“This was stuck in a catalog that came yesterday,” Dad says. “You told me to bring it to you.” He hands it over. The magic words glow in the upper left-hand corner: “Massachusetts Institute of Technology, Office of Admissions.”
It is a thin envelope.
I open it badly. The envelope tears and rips across my name and address. A jagged opening. The letter is brief, murder by stiletto, a thin, sharp blade: “We regret to inform you . . . thousands of qualified candidates . . . not a reflection on your abilities . . . many opportunities elsewhere . . . Sincerely . . . ”
The need to vomit vanishes. Dead girls don’t puke.
My father picks up the letter and envelope from the floor. He says something I can’t hear. When I don’t answer, he looks in the envelope. Maybe the real letter, the acceptance letter, is hidden in there, written in invisible ink on invisible, space-age paper. Or it’s a Cheshire cat letter and it will materialize any second now. Somewhere deep in that envelope are my registration instructions, my financial aid package, and a handwritten note from the cross-country coach.
If Dad says that he told me this would happen, I will die all over again.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “I’m sorry.”
I heard that.
I wish I were three feet tall and he could pick me up and he still had a beard and he wore cotton sweaters that felt soft on my cheek and I could cry it all away and I would wipe my tears on his shoulder and I could suck my thumb and suck the end of my ponytail and he wouldn’t tell me only babies did that and he would rock me on the front porch with the wind coming clean from the north and he would sing nursery rhymes with made-up words like Mom used to and he could teach me the alphabet again and how to walk and how to run and maybe I would do it better this time.
Dad clears his throat. “It’s not the end of the world, honey. You have all those other schools. Come here. . . . ”
He pulls me into a hug. He is wearing the tweed jacket from last night (smells like chicken) and it scratches my cheek. The ground shakes. The iceberg that traps us shifts and groans and I come so close—this close—to being his daughter, the Malone girl, Jack’s girl, and letting him be Daddy and love me for all these stupid mistakes, and letting him try to put a Band-Aid on this one even though we both know it’s going to bleed for a very long time, but it’s the Band-Aid that counts.
I have not inhaled since I saw the envelope. I am inert, an expired reaction.
“You could talk to Mr. Kennedy,” he says. “He’ll help you choose from the other schools. You have options, honey.”
I am so dead that I can’t even think about what this means.
“Or I could talk to him. I have a meeting in the guidance department”—he looks at his watch over my shoulder—“in a minute.”
I step back, a rush of cold air on my cheeks. “Why?”
He cracks his knuckles. “Mrs. Litch asked me to come. The police are involved because of the fight Teri was in yesterday.”
I stand up straighter. “And you thought you’d drop off my letter on the way?”
He frowns. “No, it was more than that. You asked me . . .”
The iceberg stops groaning and arctic salt water swirls, restoring the space between us, putting us back in our places.
“I have to get back to chem.”
We both look through the door. The cartoon has lulled the class into their happy place. Alice is lost again. Dad folds the letter and inserts it back in the envelope. “We’ll talk about this tonight. I know you’re upset, but we’ll figure something out.”
He hugs my head and I hold my breath. I take the envelope and turn my back to him. I step over the threshold, enter the classroom, and close the door behind me, quietly, so it doesn’t disturb anyone.
3.0.1 Scientific Method
At my lab table, I review the experiment:
Step 1. Hypothesis—I am brilliant. I am special. I am going to MIT, just like my mom did. I am going to change the world.
Step 2. Procedure—Acquire primary and secondary school education. Follow all rules. Excel at chemistry and math, ace standardized tests. Acquire social skills and athletic prowess; maintain a crushing extracurricular load. Earn national science fair honors. Apply to MIT. Wait for acceptance letter.
Step 3. Results—Failure.
Step 4. Retrace steps. Procedure flawless.
Step 5. Conclusion—Hypothesis incorrect. I am a loser.
So simple.
I light the Bunsen burner. The thin envelope goes up in flames.
3.1 Flammability
Someone has been messing with my locker. 27-18-28. Jigglejigglejiggle the handle. Locked. 27-18-28. Jigglejigglejiggle. Damn.
If I weren’t trapped in a hall of bodies I could kick this sucker or punch it or find a chair and smash it against the crap metal piece of shit until I was standing in a pile of kindling up to my ankles and then the lock would tumble into place and the handle would jigglejiggle-open. If there weren’t four thousand strangers bumping into me one after the other, I could get a crowbar and pry this thing open because I have to get my books and my notebooks and look at all the stupid crap that is stuck to the inside of my locker so it can remind me of who I am on days when I forget or want to forget like this one. If there were any justice in the world, I’d be able to flatten myself and slide through the vents in the locker door like Alice in Wonderland, Kate in Wonderland, off with her head!
Try again. 27-18-28.
The humiliation. Searing, scarring humiliation. I can’t go to the cafeteria, not ever again. Maybe I could tell them I was banned, that I was caught putting rat poison in the peas or I ran in the hall with scissors. I can’t go to English class, either, because Mitch will be there. Come to think of it, I can’t ever see him, or Sara, or Travis . . . I can’t ever go home, can’t go to work . . . kids don’t run away to join the circus anymore, do they? Too bad. I could work in the sideshow as Idiot Girl. Or I could run away to New York City and do something dramatically stupid in a subway station.
Jigglejigglejiggle. Why won’t this freaking thing open?
I lean my head against the locked locker. The metal draws the heat away from my brain. Everyone assumes I’ll go to Syracuse or Ithaca or Drexel, because I applied there, remember? Remember how I sweated over those essays? Remember how I told Dad I wrote the checks for the application fees? Remember how everyone bought the myth that I had been accepted by my safety schools? That I even applied to my safety schools?
The freak show could bill me as the Amazing Lying Egghead. See her bullshit the family! See her lie straight-faced to friends! See her completely tank her life!
If I concentrate hard enough, I should be able to separate the molecules of the metal locker door and melt through the surface. Since the lock is jammed, they’d wouldn’t find me until my body had mummified. That would work.
Two hands on my shoulder, a deep voice in my ear: “I’ve been looking everywhere for you.” Mitchell “Harvard Asshole” Pangborn pulls me away from the locker and spins me around. He lifts my chin with his fingers. He can’t lift my eyes.
“I know,” he says.
“Already?”
“You started a fire in chem class, Malone. Everybody knows.”
If I concentrate hard enough, maybe I could separate the molecules of linoleum and wood and steel and concrete beneath my feet and sink slowly into the earth.
“It wasn’t a real fire,” I say.
“You could have been hurt.”
“Ha.”
He pulls me into his sweatshirt, and now I have to concentrate not to fall into the spaces between his molecules of skin and muscle and bone. I pull back.
“Don’t. I can’t be hugged right now. I can’t have all this ‘It’ll be okay’ stuff, okay? Don’t be nice to me. I’ll scream, I swear.”
He shoves his hands into the pockets of his jeans. I pull the strap of my photo bag higher on my shoulder and squeeze my books until their edges bite my arms.
 
; “I don’t know what to do,” he says.
“Join the club. Where’s Sara?”
“She’s sick. A stomach bug, Travis said.”
“She ate Jell-O with nuts last night.”
He steps close again, slips his hand around the back of my neck. “Kate.”
I shrug him off. “I meant it, Pangborn.” I look up, not at his eyes because that would be the end of me, but to glance around the hall. The thousands of bodies have vanished—poof! I didn’t hear the bell. Somewhere a clock is trying to tick, its hands stuck in molasses.
“I can’t open my locker,” I say.
He steps around me and spins the dial, 27-18-28. Click-click-click . The lock surrenders and the door swings open between us. I throw my books inside and slam it shut.
“I’m late,” I say. “I have to go.”
3.2 Significant Figure
That crackle you hear? That’s the sound of hell freezing over. Alert the media: Kate Malone is ditching class.
The art teacher, Mr. Freeman, and his students are building a statue in the front lobby. The statue is a giant stick figure with two metal legs, a pole for the body, and two long arms thrust in the air. A guy with a skanky mullet is wrapping pâpier-maché around the legs. While the art elves rummage through a half dozen plastic bins filled with junk, the teacher fires up his glue gun.
Artistic people are too random for me, but these kids look harmless. One girl I recognize. She’s half-famous around here: Melinda Something. A senior tried to rape her in a janitor’s closet last year. She fought him off and pressed charges, which was cool. It made the papers when he was found guilty. He didn’t go to jail, of course. White, upper-middle-class criminals go to the state college, not the state penitentiary. Then they join fraternities.
State college. My future, and only if they have rolling admissions. The nausea starts in my knees and surges upward. I cover my mouth and sink to the floor, my back against the wall. My hands are shaking. They do not feel attached.
Why I belong at MIT:
I’m smart.
I work hard.
I aced the math SAT.
I’m a legacy.
I need very little sleep.
I do not require a social life.
Heat and pressure improve my performance.
I could be the reincarnation of Madame Curie (according to Sara).
Why MIT blew me off:
I’m not smart enough.
I do not work hard enough.
My verbal SAT was less than perfect.
Mom didn’t leave MIT any money in her will.
I scared the admissions officer during my interview.
My essays sucked.
I’m linear, not well-rounded.
I’m too short.
Melinda Something heard me moan. She puts down a spool of copper wire and walks over to where I’m squatting. “Are you okay?”
I nod. She’s a sophomore and would not understand the stress of losing your college. I point at the statue. “What’s that?”
“Mr. Freeman calls it Student Body.”
“It looks like a robot.”
“It’s supposed to be a puppet.” She pulls out her scrunchy and combs through her hair with her fingers. “We’re covering it with representational pieces, junk that stands for all of us. Freeman keeps telling us, ‘Everybody is a piece.’ You look really pale. Want me to get the nurse?”
I shake my head. “She can’t fix this.”
She smoothes her hair back into a ponytail and winds the scrunchy around it. “Got it. Feel free to help, if you want.”
“Thanks. I’ll just watch.”
I watch the puppet grow for the next two periods. They cover it with student council campaign buttons, cheerleader hair ribbons, chess pieces, computer chips, plastic cell phones, excuse cards, a jockstrap and a sports bra (the Student Body is gender-neutral), crayons, erasers, sheet music, and about a million other things. There is an anatomically correct heart glued outside the chest, dark red and shiny. I bet that will be the first thing that gets ripped off. The science geeks are represented by glass test tubes. Worrywart Good Kate wishes they had used plastic.
While they work, I concentrate on alternative career choices. I come up with four.
1. Janitor—I’m great with a toilet brush.
2. Soup kitchen employee—I have significant ladling skills, too.
3. Crack cooker—Drug lords are always looking for good chemists. Except I am terrified of guns. And crack kills brain cells. And Toby would freak out and have the mother of all asthma attacks and . . . Okay, I can’t be a crack cooker.
4. Shirt presser—I could work at that little dry-cleaning place next to the Acme.
Gak. Gak. Gak. I think I have a hairball stuck in my throat. Much as it kills me, I’m going to have to talk to my guidance counselor. I stretch once, then stand.
Mr. Freeman chuckles as he works on the sculpture’s head, a hornet with monstrous eyes. (Merryweather High is the home of the Fight’n Hornets. It’s a long story.) As I leave, the art kids are gluing on hundreds of cutout eyes from the yearbook. All of our eyes together make a kaleidoscope that follows you down the hall. They should call that thing Frankenstudent.
3.3 Dissociation
The guidance office is jammed. Picture a mosh pit of enraged parents ready to body-slam the nearest administrator because their Precious Babies did not get into The Right School. These folks have been robbed. Do you know how much they pay in taxes?
I wait in line, wait, wait, wait, ignore the choked, snuffling sounds from the Precious Babies curled in the fetal position on plastic orange chairs, ignore the clenched fists, ignore the jiggling knees, the tapping pens. My mind is on pause, my body pulled along by the momentum of the factory line.
When I finally get my turn in front of the secretary, she’s on the phone and has ten people on hold. She covers the mouthpiece. “If you’re here about a college, Kate, you’ll have to take a number.” She hands me a pink index card. I am number twenty-seven.
Mr. Kennedy, my guidance counselor, opens his door. “Number four?”
“Come back later, Kate,” the secretary suggests. “Or Monday morning, first thing. Do you need a pass?” She scribbles one for me with her left hand. “Go out the back door, hon. It’ll be easier.”
I shuffle down the hall to the exit, past the sounds of weeping and outrage. The last office is quieter. On one side of the desk sits a guidance counselor. On the other, Teri Litch and her mom, a police officer, and my father. Teri’s little brother, Mikey, sits on the floor ripping out pages from a college catalog.
3.4 Calculation
I fumble my way to the math wing. Calculus will save me. Give me integrals, give me functions, derivatives, domains, and ranges. I am a differentially abled student, broken by the text-based world. I stumble into class and open the holy book.
Consider the problem of finding the limit for the following function when the value of x is greater than 1: lim 100n n → ∞.
Aaaahhh. I ponder a table of neatly organized values, values of x, values of n, and values of xn.
As n approaches ∞, xn approaches ∞.
Math reminds me of pebbles, a whole beach of smooth, wet pebbles that you can pick up, turn over, taste, set down. They can be stacked, subtracted, divided, they can be arranged into patterns, into forms, into meaning. As I do the math, my blood pressure returns to normal. My stomach stops pumping sulfuric acid. My neck unspazzes.
I finish the problem set before anyone else. Our Math God, Mr. Dodgson, is in the back helping someone who is struggling with the theory of limits. Duh. Next set: lim/x → ∞ x2 + x–3. And so on, and so on, into infinity. Pondering infinity for me might be what prayer is for other people.
Prayer . . . church . . . Dad . . . letter (thin) . . . rejection + destruction of life dream = utter misery.
Oh, crap.
Time for a clean page. I need to break down my real-life limit problem into its component parts; anal
yze it, turn it over, taste it; look for the pattern, the form, the meaning. Dissolve the granules of a problem in imagination and come up with a solution.
Goal—get into MIT.
Obstacle—they don’t want me.
Solution—x . . .
Maybe I could leak this news to the newspaper and shame MIT into letting me in. Maybe I could write to all their famous chemistry grads and get them to force the university to let me in. Maybe I could send them pictures of my father and then they would feel so sorry for me they would let me in. I could offer to work in food service. I could be a probationary student. I could pledge them my first million dollars in wages, and patents to any world-changing discoveries I make. I could name a new element massachusettsinstitutumtechnologium.
Good Kate whispers that maybe, perhaps, there could be a small chance that I need to suck it up and accept the situation.
I would rather fall down a bottomless hole.
Mitch is lurking in the hall when I leave calc. He follows me. His mouth is moving. Again.
“Look, Kate. It’s not like the world has ended. They can’t take all the geniuses that apply. But it’s going to be okay. I just think you should . . . will you at least look at me? Kate? You have to talk about it. This is stupid. Come back. Come on, Malone . . . Kate!”
The guidance secretary tells me that my counselor had to drive a girl to the hospital. She fainted and cracked her forehead on the edge of his desk. Georgetown rejected her. Stitches, for sure.
The adults in this place need better math skills. Merryweather High has more than one thousand seniors. Eighty percent applied to college. College rejections arrive the same week that fall schedules have to be filled out. We have a total of four guidance counselors.
That is what we call an imbalanced equation, class.