my eyes, because surely I haven’t heard her right. But the disbelieving look on her face confirms I heard her correctly.

  “Don’t be so surprised. I see guys checking you out when you’re not looking,” she says, smiling, giving me a small wink, and returns to washing my hair.

  I return her smile, but it’s only a half smile, as I feel uncomfortable talking about this.

  “Okay, all done,” Tabitha says, grabbing a big burgundy towel and wrapping it around my head.

  I hold onto the front of the towel and sit up, thankful the grilling has stopped.

  “Thanks, Tabitha,” I say, rising from the stool.

  “We’re not done yet. Would you mind if I dried and styled it?” she asks, reaching for a comb behind me.

  Sitting back down, I shrug. “Sure.”

  I think this is another girly bonding thing.

  Tabitha jumps up and down, clapping. “This is gonna be so fun.”

  And it kinda is.

  ***

  “Okay, gimme a sec, and we’re done.”

  Tabitha wasn’t happy with just playing hairdresser; she also wanted to try some different makeups. She pretty much sugar coated the fact I look like death walking, with how white I am. She said she could give me an instant tan without leaving the house. I told her I wasn’t interested in looking like Malibu Stacey, which she found hilarious, but just the mention of Stacey’s name and I notice her frown.

  What would the reason be for her to frown? Well, apart from Stacey being a troublesome cow. I rack my socially daft brain, hoping to find an answer.

  Brad.

  “Why were you upset the other night? About Brad?” I ask, hoping I don’t sound too abrupt.

  Tabitha stops applying powder to my face, her hand poised with the makeup brush near my cheek.

  “Like I said, Brad and I, we… you know,” she says, her pale skin tinting a bright pink.

  I think back to a comment he made to Stacey about him not doing redheads.

  Liar, liar, pants on fire.

  “So why were you crying when you saw him?” I ask, trying to get my head around this whole thing.

  “Because,” she sniffs, dropping her hand onto her lap. ”Because after we had sex, he treated me worse than before we slept together… which was bad. Every time I see him, it just reminds me of what an idiot I am for losing my virginity to him.”

  My mouth pops open.

  “You lost your virginity to that dick?” I ask, jus
t in case I didn’t hear her correctly.

  She nods, biting her lower lip, close to tears.

  “Sorry,” I apologize. “I didn’t mean for it to come out so harsh.”

  “No, it’s fine,” she says, waving it off, while fiddling with the lip gloss in her hand. “He is a dick. I hated every minute of it. And if I could, I would take it back.”

  And let me revisit my point of why I’m a virgin.

  It’s stories like Tabitha’s that I don’t want to relate to. I could think of nothing worse than having an uninspired, sexual romp, just for the sake of losing the big V.

  I’d rather wait till I’m ready. I’m not sure if I ever will be ready, but if the time never comes, then I’d rather that than the alternative of regretting something I can never undo.

  Unlike other aspects of life, who I decide to give my body to in the most intimate way possible is solely my decision, no one else’s.

  “What about you?” Tabitha asks, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. “Had any regrets?”

  Oh gee, how long have you got? But I know she’s asking about something entirely different.

  I shrug, and my hair springs up, thanks to all the primping Tabitha has done to it.

  “You have slept with a guy, haven’t you?” Tabitha enquires, her bright eyes opening wide.

  When I don’t reply, she lightly slaps my upper arm. “Shut up!”

  “I didn’t say anything,” I reply, totally confused by her Tourette’s.

  “No, silly.” She chuckles. “I just meant like, no way.”

  “No way, what?”

  I am so lost in translation.

  “That you’re still a virgin,” she replies, giving me a small smile.

  “Why is that so hard to believe?” Do I have WHORE plastered all over my forehead?

  She must read the baffled expression on my face as she quickly stutters, “I just meant, I mean… look at you… you’re beautiful.”

  If I could cry, this would be the moment that tears would prick my eyes. I’ve never once been called beautiful. And I never actually cared. But now, hearing it… it kinda feels nice.

  “Okay, well enough of this,” Tabitha says, brushing it off. “I’m all done. You can look at my creation.”

  She spins my chair around so I’m facing the square mirror, sitting above the double sinks.

  “Ta-dah!” she exclaims happily, spreading out her hands. “What do you think?” she asks when I sit motionless, staring at my reflection.

  I raise my hand slowly and the reflection follows.

  I wiggle my nose and the reflection follows.

  I touch my face and the reflection follows.

  The person looking back at me with soft blue eyes and skin that isn’t deadly white is really… me.

  Running my hand through my hair, I’m amazed at the softness and fullness of it, and I totally look like one of those chicks from the Pantene ads!

  “You have amazingly thick hair, so I just styled it a little differently to shape your face a little better. I hope that’s okay?” Tabitha asks, worried when I still haven’t said a word.

  I nod, and my eyes widen when my hair bounces—yes, bounces.

  As my eyes widen, I notice they look blue, like really blue. And big.

  “Why are my eyes so bright? And big?” I ask, leaning forward, nearly falling off the edge of the swivel chair to get a closer look.

  “I just made them a little more natural, not so much black,” she replies, standing behind me, looking at my reflection in the mirror.

  As I take a closer look, I can see she has gone for a smoky effect, using grey eye shadow, and smudged charcoal eyeliner along my lower eyes. She has opted for navy mascara instead of black, making my eyes look piercingly blue. My sharp cheeks look feminine with a light sweep of blush in a natural hue. And my lips are coated in a sheer, peachy gloss.

  I look… I look like a girl.

  “Thank you, Tabitha,” I whisper, still staring at my reflection in awe.

  “That’s okay, anytime. That’s what friends are for.”

  Chapter 11

  Murderer

  All I can smell is death.

  And that smell is radiating from my dad.

  His white t-shirt, which once fit him snugly, now hangs off his gaunt frame, two sizes too big. He looks unsteady on his feet, like he’s eighty-five instead of forty-five. He hasn’t showered in days and I can’t remember the last time he ate.

  But all these things, they don’t matter to a drug user. The only thing that matters is when they’re going to get their next fix. That’s the only thing they’re focused on. Life be damned.

  My birthday was yesterday, not that it matters. I haven’t celebrated a birthday since my mother left. But as each year passes, I promise myself, “This is it. I’m out.”

  But every year I seem to fall deeper and deeper into desolation, and it’s getting harder and harder to crawl my way back out. I spend the whole year psyching myself up, trying to get my dad cleaned up, and as another year ticks over, I realize what a waste of a year it was.

  This year has been no exception.

  “Have you got it?” my dad asks as soon as I enter the small, dirty kitchen.

  My kitchen was once filled with cookies, orange juice, and fresh fruit. Now the only thing that litters the benches are lighters, beer bottles, and unpaid bills.

  Gee, nice to see you too, Dad, I snicker to myself. No, “Hi, Mia, how was your day?”

  I should be used to this by now, but it still fucking hurts to know drugs come first.

  “Hi to you too, Dad,” I sarcastically retort while opening up the fridge and grabbing a beer.

  I’m exhausted, dog tired after doing a last minute drop off for Phil in town, and I really need a drink. Popping the lid off a Budweiser, I take a long sip and close my eyes, savoring the taste.

  “Don’t be a smartass!” he says from behind me, the desperation clear in his shaky voice.

  My hand clenches around the bottle in rage.

  Smartass?

  Smartass would be tipping his stash down the sink and telling him to go score his own drugs. Smartass would be me calling the police on his sorry ass. Smartass would be me dragging him off to rehab. So, I truly doubt he knows the true meaning of smartass, as from where I stand, I am far from it.

  “Here,” I say, reaching into my back pocket and throwing the clear bag onto the table, disgusted.

  My dad launches at it, hovering over the substance like he’s about to perish without it.

  I curl my lip up in disgust.

  This year is it.

  I’m nineteen and I quit.

  No more.

  I’m weaning myself off this destructive lifestyle because I don’t think I’ll survive another year.

  As I am deep in thought, something in my dad’s face changes. I can see it.

  His beady eyes narrow and he looks at me with cruel intent.

  The sinister glare actually makes my stomach turn and I have to look away, totally on edge. What is he planning?

  “We need to talk,” he mumbles while rubbing his chin. “I need you to do something for me, Mia.”

  My skin instantly chills and I’m eight years old all over again.

  “What?” I ask, my skin crawling at the thought of what he wants me to do.

  He shakes his head, his greasy hair sticking to his brow. “Not now. I’ll talk to you about it tomorrow,” he says, taking his stash and licking his lips greedily for his next fix.

  But tomorrow never came, because in two days, I shot my father dead.

  ***

  I jump out of bed like it’s on fire and race blindly to the toilet, heaving up my dinner. My body shudders as I puke it all up until there’s nothing left to throw up.

  The cold tiles feel frosty under my knees, but I can’t move, as I’m afraid I’ll topple over if I shift a muscle. So, I stay cradling the toilet, hoping this bout of hysteria will pass.

  Holy fuck, I hate dr
eaming.

  These are such hardcore memories, and I wish I could just forget them. But I have a feeling they are memories I’ll never forget for as long as I live.

  I don’t know what the fuck happened at Tabitha’s last night. The memory of the day I shot my dad is one I haven’t revisited, and honestly, I thought I was okay. But obviously, I’m not. Maybe I have some kinda delayed grief button, and only now it’s been switched on. Either way, I want to switch it back off.

  I don’t want to feel this.

  Flushing the toilet, I wash my mouth out and brush my once bouncing hair off my sweaty brow. I pull it into a lose ponytail as it’s sticking to my neck and making me itchy.

  The clock in the darkened bedroom reads 1:48 a.m., and I know I’m never going to get back to sleep.

  Frustrated, I slump onto the end of the bed, my head resting in my palms in annoyance.

  I need to set my plan in motion and I need to focus on why I am here.

  I need to find my mom.

  That’s the only thing that makes sense to me.

  I need to find her and ask why the fuck she left me with him. How could she leave her three old daughter in the hands of a monster? Once I get these answers, I hope to close that chapter on my old life, and start my new life. One without drugs, or fear, or hopelessness.

  Shooting my father was never planned. I was backed into a corner, and the only way out was to come charging, guns blazing. But now I have to live with my actions because there’s no coming back from this.

  I can never go back to L.A, as I’m sure by now I’m a suspect in my dad’s murder. My decision has left me with no other option than to live my life on the run, but it’s better than the life I was living back home. I may have been free, but I never felt it. I always felt I was a prisoner, sentenced to life without parole.

  But no more.

  My plan is simple.

  I’m going to find my mom.

  I’m limited with the information I have on her, as the only things I have is her name and an old photo, which is the only memory I have of her. But I have to start somewhere.

  I know it’s a long shot, but as they say, ‘The hardest part of the journey, is taking the first step.’