I HAD DEVELOPED this theory all summer: if I could be perfectly, ideally, totally normal for the first day of my senior year, which was today, then I could do it for the first week, which was only Wednesday through Friday. And if I could be normal for that first short week, I could do it for the next long week. After that I'd just have to repeat the have-a-normal-week process seven more times. I'd worked that out on a calendar.

Far as I could remember, nobody ever got their ticket after about Halloween, unless they spazattacked in class.

My alarm went off at 7:15, and my eyes opened on the sun smearing across the yellowing roughcoat of my ceiling. Get up and be normal. Just for today.

It was kind of like an idea that I'd gotten from my dad back when he was alive "one day at a time." Just this past summer I'd found out it wasn't his idea, he got it from AA. Anyway, good idea or not, it was my theory, which was about to become my plan, and I was going to stick to it. Like a coat of paint- for Dad, everything that stuck, stuck to everything like a coat of paint.

Thinking about Dad was a bad way to start the plan, because it could make me blow acting normal all to hell, and nobody would understand, since he'd been dead for almost four years-four years exactly on October 17. Which I had noted would fall on Week Six of Operation Be Fucking Normal.

Don't think about that. I shoved that whole thought away like I shoved away the two hungry cats that jumped up onto the dining room table and headed for my bowl of raisin bran. Since I could tell Mom was still passed out solid, I didn't worry about looking like I was being all gentle and caring with those nasty hairy fuckers; I just pushed them off the table.

No matter what you heard, they don't always land on their four feet. Starlight did and stalked away with most of his dignity, but Prettyangel flopped on her back, and came up snarling.

"You're supposed to be graceful, asshole," I said, but the cat was already gone, charging into the living room. There was considerable yowling and screaming; with cats everywhere and all perpetually hungry and pissed off, any

cat that moved fast was gonna get jumped.

I finished my cereal, dumped the milk down the sink to keep it away from the cats, and rinsed the bowl. They always fought over any food that was left out, even if it was just something to lick, and made an even bigger mess than Mom's kitchen was naturally.

I spritzed my pits, splashed my hair, combed it out, and checked myself in the hallway mirror. T-shirt: red and gray, not white like a farm boy. Jeans: faded, moderate flare, Levi's, not dirty and written on like a stoner, not chinos like a nerd, not polyester or big flared groovy-boy cords like a Christian jock. Tennis shoes: low-tops, scuffed but not too scuffed. Look groomed without looking like I had groomed. Normal normal normal.

I combed the hair out again, riffled it with my fingers. Straight, fine, mudcolored-it clung blandly to my skull like chocolate pudding running down a bowling ball.

Probably I was worrying way too much. Nobody normal was always trying to figure out the rules.