Marisa Reichardt - A Shot at Normal

Poppy and Sequoia are already sitting at the kitchen table when I walk in. Books out. Pencils sharpened. Writing pads open. There are three essay prompts on the chalkboard my dad sets up on school days. One for a second grader, one for a sixth grader, and one for me. All the questions are designed to get at what we did this summer and what we learned and how were now better people because of it.

I ignore the assignment and pull a plate from the cupboard. I pile the last two oatmeal-blueberry pancakes onto it and top them with a dollop of freshly whipped cream. The cream is unsweetened because my parents are my parents.

A tardy on the first day isnt a good way to start off the school year, Juniper, my dad says.

Its two minutes.

Late is late. You shouldve already eaten and been in your chair, ready to work, at eight oclock on the dot, like your brother and sister.

Still, my dad scoots his own chair away from the table to fill his coffee cup, so I guess the rules dont apply to him. I grab a mug for myself from the rack by the sink and hold it out. His eyebrows rise. He replaces the steaming pot on the warmer. Youre sixteen. No.

Its coffee.

Its for adults.

People my age practically live at Starbucks. Its their starter home.

Addicts.

Theyre drinking Frappuccinos, not shooting up heroin.

Either way, its a travesty.

Then why are you drinking coffee?

I drink my coffee black. Only one cup a day. He holds his drink up proudly, takes a sip, and makes a smug ahh sound. Black coffee is full of antioxidants and reduces the risk of Alzheimers and Parkinsons diseases. Kids fill their coffee with cream and sugar and syrups and all the things that negate the benefits.

I add another dollop of whipped cream to my pancakes.

Have orange juice, Poppy says, smiling, and all I notice is how her four front teeth look too big for her eleven-year-old face. I made it this morning for extra credit.

Of course you did. Only Poppy would be looking for extra credit on the first day of the Jade Family Homeschool. Kiss-up sisters are the worst. Wheres Mom?

Backyard, Sequoia says as he balances a pencil in the space between his upper lip and the bottom of his freckled nose.

Farmers market day, remember? Poppy says.

Id rather not.

I cant exactly wax nostalgic about the way my mom spends every Monday morning tying up just-plucked sprigs of rosemary and thyme and whatever else with twine so she can sell them in bunches along with essential oils on the parking lot by the beach. I had to stand in that parking lot every Monday afternoon this past summer, baking on the asphalt as sweat slid down my spine. The cool ocean waves would wink at me from a few feet away. Come here, theyd whisper as I eyed groups of people my age with more exciting lives than mine. They had surfboards and board shorts and bikinis and beach bags and would arrange their towels in a circle, like a sunburst, so they could all have their heads in the center to talk and laugh and be sixteen.

Sure, I couldve gone to the beach if I wantedmy parents insist we learn more outdoors than indoorsbut I couldnt exactly plop my towel down in the middle of a bunch of strangers on a California beach. We werent friends. They didnt know me. I was new here, and the friends I wouldve set up towels with lived six hours away.

When we lived in NorCal, my mom and dad hung out with other parents who also taught their kids at home, and wed do field trips together every once in a while. Museums. Aquariums. The theater. Through it all, I had Sasha. And it was a relief to be able to ditch the freak show that was a dozen homeschool kids watching Shakespeare in the Park while our parents swapped turmeric recipes. Having the same eleven p.m. curfew meant Sasha and I could hang out on weekends, too. In the daytime, wed kayak and hike or swim at the local pool. At night, wed go to the bookstore in town or skateboard in an empty parking lot by the beach. Our friendship was easy. Convenient. She was there. I was there. But Sasha never understood me the way Id hoped a best friend would. For one, she actually liked being homeschooled. She didnt constantly beg to go to public school like I did. She never felt like she was missing out on something.

Since cell phones were forbidden to me for reasons ranging from cancer to tendonitis, Sasha and I resorted to snail mail to communicate after I moved away. All of April and all of May, I stalked our mailbox like the anxious wife of a World War II soldier as I awaited a letter handwritten in glitter gel pen. Unfortunately, teenagers arent very good at keeping in touch without a cell phone, so by summer my letters from Sasha dwindled from once a week to never. I dont fault her for it. She has to live her life. But I miss knowing someone who would be brave enough to walk up to that group of strangers sprawled out on their beach towels and ask them some random question that would make us look normal and cool enough to befriend.

Now that the new school year has started and my parents have reached out to other local homeschoolers to plan field trips, Im hoping Ill make some new friends.

Until then, Ill remain on the outside looking in.

Like this morning, in my room, where I spent from seven forty-five to eight a.m. watching through the window as bright yellow buses pulled up to the curb in front of Playa Bonita High School. The bus doors opened and students spilled onto the sidewalk. Others rode up on bikes and skateboards. The older ones, the juniors and seniors, arrived in cars crammed with passengers, two in the front seat and three in the back. Everyone wore shorts or sundresses, because its still the last week of August and the heat of summer hasnt let go of this town yet.

I could feel that heat in my armpits and the sweat marks collecting along the edges of my tank top when I woke up. I slathered on deodorant from the half-empty mason jar on my dresser like I do every morning. Its sticky and lumpy and leaves behind a white, oily residue that stains my shirts. Ive asked my mom for real deodorant. Or at least something from the natural health section at Whole Foods.

Tapioca starch and coconut oil take care of things fine, she says. Im sure thats not true, because if I notice the stink of my moms BO, then surely I have it, too.

The girls at PBHS probably smell like strawberries and freedom. I bet they spent all morning soaking themselves in those scented body washes from that store at the mall that always smells like a fruit stand. I also bet my mom can recite the exact paraben levels in each bottle. Because that store, like the mall itself, is not a place my parents would ever let me spend money.

Thats why those girls across the street are there and Im here. The chemicals and the toxins and the mercury levels and the melting ozone layer made my parents take a big step back from the real world. Everything from our deodorant to our food to our cleaning products to our furniture is organic. Important things, I know. But theres such a thing as too much. My parents are rabid in their beliefs.