The Other Normals Read Online Free PDF

doors are open, showing her in full bloom, but try as I might, I can never make the same staccato shuffling noises as Jake does in his bunk. Instead of saying that, I pull out Pekker Cland’s character sheet. Dad grabs it this time.
    “We’re concerned about you, kiddo. This game. Can you make a career out of it? Play it for money?”
    “No—give that back!”
    “Listen. When you were growing up, we always told you that you could do whatever you wanted with your life. It’s time to drop that lie. As you get to be an adult, you have to dial down your dreams into practicalities. If you were very into the stock market, say, or being a doctor, it would be one thing. But you’re doing badly at school and spending all your time on something that never had any social value when I was young”—Mom nods—“and I’m sure still doesn’t.” Jake nods.
    “Dad, if you don’t give me back my character sheet—”
    “I’ll put it in your bag. I don’t want you looking at it until you meet your fellow campers.”
    “Deal.”
    We crest a hill and see the lake. Although the camp is called Camp Washiska Lake, the lake is called Lake Henderson, in one of those weird Americanisms that doesn’t make sense. It’s six miles long and a half mile across. I check it against the brochure. In the brochure, the lake is filled with diverse teens in polo shirts sailing over a logo for “Hideaway Village,” the name for my age group—the fifteen-year-olds, who are old enough to be treated like men. We’re paired with “Oasis Villa,” the girls’ section that corresponds in age.
    Sure enough, Oasis Villa is on the other side of the lake—I see a glint of white cabins in the woods, like a magical commune for virgins—but the lake itself is drained. There’s a puddle’s worth of black water in it.
    “What happened?” I ask.
    We descend back into the woods. No one answers. Sam would answer—he’d help me look the lake up on our phones; maybe it’s controlled by a hydroelectric dam—but he hasn’t responded to my text. I can’t count on Sam up here.

17
    MOM PULLS INTO A DUSTY PARKING LOT IN front of a big building that looks like an airplane hangar. A sign says DINING HALL , but I don’t believe it. This is in the brochure too. The picture shows a group of kids in a crystalline cafeteria like something out of a Frank Lloyd Wright catalog. This is a huge slab of concrete with occasional streaked windows.
    “Looks great!” Dad says.
    Next to the dining hall, in the parking lot, stand dozens of boys. They lounge on trunks, shoulder duffel bags and backpacks, and hug their parents and legal guardians embarrassedly while establishing social status with the boys around them. I can’t hear them, but from their body language I know what they’re talking about: comedy bits they’ve seen, rap lyrics they’ve memorized, and women they’ve allegedly been with. I will probably have to make up a woman I’ve been with.
    “They look friendly,” Mom says.
    No they don’t. They look like a skyline: there are kids who’ve had the Growth Spurt and kids who haven’t; jutting Adam’s apples and child-sized clothes … but no potential friends. No one with my bowl haircut. Two of the bigger boys drum updust with a basketball, spinning, showing off their long limbs, and I track from them to two boys unloading a trunk, to two boys comparing logo-ed caps, and I realize: I’m the only white kid. I see Hispanic, black, and Asian in equal amounts. I’m the asterisk.
    I power down my window. The group’s buzz of gruff speech hits me. I recognize that I’ve never been in the racial minority before. It feels different. It feels scary.

18
    JAKE, DAD, AND I HAUL MY TRUNK OUT of the SUV and carry it to the center of the gathered campers. A counselor—a big, good-looking guy named Travis—checks me off a list.
    “Eckert? Can I see your backpack?”
    “Why?”
    “It has to be inspected.”
    I hand it to him. Inside, besides my