DEFINE "NORMAL" Excerpt

Chapter One

Megan Tingley Books
Little, Brown and Company
HC: ISBN 0-316-70631-0
PB: ISBN 0-316-73489-6

Ages 11 and up

I opened the door and froze. Not Jazz Luther. Couldn't be. Impossible. My jaw stuck in the gape-open position.

"What are you looking at?" Jazz sneered at me.

Your purple hair? Your black lips? Your shredded jeans? "Nothing," I muttered.

"You my peer counselor?" Jazz asked, clunking ankle-high boots up onto the conference table. She tipped the chair back and threaded her fingers together behind her head.

My stomach knotted. "Guess so." I thought, Define "peer."

Jazz snorted. She must've had the same thought.

Exhaling a long breath, I slid into a chair at the opposite end of the table. Even that far away her perfume was noxious. Maybe it wasn't perfume. More like incense. The odor, a mix of musky and sweet, made my nose pucker. I smoothed down my pleated skirt, trying desperately not to sneeze. Or gag. "Where's Dr. DiLeo?" I asked.

"He had some emergency," she answered. "Probably ran out of Tic Tacs and had to rush over to 7-Eleven."

I stifled a laugh. Our school psychologist did reek of peppermint.

"So, you want to start or you want me to?" She leaned back farther in the chair, her boots scraping across the Formica tabletop. They left a noticeable black mark. Maybe the faculty conference room wasn't the ideal place to hold counseling sessions.

Start. Where to start? When Dr. DiLeo proposed the peer counseling program at Oberon Middle School, I'm sure he didn't think someone like Jazz Luther would sign up. No doubt he meant it for people with minor problems. Problems such as dealing with difficult teachers or getting bogged down with homework. Problems with boyfriends or jealous girlfriends. I don't know. Not someone with Jazz Luther's problems. She was hopeless. A punker. A druggie. A gang hanger. Peer counseling? Jazz needed long-term professional psychotherapy. "In a lock-up facility," I mumbled.

"Huh?" she said.

"Nothing. Why don't you go ahead." This should be good. "Tell me why you're here." Dr. DiLeo suggested the line as an ice breaker, a way to open a conversation. Although between us, there loomed an iceberg . . .

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