Chasing Normal

Author's Note: This story was written for Aley's Writer Tournaments, based off the prompt 'My First Friend' and written in approximately three days :)

I was a strange child.

Everybody says so. At the time, I never really put any thought into whether or not I was normal; I just acted in a way that came naturally to me. Which, I suppose is true most people, when they’re very young, before all the pressure to fit in and the social expectations kick in. I don’t when it is we cross that line, going from being ourselves to being told to be ourselves. There’s a specific point, I’m sure of it, because somewhere along the track I stopped telling people about Malcolm, stopped talking to him in public. There was definitely a moment when he became my secret, and I chose normal over my best friend.

The thing is, when you’re little, there’s nothing wrong with having an imaginary friend. It’s cute, a symptom of a vivid imagination. Nothing to worry about.

It’s a bit different when you get to high school. Well, school in general, I suppose. But the jump from primary to secondary school is the kind of precarious leap that you don’t want to make any more hazardous than it already is. Talking to somebody no one else can see? Not a good move. I had grown up with the mantle of ‘the odd child’ on my shoulders, so my early teens were spent doing my best to ignore Malcolm. Faking normalcy. It wasn’t easy, but by the time I was seventeen, it came almost naturally.

Almost.

.

“Oh, Elle, do you remember the imaginary friend that Janie had when she was little? What was his name? Martin?” Mum’s old friend Bronwyn asks, her shrill voice conjuring memories of the last time she had visited, nearly ten years ago. I hadn’t seen her since, and nobody had called me ‘Janie’ in nearly as long. Since she first arrived this morning, she’s spent her time divided between reminiscing with Mum and prying into my life.

“Malcolm,” I correct quietly, resisting the urge to look over at him. I feel his shoulder tense next to mine, and wish there was some sort of comfort I could give him. Ignoring his presence is never so difficult as when someone is talking about him as though he isn’t real.

“Yes, that’s the one,” Bronwyn continues, stirring her cup of tea. Her spoon clanks repeatedly against the side of the cup as she does so. I remember being scared of her, the last time she visited. “You were always talking to him, when you were little. You were always off in your own little world.”

Bronwyn laughs, as my mother looks over at me, a concerned look on her face. She always gets a bit twitchy whenever Malcolm gets brought up. I try to look indifferent, as though I’ve long forgotten about my childhood imaginary friend. As though I’m the normal daughter she’s scared she missed out on.

“How’s Alex?” I quickly change the subject. Bronwyn’s eyes light up at the mention of her son’s name, her smile outlined by garishly pink lipstick.

“Oh, Janie, he’s doing wonderfully. He’s loving engineering, did your mother tell you that that was what he decided to do? He’s in his second year now. Morris and I are so proud of him.”

I smile tightly. I haven’t seen Alex since the last time Bronwyn had visited. At nine years old, Alex had seemed unlikely to be destined to do an engineering degree. It’s difficult to imagine how he would be at nineteen. Ten years is a long time.

“That’s wonderful to hear,” Mum says, as Malcolm snorts.

“Alex? Isn’t he the one with the spitballs?”

I incline my head slightly, enough for Malcolm to see, but not so much that Mum or Bronwyn can. I’m willing to indulge him the one question, after having to hear Bronwyn talk about him.

“What are you planning on doing, Janie?” Bronwyn asks. The subject is back on me, from the looks of things, and to top it off, it’s the one question that makes me more uncomfortable than talk of Malcolm.

“I’m… still considering my options,” I say. With a quick glance over at my mother, I stand up.

“Where are you going?” she asks.

“I just remembered that I told Miranda that I’d meet up with her to work on our history assignment.” I lie. “I said I’d be there at two, so if it’s alright with you…”

“Do you need a lift?” Mum asks tiredly. I can’t tell if she sees through my hastily stitched together deception, but either way I have permission to escape, so I’m not going to test her.

“No, I’ll walk. It isn’t far,” I reply. “I’ll leave you and Bronwyn to keep catching up.”

“See you later, Janie.” Bronwyn looks at me with narrowed, disapproving eyes. If she thinks I’m being rude, that’s her problem.

“Bye,” I say, then leave the room.

.

“So Janie,” Malcolm begins, as we walk up the rickety grandstand that looks over the local footy oval. Aside from during games, nobody ever comes up here, so it’s safe enough to actually talk. Below us, the local under sixteens team is training, their white and gold jerseys turned brown by the mud. There’s still a bit of drizzle, but I don’t mind. It feels about right for my mood.

“Please don’t,” I say, pained. Janie. It’s cutesy and overly feminine in a way that I’m not. After spending the past five years trying to be as normal as possible, a name like Jane was a blessing. Ordinary, commonplace and not at all fanciful. ‘Janie’ had the kind of whimsy to it that might have been fine when I was seven, but certainly not now.

“Do you ever wonder if they’re right?” Malcolm asks. “That I’m not real?”

It’s all I think about. “Never.”

“You don’t have to lie to me, Jane.” Malcolm sighs. He sits down heavily, though the creaky benches don’t give the same protests that they do when I sit next to him. All the evidence points to him being a figment of my imagination, but still I believe. “I don’t have any feelings to hurt, right?”

He laughs bitterly, so I squeeze his shoulder and say, “That answers it, doesn’t it? I know you have feelings, so I don’t want to hurt them. Therefore you’re real.”

“I think therefore I am?” Malcolm leans back in his seat.

“Malcolm, I think you’re real, and that’s enough for me,” I said abruptly. I wasn’t one for heavy conversation, and didn’t want to discuss the possibility of Malcolm not being real. Sitting next to me, he looked solid and there, more tangible than the training team not one hundred metres away. Obscured by a film of rain, they looked out of focus and unreal, nothing like the boy sitting in front of me.

“When we’re alone, it’s enough for me too,” Malcolm said quietly. Then his words turn venomous, “But when you’re ignoring me, I almost believe it. That I’m you’re imaginary friend.”

“I wish it wasn’t like this.” I watch the team training. One of the boys goes to mark the ball, but at the last second he fumbles. Trying to keep the ball in his hands, he juggles it as it falls, but he can’t get a grip. A futile effort.

“Well, I guess we both worked out a while ago that I don’t fall very high on your list of priorities, didn’t we Jane?” My eyes move to Malcolm, who stands up and steps over my extended legs. His

eternally shaggy auburn hair falls in his eyes as he says, “I just need to accept that you’re always going to place being normal above me, and stop getting in your way.”

He storms down the bleachers of the grandstand, and I remain glued to my seat, shell-shocked by his outburst.

.

When I get home, still without Malcolm, my hair is damp from the rain and there is an unfamiliar car in the driveway. Both feel pretty unappealing, but at least the hair can be fixed by a shower. I remember that Bronwyn’s here, and although that possibly explains the car, it does dash the hopes I had of curling up on the couch with a movie. I walk around the back of the house, hoping that if I go in the laundry door I might be able to dodge Bronwyn and my mother. Being separated from Malcolm has left me feeling exposed and like I’m missing something. This isn’t the first time he’s ever wandered off, but I feel uncomfortable without him by my side.

It’s so much easier to pretend that I don’t need him when he’s right there.

As I walk past the car, the driver’s side window winds down, and a young man sticks his head out. His face is vaguely familiar, but I don’t know where I’ve seen him before.

“Janie?” he asks, brows furrowed. I narrow my eyes at him. Then it dawns on me.

“Alex?”

“That’s me,” he says, grimacing nervously. The chubby nine-year-old I remember has vanished, replaced by bespectacled a young man able to pull off stubble. The last time I’d seen Alex, he’d been a loud, obnoxious feral-child, but now he looked like he would be out of place amongst the hipsters at some trendy café. “Been a while, huh?”

“You could say that,” I say. “Ten years, right?”

Alex smiles, then looks towards the house. “Listen, Janie, d’you know how long my mum will be? She wanted me to pick her up at five, and, well, that was fifteen minutes ago.”

“She and Mum are probably chatting. If it’s anything like when I was in there, it’ll be about us, no doubt.” I follow his gaze towards the front door. “Oh, and I prefer Jane. No one’s called me Janie in years.”

“Sure thing,” he replies, giving me a smile that’s much nicer than the one I remember him having. “Jane.”

“You might want to go in and get your mother,” I say. “She’s probably not going to go anywhere without some prodding.”

“Supposed as much.” Alex sighs. “Watch out.”

I step back as he opens the door of his car. There’s a resigned expression on his face, a bitterness that almost echoes the petulant expression I remember him wearing the previous time he and his mother visited. Clearly, he’s looking forward to going into the house as much as I am.

It isn’t particularly gallant of me, but I’m hoping Alex will prove enough of a distraction that I can slip past into my room, and avoid Bronwyn’s comparisons to her son and my mother’s worried glances. It’s not a comfortable realisation that I’m completely gutless without Malcolm with me, that I have this total dependence on him to be able to function.

He’s always been here. Right from the beginning, and I’ve needed him for just as long.

My first memory is of Malcolm. I suppose that I must have been two, three years old – the details are a little slippery, but I recall Malcolm with almost startling clarity. I remember that I was upset about something, but then Malcolm raised a finger to his lips, a mischievous smile playing across his lips. I was curious enough to wonder what would happen next to be jolted from my bad mood. The image of him is seared into my memory. He was always my comfort, the one person who

could convince me that everything was going to be okay. He’s always been there for me.

He still hasn’t come back.

Having been unsuccessful in slipping past my mother and Bronwyn, I sit silently in the lounge room, listening to the conversation. Bronwyn is domineering, my mother reserved, and Alex is polite but uncomfortable. He sits next to me on the sofa, where Malcolm usually sits. After a while, I offer to get everyone drinks from the kitchen, and Alex says he will help. Ever since I ran into him in the driveway, he’s been looking at me in a way that makes me wonder if he likes me. He’s attractive enough, but his attention is nothing like Malcolm’s relaxed sarcasm. Where are you?

.

Later, when Bronwyn finally agrees to leave, he quietly takes my arm.

“Do you want to catch up some time?” he asks, his voice hushed.

I have been asked out before, but this is the first time I reply to the affirmative. “Sure, okay.”

He smiles dashingly. “I’ll give you a call, then?”

“Yeah.” I don’t know why I said yes. Any relationship closer than a casual friendship made keeping Malcolm secret too difficult, and I was usually so careful. Malcolm has always been enough. He’s all I’ve needed.

I smile at Alex as he leaves, uncomfortable about the level of deception that I’m going to put him through. But it’s the choice I made, and I have to stick with it. I can’t go undoing all the efforts I made to appear normal now.

The next day, I wake to see Malcolm sitting on my desk chair, watching me.

“Hi again,” he says, his voice gruff.

“Hey,” I reply, sitting up. “Where’ve you been?”

“Around,” is all he says. “You got home okay?”

“Fine.”

“Good.” He looks around awkwardly, and there’s a distance between us that I’m not used to. Having him back isn’t as relieving as it ought to be, and I can’t seem to think of what to say.

I never thought that the decision to be normal by ignoring him was a choice between two things. But it is.

For so long, I’ve been choosing between him and being accepted. Unwittingly, I chose deception and distance, and by doing so I ruled out ever being truly close to anyone. Including Malcolm, in so, so many ways.

I’m still desperate to cling to him, but there’s a choice that I’m going to have to make that will be final.

I’m just afraid that when the time comes, I won’t be able to choose.