Faking Normal by Courtney C. Stevens Page A

did,” I say.
    “You don’t want to talk about it.”
    Again, he’s stating a fact. He’s opening a door, but he already knows I won’t walk through. The power of Bodee is in the way he reads me, sees through me, and then understands the truth behind the facade. He’s the guy who can walk straight through the House of Mirrors on the first try. It’s almost annoying. No one should ride tragedy like a pro surfer while I drown.
    “Not in the mood to talk,” I say. Talking will lead to more crying, and more crying will lead to puffy eyes, and puffy eyes will lead to questions from people who aren’t as undemanding as Bodee.
    “It’s Hayden,” he says.
    “No, not Hayden.” I sigh. “Something Hayden said.”
    “A man is partially made up of his words,” Bodee says. After that, we just walk.
    Then Bodee boots an acorn, sending it spinning into the grass. We keep walking, and he kicks at the stub of a pencil from someone’s backpack. And then he’s shuffling his feet left and right. Anything on the sidewalk has to go: more acorns, scattered rocks from a driveway, and candy wrappers and cigarette butts. Trash left by a horde of students when the school day ends. I join in, and together we clean the sidewalk with our emotions.
    When the stretch ahead of us is clear, when there’s nothing left to kick, Bodee speaks.
    “Mom gave me ten dollars before . . . um, you know.” Hestops and faces me. “I could go to the dance tonight if you . . . if it’ll help.”
    Dull knitting needles. A dozen of them to the heart. “Oh, Bodee,” I say.
    I might sob right here and not worry about the puffy eyes. How does it happen that a boy I hardly know has become the only person in the world I trust? Decide fast, Lex. Do I ask him to spend the ten dollars? The little money he has (that his dead mother gave him) for a dance where he’ll stand in a corner just to make sure I’m okay? Or do I tell him to keep it and reject one of the sweetest things anyone has ever offered me?
    “I won’t interrupt your date,” he adds.
    “I know.” I have to accept his offer, but I don’t know if it’s for him or for me. “Yes, please. Come to the dance.”
    I want him to hold my hand, and magically he does. Not boyfriend style, and only for a squeeze. But long enough that a tiny seed of hope grows inside me.
    “If you come, you have to dance with me,” I say. It’s only fair. His ten dollars more than earns him one dance.
    “What about Hayden? Will he know I’m not trying to date you?”
    “I’ll explain.”
    Bodee knows I’m not explaining anything to Hayden. He knows this means I will lie, but he nods.
    “I haven’t danced with anyone before,” he says. Little tinges of pink bloom across his cheeks, and I haven’t seen that sincethe night he stacked up his boxers in front of me.
    “Good,” I say. “I’m a terrible dancer.”
    “We aren’t . . . trying to . . . date each other. Right?”
    “Nope. The last thing I need is a boyfriend,” I say, and mean it.
    “Good.” Bodee exhales, and I hear his relief. “You’re my . . . first friend, Alexi. Except for my mom. And I don’t . . . I’d rather not skip ahead.”
    “No skipping ahead,” I agree.
    This thing with Bodee is shaped with expectations, but they’re easy. And right. Like when I hold one of my stone carvings or a piece of pottery in progress and can tell I’ll like the artwork. Even when it’s not quite complete.
    Friends.
    “I can use the lemonade on my hair.” He sends a glance sideways. “Look normal.”
    “Don’t you dare,” I say. “I’m dancing with a green-haired guy.”
    I say a little prayer of thankfulness. Mom and Dad believe they invited Bodee into our home to help him, but the truth is, he’s helping me.
    “Thanks for waiting,” I tell him when we reach the house. “And for tonight.”
    “That’s okay,” he says.
    And it is.
    The two and a half hours in the bathroom are forgotten. The time with Bodee is like