Super Normal

By Josh Denslow

As they grapple with unemployment, their mother's terminal illness, and their father's death, Beth, Taylor, and Denise find themselves back in their childhood home after years of being apart. When a precocious fourth-grader discovers Denise's superpower and then goes missing, it's up to these three floundering siblings to bring him home. Their u

• Language: English
• Publisher: Stillhouse Press
• Release date: Nov 7, 2023
• ISBN: 9781945233210

Josh Denslow

Josh Denslow is the author of the collection Not Everyone is Special (7.13 Books, March 25, 2019). He currently lives in Barcelona with his three boys, his amazing wife, his mother-in-law, four cats, a dog, hundreds of books, and an electronic drum kit.

Book preview

Copyright © 2023 by Josh Denslow

FIRST EDITION

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced without written permission from the publisher.

All inquiries may be directed to:

Stillhouse Press

4400 University Drive, 3E4

Fairfax, VA 22030

www.stillhousepress.org

Stillhouse Press is an independent, student- and alumni-run nonprofiit press based out of Northern Virginia and operated in collaboration with Watershed Lit: Center for Literary Engagement and Publishing Practice at George Mason University.

Library of Congress Control Number: 2023935424

ISBN-13: 978-1-945233-20-3 Paperback

978-1-945233-21-0 eBook

Cover Design: Megan Lynn Brooks and Linda Hall

Cover Art:

Sketch of bee © BigJoy/Adobe Stock

Full color bee © olegganko/ Adobe Stock

Cape © designer_things / Adobe stock

Honey comb © JC/ Adobe Stock

Interior Layout: Carol Mitchell

This final, final, final version of the novel is for Rebecca.

And now she never has to read it again.

ADVANCE PRAISE FOR SUPER NORMAL

Whether they are linked by blood or circumstance, each of the absorbing, effortlessly charming characters in Super Normal share the same exuberant, inexhaustible desire for connection. Denslow’s prose is empathetic and endlessly witty—this novel deftly explores grief, longing, and the actual magic of one unforgettable family.

- Kimberly King Parsons, author of Black Light

Josh Denslow has done something remarkable here. Super Normal is a beautiful debut novel about what it takes to love and accept ourselves and each other, written with real care and big-heartedness and attention to what makes us human.

- Matthew Salesses, author of The Sense of Wonder

Josh Denslow does something brilliant in Super Normal, using the magic of superheroes not to render the world in some new and fantastical way, but to allow us to see how mysterious and beautiful and sometimes heartbreaking the bonds of family are, what we inherit, who we hold onto, how we keep running away from and back to the people who made us. With such a sharp wit and a sense of when to allow that humor to transform to address the heaviness of the story, Denslow has constructed a wonderful novel that you can’t put down.

- Kevin Wilson, author of Nothing to See Here

Denslow has not only masterfully layered multiple narratives to gradually converge into this epic super-moment, he’s also captured the snappy dialogue and sharp humor that make comics and graphic novels so delightful to read. Denslow has accomplished a dynamic, heart-warming book about grief and family that will rekindle your faith in humanity. This is a super-memorable, super-entertaining, super-novel that is, despite its title, anything but super-normal."

- Kalani Pickhart, author of I Will Die in a Foreign Land

Josh Denslow has written a novel that is one third superhero story, one third contemporary bildungsroman, and one third prickly rose bush. The characters alternate between scratching and drawing blood and budding and blossoming in each other’s presence in a way that will be hard for readers to put down.

- Megan Giddings, author of The Women Could Fly

Contents

DAY ONE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

DAY TWO

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

DAY THREE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

LATER

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Day One

THE HEROES ASSEMBLE

CHAPTER ONE

CATAPULTING INTO THE PAST

1

Beth was free.

Unfortunately, freedom meant picking up McDonald’s french fries on the way out of town and then feeling so guilty about buying them that she’d let them grow cold in the passenger seat. The salt and grease sparkled in the light from her phone which had vibrated every minute after she first left, and then after a couple of hours of driving, had vibrated every ten, then every twenty minutes. There was no way Beth was answering, and there was no way she was turning it off. She wanted to be wanted and missed and chased as the smell of the french fries permeated every porous surface in the car and her entire face.

At first, she hadn’t known where she was going. She drove on and off the highway at random, like those little lottery balls in the air machines which never spit out the numbers that matched Beth’s ticket. But after the McDonald’s stop and the first fifty missed calls from Fran, Beth admitted she’d known where she was going but hadn’t built up the courage to go there yet.

Then, like magic, she was home.

The house was completely dark as Beth got out of the car holding her phone in one hand and the cold fries in the other. The house had never been anything special, one of hundreds of houses that looked nearly identical. Years ago, when the neighborhood was first assembled, some families opted for the covered front porch, some the two-car garage, some the large upstairs window in the master bedroom, and they all chose between four vaguely different hues of blue for the siding. No house stood out. And none of them contained a family like Beth’s.

At the moment, Beth’s family home looked as if no one had been there in weeks. And like anyone who had fled home while screaming at her mother and throwing everything that tied her to her family in a pile by the door, Beth didn’t have a key.

She knocked. She rang the bell. The house remained silent and dark and uninviting. As if her past didn’t want her.

But being unwanted had never stopped Beth before. She tried the door handle. Locked. She stepped onto the little porch and tried opening the window that her brother Taylor had broken twice when they were kids, only to discover it was locked as well. She walked past the garage and around to the chain link fence her mom had erected after their dad had died.

In the dark, the backyard looked slightly overgrown. No one used a weed whacker along the fence anymore. The umbrella inserted into the table on the porch had broken at some point and jutted out like the front of a train. She tried the back sliding glass door. It was locked too.

Beth returned to the driveway and looked at her phone. It had been a half hour since Fran’s last call. One text: Come back.

She scrolled through her directory and found her sister Denise’s number.

I almost didn’t answer, Denise said. But curiosity killed a cat, and I hate cats.

I’m sorry it’s been so long, Beth said, her back to the house now. She surveyed the neighborhood in which she’d ridden her bike and fought Claire Perkins and walked her dog that had gotten hit by a car. It was becoming a little overwhelming.

Are you in AA or something? Denise said. Is this one of those calls?

No. But kind of you to think I’d need outside stimulus to call and say hello.

Oh, you’re just saying hello? Cool. No need to discuss your complete disappearance at all. Well then. Hello right back to you.

Then before Beth could acknowledge what was happening, she was crying. Not loud or anything. Just some tears and a thickness in her throat. But Denise knew. She definitely knew.

Where are you? Denise asked.

I’m home, Denise. I’m home. But no one’s home and I can’t get in.

It’s parent-teacher conferences at school. Mom won’t be there for an hour or so, Denise said.

Beth hated the neediness clutching her heart. What about you? Can you swing by?

I’m here too. At the school.

Beth felt a rush of sadness. How had she missed Denise having a child? Boy or girl? she asked.

Really funny, Denise said. Wait, did you think I’d somehow squeezed out a kid since we last spoke?

I guess not, Beth said. Well, I’m out front then. Locked out. Holding cold french fries.

Does Mom know you’re coming? Denise asked.

No. And please don’t tell her. I guess it will be a surprise.

Mom hates surprises.

Beth wiped the last of the tears from her eyes. Let me catch her off guard then. She doesn’t need to be preparing a speech for me.

Denise chuckled. I hear you. Okay. You planning to stick around? Will I see you?

You’ll see me.

After they hung up, Beth stared at her phone. The screen was as dark as her childhood home. Beth thought it would take much longer than this for Fran to give up. At least a year. Or six months. But it had been a few hours and already her phone was totally silent.

Beth walked to the other side of the driveway and looked up at her bedroom window. She wondered what her mom had done with all of her stuff. The movie posters and VHS tapes and CDs. Would she have kept them in a box in the basement or would she have dropped them at Goodwill?

A car drove by and illuminated the front of the house. Beth looked at her mom’s window upstairs and saw that it was halfway open.

She put her phone in her pocket, placed the fries gently in the grass, and bent her knees slightly. She bobbed up and down a little. She knew she could still do it. It wasn’t something a person forgets. She shook her hands out to her sides. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath.

Then she launched herself into the air.

It took a moment to reacquaint herself with the balance needed to fly. It had been years since she’d done more than drift a little off the scale to cut a few pounds or boost herself up to a higher shelf in the kitchen. Now here she was, gliding in the evening air, and it felt like all the shackles holding her to the earth had been severed. She was flying above all of it. She never had to design another brochure for the university again. She didn’t have to create style guidelines for every single goddamn department. She would never again be asked for the hex codes for the school colors. And if Fran wanted to celebrate her promotion without her, then Beth would show her what it was like to not be together at all.

A car whipped around the corner, and Beth lurched toward the open window; that old fear of being caught sweeping through her, the same fear she had felt when her mom had walked into her room while Beth had her hand fully down Claire Perkins’s jeans.

Beth steadied herself and pushed the screen into her mom’s room where it slapped against the flowery comforter on her mom’s bed. She managed to insert her body after it before the car’s headlights could give her away.

Beth lay on the floor, the smell of her mom’s floral perfume clinging to every particle of air, as if bear hugging them into submission.

The tears returned but she wasn’t sure if she was laughing or crying now.

2

Denise sat at a metal teacher’s desk in a half-darkened room at her mom’s elementary school. The chalkboard behind her was perfectly clean; not a hint of chalk dust anywhere. Denise could pull up a whole sensory checklist of how it felt to stay after class and bang erasers together, the chalk sprinkling her hair and coating her throat, and then dunking a moth-eaten rag into a bucket filled with lukewarm water and swiping it across the chalkboard, the green color darkening the wetter it got. When she was done, she’d step back and admire her work. Even though she’d been in trouble, detained after class for talking back or pushing someone around, there was a sense of pride that Denise could tap into now, years later. A sense of accomplishment that swelled her chest and flushed her cheeks. She had conquered the chalkboard. The chalkboard was her bitch.

There wasn’t much in her life that she conquered these days. Most noticeably, her finances. Sure, it was embarrassing, but Denise had come to rely on the monthly checks from her mom. Almost as if just existing as her daughter was a part-time job. But last month no check had come and another month was about to pass. Denise had shown up at parent-teacher night with the thought of confronting her mom, or at least asking nicely if she could keep the money flowing.

The door to the room banged open, startling Denise enough for her to slam her knee into the underside of the metal desk.

Oh God, the man in the doorway said. Are you okay? He was tall with hunched shoulders, as if he were permanently trying to lean down to everyone else’s level. But his face had a handsome fragility, almost feminine, with an endearing grin even while he was expressing concern. Despite her throbbing knee, Denise wanted to know if he wore boxers or briefs.

Just whacked my knee, she said. Good thing all the blood is rushing to my head in embarrassment. That should take care of any pain.

They stared awkwardly at each other. Neither knew if they were supposed to keep talking to each other or part ways.

I’m John, he said.

How did you get parent-teacher duty tonight? Denise said. Did your bowling league go late last week or something?

I have all the duties. I’m a single dad.

Oh, the quick reveal, Denise said.

You didn’t tell me your name.

Denise.

John nodded as if her name confirmed something he’d been thinking. How did you get parent-teacher duty then? Your book club run late last week? Or something.

Denise scoffed. Come on. I don’t have a kid. My mom is Mrs. Clark. I’m here to heckle her during the meetings. I’ll yell out: Mrs. Clark doesn’t know her multiplication tables. Or: Mrs. Clark reads at a third-grade level.

John laughed. I’ll see you in there then. She’s my son’s teacher. But I didn’t know those things about her.

She hides it well.

Another silence rushed over them. Denise wondered if it might go on forever. As if they’d been vacuum sealed together.

I don’t really talk to very many people, John said.

You don’t have to play the sympathy card, Denise said. I’ll get a drink with you.

John’s face flushed red. Really? When?

Tonight. After this madness.

This John guy seemed nice, but it was more than that. Denise knew Beth was sitting out in front of their childhood home, apparently crying, and waiting for Denise to rescue her. Their mom was going to implode or explode or at least go apoplectic with rage when she saw Beth, and now here was this unassuming guy to distract Denise from all of that.

I’ll have to tell the babysitter, John said.

Just give her a lot of money when you get home late.

John’s arms waved around and his mouth opened and closed a couple of times. Clearly he didn’t know what to say after successfully setting up a date.

I’ll meet you in the parking lot after this wraps up, Denise said.

I’m looking forward to it, John said.

Don’t be earnest and ruin everything, Denise said.

Will do. Then he turned and banged the door closed behind him.

Securing a date was not the intended outcome of the evening. Now she had to figure out how to pay if he called her bluff when she offered to pay her half. She got up from the metal desk, her knee throbbing slightly, and looked out the fingerprint-covered window. Three women were smoking on the swings, their purses forgotten on a bench behind them. Should be easy enough.

Denise slipped into the hallway and her shoes squeaked on the tiles as she made her way to the dented metal door. Just before stepping outside, she tightened what she thought of as an extra muscle, and with a little applied pressure, Denise disappeared.

She could still see herself, which had caused some confusion when she was younger and had been trying to spy on her friends or sneak out of the house. Beth was the one who had actually come up with the idea of thinking of her power as a muscle. Flex it and Denise became invisible. Anything she was wearing or holding came along with her, so if anyone happened to be looking where she was standing next to the basketball hoop, they would see no one. Not even a shadow.

The three women were still smoking and laughing and twisting on their swings. Their purses were like seed pods waiting to be opened.

Denise walked quietly to the bench and reached into the first one, hoping that the wallet was on top and she didn’t have to dig around too much for it. And she hoped it was full of cash.

3

Edna loved the kids in her sixth grade class with a fierceness that sometimes surprised her. She snapped at a fellow teacher who had the audacity to claim that one of her students was obstinate. She noticed one of her students wasn’t eating lunch and she began secretly sliding money into her backpack each morning. She’d given more than one student new shoes when theirs were so worn the soles were coming apart. And she’d tutored and lectured and cajoled for hundreds of accumulated hours after class to make sure no one was ever left behind in their lessons.

That was why all of their parents, every last one over the decades Edna had been teaching, was an utter disappointment. All of her kids deserved better. They deserved parents who saw their potential. Who lit a fire under their creativity. Who pushed them to achieve more than they ever could imagine. Instead, they got parents who worked full-time and yawned during parent-teacher conferences or disagreed with Edna’s assessment, as if she didn’t know their children better than they ever would.

And so, as one parent after another revealed how little they understood their children, it was almost a relief to see Denise skulking around the proceedings but never approaching. Edna could take a moment between meetings to