Destined to Be Normal

By Abigail de Niverville

Orson Lewis isn't good at anything. His grades are average, he's bad at sports, and he doesn't really like his friends anymore. Compared to his older sister Emerson, he's a total failure. And it doesn't help he's set to attend the same high school as her in the fall. This summer is his last chance to figure himself out.

When Li

• Language: English
• Publisher: Abigail de Niverville
• Release date: Nov 14, 2023
• ISBN: 9781778135415

Abigail de Niverville

Abigail de Niverville is an author, poet, and composer based in Toronto. Originally from the East Coast of Canada, she often is inspired by her hometown. She holds an M.Mus from the University of Toronto.Abigail's debut novel I KNEW HIM is now available from NineStar Press and most major book retailers. Her poetry chapbook POEMS WORTH SAVING is available now in ebook through most major book retailers and in print on Amazon.

Book preview

1

Summer Blues

1

I’m not sure what noise I’m making, but it’s not music.

Wiping away the sweat on my forehead, I rest the flute against my shoulder. It’s so hot this morning, but I’m determined to get in my thirty minutes. I made myself a promise I’d practice five times each week over the summer—and today is technically the beginning of the summer. Or it will be in about three hours when we get our report cards.

Ms. Finley’s been hyping me up as a flute and piccolo player to the band teacher at the high school, so I can’t let myself slip even for a moment! I’ve got to start this summer off right. I don’t want to fail. And piccolo is the real deal. You don’t get recommended to play piccolo in the high school band unless someone believes in you. Even though I think her faith is a bit misplaced—just because I’m the only one in my current school’s band who practices doesn’t mean I’m good. This summer, I have to make myself good. Or else!

Sighing, I grab my tuner from the desk, set it on the music stand, and play the first high note of the piece. The dial goes so far into the sharp region, it’s almost a different note. I wince and try again. Still horribly, screechily sharp. Just playing the note by itself is clearly not going to work, which means I’m going to have to actually follow Ms. Finley’s advice and begin with the note below. I play it long enough to make sure my pitch stays as even as it can and then go up.

For one second, I hit the green. Glorious, blissful, clear green. That in-tune, perfectly resonant sweet spot. That perfect, ringing, true—

The dial goes sharp again.

Seriously? I whisper to my sheet music. The tuner thinks my voice sounds like a very flat G. Great.

I just need to try again, that’s all. Support with my diaphragm and all that jazz. I clench it now just to confirm I haven’t forgotten (as if I could) and close my eyes.

In my head is a chamber, a sort-of concert hall, and that’s where I go. I hear it there, try to really get into the imagined sound, and bring the flute to my lips.

Flat this time.

Are you kidding me? I sigh. The tuner thinks I’m more in the F-sharp region now. Sharp, again—it’s mocking me.

I play the same note again and again until I finally keep the dial green for a solid few seconds. My stomach hurts, and I’m sweating so much, it’s running down my cheeks like I’m crying, but I made it. I got it—and all before the last possible second I need to shower before school. That’s got to be a record.

My phone is buzzing relentlessly when I get out of the shower with Chrystal’s name on our friend group chat flashing on my screen. We usually don’t text before school—Mona likes to leave for school at the last minute, and Chrystal’s usually busy walking to school—so it’s weird seeing the chat so active. Did something…happen?

Chrystal’s latest message flashes on the screen again.

CHRYSTAL: be there soon.

My heart jumps with dread as I open the thread.

MONA: Emergency! Everyone get here ASAP.

MONA: I’m FREAKING OUT GUYS.

MONA: I’m at the BENCH by thetheatre.

MONA: HURRYYYY

CHRYSTAL: OMG! On my way!!!

MONA: Where’s Orson?

CHRYSTAL: @OrsonLewis??

MONA: C’mon bb.

CHRYSTAL: Leaving now.

CHRYSTAL: be there soon.

MONA: Orson????

MONA: I really need you both right now.

I tap the phone against my forehead and groan. Normally, I’m there right away, ready to respond instantly. But this time, I wasn’t, and it sounds like things are really serious. A sick wave of nausea clenches in my stomach—I hate disappointing Mona. And I hate rushing my post-shower routine! This is the worst last day of school ever!

ME: Sorry! Was in the shower!

ME: Can be there in 10.

MONA: BE QUICK CHRYSTAL’S ALREADY HERE.

Mona is super dramatic, especially in crisis mode. It’s not a surprise anymore, but it still kicks me into high gear. I rush through getting dressed, skip moisturizing my face altogether, and let my hair airdry despite knowing the disastrous effects this will have. It’s all for the sake of expedience.

By the time I get to school, I’m out of breath and sweaty. Again. So much for that shower. But Mona’s face lights up when she sees me slow my bike and ditch it on the grass, so at least there’s that. I get a gold star for showing.

She runs right up to me before my bike has a chance to even land, throwing her arms around me. Her breathing is irregular, and she squeezes me so hard, a few joins pop in my shoulders. Her bony wrists dig into my back, her knees knock against mine, but it’s fine. I’m used to Mona hugs. If they don’t hurt a little, they aren’t real.

Arm in arm, we join Chrystal at the bench, which is actually a square slab of concrete. She’s sitting at one corner, hands folded on her lap and waiting. Her lips are pursed, and she taps at her arm impatiently. She’s also not one for disturbed routines.

Even though it’s absolutely stifling out here, and we’re all dying of heat exhaustion, she’s wearing long sleeves. Her fresh box braids cascade down her back. She’s pretty in a different way than Mona, all soft where Mona’s hard edges, all pinks where Mona is greens. I love her, so I sit across from her, our sticky knees barely apart.

Mona takes her time speaking. Her brown bangs, straight across her forehead, puff out like they always do in humid weather, and her face goes paler with every breath she takes. Meanwhile, Chrystal is playing with one of her braids, tucking it behind her ear and then releasing it again and again. I have nothing to do, so I just stare at my shoe. It’s getting dirty.

My grandma got diagnosed with Alzheimer’s, Mona says quickly. My dad wants us to spend the summer with her while she still remembers things. Our last summer.

Chrystal slumps her shoulders forward, her brows knit even closer together. In concern? Annoyance? It’s hard to tell anymore with her, with the two of them together. It’s been like this between them for a long time, this slow-growing tension I don’t understand and am too terrified to comment on at this point.

I’m sorry, I say to fill in the silence.

Mona nods in appreciation, breathing deeply again. I know we had plans.

Chrystal’s expression hardens.

Don’t worry about those, I say quickly before Mona can notice. There’s next summer.

Don’t do anything without me, Mona says, laughing a little. She tries to make it sound like a joke, but I know she’s serious because it comes out forced.

Mona hates being left out of anything. She used to get all weird whenever I hung out with Tyler Kim. We never did anything she’d be interested in, but she’d get all touchy about being left behind and say rude things about him. Tyler stopped hanging around so much. Now, I never see him.

It’s because of Tyler that I don’t make any promises. Sure, I’ll miss Mona, but I don’t want life to stop just because she isn’t here. She does plenty of things without me. Why is this situation any different?

I’ll miss you two, Mona says.

A pause. Chrystal glares at her shoes.

We’ll keep texting, I say, staring at mine too.

Thanks, Mona murmurs, unsuspecting. Sonny, your grandma had Alzheimer’s too, right?

I nod. Mom kept us away towards the end of Granny’s life, but I overheard her telling my sister Emerson about it once. Granny didn’t remember very much. She got confused about a lot of things that were once integral to her. It hurt to even imagine that.

How long did she live?

I shrug. There’s a lot I don’t remember, which makes me feel like I’ve failed some kind of grandson loyalty test. I don’t want Mona to know that about me, though. She’d probably bring it up at the worst time. She always does.

I don’t think he wants to talk about it, Chrystal swoops in, taking my heartbeat with her. Her voice is too sharp, too revealing, but Mona deflates in an instant.

Sorry, she mutters. I’m scared.

It’s okay, Mo, I assure her, patting her hand. I don’t like seeing her cry—or nearly crying. I might be a little heartless but not that much.

Mona purses her lips together and nods, breathing deeply again. Every breath is jagged and laboured, like she’s fighting to keep herself together. It’s been so long since I’ve seen Mona cry, and I doubt she wants today to be the first time. On the last day of school. No one wants to seem too weak, and Mona has never been the kind of girl who wants to be known for girly things like…having emotions.

I’ve never been called girly, but I know that’s what people think. No one has to say anything about it; it’s a well-known fact. Take one look at me, and you know—even if I tried to hide it. But I still don’t cry, even when I really want to. I don’t let my interests stray too much from what’s expected. I keep it all in because I’m already not that boyish, and being that way is a slippery slope. I’m not interested in finding out what happens if I fall into it.

The last day of school is always pointless. There’s nothing to learn, nothing to do, and still, we’re all forced to sit in class for approximately two hours before the inevitable, dreaded report card pass-out happens.

In elementary school, the last day of school was always exciting. Everyone brought the teacher a present, and we’d all watch breathlessly as they unwrapped every single one like it was Christmas. But middle school is different. Middle school is more serious. You’re not supposed to care about things. Instead, we sit in half-darkness and watch a DVD of Heritage Minutes. And then there’s the lucky few whose parents just drop them off for the last ten minutes to get their report cards. They waltz in smelling like sunscreen with bathing suits peeking out beneath clothes, strutting about to just sell how much better their day is going than the rest of ours. Meanwhile, I’ll be lucky if Mom lets me stay up tonight.

Tyler Kim and his friend Amber Stuart are, of course, two of the lucky sun-screened probable-beachgoers who get to skip the monotony of the last day of school. They breeze into the classroom, Amber in a flowing sundress and not bothering to take off her hat, Tyler wearing sunglasses even though the room is dark for the TV. I can already imagine Mona rolling her eyes. Later, she’ll say he looked like a jerk—and she’ll be right, but I’ll never be able to agree. The two of us are just…

It’s complicated.

Amber marches right up to the teacher’s desk and makes quiet demands. It doesn’t take any convincing before the two of them are granted their report cards, and they leave as quickly as they came.

Of course. They get whatever they want.

They’re not the worst. Amber has always been friendly whenever we’re paired up for school projects. Tyler used to be my best friend, and even though we barely speak now, I don’t think he thinks badly of me. At least sometimes, when we pass by each other in the hall, he actually looks my way. For a second. So I think we’re still cool on some level. It’s just weird now. We grew apart, and there isn’t more to it than that.

But I can’t help but feel a little bitter that they get to miss the boring parts of life. That people like them can just breeze by the rest of us without facing the same consequences. That the two of them are even friends with the rest of their group. But…you can’t choose your friends. Not really. Adults think you have a choice, but you really don’t. You meet people in elementary school and connect over something meaningless, and that’s kind of it. It’s hard to go back on that. When you build whole worlds with someone, with a whole group of people, it’s hard to break away. And people just don’t let you go sometimes. They hold on with everything they have.

Tyler was lucky he got out of us when he did. Sometimes, I wish he’d taken me with him.

When the bell finally rings, I don’t leave immediately like everyone else does. I want to delay the inevitable. I want to freeze time for a second. My final grades are what I expected—not bad, but not great. Not Emerson. At this point, everyone should accept I’m not Emerson and I never will be.

I’d rather just exist in the time before all that for a bit longer. I want to say goodbye.

The band room door is open, but Ms. Finley isn’t there. At least not in the classroom. It’s strangely still compared to how it usually is. Strangely empty, too. The stands are up on the rack in the corner of the room, and the chairs are all stacked. The windows, normally shut to keep out the band noises, are all open. The breeze blowing through is semi-fresh.

All done for another year, and all done for me forever. Weird.

I’m not sad about leaving this place—it kind of sucked. Everyone talks about middle school being the worst, and they’re right. So many rules that make no sense, so many teachers who clearly hate us, so many bad smells… To be blunt, it’s been brutal.

But I’ll miss band. I’ll miss having something to do. Even if I join the high school band, it won’t be the same.

There’s a loud shuffling sound in the instrument room, and something lands on the floor with a thud. Ms. Finley lets out an aggrieved sigh and emerges from the instrument room with several clarinet cases stacked under her arm. Her ponytail is a little askew, and her glasses are so far down her nose, I’m not sure they’re really helping her see.

Hi, I say when her eyes widen with surprise.

You’re still here, Orson? she asks, adjusting her glasses. It’s the last day of school!

I wanted to say goodbye. And thanks.

She grins and stands a little taller, holding the cases firmly to her hip. You’re welcome. And it’s never really goodbye. I’ll see you around, I’m sure.

After all, Riverview isn’t that big. People reappear all the time.

It’s been wonderful teaching you, she continues. I had a lot of fun.

My throat closes up just a little, so I bite my lip and nod. I’m really going to miss her. She has to be the nicest teacher I’ve ever had. She helped me so much when I first started learning flute—I came in after school all the time, and she always jumped in, even if she was in the middle of something else. She took it further, too, and taught me more advanced theory than the stuff we learned in class. She even helped me work more on my embouchure.

I’m not sure I’ll be able to do all that with the high school band teacher. He doesn’t seem as approachable. And even if he is, it’ll be different. We had something special here, and now it’s all over.

I hope you keep up with band next year, she continues. You’re one of the best.

The best? My heart does this sort of swoop up and down at the same time, soaring and sinking at the very idea. Band is probably the one area that I’m actually good at. But being told I’m one of the best is just setting me up for failure—it’s too much pressure. I’d rather be just okay.

Did you return your piccolo?

Yeah?

Oh. Right. She puts a hand to her forehead and inhales sharply. I meant to ask if you want to borrow one for the summer. I trust you to return it.

I mean, it’s okay. I don’t need—

Take one, she insists. You need to keep up with it. You’ll be in good shape for band auditions in September, then.

I guess.

You could really go somewhere. Just keep practicing.

Okay.

She smiles once again, then goes back to the instrument room to get me a piccolo. It’s not the same one I was using, but it must be alright. I’m not sure how much it really matters at this stage. My piccolo playing still resembles a glorified whistle. It takes a lot to be good.

Thank you. Again. I’ll bring this back in September.

I know you will. So, how’s the report card?

I slump my shoulders. It’s enough of an answer.

Ah, well. I was never very academic myself, she reassures me. You have talent, Orson. School wasn’t made for artists.

Artist is kind of pushing it, but I take it anyway. And I hope she’s right. There could be a place for me somewhere, even if it isn’t in high school. Somewhere, someday, someone will notice me.

By the time I bike back from school, I’m nearly half an hour late. Ms. Finley really likes talking, especially about piccolo. Once she gets started, there’s no stopping her. It’s hard to keep up.

There’s a boy sitting on the curb outside of the house across the street. He waves at me as I slow down, so I wave back. I’ve never seen him before, but he looks to be my age or a little older. His hair is so pale and short, for a second, I think he doesn’t have any. But then the sun hits his head, and it surrounds him like a halo, shining all around him.

Hi, he says.

I stop my bike in the middle of the road and nod. Hey.

I just moved here. I’m Liam.

I’m Orson.

He smiles, like my name amuses him. Maybe it does. Teachers always ask me if I’m named after Orson Welles, but I’m not. It’s really because when Mom was pregnant with me and didn’t know my name yet, she called me ourson, which is French for a baby bear. It just stuck when I was born.

Mona says when you first meet someone, you’re supposed to ask them all kinds of deep questions. You need to find out the person’s true soul before you decide if you want to be friends. If that were true, I’m not sure we would be friends. Back when we met, she grilled me on everything from Disney to sneakers to erasers before deciding I was worth her time. But that’s not my soul. That’s not why we’re holding on. If she were to ask me real soul-baring questions now, I’m not sure how I’d answer. I’m not sure she’d like what I have to say.

I’m not Mona, anyway—those questions don’t come easily to me. The things that do are observations. Like how Liam’s arms are covered in little freckles that cluster together. Like how his smile is just a little crooked. Like how he’s wearing a red shirt with the Skittles logo on it. It’s faded purposefully to look old, but I know it isn’t. I saw it at H&M last month.

There’s a book splayed open in his hands. I can’t read the spine. That’s a question.

What’re you reading?

He turns the book over towards himself with a frown, like he’s forgotten the title. "It’s called More Happy Than Not."

Is it good?

I think so.

You think?

He laughs. It’s different. In a good way, I think. I was just expecting something else.

What were you expecting?

He lets out a small laugh, and I realize I’m turning into Mona. I’m not sure how I feel about that.

More sci-fi, he answers. "Like…aliens and stuff. I mean, there’s some sci-fi elements, but I’m not sure if it’s meant to be a metaphor for…other things…or what. The library put it in sci-fi."

There’s a little more colour on his cheeks now. Just a flush of pink. Why? Is there something embarrassing about a sci-fi book? Something he thinks I’ll judge him for?

If I were really Mona, I would push. I’d poke and prod until he had no choice but to tell me what’s really in that book. But judging by the colourful cover and the rainbow colour palette, I can kind of guess. I can kind of get it.

Drawing attention to it is the last thing Liam must want, so I focus on other things. Like how he literally just moved here and already has a library card? And he’s checking out books? Talk about dedication that I don’t have.

When’d you move in?

Last week, sort of. Been back and forth between the two houses. And school.

Now I know where he’s from. Or at least vaguely.

You’re moving from Moncton?

Liam nods, sits up a bit straighter, and says in a very fake British accent, Excellent deduction, Watson.

His bad accent makes me laugh, but what comes out is more of a giggle. Which is kind of weird. Boys don’t giggle. Boys barely even laugh. But Liam laughs too, so I guess he appreciates it. I guess it’s okay to laugh like that in front of him.

Liam’s eyes have this warmth to them when he laughs. I can’t really explain it, but I feel it. Even though I’m actually sweating and uncomfortable and want to crawl into a freezer for the rest of my life, his eyes meet mine, and it’s like none of the actual heat matters anymore. It’s like I’m cold.

So you go to Riverview High? he asks.

Yeah. Well, I will. I’m in grade nine.

Grade ten, he says.

My stomach