“Et toi aussi, ma chérie. Now tell me.”
I fill her in on everything that sucked about the day while we eat. The noise is at peak pitch now, the har-harhars and ho-ho-hos of good jokes told on a full stomach. The kitchen ladies come out to watch the crowd with satisfied looks on their faces. My brother is laughing with his friends and he hasn’t coughed once. Dad is working the room like a pro, stopping at each table for a joke or two, pats on the back, a few heartfelt glances. Ms. Cummings brings him a plate of food. He takes a seat between the Catholic priest and a woman in a purple sweater who can’t stop blushing.
My dad’s a real charmer. It’s not that he’s hot—just the opposite: he’s shortish, with gray hair and wrinkles. But he must beam security rays. Or maybe women get off on the man-of-God thing. There is always a divorcée or widow trying to get her claws into him. Not that they have a chance. When I was a kid, I overheard him tell somebody that he buried his heart when he buried Mom. It took me a long time to figure out what that meant.
“Is that Jell-O over there?” Sara asks.
I blink back into real time. “It’s alive,” I warn her. “You should not eat food that moves.”
She pushes away from the table and tucks her hair behind her ears. “I want three helpings.”
I tag along behind her as she walks to the dessert table. “I’m serious, Sara.”
She giggles. “Jell-O is the secret to good mental health. Oooh, look, this one has nuts.”
I shiver. Nuts do not belong in Jell-O. I take a slice of apple pie.
On the way back to our table, I catch a glimpse of red. Someone wearing a red flannel shirt is standing in the kitchen with her back toward us.
“Sara,” I hiss. “Is that Teri Litch?”
Sara looks. “Can’t be. Amy said she got arrested. The guy whose tooth she knocked out? His parents are pressing charges. Are you sure you don’t want any of this?”
“I’ll be right back.”
The kitchen ladies have shifted into cleanup mode. Betty stands on a step stool in front of the sink, her arms in soapy water up to her elbows. Other ladies are attacking the counters with Comet and the cutting boards with bleach. The floor has been swept and the trash removed. The boxes for shut-ins and the poor are packed and gone. There is no sign of Teri.
I was seeing things. I’ve got Teri Litch on the brain, posttraumatic stress from watching the fight in the cafeteria. I really need some sleep. I reach around Betty and take the chipped teacup off the shelf.
It’s empty. My watch is gone.
“Was Teri here?” I ask Betty.
She stops scrubbing. “That big Litch girl?”
“The one and only. Was she here?”
“She’s gone, honey,” says a woman drying a pot.
“She took my watch.”
“Oh, no,” Betty says. “She couldn’t do a thing like that. She was sweet as can be.”
Betty sends Christmas cards to mass murderers on death row.
A couple of the other ladies have slowed the pace of their scrubbing. They know Litch family stories that go back generations. The oldest woman peels off her yellow rubber gloves with a snap.
“She just left, Kate. If you hurry, you might catch her.”
2.10 Elastic Collision
I spot Teri Litch’s back crossing the graveyard. I want my watch back.
Kate = bull on a rampage. Teri = red flag.
I wait until she’s moving down the hill before I jog after her. Here’s my plan:1. Make sure that she really has it.
2. Ask her for it. Nicely.
3. Ask her again. Firmly.
4. Walk away humiliated when she laughs.
I need a new plan.
I skirt the cemetery fence and stay low. I don’t want her to see me yet, and she might look back, though it’s unlikely, because if there was ever anybody born without a guilty conscience, it’s Formerly Tubby Teri Litch. I stick to the shadows. This is kind of fun. Maybe I could be a combination Nobel–prizewinning chemist and international spy.
Plan #21. Make sure she has watch.
2. Tackle her.
3. Take watch by force.
4. Run like hell.
That one might work. Statistically speaking, the probability is not out of range.
“What about the consequences?” I hear the voice of Mitchell “Afraid of His Own Shadow” Pangborn as clearly as if he were standing next to me. I look around. No Mitch. He’s not here. It’s just me and the dead people and Teri pulling out of sight at the bottom of the hill. I am hallucinating my boyfriend’s voice, another sign that I need more sleep. Consequences. Mitchell is very big on consequences, which explains his virginity. Mine, too, for that matter.
Screw it. I want my watch back. It used to be my mom’s.
I trot down the hill and crouch by the crumbling stone fence. Teri walks past the old barn. Her fists are in her pocket and her sleeves are pulled all the way down, covering her wrists. But I know she’s got it.
As she heads toward the house, I tiptoe into the shadows of the barn and crouch behind the pickup truck. This barn is just about dead. The next good storm will flatten it. The Litches sold off the last of their cows after Mr. Litch went to jail. If they had any sense, they’d sell the land, too, and get out of here.
Teri pauses on the porch steps to watch a red Toyota hatchback come up the driveway. A witness; this could be helpful. The driver gets out. It’s Ms. Cummings. Excellent—a reliable witness who will take my side no matter what.
Teri lights a cigarette while Ms. Cummings takes something out of the back seat. The smoke filters up to the dim porch light. Ms. Cummings carries a box, a shut-in chicken-and-biscuit dinner box, to the porch and speaks quietly.
Teri reaches for the doorknob. A-ha! Step one accomplished. My watch is on her wrist. I can’t believe her. Not only did she flat out steal it—from a church basement, I’d like to point out—she has the balls to wear it. I grind my feet in the dirt, unsure of what to do. Step two, “tackle her,” seems highly theoretical right now.
Teri turns toward where I’m hiding and squints through her glasses. Her left eye is bruised and swollen from the cafeteria fight. She points to me.
Damn.
“Hey, Kate!” Teri calls loudly. “You coming in?”
Ms. Cummings is startled. She looks toward the shadows. “Kate?”
Double damn. How am I going to explain this? I just wanted my watch back, then a long hot shower, a bag of Chee•tos, maybe a couple of hours on-line.
“Come on in, Katie.” Teri sounds like a carnival barker. “Meet the family.”
2.11 Half-Life
In the middle of the Litch living room there are two kitchen chairs, a couch, and a television tuned to a game show, full volume. Broken furniture is piled against the walls, along with file cabinets, a lawn tractor, and a folded-up playpen. A wicker basket of plastic fruit rests on the tractor seat—red apples, two pears, and an orange, all of them covered in crayon graffiti. The ceiling is stained brown from cigarette smoke. The arrangement is lighted by two floor lamps plugged into extension wires that snake under the couch.
“It’s a very old house,” says Ms. Cummings. “The original section must pre-date the Civil War.”
“I bet.”
Just beyond the reach of the light I can see a small rocking chair in the corner. In fact, the whole corner looks like it was set up for a little kid. The floor is covered with a brightly colored Sesame Street rug that is scattered with plastic blocks and metal cars. More cars and trucks are jumbled in an old Easter basket. The bookcase under the window is loaded with books and puzzles. The corner is not tidy, but it is clean.
Ms. Cummings shifts the box to her hip. “I didn’t know you were friends with Teri.”
“I’m not. She stole something from me.”
Before she can answer, Teri guides a tiny woman into the room. The woman inches across the floorboards in scuffed slippers. She’s not wearing glasses, but it’s clear s
he can’t see well. She keeps one hand floating lightly in the air in front of her.
Teri leads the woman to the couch. She sits, barely making a dent on the cushion. Two bobby pins keep her blonde hair out of her face. Her nose is flat and crooked, her eyes vague, her mouth thin. A pink scar interrupts her left eyebrow. It makes her look permanently confused. Even with the nice hair, this is the kind of woman you look at and think “bag lady.”
“This is my mom,” Teri says.
I look to my teacher for a clue.
“It’s good to see you again, Mrs. Litch,” Ms. Cummings says. She sets the box on the floor, steps forward, and gently squeezes one of Mrs. Litch’s hands. “I’m Amanda Cummings, from the church. We met a few weeks ago.”
Mrs. Litch’s face relaxes. “Yes. Thank you for coming.” Her voice is too young for her face. “Have a seat, please.”
“No, I can’t. I just dropped a few things off for dinner.”
“For just a minute?”
Ms. Cummings sits on a kitchen chair. “Okay, but I don’t want to intrude.”
Teri sits on the other chair. “Why don’t you sit down, Kate? Sit next to Mom.”
Why don’t I run out the door screaming? I want my watch back, that’s why. It’s worth more than my car. She’d better not be stretching the band. It looks tight on her.
I sit on the couch. Mrs. Litch turns her face to me and extends her hand. I was waiting for a whiff of beer or whiskey, but she smells a little like lemon. I, on the other hand, reek of sweat and stewed chicken.
“I’m Kate,” I say, shaking the cool hand. “Kate Malone.”
“Kate is Rev. Malone’s daughter. She goes to school with Theresa,” Ms. Cummings explains.
“How nice,” says Mrs. Litch.
“Oh, it’s great,” Teri says.
“That’s a cool watch you’re wearing, Theresa,” I say.
The scar over Mrs. Litch’s eye twitches just a hair. Someone loses a thousand dollars on the game show and the audience groans.
“It looks just like my watch. In fact, I can’t find mine. Have you seen it?”
Teri takes a deep breath. I shrink down to a size one. She can’t beat me up, not in front of her mother and a teacher.
Can she?
I am saved from certain death by the arrival of a small, blond boy. Or rather, a NASCAR race car disguised as a small, blond boy. He motors into the room, a red metal Corvette in his left hand, a small ambulance missing its wheels in his right. His eyes are the color of a clean spring sky. He’s wearing jeans, red sneakers, and a faded pajama top. As he runs around the room, he makes engine noises, shifting gears up and down, squealing tires. A diaper rustles under his pants.
“Come here, boy,” says Mrs. Litch.
The little guy climbs into her lap and hides his face against her shoulder. He peeks at me once. You could get lost in those eyes; they’re heartbreakers.
“That’s Mikey,” Teri says. “He’s two.”
Mikey peeks at me again and smiles. He has dimples and tiny Tic Tac teeth. I put my hand out. Mikey grabs my finger for a second, then lets go and hides his face again. Another contestant is trying for big money on the television. Teri turns up the sound of the audience roaring. She’ll pound the snot out of me later, I guess.
“I really should be going,” Ms. Cummings says as she stands.
“So soon?” asks Mrs. Litch.
Teri stares at the television, her arms crossed over her chest. The wrist with the stolen watch is hidden. I push myself off the couch.
“Me, too. I have homework.”
“Suit yourself,” Teri says.
The game show cuts to a commercial and there is a loud knock at the door.
“Is there a Mikey bear in there?” shouts a gruff voice.
Mikey squirms out of his mother’s lap and races to open the door. My father steps inside.
“Bear!” Mikey squeals.
My father growls and crouches to the ground. Mikey Litch jumps into his arms. They wrestle like grizzlies for a second, both of them laughing, then Dad stands up, holding Mikey. The little bear hands him the ambulance.
“Thank you,” Dad says. “Is that ear feeling better? Got a kiss for me?”
Mikey plants a wet one on Dad’s cheek and Dad looks at Teri. “Did the medicine help?”
She nods, eyes on the television. “Fever’s gone.”
“Good evening, Mrs. Litch . . . ” His voice trails off.
“Evening, Reverend,” Mrs. Litch says.
“Hello, Dad.”
You don’t see my dad speechless very often. Mikey runs the race car along his shoulder and up his neck. Dad stands there, his eyes locked on me, like he is seeing me for the first time.
Ms. Cummings breaks for the door. “I really have to be going. I have a conference in Troy tomorrow. You’ll have a sub, Kate. I hope they dig up a good one. Don’t forget to put the chicken in the fridge.”
Bam—she’s gone.
Dad waits until the lights of her Toyota have backed all the way down the driveway before saying anything. “What are you doing here?”
“Teri has my watch.”
“Do not,” Teri mumbles.
“I want it back.”
Teri crosses the room and takes Mikey from my father’s arms.
“You know it’s mine,” I say.
She bounces Mikey up and down on her hip and he clutches at her shirt. “You can’t prove it.”
“What? How can you say that? Dad, take a look at it.”
Rev. Malone frowns and turns off the television. “Kate, this isn’t the time. I came here to talk to Mrs. Litch about the fight.”
The scar over Mrs. Litch’s eye jerks upward. “Another one?”
“Shit,” Teri murmurs. She turns and disappears down the dark hall, Mikey still in her arms.
“What about my watch?”
“Did somebody bother you?” her mother calls. “You promised me, Theresa!”
Dad moves a chair in front of the couch and sits. His voice is soft. “I’ll explain. It wasn’t too bad, but you need to—” He breaks off and looks at me. “Kate, why don’t you take that food back to the kitchen?”
Actually, I’d love to sit here and figure out what is going on. Reality feels rather plastic, as if I’ve been operating in an enclosed sphere, and the covering melted, and all of a sudden I’m in an entirely new world—a world in which my father is tight with the Litches, my chem teacher is a closet social worker, people use lawn tractors for furniture, and watches change hands much too easily.
“Kate,” Dad says, a little too loudly. Mrs. Litch sniffs and dabs at her eyes with the edge of her sleeve.
“I’m going.”
The kitchen is stuffed into an addition off the back end of the house. The window over the sink gives a terrific view of the rotting barn. Air from the heating vent flutters an old calendar nailed to the wall. Above the small table hangs a plastic clock, frozen at twelve noon. Or midnight, depending on your perspective. One corner of the table is piled high with magazines.
Someone did the dishes earlier. Pale yellow plates and bowls, a couple of coffee cups, and a small plastic mug are upside down in the drainer. They are all dry. The counters are wiped clean.
I put the chicken into the refrigerator and sneak out the back door. I need to run.
Part 2
Liquid
“A catalyst is a substance which increases the rate of a reaction. It is consumed in one step of the reaction and then regenerated later in the process. The catalyst is not used up, but provides a new, lower energy path for the reaction.”
—ARCO Everything You Need to Score
High on AP Chemistry, 3rd Edition
3.0
Galvanize
SAFETY TIP: Store oxidizers away from other chemicals.
We have a substitute teacher in chem. He says that we have to watch a movie because chemicals give him a rash and he’s really an English teacher. He brought a video from home for u
s, Alice in Wonderland. A family classic, he says.
My lab partner snorts. “Family classic,” she mutters. “Mind-altering drugs, demented hatters, and a homicidal queen.” She opens her Spanish book to the pluperfect subjunctive.
The movie opens with Alice perched in a tree, complaining about history to her sister. Enter the White Rabbit, stage left, his glasses wobbling at the end of his nose. “I’m overdue, I’m in a stew,” he frets.
I sigh and rest my chin on my books. I would not admit this under torture, but I love Disney movies. Everybody does. Disney is our collective stepparent, the nice one who tells us bedtime stories and bakes cupcakes.
Alice follows the rabbit down the hole. She falls, she shrinks, she worms her way past locked doors and winds up a stranger in a strange land with Tweedle-Dee and Tweedle-Dum blocking her path. They have an eerie Litch-look to them.
I glance at my empty wrist. My watch is still in the clutches of the evil Tweedle-Teri. I borrow Diana’s pen and draw a sports watch on my skin. It has a timer, fifty-lap memory, altimeter, barometer, and compass. Alice in Wonderland could use a watch like this. She eats a cookie that is probably laced with human growth hormone and shoots up as big as a house.
I should ask Toby if he’s been sneaking Wonderland cookies. That would explain the size of his feet.
There is a soft knock at the door of the classroom. A thin face peers in the window and waves a white envelope at me. It’s my father.
Diana looks up from her subjunctives and nudges me.
An envelope. The envelope? An envelope. No, you can’t fool me twice. It’s too early for the mail. Dad motions for me to join him. Diana pokes my shoulder with her pen. My brain feels like a Slurpee, cold and slow.
Diana shoves me. “Get going, moron.”
The sub doesn’t notice as I walk across the room. Is it possible to have a heart attack at eighteen? I open the door, step over the threshold, and enter the hall. My father is holding an envelope. The envelope. After all this time, things are happening too fast. I’m not ready. I am going to puke.