Free Define "Normal" by Julie Anne Peters

phone?”
    He read me the number. I had to ask. “Is Chuckie okay?”
    “Yeah,” Michael said. “He’s asleep.”
    He’ll be scared to death if he wakes up in a strange place, I thought. “Go stay with him,” I told Michael. “And Mom, too. Take care of them until I get there.”
    “Antonia?” The weak, wavery voice returned.
    “Yeah?”
    “Mom’s sick.”
    My throat constricted. “I know. Don’t worry. Everything’s going to be fine.”
    Michael inhaled a long breath. “I don’t think so,” he said.
    There was no Wayfair Inn in the phone book, only a Wayfarer, but it was near the airport. The Lucky Lady Saloon. I looked it up, too, and confirmed the location. How did they get clear out to the airport? And why? Where was she going? Why would she stop at a bar? She didn’t drink. At least, not a lot. Sometimes she used to go but for a beer after work with her girlfriends. But that was a long time ago. I wasn’t even sure she had girlfriends anymore. I unfolded the bus map. “Oh, man,” I thought aloud, “it’ll take me hours to get there. I’ll have to transfer twice.” Dad never let us ride the busat night. He said the crazies came out at night. The homeless, the winos, the thugs.
    “Like you care,” I muttered. “Why aren’t you here to help?” Then I lost it. Waving the bus map at the ceiling, I screamed, “It’s all your fault! If you hadn’t gone and—”
    The phone rang. I lunged for it. “Hello?”
    A familiar voice said, “Tone? Hi, it’s Jazz.”
    “Oh,” I said dully.
    “Mom made me call. Did your mother get home?” she asked.
    My head reeled. If I lied and said yes, she might not believe me. She might ask to speak with Mom. Mrs. Luther would, for sure. Then I’d have to lie again. So many lies. I hated lying. I was already going to hell for leaving Michael and Chuckie alone today, so what difference did it make?
    It made a difference. I didn’t want to lie to Jazz. I was her peer counselor.
    “Antonia?”
    “Do you know anyone who drives?” I asked her.
    She thought for a minute. “Yeah.”
    “Great. I need a ride somewhere.”

Chapter 14
    T he BMW pulled up to the curb fifteen minutes later. I felt betrayed. When Jazz got out to let me in up front, I snarled at her, “I didn’t mean your mother.”
    Jazz glared at me. “My Corvette’s in the shop.”
    “So, where are we off to?” Mrs. Luther asked cheerfully.
    I slid in and gave her the address I’d copied from the phone book. As we headed toward the highway, my breath got shorter and shorter. My whole body shook. Even though the heater was blasting, I pulled my jacket tight around me.
    Mrs. Luther chattered at me over the CD player. After a while, after I didn’t answer her a couple of times, I guess she gave up. Jazz just stared at me from the backseat. I could feel her eyes drilling black holes in my head.
    My stomach felt queasy. If that lobster dinner hadn’t cost forty dollars, I would’ve upchucked on the leather seat. No kidding. What was going to happen when we got to the hotel? Discovery. Disaster. Everything was going to come crashing down. I bit my trembling lip. A gush of salty blood trickled over my tongue.
    “And Jazz plays the piano. Did you tell Antonia about your music?”
    Jazz said, “Yeah, when I introduced myself. I said, “I’m Jazz Luther. You know, the famous pianist.’”
    Her mother ignored her. “She plays beautifully. Her teacher says she has the talent to attend Juilliard. But Jasmine refuses to compete or give a public recital.”
    “No, I don’t,” Jazz said. “You won’t let me.”
    Jazz played the piano? That got my attention. I tried to envision her at the keys, playing a recital, going to Juilliard. The image wouldn’t stick.
    Mrs. Luther went on, “She’s going to have to act more mature if she ever plans to audition for Juilliard.”
    Jazz clucked. “Who says I do?”
    Listening to them bicker was better than the war raging inside my head.
    The