Mitch is waiting for me outside French. I worm my way into a gaggle of giggling freshman and sneak past him.
3.5 Iron
When the final bell rings, I scurry along the back halls to the locker room. I need to run until I bleed, run all the fluids out of my body, pound, pound the road, unplug the hardware, destroy the system. Right now I could run a marathon and worship every step.
So, of course, Coach Reid declares that today we’re conditioning in the weight room. He unlocks the door and directs people to the silver instruments of torture: lat pulldown, biceps curl, leg extension. He hesitates when he gets to me. I’m a graduating senior and there are thunderclouds gathered above my head.
“All right, Malone. You get a treadmill,” Coach says. “Don’t slack.”
No, sir. I step onto the middle treadmill and punch in a flat course, 3.1 miles, a six-minute-mile pace. Forget about a slow, safe warm-up. I want to feel it.
The room heats up quickly. The radio is badly tuned to a metal station. Weights clang against one another, athletes grunt and strain. The stair-steppers grind, whnrr-whnrrwhnrr. The girls on the steppers keep their hands on their hips and their chins up. The guys on the other treadmills try to match my pace.
Oh, yeah?
I crank it up another notch. I streak through a half mile, my sneakers blistering the rubber belt. The guy to my right can’t hack it. He backs off, slows down. The guy to my left has sweat dripping down his cheek. He’s holding his left elbow against his side. I chuckle.
Coach Reid is helping a sophomore bench-press twelve pounds. “Stop showing off, Malone,” he shouts.
Bad Kate hopes the sophomore drops that weight on Coach’s foot. Good Kate is frantically pointing to our tender Achilles tendon. I know I can run faster than this. I take it higher. My sneakers squeak, sounding like tiny voices on helium: “brrp . . . brrrpp . . . messed-up . . . screwed-up . . . messed-up . . . screwed-up.”
The guy on my left gives in to his cramps and decelerates. Wussy boy.
“Slow it down, Malone,” Coach orders.
The sneaker voices move up off the belt and whisper that they are disappointed in me, that I’m stupid, that I should be ashamed of myself, young lady. Run faster, Kate. Just a little faster, push it.
I am flying, whipping through the air. The faces around me blur. My right knee sends up a warning signal, my Achilles is screaming. I can feel the fibers in my quads fraying. Give me the pain, bring it. I want my heart to explode, a bruised cherry smashed deep in my chest. The muscles under my ribs seize up. I think my shirt is on fire.
“Kate. Kate. Kate. Kate.” I don’t know who is saying that. How can they be standing still when I’m running so damn fast?
“Look out, Kate!” Another voice, fading away. Another ghost.
The lights flicker. Coach Reid yells in my ear, but I can’t hear him. His hand slams the red STOP button.
3.5.1 Rust
Okay, so I might have passed out a little bit when they dragged me off the treadmill. I just needed a nap. A nap, some dinner, and a shower. No big deal. Just leave me alone.
3.6 Dissolve
When I get home, I park Bert by the front door and don’t bother to carry any books inside. I brush past Toby in the front hall.
“Don’t say a word,” I warn. “I’m not here. You don’t see me.”
He nods. “You’re not here. I don’t see you. Well, when you show up, I’ll tell you that Sara and Mitch keep calling. They sound desperate.” He shoves a handful of Chee•tos in his mouth. “Did you break up with him or something?”
“Don’t eat all of those.”
I lock the bathroom door, strip, and step into the shower. We have hot water again, thanks to Mr. Lockheart and his magic tools. Boiling, scalding, sterilizing water hurts so good. I close my eyes and let it fall on my head. It slips off me as if I were covered in oil.
I lather up. Soap: C15H31CO2Na. Long molecules designed to suck up dirt, sweat, and humiliation. Rinse, lather, rinse, lather, rinse until the soap melts down to a waxy crescent that jumps out of my hand.
I know I should think about MIT, be logical, be practical, but I can’t get my brain started. It needs jumper cables. Given my mood, I’d hook them up the wrong way. Little mistake, big consequences. Boom, there goes the brain, the engine, the college application.
Boom . . . a mistake. What if they made a mistake?
It happens, even at the best schools. A clerical error. Or the computer messed up. A mistake. It happens. Two kids with the same name apply—one is accepted, the other gets the boot, but the letters are switched. The wrong Kate Malone got into MIT. It was all a mistake.
Wait until I tell them!
I can see the future play out like a movie on the shower curtain. I’ll drive to MIT and talk to the admissions officer. When she hears about my rejection she’ll freak and say, “You poor thing! Of course we want you!” She’ll fire her assistant and type up my acceptance letter with her own fingers. She’ll hand me the fat envelope loaded with goodies. Maybe I’ll get more financial aid or a choice dorm room.
I am so excited I soap up my left leg and grab the razor. This is going to work. Toby pounds on the bathroom door and yells something I can’t hear. I shave my kneecap and ignore him. He can pee downstairs.
Details, details: MIT is approximately 301 miles to the east, a six-hour drive. I’ll have to leave before dawn. What should I bring? Copies of my transcript and two scientific papers, for sure. Maybe I should leave my essay home. That was definitely weak. I loathe essays. No—I’ll bring it. It will prove I know my strengths and weaknesses. I will even admit that I need to improve my writing skills. My molecular models? I pull the razor along my calf, leaving a smooth runway of skin in its wake. I rinse off the blade. No, don’t bring the models. That would look desperate.
I lather my foot and shave my hairy toes. I don’t want to look like a hobbit. Toby pounds on the door and hollers again. It doesn’t sound like he’s speaking English.
“Go away!” I yell.
I rinse off the razor and twist around to shave the back of my ankle. Toby beats on the door just as the blade slides over my Achilles tendon. I flinch and the razor nicks me. It takes a second for the blood to flow.
“I’m not opening it!”
Silence. Good.
I work on my right leg and concentrate on the plan. There are a few kinks to work out. Bert won’t survive the drive. He can barely make it to the grocery store. I’ll need to borrow a car. And find some cash. And get an appointment. But it’s going to work. I’ll make it work.
I shave my right leg without a single nick or cut. That is truly a sign from God. I turn off the water and reach for a towel. My hair is clean, my legs are sleek, and I don’t have hobbit toes. MIT will let me in. I am ready for the world.
Toby is waiting when I open the door. He barges in and yanks on the bathroom blinds.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“Look.” He wipes the steam off the window with his sleeve and points to the red-orange glow down the hill.
Oh. My. God.
“That’s what I was trying to tell you, butthead.”
The Litches’ barn is on fire, a roaring furnace. The trees in the side yard are blazing torches; rogue flames lick the roof of the house. Three fire trucks are on the scene, cherry lights pulsing beneath the smoke, firefighters wrestling thick hoses in the shadows.
“Are they okay?” I whisper.
The wind kicks up and the fire blooms.
“The Litches? Yeah. They’re downstairs.”
3.7 Effective Collision
I sit down hard on the toilet seat, clutching the towel around me.
“The Litches are here?”
“Not the mom. Just Teri and her little brother.”
There is a quiet knock on the door. “May I come in?”
Dad enters before I can answer. His eyes are bright, fueled by alarm bells and emergency flashers. His sweater reeks of smoke.
“We need to talk.” He closes the door behind him and locks it.
“Can it wait until I’m wearing clothes?” I ask.
“This will just take a second. Teri and Mikey are sleeping here tonight. Teri can bunk with Kate. Mikey will stay with you, Toby.”
No, he didn’t really say that. No way. I must have steam in my ears, or I banged my head when I passed out. That would explain this nausea, too. Maybe I have a concussion.
“Aw, Dad,” Toby whines.
Dad raises the lecture finger. “No complaining. They are our neighbors and they are in need.”
Teri Litch in my house, in my bedroom. She’ll murder me in my sleep with an ax. I’m going to hurl. I scoot off the toilet onto the floor and raise the seat.
“Why can’t he sleep in your room?” Toby says.
“You’re younger, he’ll be more comfortable with you,” Dad says. “Besides, I’ve got to get back to the fire.”
Please, let me hurl. Please, please, please.
“Are you sick, honey?”
No such luck. I am just a wet girl in a towel inspecting the rim of the toilet, and it is disgusting.
“What about their mom?” Toby asks. “Shouldn’t they be with her?”
“The doctor said she needs some quiet. A lot of quiet. She’s going to stay at Betty’s house until we get things sorted out.”
“Somebody better warn her about Jesus living in Betty’s television,” I say. “Can’t they go to the Red Cross?”
“Kate, that’s absurd. We have plenty of room.”
“How long do they have to stay?” Toby asks.
“A week, maybe.”
I choke, cough, and lean over the toilet again.
“We’ll know more in the morning. Are you sure you’re okay?” Dad asks.
“I’m not staying here if she’s going to barf,” Toby says.
The snap of the door closing behind him echoes off the tile and porcelain. I sigh, close the toilet lid, and get back to my feet, adjusting the towel for some dignity. My father leans against the sink, watching me closely. Emotion won’t help here. I sit on the toilet and cross my legs.
“Okay, Dad. Let’s face facts. There are a number of reasons why this won’t work. One: Teri Litch is a psychopath. Remember how she used to beat me up?”
“I know you two are not exactly friends—”
“Two: This house is not ready for a toddler. Who is going to take care of Mikey during the day? Three: Teri is a thief. She stole my watch, remember? Mom’s old watch that I have worn forever? Four—”
“Four,” he interrupts. “You’ve had a terrible day. I know I’m asking a lot, and I promise, we’ll make time—just you and me—to sit down this weekend and go over all your material, so when you to school on Monday, you can tell people which college you chose. It won’t be MIT, but trust me, no one will care.”
The nausea is back.
Toby knocks on the door. “Dad?” he says. “Some ladies are here with casseroles and diapers.”
The family room smells like smoke and sounds like a stadium. Teri Litch is sprawled across the couch, remote in one hand, a can of soda in the other, watching baseball. Sophia is curled up next to her, close but not touching. She doesn’t even look at me. Mr. Spock thumps his tail once and lifts his head, his eyebrows raised high. He’d love to come and slobber on me, but he’s busy being a pillow for Teri’s little brother, who is resting his head on the dog’s stomach. Mikey is pale, with smudges of soot on his cheeks. His eyes are puffy from crying and he’s sucking his thumb. His other hand is holding a green metal motorcycle.
The dog drops his head back to the ground with a sigh. Mikey looks up at me with a watery smile. His upper lip quivers around his thumb as he tries not to cry. He needs to blow his nose.
I am such a pig.
Good Kate shoves Bad Kate out of the way. There are boxes of donated clothes over in the church; it’ll be easy to find something for the Litches to wear. They need to shower, and some hot chocolate would be just the thing. I bet Toby’s old teddy bear is in the attic somewhere; Mikey might like that. Poor little guy. And I won’t confront Teri about the watch, not tonight, not even tomorrow.
(Bad Kate gets up and dusts herself off. She notes that a crisis in our back yard will do a good job distracting Dad while I sort out the MIT mess-up. She walks off into the night, whistling.)
“I’m sorry about the fire,” I say.
Teri scratches Sophia’s head. The cat doesn’t care. She’s focused on the game. The Yankees are beating the Indians, 6–3.
“We have some clothes that will fit Mikey,” I continue. “I’ll find some stuff for you, too.”
Teri points the remote and turns up the volume.
Mmmbbraaaaaaacchhh . . .
Teri gave Mikey a bath during the seventh-inning stretch. He fell asleep on my bed while she showered and changed into some of Dad’s old sweats. I suggested we move Mikey to the cot in Toby’s room, but Teri refused. Can’t say I blame her. The dog won’t sleep in there, either.
Braaaaaaaaccchhhhh . . .
It wasn’t part of my plan to be the schmuck that wound up on the cot, but there you go. Teri and Mikey took my bed. As if worrying about MIT weren’t enough to keep me awake, I have a lawn mower roaring in the middle of the room.
Mmmbrrrraaaaachhhhh . . .
The lawn mower is Mikey Litch breathing through his mouth, producing a decibel-per-pound output that is off the charts. I should sample the noise and sell it to struggling musicians. I’d make a fortune.
Braaaaaaaccchhh.
I roll over and pull my knees up to my chest. My legs are tight, my arms are achy, and I can’t get warm. I bet I’m getting the flu. Maybe I’ll be lucky and it will be a rare strain from Mongolian hamsters and I’ll die. No, I’m not that lucky. If I got Mongolian hamster flu, I’d probably end up with permanent blue spots and a tail or something. I roll over. Everything smells like smoke.
Braaaaaaaccchhh.
How can Teri stand it? This could explain her anger management problem. I’ve got to do something or I’ll never get to sleep. Maybe I can roll him on his side. I sit up. Teri’s shape lies along the edge of the mattress. Her face is blocked by my clock radio. Is she asleep? I sit up higher.
She’s awake, watching the minutes on the face of the clock dissolve into each other. The cot creaks under me.
Teri’s eyes swivel and pin me to the wall.
4.0
Oxidizing Agent
SAFETY TIP: Substitute plastic labware for glassware when possible.
First thought upon waking: Maybe it was a nightmare.
Second thought upon waking: What in God’s name is that awful smell?
Third thought: The nightmare continues.
I wrestle my way out of the sleeping bag, fumble for my glasses, and stand up. Mikey Litch’s diaper has exploded all over my bed. Believe me, I do not freak out about a little baby poop. I have a brother. Poop, puke, whatever, I can cope. But this is not natural. It looks like a dinosaur took a dump.
Mikey’s eyes flutter and open. He turns his head to stare at me. “Where Mommy?”
“Don’t move. I, um, I’ll get help. Don’t move, Mikey, stay. Sit. Stay.”
“Twuck,” Mikey says, reaching for the toy on the pillow next to him.
“Dad!” I bellow. “Daaad!” Mr. Spock gallops up the stairs, streaks into the room, and freezes, his nose high in the air. He takes a sniff, whimpers, and scurries out, tail between his legs.
Toby takes the stairs two at a time. “What’s wrong?”
I point to the bed. Mikey is running the dump truck (oh, irony) over the hills and valleys of my ruined comforter, buzzing his lips to make a spluttering engine noise.
“Dude,” Toby says. He backs away from the door and coughs. “That’s a lot of—”
“Please don’t say it. Where’s Teri?”
“Watching cartoons.”
Mikey crawls to the edge of the bed. “Oh, no, you don’t.” I
run in and shoo him to the middle of the mattress like a baby herder. “I have to go to work,” I tell my brother. “Do something.”
“No way, I’m not touching him. That’s sick.”
“Get Teri.”
Toby nods. “Good idea.” He turns his head and yells, “Teri!”
“I could have done that.”
“Yeah, but you didn’t.”
Teri lumbers up the steps chewing something. Her sweatpants are covered with cat fur. She catches a whiff and shakes her head. “Oh, geez,” she says to no one in particular. “He did it again.” She tucks Mikey under her arm like a football and carries him downstairs to the kitchen. As she passes me, I notice a thin gold chain disappearing under the collar of her shirt. I know that chain. There is a gold heart attached to it. It was a Christmas present from Mitch.
Toby and I open all the windows in my room, then follow them. “What if she puts him on the couch?” he whispers.
“Who cares? See that necklace she’s wearing? It’s mine. She stole it.”
“For real?”
“For real.”
He picks up and shakes the box of Life cereal that Teri left on the couch. It’s empty. “What are you going to do?”
“I’m thinking.”
“Good idea.”
Mikey stands naked and shivering in the kitchen sink, his thumb in his mouth. Teri pulls the spray nozzle out of the faucet and tests the water temperature on the inside of her right wrist before hosing off the first layer of crud and lathering him up with dishwashing detergent.
“Did you get any sleep?” I ask.
Teri slides her hands across Mikey’s shoulders and back. Her palms are callused and the thumbnail of her left hand is black. “Not much,” she says.
I open the cupboard and get out Toby’s medicine and vitamins. “He sure can snore, can’t he?”
“He’s been sick. His nose is stuffed.”
Bubbles cover Mikey’s skinny body like translucent polar bear fur. As he bounces up and down, some of them drift off and hang in the sunlight. One lands on the purple bruise under Teri’s eye. Mikey pops it and giggles. Teri winces (that must have hurt), then rinses him off.