Longing for Normal

The latest virulent COVID variant swept the country, claiming adults fifty years and older and immunocompromised persons; anyone else under fifty seemed virtually immune. The government declared a mandatory quarantine to rid the country of the virus once and for all. A more radical solution of segregating youth from their families was advised by the Consortium, a think tank of doctors, sociologists, intellectuals and government officials. Defiant families were forcibly separated and sent spartan military camps. My brother and I were sent to Our Lady of Lourdes Preparatory, a refurbished abandoned Catholic boarding school near the sea since our parents fully cooperated, as did most others with the high hopes of getting back to normal. The separation was supposed to only last six months; it’s been fourteen months since I last saw my parents.

Each morning, students shower and dress before reporting to the cafeteria for breakfast promptly at 8:00 am. The food is edible, but institutional in flavor. "There’s no love in it," my brother whispered to me. I giggled, spitting out my eggs, which resulted in both of us having to run laps and missing breakfast for disruptive behavior. One of many unspoken rules seemed to be eating in silence as the "news" played on the television screens mounted on the walls. After breakfast, we go to class, counseling, lunch, group workouts, dinner and lights out at 8:00 pm. Recreation time was permitted; we could watch movies as long as they were documentaries, read books as long as they weren’t fiction. Fantasy, romance, and any kind of imaginative art forms and humor was verboten. What I despised most was the testing: I answered all kinds of questions dealing with my intelligence, maturity, mental health, physical health, sexuality and beliefs. Then, I'd get tested again the following week; if my answers differed from the previous test, I had to explain why, which usually triggered my migraines. Even stranger still, each day I walk into class, one or two students would be missing. There averaged about forty students in the lecture halls and I wonder if they even thought we'd notice. I assumed they were reunited with their families, until the day my twin brother didn't show up. When I inquired; no one seemed to remember him. Someone from the Administration assured me he was still on campus, doing a special assignment and not to worry. They also said we would be reunited with our parents, soon. It was so hard for me to believe that, since I vividly remember the distressed looks on my parents’ faces when we got on the bus that day.

***

After yet another grueling inquisition, I sneaked outside onto the basketball court to get some fresh air. I was probably breaking a rule; I didn’t care. The Consortium advised against being outdoors for too long because the air’s not quite safe; at least that’s what They say. When I was little, I couldn’t wait to be a teenager so I could play team volleyball, sing in the show choir, go on dates. . . fun things my parents did when they attended high school. Maybe after things get back to normal, I can do all that, but who knows when that will be?

An old, ragged basketball sat in the corner; I picked it up and began to dribble. Surprisingly, the ball had plenty of bounce. On a lark, I meandered towards the free throw line, then launched the ball; nothing but net. I grinned and shot once more from the corner; the ball swished through. The sound of applause startled me. A lanky guy with a curly afro and large brown eyes stood at the edge of the court; I recognized him from history class.

“Nice shot, can I play?” he inquired, walking closer.

“I-I don’t play; I was just—”

“C’mon, a friendly game of horse, please?” he begged. Perhaps he wanted to feel a sense of normalcy, too. I reached down to pick up the ball.

“Okay, me first.”

I couldn’t remember the last time I played horse. We used to play as a family: Dad, Mom, Jeff and I. Those were good times; I miss them.

I dribbled to the three-point line, then threw it; the ball went in. He got the rebound and stood where I launched my shot. He also made the shot. He then dribbled over three feet away from the spot where we began and missed. I moved closer to the net and made the next shot. He attempted the same shot, but missed.

“You’re on fire!” he remarked.

“I believe you have an ‘H.’”

“So, it seems.” We went a few more rounds, I managed to beat him, earning only an “H”. For a while, it felt normal: to laugh, to play, to enjoy life.

“Hey, do you wanna hang out during Rec time?” he asked.

I hesitated, knowing we were violating some rule. The Consortium established all kinds of rules to instill order; the unspoken ones were the hardest to follow.

“We can’t. . .besides, I don’t know even know you.”

“I’m Ethan.”

“Stephany. Steph for short."

“I’m gonna call you Birdie.”

“Why?”

“You shoot like Larry Bird.”

“I thought you were going to say Sue Bird.”

“Who’s Sue Bird?”

“Seriously?” I responded, incredulously.

He chuckled, giving me a gentle shove on my shoulder; his touch felt warm. I turned to look at him; our eyes met. His eyes looked soft, trusting, then sad.

“How long have you been here?” I asked, in a low voice.

“Two years,” he whispered.

“This never was about the disease.”

“No.”

“Where’s my brother?” I pleaded.

Slowly, he shook his head, tears forming in his eyes; confirming what I knew all the long. I was too sad to cry. What I felt now was anger.