“Let’s try this one more time,” the trainer says.
Teri sits in a waiting room chair and Mikey jumps into her lap. She reads him a copy of This Old House magazine. The little guy settles in and listens to the benefits of proper insulation. He is clutching a pair of demo frames in his fist.
Pop! The contact snuggles up against my eyeball.
“It’s in! It’s in!”
“Congratulations,” drones the trainer. “Follow me.”
At the counter, she rattles off a list of instructions and stuffs a paper bag with freebie contact junk. Then she hands me the bill. I take out my wallet and remove the faded twenties. She takes my money. It’s that simple. I pay, I can see. Next customer.
I walk out of the store and clutch a concrete post. The light is blinding, screaming off the windshields and the metal cars, amplified by the white stucco walls of the shopping center. Water gushes from my eyes. Not tears, just water, eye water.
After a couple of minutes the water level goes down, and I can open my eyes, a little. If I block out the sun with my hand it’s not so bad. Holy crap, I can see everything: the numbers on the license plates, the small print on the signs in the music store window, the price of gas at the Sunoco. (Yikes, when did that go up?) I can see the street signs. I can see cardinals flying. I can see the cardinal’s beak, the twig in the cardinal’s beak, the flash in the cardinal’s eye.
I have magic eyes.
The bell jingles again and Teri and Mikey strut out of Ocu-Brite. Mikey is wearing the stolen frames and Teri is carrying the issue of This Old House. I can see the ice cream stain on his shirt and the scar under her chin. I follow them to the car, squinting from the intense light, captivated by the exquisite details of our little strip mall. The dust caught in the petal of a buttercup growing in a crack in the sidewalk. The weary faces of the teenagers working at the video store. A woman walks by carrying a briefcase. Her nails are bitten and torn. I can see them. A family bounces out of the sports equipment store carrying a huge rubber raft. I can see the price tag. They paid too much.
4.3 Free Radicals
Just a few normal hours, that’s all I wanted. I drove Teri and Mikey back to our house. I made hamburgers and mashed potatoes, and Toby made salad. At that point, I figured I was off the hook. Since I was avoiding my friends, I figured I could hide in a movie theater for a few hours. At the very least, I figured Teri was going to put Mikey to bed and watch television. And leave me alone.
That, my friends, is what they call hubris. Dad asked me to get out my acceptance letters and course catalogs. Teri bitched about the lack of grape juice and oatmeal. It was a no-brainer. Off to the grocery store we go.
As the Superfresh doors glide open, I rip the shopping list in two and hand half of it to Teri. “I’ll meet you at the checkout counter,” I say. “And don’t get any junk, okay? I don’t have much cash.”
Teri shoves the list in her back pocket without looking at it, takes a shopping cart, and wheels away without a word. I head for the produce aisle, where my best friend in the universe (whom I am avoiding like the plague) is squeezing pomegrantes. Shoot. She spots me before I can duck behind the display of grapes.
“Oh ma gah, Kate!” Sara drops the fruit and runs over to hug me. “I’ve called you like ten million times. Your dad said you hadn’t started any more fires or anything, but Kate, damn, how are you?” She squeezes me again and pats me on the back. “I am soooo sorry. They should have let you in. They are morons. We should organize a boycott.”
“MIT is already boycotting me, Sara.”
“Whatever. They suck.” She steps back, her hands on my arms. “Let me look at you. Oh ma gah! You got your contacts!”
“Keep it down. People are staring.”
She covers her mouth briefly. “You look amazing! How are they?”
“Except for the pain, I love them.” I pull the bottle of eye-lube out of my purse, tilt my head back, and squeeze a few drops into each eye. “My eyes are a little dry.” When I blink, the fake tears run down my cheek, making a mess.
Sara digs out a tissue and hands it to me. “Have you figured out which safety you’re going to accept?”
“Um, I actually have a Plan B.” I wipe my face clean. “I’m going to appeal. I think maybe . . . maybe they made a mistake.”
While I explain my plan to ambush MIT, Teri Litch wanders briefly into sight. Her cart contains three economy-sized jugs of grape juice, a huge box of oatmeal, two cases of soda, and countless bags of potato chips and pretzels. She carefully looks over the raspberries and boysenberries, the most expensive fruit in the store, and picks out two boxes of each.
Sara frowns. “This might work. You’ll need a different car, though. And you have to weasel your way into the admissions office.”
“Yeah, I know.”
“What does your dad think?”
“He’s been too busy to talk about it.”
“I guess that’s typical, huh? Tell you what, we can work on your plan instead of going to the movies.”
“Since when are we going to the movies?”
“I forgot to tell you.” She grins and waggles her eyebrows. “We were going to kidnap you: me, Travis, and Mitch. That’s why I’m here.”
“Isn’t kidnapping illegal?”
“Not when you do it to save your best friend from certain despair. You wouldn’t answer any of our calls or e-mail. We were afraid you were freaking out, like go-on-medication, get-a-shrink, seriously freaking out. We were going to force you to sit through a vampire movie and eat cheese fries.”
“I hate cheese fries.”
“Cheese fries are good for the soul. But that’s beside the point. We don’t need the cheese fries therapy because you’re here, you’re talking to me, you’re okay.”
“Not so fast,” I say.
She zooms in close. “Now what?”
“Teri Litch is living in my bedroom.”
“No way.”
“Big way.” Teri passes by the end of the aisle again while I give Sara the gory details. Sara’s eyes are huge. “So she could be living with you until graduation?”
“She could be living with me all summer.”
“You seriously need cheese fries.”
“Thank you, I think. Look, there’s Travis.”
Travis bursts through the swinging doors carrying a box of apples. Only Travis Baird could make a Superfresh uniform look cool. The skull-and-crossbones sticker on his nametag is an elegant touch.
“Babe,” he says, setting the apples on the floor.
“Sweetie.” Sara glides toward him. They embrace and suck face in the French tradition. The ice under the pomegranates melts. I’m definitely buying them a carton of condoms for graduation.
The doors swing open again and out pops a short, middleaged guy in an uncool Superfresh uniform. He has gold stars on his nametag (Manager Ed) and is pushing a cart loaded with bleach. Travis peels himself off Sara and whispers something in her ear. She saunters back to me, hot-eyed and hungry.
“He’s going to meet me in the bakery,” she says.
“All that sugar,” I say.
“And frosting. He gets off in twenty minutes. We’ll go to the diner and plan your road trip to MIT.”
“I don’t know, Sar, I’ve got Teri with me and—”
“Twenty minutes. And keep your eyes open for Mitch. He should be here soon.”
After she leaves, I wander the aisles and pick up a bag of Chee•tos and some soap. I love Chee•tos. I love orange Chee•tos dust under my fingernails. Since I’m indulging myself, I decide to buy a box of ice cream sandwiches, too. I’ll wait until everybody goes to bed and eat them all by myself.
Mitchell Pangborn tracks me down in frozen foods.
“Hey,” he says. “I saw your car in the parking lot.”
“Hey.”
I look him over carefully, using my contact-enhanced laser vision. He’s wearing a sweat-soaked T-shirt from Pangborn Landscaping, filthy jeans,
and boots. His arms are scratched, his face a little sunburned. God, he’s hot.
“I thought Sara said we were going to take you to the movies.”
“I ruined the plans. Is this how you dress for a kidnapping?”
He looks down and brushes the mulch from the front of his shirt. “Dad made me work until it got dark, then I had to unload the trucks. I came straight here. I’ve been worried about you, Malone, really worried.”
An old man says, “Excuse me,” and reaches in front of Mitch to open a freezer door. We stand quietly as he stares at the selection of Hearty Man meals. He chooses Hearty Beef Stew, closes the door, and shuffles away. Ice crystals hang in the air.
Mitch steps closer and puts his hands on the end of my cart. The metal conducts an electric current from his body to mine. It makes my fingertips tingle.
“I was worried,” he says again.
“I didn’t want to talk to anyone.”
“Not even me?”
There are many fine things about Mitchell Pangborn’s body, but his hands are near the top of the list. My magic contacts let me examine every detail: the calluses, the mulch under his nails, the tendons and veins, the soft part at the base of his thumb. I want to touch them. I want them to touch me, to thaw me, bring me up to room temperature. Mitchell Pangborn’s thumbs running down the length of my spine. His hands on my—
“What are you going to do, Kate? I mean really, all bullshit aside, what are you going to do?”
The tone of his voice snaps me out of the fantasy. I blink. “Appeal. I think they made a mistake.”
“That’s crap.”
“No, it’s not. I think the computer screwed up.”
He makes a face. “It’s crap and you know it. You didn’t get in, babe. You have to deal with it.”
Red warning lights flash behind my contacts. “That’s a little harsh, don’t you think?”
“It’s not harsh, it’s real.” He takes his hands off the cart and lowers his voice. “Deluding yourself won’t help anything, Malone.”
“Excuse me? You’re in Harvard, you’ve known for months. You don’t know what this feels like.”
He puts his hands on his hips. More mulch flakes fall to the floor. “It’s not that difficult to figure out. Lots of people don’t get into their top school, and you know I’m sorry that you didn’t, but it’s not the end of the world. Choose one of your safeties and send in your deposit. End of story.”
This is why we need to do more kissing and less talking. I push the cart back and forth a few inches. I wonder if Mikey likes ice cream sandwiches. Maybe I should get Popsicles instead. Less mess.
“I’ll come over tomorrow after church,” he says. “I’ll help you choose.”
“No.”
“What?”
“I don’t need your help. Besides, I’ll be busy tomorrow. The Litches have moved in with us. Did you know that? Teri’s little brother is adorable. I have to get him some Popsicles. I’ll see you on Monday.”
As I swing the cart around him, he grabs it again.
“What the hell is going on? You aren’t you.”
I can’t move the cart.
“Are you high? Is it lack of sleep? You’re scaring me, Kate.”
I take a deep breath, fortify my shields, strengthen the force field. “I’m busy and I’m tired, and I want you to let go of my cart. I am going to talk to the admissions department at MIT. If for some ungodly reason they really don’t want me, then—and only then—will I look at other schools.”
“Look at other schools?”
“Pick one of the safeties.”
He won’t release the cart. “You did apply to other schools, right? You never got around to showing me those essays.”
“What do you think I am, nuts? Of course I did.” I yank the cart out of his hands and walk toward the front of the store. The wheels are out of alignment; the cart wants to veer right and crash into the shelves.
“Come back, Kate.”
“I’ll see you Monday,” I say over my shoulder.
Teri is nowhere to be seen. Neither is Sara, or Travis. I wrestle the cart into the express aisle and pay for my Chee•tos and soap. I’ll buy Popsicles at 7-Eleven. I want out of here, now.
Somebody in the parking lot leans on a horn. It doesn’t blare, it bleats like a sick goat. That’s Bert’s horn.
I look through the plateglass window. Teri has Bert parked, engine idling, right in front of the window. She’s in the driver’s seat. She waves her hand, motioning for me to join her.
I run outside. “What the hell are you doing? How did you get this started?”
Teri leans over and opens the passenger door. “Get in,” she says. “I think they called the cops on me.”
4.4 Activation Energy
I jump in the car, slam the door, and grab the dashboard as Teri floors it. She squeals the tires as we leave the parking lot. The good news is that this car is barely capable of making the speed limit, much less breaking it, so we won’t be pulled over for going too fast. The bad news? Teri is driving.
We turn right, we turn left, we double back, we turn left, she pulls a U-turn and burns rubber again. My stomach flips and I have a nasty flashback to fifth grade when Dad took Toby and me on the Mad Hatter’s Teacups at Disney World and I upchucked cotton candy everywhere.
“You’d better slow down,” I say. “No, just stop. Stop. The engine is going to overheat and I can’t afford a new one.”
Teri pulls into the mall parking lot and cruises to a spot in the shadows behind Sears. I wipe my palms on my pants. She chuckles and pulls a pack of cigarettes and a lighter from her shirt pocket.
“You think this is funny?” I ask.
“Yep.” She shakes out a cigarette and lights it. “I thought you were going to shit your pants. Don’t worry. Nobody’s coming after us.”
I listen. No sirens. “What do you mean?”
She inhales, and the glowing end of the cigarette reflects off her glasses. She blows the smoke to my side of the car.
I wave the smoke away and roll down the window. “Did they call the police or not?”
She shrugs. “They might have.”
“Might have?”
She shrugs again.
I take off my seat belt and check the back. It’s empty. “What happened to the food in your cart?”
She slips the lighter into the cellophane sleeve of the cigarette pack and puts it back in her pocket. “I hid it in the bushes behind the loading dock. We can pick it up later.”
“No, we can’t.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t steal food. Or cars.”
“I didn’t steal your car. You’re sitting right here.”
“How did you get it started?”
“I hot-wired it. Piece of cake. Want me to teach you how?”
“No, thank you. I’ll use my keys.”
Teri takes another drag and sucks the smoke deep into her lungs. “Suit yourself.”
Bert’s engine ticks loudly as it cools. I stare through the windshield at the brick wall in front of us. “So you were stealing, but you didn’t get caught, but you pretended the cops were coming. Why?”
Teri blows a smoke ring that loops around the rearview mirror. “That geek. You’ve been ducking his phone calls, right? I thought maybe he was dogging you. I was trying to help. Don’t thank me or nothing.”
“Thank you? I should thank you?”
“Yeah, I think so.”
She pulls out the ashtray, but it’s full of lavender potpourri. She flicks the cigarette ash on her jeans and rubs in it with the palm of her hand. Smoke hangs around her head like a dirty veil. It is so quiet I can hear the water leaking from the radiator.
I clear my throat. “All right. You were trying to be nice. Thank you. But I don’t need help.”
“Suit yourself.” She rubs more ashes on her jeans.
“I’m just having a hard time right now,” I say.
“That’s right,
I forgot. No college for Katie. And I have no idea what it’s like, right?”
“That’s not what I mean.”
“Right.” She takes a drag and blows smoke at the ceiling.
“I need you to smoke outside. I can’t stand it.”
“It’s too cold. Don’t be such a bitch.”
“Me? A bitch?”
“Yeah, you’re a major bitch.”
“I’m letting you sleep in my room, live in my house.”
“Your dad is making you do that. If it was up to you, I’d be on the street.”
I stare at the wall again.
Teri rolls down her window and the trapped smoke escapes. Noise from the boulevard filters in with the cold air; cars shifting gears, accelerating, braking.
“Let me ask you a question,” she says.
I grit my teeth. “Go ahead.”
“Your dad. Is he for real, offering to help us out?”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m speaking English, right? He said the church will fix our house for free. What’s in it for him?”
“It makes him happy. It makes him look good.”
“He won’t go to court to get the house or nothing?”
I turn and look at her. “No. He would never try that. He just wants to do the right thing. It’s his job.”
“Hmm.”
Bert’s temperature gauge has inched out of the danger zone. I’ll give it another minute, just to be safe. I study the pattern of the bricks in front of us. Somewhere in the warped recesses of my brain, an idea ignites.
“How much do you know about building houses?” I ask.
“Lots. I took all the courses at the vo-tech, worked construction last summer.” Teri picks at the MIT sticker on the dash with her thumbnail. “Why?”
“I bet they’d listen to you, if you told them what you wanted done. You could be in control, or help at least. I bet it would get done faster, too, if you were supervising things.”
Her nail slides under a corner of the sticker. “Probably.”
“Let’s face it. Neither one of us is happy with the living arrangements right now.’
“Got that right. Your house is a damn psycho ward. And the phone never stops ringing.”