Catalyst (18 page)

“He told you what?”

“He’s finally going to be practical about college. He wants to study international economics, then go to business school. Thank God!”

The red light by her hold button blinks.

“I’ve got to finish this call, honey. Go on upstairs. You’re welcome to stay if you change your mind. We’re eating in half an hour.” She clicks the hold button again. “Anne? I’m back. Yeah, another settlement nightmare. Do they ever end?”

The Pangborns have always assumed that because Mitchell is a straight-A student and major Eagle Scout, he doesn’t have hormones. They just can’t imagine their Precious Baby having a lustful moment. Or fast hands. Or a wet tongue.

I walk up the stairs, head down the hall, and knock on the door with the Harvard banner. He grunts. I enter.

Mitchell’s room is usually like Toby’s, a breeding ground for bacteria and nasty ideas. Hence my shock. The curtains are tied back, and the windows are shiny clean. I can see his floor. (It’s covered in dark blue carpet—who knew?) His bed is made up with a quilt and pillows on it. The only things on his desk, his
dusted
desk, are his computer monitor and keyboard. The bookcase is actually filled with books, upright and spines out. Soccer trophies shine in parade formation on the top of the bookcase.

Mitch is wearing a T-shirt and sweats, sitting in the middle of his floor sorting through a mountain of papers. Some are placed in file folders, but it looks like most have been chucked in the black garbage bag next to him. He’s got his earphones on and is bobbing back and forth, humming off-key. I have to move into his line of sight to get his attention.

He takes off the earphones and stands up. “What’s wrong? You look terrible.”

I kick off my sneakers, pull back the covers, and get into his bed.

“Kate? Are you okay?”

I close my eyes and shake my head. “I’m losing it, Pangborn.”

“Define ‘losing it.’”

I pull the sheet up around my neck. “I called MIT and pretended to be my mom.”

He turns off the CD player. “Why?”

“I thought they made a mistake, let in the wrong Kate Malone.”

“And?”

I look up at him, shielding my eyes with my hand. Black spots dance in the air. He is standing with his back to the windows. The sunlight flares around his edges like a corona. It puts his face in shadow. “I can’t see you.”

He locks the door and crawls under the covers with me. I lift my head so he can lay one arm under it, and he pulls me close. He smells like boy. I close my eyes again. The spots are still there, red now instead of black.

“Do you think I’m freaking out?” I whisper. “I think I’m lost. Somebody switched the road signs and I’m stuck with an old map.”

Mitch places his finger on my lips. “Shh . . . Be quiet.”

I can feel his pulse under the skin of his neck. Slower, Malone. Stop running. My heart trips over itself again, then settles into a soft, steady rhythm. I could fall asleep here, melt into his chest. He’d keep the world on the other side of that door if I asked him, he’d cradle my head and keep me warm.

He kisses my forehead. I tilt my face and pull him close for a gentle kiss. His arms tighten, he presses against me, and the kiss gets hard and deep. He tastes like he’s been eating rodents.

I pull back and make a face. “Yuck! What’s that?”

His chuckle shakes the headboard. “Beef jerky. Sorry. I didn’t think you’d be crawling in my bed today.”

I wave the air between us. “It’s fetid.”

“All right, I won’t breathe on you.” He rolls on his back. “Come here.”

I lay my head on his chest and he strokes my hair. I press my ear against his shirt. His heart beats lazy like a rocking chair. This is a good place to freeze time, right here, this very second.

“So, what did MIT say to your pretend mom?”

A telephone rings. Mrs. Pangborn’s heels clatter across the tile floor in the foyer. Her voice echoes up the stairwell, chattering about nothing and nothing and nothing. She is a fab saleswoman.

“Kate?” he asks softly.

I smooth his shirt over his chest. It’s a new shirt, I haven’t seen it before.

“I, um, I lack ‘oomph,’ that’s what the MIT god told my mom.” Spots dance in front of my eyes again. “I am one of a million wannabe geeks—great, just not great enough. And my essays sucked.”

“Shit.”

“Yeah.”

“So . . . you’re not going.”

“I’m not going. And look, I know things are a little weird between us right now, but please don’t make me talk. I just need you to hold me because it sort of feels like gravity doesn’t work anymore.”

He pulls me close.

“Not that tight,” I say. “I still need to breathe.”

“Sorry. Is that better?”

“Great, thanks.”

Mrs. Pangborn’s voice moves from the foyer to the kitchen. I can picture her taking the salmon out of the refrigerator. She’ll smell it to make sure it’s fresh. She’ll turn on the oven, spray a pan with no-fat, butter-tasting chemicals, and wash the vegetables.

Mitch’s voice rumbles deep in his chest. “Which safety are you going to take?”

I have not been nice enough to Mrs. Pangborn. She offered to go shopping for a prom dress with me a few weeks ago, and I blew her off. That was bitchy of me.

“Kate?”

“I said I didn’t want to talk.”

“You don’t have a choice. This is your life. Which safety?”

I curl into a ball and pull the sheet up over my head. “I don’t have a safety.”

“What did you say? Speak up.”

“I only applied to one school. MIT. I thought I was a sure thing.”

“So I was right? You never wrote those essays, that’s why you wouldn’t show them to me?”

I pause to swallow the jerky taste. “Much as it kills me to admit it, yes, you were right.”

My boyfriend, my enemy, my lust lies still for a moment. “What does your dad say?”

“He doesn’t know. You’re the only person who does.”

His heart is beating faster. Mine is about to propel me out of the bed. “If you call me stupid or laugh—”

He takes a deep breath. “Man, it’s hot in here.” He stands up, crosses the room, and opens the windows over his desk. Seen through the cotton weave of the sheet, his edges are blurry. He leans forward to look outside. “So . . . no college in September. That sucks. Really. I’m sorry.”

The oven door bangs in the kitchen. I bet we’re having spaghetti at my house. Spaghetti and bread. I bet Teri isn’t hungry, not after choosing a casket. It’s funny, the funeral director had his casket pictures in a heavy-duty, three-ring binder, the kind you use at school that would last all the way to June if you’re lucky, the kind you fill with handouts that have carefully punched holes in the left margin, holes that you reinforce with sticky white circles because you don’t want to lose any handouts because you never know what you are going to be tested on.

“What are you going to do?” he asks.

I shrug, but he can’t see it. “I’ll come up with something. I guess I have to, don’t I?”

“Yep.”

Whatever is out that window sure must be fascinating.

“What’s up with you changing your major?” I ask.

“Mom told you, huh?” He turns around. “They’re thrilled.”

I take the sheet off my head. My hair crackles with static electricity. “Yeah, but economics?”

“Yep.”

I sit up and cross my legs. “What happened to history? You love history.”

“Waste of time.”

“I’m calling the tabloids. You’re a clone. The real Mitchell Pangborn has been abducted by aliens.”

“Nope. This is me. I’m finally growing up, I guess. Time to deal with real life.”

“But Mitch, you’re going be a college professor. You don’t like dealing with real life.”

“I changed my mind.”

I wave my hand in the air. “Hello? When did this happen?”

“When they put Mikey’s body in the ambulance.” He looks out the window again. “I’ve never seen a dead person before. Well, I did on TV, but that doesn’t count. One minute he was there, he was running around, his nose was snotty, and then . . . then I heard Teri scream and you scream. Everything got crazy. They put him in the ambulance. Farting around with ancient history is a waste of time. I want to do something useful, something that counts.”

I pull a pillow into my lap. “International economics wouldn’t have saved Mikey.”

He picks up a pile of papers from the carpet and shoves them in the trash bag. “No, but it’s practical. Why are you arguing with me? You’ve been telling me history is a waste of time for years.”

“I think I was wrong. I think you should study something that you love.”

Mrs. Pangborn calls up the stairs. “Dinner in ten minutes!”

“I’ll learn to love it. Are you staying for dinner? Mom’s been asking where you’ve been.”

“I can’t. I already told her. I want to see how Teri is doing.” I take my keys and a pack of gum out of my purse. I unwrap two sticks of wintergreen and put both of them in my mouth.

Mitch shivers once. “It got cold again. God, I hate spring. Blizzard, heat wave, blizzard, heat wave.” He shuts the window and pulls the curtains together. His edges blur again.

I sling my purse over my shoulder. “Teri and I slept at her house last night. In Mikey’s room.”

“Why?”

“She wanted to.”

“You can’t let her boss you around like that, Kate. You have to take control.”

He gives me another beef jerky kiss before opening the door. “Thanks for coming over. It’s kind of cool that you were worried about me.”

My mask slips back into place. I can hear the elastic band twang, vibrate, then go still. I smile. “Thanks for listening about the college thing. You really helped a lot.”

When I return home, Dad is sitting on the front porch with Ms. Cummings. The two empty teacups and a plate with cookie crumbs on the table are her touch. If he were alone, it’d be a beer bottle and an empty potato chip bag.

“There’s pizza inside,” Dad says.

“Did Toby eat?”

“He’s over at a friend’s house. I thought it would do him good to get away for a little bit.”

“What about Teri?” I ask.

“Watching television,” Ms. Cummings says. “She said the two of you were going to sleep at her house again.”

Well, no, actually I want my own bed, all to myself with clean sheets and no Litch odors or ghosts.

“Yeah,” I say. “Whatever. How is she?”

“Quiet. The funeral is all planned. Everything is ready. ” A rusty pickup truck barreling down the road backfires loudly. The sound makes Dad wince.

“Did you take your migraine medicine at dinner?” I ask.

“I forgot.”

“I’ll get it for you.” I pick up the cookie plate and teacups. Dad stands up to get the door for me.

“Is Mitchell Pangborn all right?” Ms. Cummings asks. “I heard he missed school today. He almost had the record.”

“Yeah, it’s a shame.” I pause on the threshold. “He lost it.”

11.0

Alpha Decay

SAFETY TIP: Fire-polish all rough glass edges.

It is Tuesday. The sun is supposed to shine. There is something obscene about burying a tiny body on a spring day that smells like lilacs.

I’m fighting something viral. It’s winning. I’ve got chills, my head hurts, and I want to heave. My eyes are so irritated and dry that I can’t get my contacts in. I shouldn’t have gone running last night.

I slip the black dress over my head, reach around, and pull up the zipper. A black velvet headband keeps my hair out of my face. I put on my glasses. A perfect little mourner stares back from the mirror, with clean hair, depressing clothes, and low-heeled shoes. Got to do something about the bags under my eyes.

Teri changed hours ago. According to Toby, she climbed up to the bell tower of the church and has been working her way through a pack of cigarettes. Shock is hardening her into something metallic and permanent.

Over in the church, Betty starts playing the organ. Funerals are an occupational hazard in a minister’s house. I grab a thick black sweater and button it up.

Mikey’s casket is the size of a small toy chest. It’s closed, thank God. Teri folded his favorite blanket and set it on the foot end. She taped some of his drawings to the sides. The casket rests in front of the altar, a wooden island in a sea of outrageous flowers: roses, hyacinths, tulips, carnations, daffodils, lilies, mums. There has never been so much color in this church before. It makes my nose think of jazz in Central Park.

As people walk in and take their seats, Betty plays
Sesame Street
tunes on the organ, which is a first for this church. Teri insisted. Betty was worried that it wasn’t quite holy enough or something. But this morning she said Jesus came to her when she was watching a quilting show on channel 17 and said He’s a big
Sesame Street
fan, and that she should play with joy.

Toby and I sit near the front. Mitchell, Sara, and Travis join us. Mitch is decked out in a suit and tie, his shoes shined. Travis put on corduroys and a button-down shirt with a tie. I had no idea that he owned a tie. Sarah is wearing a red top and a long, twirly skirt that has little mirrors sewn into it. She doesn’t believe in wearing black to funerals. She gives me a hug before she sits down. People keep coming, more people than I would have thought. The entire hardhat crew is here, all the kitchen ladies, the ambulance drivers, our principal, and a couple of teachers from the vo-tech and preschool, and the librarian.

Teri walks her mother down the center aisle with some help from Ms. Cummings. They sit in the pew in front of us. All of us—Toby, me, Mitch, Sara, and Travis—reach forward one by one and pat Teri’s shoulder. She doesn’t move.

Betty changes to a dirge. No more
Sesame Street
. We stand and try to sing. Dad isn’t even mouthing the words. When the last minor chord warbles away, we sit. Dad takes his place in the pulpit and bows his head. In this light, there is more white in his hair than brown.

One minute ticks by.

He’s staring straight down at the closed Bible in front of him. Two minutes. My hands curl into fists, the nails biting the palms. People shift in their seats, bulletins flutter, throats clear. Dad doesn’t move. Three minutes pass. Quiet muttering starts in the back of the church. Choir members nudge one another through their gowns. Their pointy elbows look like baby wings.