S. C. Arscott - End Of Normal

Champagne Books Presents

End Of Normal

By

S.C. Arscott

This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents and dialogues in this book are of the authors imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is completely coincidental.

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

Champagne Books

www.champagnebooks.com

Copyright 2014 by Susan Arscott

ISBN 9781771550925

October 2014

Cover Art by Ellie Smith

Produced in Canada

Champagne Book Group

19-3 Avenue SE

High River, AB T1V 1G3

Canada

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To Mike.

On the last morning of normal, I wish I could say I did something important, something that mattered, something noble even, but I cant. No, instead of spending my last normal morning doing something meaningful, I wasted an entire hour pulling on and tugging off jeans, shirts, and sweaters searching for that one combination that would make me look incredible.

Why was I so reckless with my time that morning? For a reason I no longer remember, it was the day I decided Sawyer Risinghottest guy in school, goalie extraordinaire, and so gorgeous a mere hint of his crooked smile made me weakwas not only going to notice me, he was going to talk to me.

Now, in this new world where stuff like that doesnt matter anymore, my face burns in shame when others reminisce over their final hours of normal. As they strain to remember every image, every touch, every word, I yearn to forget. In my weaker moments, when the guard I placed on my mind wavers, my thoughts drift back to that wasted hour and my insides shatter into bitter edges of hurt and sorrow and remorse.

In my dreams, I spend that final morning of normal sitting with my parents and my brother, Charlie, talking and laughing about nothing and everything. Maybe our cat Einsteins latest caper, or one of Moms ridiculous historical tidbits, or one of Dads bad jokes. Then I wake up and regret washes over me, paralyzing me with a grief that, in time, releases my limbs but never my soul or my heart. For forever, I will carry my guilt over that precious hour I threw away.

Anyway, back to that final morning. When I was at last satisfied with how I looked, I wandered down to breakfast, pausing to check myself out in the dining room mirror. For once, I actually felt good about the reflection staring back at me. My shoulder-length blondish hair had kept its curl instead of hanging like shreds of silly string as it usually did. My skin was zit-free, and my skinny jeans were perfect with my new pink-striped sweater. The luscious material practically screamed, Touch me.

I hoped Sawyer spoke sweater.

Confident, I strolled into the kitchen to face my beautiful, perfectly put-together mother. To a person on the outside, my mom might look like some shallow beauty, always hitting the stores and piling on the makeup. They would be wrong. Mom was simply one of those women who always looked fantastic. I, on the other hand, was not so lucky. It took a lot of effort for me to look good.

As I entered the kitchen that final morning, Mom gave me one swift, reproving look. Olivia, weve been through this. I refuse to let you go to school in those jeans. It was impossible not to hear the sigh slipping in among her words.

Mom didnt have to specify; I already knew. She thought they were too tight, which seemed stupid because wasnt that the point of skinny jeans? Hoping shed let me slide this once, I appealed to her sense of style. I know, but theyre so perfect with this sweater.

You can wear the sweater with another pair of jeans. After a glance at her watch, she added, You better hurry. Its getting late.

On any other day, I would have exploded or imploded depending on my mood. Today, however, determined to do everything in my power to get Mom to let me wear these jeans, I forced myself to stay calm. Its important I wear them today.

She looked up from pouring a cup of coffee. Why?

Okay, she was giving me a chance, if I could only come up with a solid, believable reason. Possible ideas, none of them convincing, stumbled all over each other inside my head, stopping behind my tongue. What justification could I give for needing to wear the jeans today? Except for something ridiculous such as today was Wear Pink Sweaters and Skinny Jeans Day, not one idea untangled itself enough to help me out.

It was pointless. You wouldnt understand.

She stopped, her cup poised in mid-air, eyes meeting mine. Well, then, Olivia, help me understand.

For a second, I almost told her how difficult it was to have a mother so much prettier, so much smarter, and just so much more than Id ever be, but the words stayed unsaid and the moment passed.

Forget it, was all I could manage, before trudging back to my room.

Disgusted with myself for not fighting harder, I struggled to yank off the skin-tight pants, a tough enough task when I was happy, nearly impossible in my current frenzy to free myself of them and my mothers strictness. Why couldnt she let up once in a while, instead of always trying to mold me into her vision of a perfect daughter?

After a lot of squirming, I managed to slither out of my jeans and threw them into a corner. I stood in front of my closet and glowered at my boring clothes. Nothing would look half as good.

The clock on my nightstand showed me I was running out of time. I had to get going or Id miss my best chance of accidentally bumping into Sawyer at our lockers before first period. I opened a dresser drawer and stopped for a second to admire the pair of Juicy Couture drawstring pants lying temptingly on top. Madison Montoya, the most gorgeous girl in high school, wore the exact same ones on Friday. She looked so spectacular guys drooled all over her.

As I remembered all that guy drool, it dawned on me that my mother had been her schools Madison. That sealed it. No matter how much she might want to, my mom would never be able to understand what life was like for a regular-looking girl.

Rubbing the lush fabric, I wished for the millionth time for a body like Madison. She was skinny with curves while I was more solidnot fat, compact. I had the body of a jock, a girl jock without a skinny part anywhere, except, of course, for my chest, which I refused to think about.

Reluctantly, I moved my hand away from the velvety pants. I would never wear them in front of Sawyer. I wanted to attract him, not repulse him. I dug underneath the drawstring pants and came up with a pair of decent jeans. Not the total look I was going for, but passable.