Free Entering Normal by Anne Leclaire Page B

them.

CHAPTER 7
    OPAL
    DURING HER FIRST TWO MONTHS IN NORMAL, OPAL had prepared herself for a call from Billy, but the weeks have passed without so much as a single word except for the messages he relays through her mama, messages Opal knows enough not to trust. Melva can carry on all she wants about Billy missing her and Zack, but if he misses them all so goddamned much, why doesn’t he at least call? At first this lack of communication irritated Opal, but now she is reassured by it. It reinforces her belief that Billy is relieved to have them out of his life, that he won’t make any fuss.
    When he finally does call she is so totally unprepared that his voice sends a jolt straight to her stomach.
    â€œHI, BILLY,” SHE MANAGES— COOL AS YOU PLEASE—AND thinks,
Shit.
She slides down to the floor, her back against the cupboard, and cradles the phone base in her lap, unconsciously taking the same pose she held every night the fall of her junior year when, night after night, she would slouch down on the living room carpet and hold the phone tight against her ear. For hours, they would talk in whispers, tones varyingly cottony or tender, silky or hushed, as they progressed through the stages: attraction to flirtation, first date to dating, steady dating to phone sex. Phone sex led to the real thing—sex on the bench seat of his black Ram or behind one of the gravestones at the back of the Baptist cemetery, anywhere they could be alone for five minutes. Who would believe that what began with hot whispers and the thrilling tenor of one boy’s voice could lead to such trouble, that it would end in tears of disbelief and crisis—unimaginable crisis?
    â€œShit, I miss you, Opal.” He has lowered his voice. First time they’ve talked since she left New Zion, and he’s acting like they spoke last week. He is
so
out of touch with reality. “How’s Zack?” he is saying.
    As if he anything like cares. “Well, he’s just fine.” She lets her eyes roam around the kitchen and finally fix on the small yellow-and-blue spot stuck straight in the middle of a cupboard door.
    The sticker—peeled from a banana—was there when she moved in, a remnant left by the Montgomerys. It was so startlingly out of place in the sterile, avocado kitchen that Opal had immediately taken it as a sign. Stuck like that in the middle of the cupboard, what else can it be? She has not yet figured out the meaning.
Chiquita
. Wasn’t there a singer from South America with that name? Or is she confusing her with the character in the banana ads?
    â€œOpal? You still there?”
    She pulls her attention from the decal. “I’m here.”
    â€œI miss you, Opal.”
    She pauses, knowing the prescribed response, the answer Billy waits for:
I miss you, too.
The wire hums with her silence.
    â€œHow’re you doing? You okay?” he asks, as if Melva hasn’t been feeding him regular reports.
    â€œI’m great,” she says in a baton twirler’s chirp. “Just great.”
    â€œYeah, well that’s wonderful,” he says in a voice suddenly gone flat.
    â€œI’ve rented a house,” she says, “two stories, three bedrooms, a backyard. It’s on a dead-end street which is good—safe for Zack—and there’s a nice older couple next door.” She knows she is babbling but can’t stop. “I’ve enrolled Zack in preschool and there’s a toy store here that is interested in the dolls.”
    Instantly she regrets mentioning her work. Although it is the first thing she was ever good at—really and surprisingly good at—Billy hates that she makes dolls, though what it is about them that makes him so mad is beyond her.
    â€œWell, I’m glad to hear everything’s so terrific with you, Opal, because—not that you asked—but me, I’m not doing so great.”
    Crap.
Not five minutes have passed in