Faking Normal by Courtney C. Stevens

urge to scurry out of his sight like a cockroach is overpowering. “Yeah, um, that’s probably it. See you tonight.”
    I duck into the closest bathroom. Three girls stand at the mirror reapplying makeup—probably freshmen, since I don’t recognize them. They’re talking about the huge number of calories in school food. I make it to a stall at the end and forgo any thought of sanitary hygiene. Collapsing on the open toilet seat, I sob quietly into my hands.
    I am one of those girls Hayden has such contempt for, the ones he thinks are so unfair when they cry “rape.”
    Because I didn’t try to stop him.
    He had no indication, absolutely nothing from me that he wasn’t doing what I wanted.
    Except for the tears. They rolled from my eyes and wet my hair and ran into my ears.
    But he never looked at my face. I know because I never blinked. I can’t count the slits in the vent without blinking, but that night it was as if my eyelids were wired open. I saw everything. Everything. His eyes were closed when it started, when he reached for me for comfort, and I froze. When he kissed me and I stayed silent. And his eyes were closed while he worked. Because he didn’t want to remember I wasn’t his girlfriend. He didn’t want to realize he was doing to me thethings he wanted to do with her.
    The end-of-lunch bell rings. I don’t move. Even as the bathroom door revolves for girls in need of a pee or a mirror. They hurry in, they hurry out, and no one sees me hiding in the stall.
    Bells ring at the beginning and end of fifth period. Technically, I am cutting class. But I simply cannot move.
    I hear the bells ring at the start of sixth period and again at the end of sixth period. I still don’t move.
    Packs of girls end their day in the bathroom. Little snippets of conversation drift under the stall door. Kate Applebee is the favorite for homecoming queen. (I agree.) The Spanish II teacher, Mr. Moore, is gay. (I agree.) Dane Winters has the best ass in the class. (I agree.) The dance will be ballin’. (I don’t care.) I want to leave. And I should call out that I’m here and can hear everything they say.
    But I can’t.
    Eventually, the girls are gone. And so is the noise in the hallway.
    I have been crouched here with tears running down my cheeks for two and a half hours. The phone in my back pocket vibrates with four messages from Heather and three from Liz. They have my purse and my psych book. They’re waiting. They’re at the car. Still waiting. Where am I?
    They’re not happy. Where am I?
    It is the need to lie that wakes me up and gives me the courage to move. I text Heather and Liz.
Don’t wait. Sorry. Talking to a teacher about SAT. See you in dresses.
    If my fingers can move, so can the rest of my body. I stand up. My legs surprise me by walking out of the stall. Slow, secret tears don’t mess with your eyes or ruin makeup the way a gully-washing cry-fest does, so I’m able to dab my face with a paper towel and look mostly normal.
    Faking normal is a skill I learned seventy-seven days ago, but tonight it’s going to require everything I have.

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    HarperCollins Publishers
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chapter 9
    THERE’S one lone figure slouched against the long brick planter outside the front doors of the school. He has green hair, and he looks up as I push open the doors and walk outside.
    “Bodee, you didn’t have to wait,” I say. The empty parking lot looks like a concrete desert. It is extra hot for October.
    “Yes, I did.”
    I open my mouth to tell him I was talking to a teacher about the SAT, but then I don’t say the words.
    “Rough day.” Bodee isn’t asking; he’s stating instinctively what he seems to know about me.
    “Yeah,” I say. There is a silent consensus to head home, so he joins me and we walk toward the street together.
    “Thanks for not making something up,” he says.
    “I guess you’d know if I