In the bottom of Toby’s clothes hamper, I come across Mikey’s pajamas and one of his socks. It takes me a couple of hours to wash and iron them. I fold and lay them under my pillow.
The last track meet of the season is on Tuesday, a week after the funeral. A big deal, this one. Last chance to qualify for states. Perfect weather. My father and brother in the crowd to watch my final race.
When the starter’s gun goes off, I just stand there. My feet refuse to move. Very odd. They have always moved before. I sit down on the starting line. My legs are still attached, knees operational, socks rolled down, shoelaces tied. I stand up. Nope, the feet will not race. It’s not dark enough, I guess. Dad drives me home. He wants me to take a nap.
I wake up in the middle of the night. The Litch house is quiet. It’s been quiet for three days. I can’t tell if that’s a good sign or a bad sign. Dad has stopped talking about Teri. To me, at least.
Mitchell e-mails and I delete. He took it upon himself to tell everyone about my little college disaster. Sara has been spending a lot of time in my face, trying to get me to talk about it, to “share.” Travis thinks I need a road trip. Mostly I think about the advantages of being abducted by aliens. The pharmacy calls and fires me on the answering machine. Good Kate and Bad Kate have not come home. Either they are lost or I scared them off.
I have a new slant to my Quantum Futures options. I could work in a coal mine. I could move to Australia, learn how to shear sheep. I could donate my body and brain to science. I could volunteer at a Third World orphanage. I could work on a cutter in the Arctic. When I show Sara the new list, she throws it out.
On Thursday, Ms. Cummings catches me mixing Dangerous Chemical A with Dangerous Chemical B in class. This creates quite a reaction. We have to evacuate the building, which is a pain.
On Friday, Dad makes me stay home and commands me to rest. As if. When he leaves, I sneak into Toby’s room to clean. I open the windows, strip the bed, take out the trash, and put all of his gym socks in a caustic bleach bath. His Mom project is on his desk, hidden under a layer of comic books and algebra notes. He has glued photos and written down a few facts: born on . . . went to college . . . married . . . taught math . . . died on.... Hobbies: fractals, studying transition metals, knitting. He didn’t write down that her favorite perfume smelled like roses. Or that she knew the value of pi to the fortieth digit. Or that she knew all of Tom Lehrer’s songs. Or that she used to stay up with Toby all night to make sure he kept breathing. Or that she liked a clean kitchen. Or that she was Phi Beta Kappa at MIT. Maybe she called it Pi Beta Kappa.
And then I am in bed quite sure that I am awake, and then I’m running, convinced that I’m asleep. I have a dream in which Mitchell “Lips” Pangborn tells me none of this would have happened if I had learned to write better essays. And then he puts me on hold while he talks to some chick in Cambridge.
I can’t get warm. I pile all the blankets from the linen closet on my bed, and my winter coat, and a sleeping bag, too. I put my head under the covers, worry for a second about the possibility of a carbon dioxide/oxygen imbalance, then crash.
13.0
Critical Pressure
SAFETY TIP: Do not use reflected sunlight for microscope illumination.
When I wake up, it is Saturday and Sara is standing over me, frowning her displeased goddess frown. “Okay, that’s enough. Get out of bed and take a shower. You’re coming with me.”
It would take too much energy to argue with her. I do as I’m told. Once I’m clean and dressed, I follow her outside. She sends me back inside with instructions to put in my contacts and comb my hair. I do as I’m told, then return. Travis is driving. I get in the back seat. Sara tells me to buckle up.
We drive across town to the Salt City Diner. I am just barely in the car, an essence of Kate. Good thing I put the belt on. Up front, Sara fiddles with the radio, twirls her hair around her finger and talks a mile a minute. It takes a while, but eventually I can hear what she’s saying. Nonsense, most of it, but it is sweet of her to try.
The diner is a grown-up version of the Merryweather cafeteria, except the food tastes better and costs less. Nine o’clock on a Saturday morning is rush hour here. Families with screaming babies are all seated in the back. Divorced dads starting their custody weekends with pissed-off kids sit by the windows. The booths are mostly taken by teenagers, the tables in the middle of the floor are for adults—both groups armed and ready for serious gossip. The old people have already cleared out. Waitresses with hideous orange aprons move like skaters between the kitchen and the tables. Eating here is like trying to eat inside a pinball game, but Sara thinks the place has atmosphere.
Mitchell is already in a booth, waiting for us. He slides down the bench to make room for me and pours the coffee. “You’re alive,” he says. “I was beginning to wonder.”
Travis and Sara lean forward a little, their eyes intent on me.
I sigh and open my menu. “You guys can knock it off. I know what you’re doing. I’m fine. I had some weird flu, but I slept like a log last night, and I’m starving. What are you going to eat?”
Sara grins and wriggles in her seat. “You’re back. Oh, sweetie, I was so worried.”
Travis pulls his wallet out of his back pocket and extracts three dollars. “Tell me, O Brilliant Mistress: What is the maximum amount of food I can get for this?”
“Are you talking number of bites or weight?” I ask.
“Weight. I want it to feel it.”
“Then you want oatmeal,” I say. “It’s like cement.”
Mitch shakes his head. “Wrong again, Malone. Our boy needs pancakes to fill him up.”
“Duh. How do you make pancakes? It’s chemistry; you combine baking powder with an acid like sour milk. The reaction creates air bubbles, which make the pancakes fluffy. Fluffy is not filling. Plus the pancakes cost twice as much as the oatmeal.”
“They taste better,” Mitch says.
“He wants weight, not taste. If he wants taste, he could order cherry pie.”
“We’re not talking about pie.”
“I’m not talking about pie, either, alls I’m saying is—”
“I don’t want to argue, Kate.”
“I’m not arguing.”
Sara reaches her hand across the table and gently pats my arm. “No, sweetie, but you’re yelling, and a little vein on the side of your forehead just popped out. Do you want some decaf?”
The three of them stare at me. No, I will not touch the vein. I won’t give them the satisfaction. “I’m fine. Pass the cream and the fake sugar.”
Travis passes over the goodies. Mitchell waves his hand in the air, trying to attract the attention of the waitresses clustered around the coffee machines. The oldest waitress, whose hair was lacquered into place in the mid-sixties, shouts into the kitchen. A new waitress strolls out. She’s wearing work boots and has a pack of cigarettes sticking out of the pocket of her apron. She’s wearing her hospital bracelet and my watch and my gold necklace with the heart on it. She has a scabby “M” tattooed on her forearm. Theresa Litch, decorated in a waitress-orange apron, walks to our table.
Crapcrapcrap. I knew I should have stayed home.
She stops at our booth, hands on her hips. “Yeah?”
“What happened to the other waitress?” Mitch asks. “The one who brought the coffee?”
“I pushed her in the lake. You gonna order or what?”
“Yes. Yes, we’re ready to order,” Sara says. “Hi, Teri. I’m having crêpes with strawberries, extra whipped cream. Please.”
Travis opens his menu again. “What’ll fill me up more, pancakes or oatmeal?”
“Pancakes,” Teri says. “They’re like lead.”
“They’re not fluffy?”
“Hockey pucks.”
Travis winks at me. “Perfect. Give me a tall stack, extra syrup.”
“What about you, Harvard?” she asks Mitch.
“Aren’t you going to write any
of this down?” he asks.
“Because it’s so complicated, right?”
Mitch taps his finger on the table for a second, then gives in. “Three eggs, sunny-side up, bacon—not overcooked, I like it soft and greasy. Wheat toast, no butter, large orange juice, and a bowl of fruit. Oh, and we need more coffee.” He slides the empty pot down the table.
“What about you, Katie?”
I keep my eyes on the table in front of me. I could be home ironing. I could be giving the dog a bath. I could be changing Bert’s oil. I could be researching state colleges. I could be shaving the cat. . . . “Just bring me a doughnut. A glazed doughnut. And more water.”
Teri snorts once and walks back to the kitchen.
Sara leans across the table. “Did you know she was working here?”
I shake my head. “Last I knew she was working at some bar.”
Travis puts his arm around Sara. “What’s the story with her house? Is she still tearing it down?”
“Who knows? She won’t talk to anyone, won’t let anyone near the place. And her mom is looney tunes. She might end up in a home. I don’t know. I mean, look, you just can’t help Teri.”
“That’s harsh,” Travis says.
“So’s Teri,” Mitch says.
Sara throws her napkin at him. “Be nice. Would you like to be in her shoes?”
“Her boots,” I say. “She won’t wear shoes. Only boots.” I take Sara’s napkin from Mitch and smooth it out on the tabletop with the palm of my hand. “She’s going to get blood poisoning from that tattoo, septicemia.”
“No, she won’t.” Travis pulls up his shirt and points to the yin yang symbol tattooed on the middle of his stomach. “I did that one myself. I didn’t get sick.”
“I’ve been thinking about getting a tattoo,” Mitchell says.
I shake my head. “It’ll hurt your chances of getting into grad school.”
“Really?”
Travis throws his napkin at Mitch. “Don’t be such a tool.”
It only takes a few minutes for Teri to deliver our order. She slams the plates on the table and tosses the silverware in the middle. Travis spreads the butter on his pancakes. Mitchell unfolds his napkin in his lap and loads his eggs with salt. Sara dips her pinkie finger into the strawberry gunk drooling out of her crêpes.
I stare at my plate: two pieces of dried bread.
“Everything all right?” Teri asks.
“I ordered a glazed doughnut, not toast,” I say. “And we need coffee. And I need water. I’m thirsty. ”
Sara goes bug-eyed, trying to get me to back down, as if that is going to make Teri’s life any easier. Or mine.
“The doughnuts are all stale.”
“I doubt that.”
Teri takes my toast plate and stomps away. She returns with a glazed doughnut and a pot of fresh coffee. The doughnut has a thumbprint mashed into it.
“I didn’t spit on it, if that’s what you’re thinking,” Teri says. She stands there, arms crossed over her chest for a minute. I half expect her to pick up the table and fling it through the front window. Instead, she sits down.
“Move over, skinny,” she says. Sara scootches closer to Travis and Teri slides in next to her. “So, what’s up, kids? Are we having fun? Making big plans for the prom?”
Travis mumbles something through a mouthful of pancakes. Mitchell punctures his yolk with the corner of his toast and yellow floods his plate.
“We haven’t decided yet,” Sara says to Teri, as if this were a remotely normal conversation. “Are you going?”
Teri takes my spoon and bends the handle. “You’re joking, right?”
Sara stuffs half a crêpe in her mouth to save herself from answering. I carefully break out the thumbprint from my doughnut, and take a bite of the unthumbed part. It’s stale, all right. A week old, at least.
“Hey, Teri!” yells the ancient waitress. “Back to work.”
“I’m on break,” she yells back. She holds her arm up and points to my watch. “I get five minutes.”
“Are you going to sell your house?” Mitch asks.
Teri wags the bent spoon at him. “Why do you care?”
He has yolk on his chin. “My mom’s an agent. It could be nice if you fix it up, but you’d get a lot more if you sold it. It’s a big piece of property. Somebody could put up condos.”
Teri takes a piece of his bacon. “I’ve been thinking about it.”
“Yeah, I bet you have,” I say. “I asked for some water.”
“Keep your panties on. You know jack about what I’m thinking.”
“I know precisely what you’re thinking.”
Teri snorts and reaches for my doughnut. Mitch’s hand shoots across the table and grabs her wrist. I wasn’t planning on him doing that. And then his voice sounding like it crawled out from under a rock: “Don’t touch her food,” he says.
“Chill, Pangborn,” Travis says.
Teri’s eyes go flat behind the thick lenses of her glasses. Her fingers collect into a fist. “What are you going to do about it, Harvard?”
Mitch leans toward her and squeezes harder. “I don’t have to do anything. You did it yourself. We’re all really sorry that Mikey was killed, and I know you’ve had a really hard life. But that doesn’t give you permission to make Kate feel like shit, or make fun of people, or steal from them. Don’t touch her food.”
He releases her wrist and sits back. His fingernails made red half-moons in her skin.
“Break’s over,” calls the old waitress.
Teri blinks a few times, breathing hard. Her arm is still lying across the table—fist, red fingernail marks, snaky blue veins, crooked tattoo.
“Kate asked for water,” Mitch says as he spears his egg.
She stands up. Her apron is wrinkled. “She’s got plenty.”
“I mean it, Litch!” the old waitress hollers.
Teri reaches behind her and tugs at the bow in her apron strings until it comes undone. She walks away from our booth, pulling the apron over her head as she goes.
“Oh, no,” Sara whispers.
“Way to go, Pangborn,” Travis says. “That was bone-headed.”
“It’s not my fault if she quits. Another day and they would have fired her.”
They won’t look at me. Sara and Travis dig into their food. Mitchell pours himself another cup of coffee. Over the noise of the crying babies, buzzing conversations, and forks scraping plates, tapping spoons on mugs, I can hear shouting in the kitchen. I could have stayed home and avoided all of this. I could have scrubbed the toilets, cleaned grout.
Teri bursts through the kitchen doors. She makes for the front door, then stops, pivots on her left boot, and marches back to our table. She stands over me. The diner has gone quiet all of a sudden. I can smell her. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see her hands balled up and ready to inflict pain. Should I apologize for what the jerk to my left said? Should I do that before or after she breaks his jaw?
Teri opens her fist and drops my gold necklace on the table. She unbuckles my watch and sets it carefully next to the water glass. She is still wearing her hospital bracelet.
When she walks out the door, the diner sighs and the noise cranks back up to full volume: crying, buzzing, scraping, tapping.
Sara reaches for the coffeepot. “That was nice of her.”
Mitch frowns. “You gave her my necklace?”
I pick up the watch. The band is damp with sweat. She poked an extra hole in it so she could buckle it. I wrap the band around my wrist and buckle it in her hole. Her sweat is clammy and slick. The watch flops around my wrist, the weight of the face pulling it down.
“I can’t believe that fit her,” Travis says. “She’s, like, twice as big as you are.”
Mitch tilts his head to one side. “Why did you give her my necklace?”
I pick up the part of the doughnut that has Teri’s thumbprint and stick it in my mouth. It’s dry as a rock and just as hard. I take a swig of coffee
and hold it in my mouth until the doughnut softens, then turns to mush. My friends talk over and around me, prom blah-blah, work blah-blah, the lake blah-blah, summer blah, September, financial aid blah-blah-blah. I’m shrinking and they don’t even notice. . . .
My watch is ticking, but the second hand isn’t moving. I breathe quickly, deeply, like I’m sprinting, even though I am sitting down. I blink, trying to moisten my contacts. As I open my eyes, it’s like I’m rocketing through space, the stars elongating past me as, sitting still, I shift into warp drive and break the speed of light.
Someone mentions MIT, but it doesn’t save me. Sara blows bubbles in her coffee with a straw. The bubbles pop and more words come out . . . admissions, transfer, roommates, GPAs, microwaves, concerts, registration. God, is this all we ever talk about?
The diner air is jelling, concentrating, molecules collapsing into the void, the invisible gases taking shape and mass. I hold my water glass up to my nose. Seen through the water, the faces and bodies around me flatten under an unseen weight. I don’t recognize anyone.
I hold the glass of water over the aisle so it can catch the morning light. The water acts as a prism, creating a rainbow that cascades across the table. The glare surprises Mitch and he puts his hand up to shield his face.
Water is an extremely efficient solvent: two atoms of hydrogen connected to one atom of oxygen by highly polar covalent bonds. Given enough time, it can dissolve almost anything, even sunlight into pure color. The electrolysis of water is a classic chemistry experiment. Stick two electrodes in water, add a bit of electrolytic solution, and turn on the battery. Voilà. Hydrogen collects at the cathode, oxygen collects at the anode. It’s not water anymore, not even steam. Bonds are broken and the substance is reduced to its elements. Magic.
“Are you all right?” Sara asks me.
I open my fingers.
The glass falls.
Gravity works.
It lands on the tile floor without a sound, shattering into a dozen shards and countless diamond slivers. The tidal wave of water washes over me, and I have to close my mouth so I don’t breathe it into my lungs. I am at sea. There are ghosts in these waters, aliens, and lost little blonde girls, all waiting for me to open my eyes. They have been waiting a long time.