Catalyst (2 page)

I quickly iron my brother’s pants and shirts, keeping half an eye on the movie. They’d be treating that alien nicer if they knew about the mothership idling over Idaho. Just once I’d like to see the aliens win.

Toby’s goalie shirt is at the bottom of the pile. You should never iron goalie shirts because they melt. I turn off the iron, unplug it, and move the plug three feet away from the wall. I know it is completely illogical to think that electricity could arc from the socket to the plug and heat the iron and burn the house down, but it’s almost two in the morning and I’m feeling a little lightheaded, so better safe than sorry.

The movie breaks for commercials that try to sell me beer, leg hair remover, and steak knives. Oh, wait, one more—the psychic hotline. Gak. Gak. Gak.

Last scene. They have the alien in a hospital hooked up to tubes and monitors. They are transforming her. Human flesh grows and covers her sapphire scales. The tentacles recede, and blonde hair sprouts from her scalp. Eyeballs grow into their sockets. White-coated scientists nod and approve. It’s a conspiracy. She’s perfect.

Toby coughs again. The cat wakes up and scowls.

I pick up the basket. “I know, I know. I’m going.”

1.1.1 Relative Density

My brother’s room stinks of male adolescent: used socks, dirty hair, cologne, and rotting fruit. It’s too warm in here and wicked humid, ideal breeding conditions for germs. You can practically see bacteria swarming in the air. I turn on the light, perch next to the patient, and poke his shoulder.

“Wake up, Tobe. You need more medicine.”

He groans once and flails an arm. Toby looks a little like Dad, I guess. He’s got the brown hair, the eyes close together. His face is long and peppered with zits. His ears are finally the right size for his head, but he needs to give up on the mustache-in-training. It looks like a fungal growth.

I shove his shoulder harder and pull back the quilt. He fumbles for it and croaks, “Go away.”

I pull the quilt out of reach. “You are coughing up pieces of lung and it’s grossing me out. Sit up.”

He starts to say something, but a cough strangles him. He clutches the pillow and hacks. When the spasm is over, his fingers relax. I put my hand on his forehead. It’s not a precise way to measure a fever, but people are always doing it in commercials. Toby’s forehead is oily. I don’t think that’s related to the cough.

He blinks and sits up, leaning against the headboard. I hand him the plastic cup of green cough medicine. “Drink it.”

He gulps it down. “Blech. That’s disgusting.”

“It’s good for you.” I pick up a half-finished bottle of Gatorade from the floor, unscrew the top, and hand it to him. “You need to go back to the doctor.”

He polishes off the bottle in three gulps and drops it in an ocean of used Kleenex. “No, I don’t. It’s just allergies. What time is it?”

“Almost two.”

“Dang. It’s late.”

“Duh. Go back to sleep. Your clean clothes are on the dresser. Put them away in the morning.”

He nods and pulls the quilt back up to his chin. I toss the empty bottle in the trash and start picking up the tissues that litter the bed and floor. Hiding under the tissues is this month’s
Playboy
folded open to a revealing interview with Miss April. Toby, suddenly awake, sits up again and snatches it away from me.

“Don’t say anything,” he says.

“Why bother? I don’t care. You’re programmed to like that crap. You can’t help it.”

“Shut up.”

“Whatever.” I carry the trash can to the door. “It’s all silicone, you know.”

“What is?”

“The breasts, moron. In the pictures. They aren’t real. They’re pumped with silicone, the same stuff they use to make space suits. Think about that the next time you’re, ah, taking care of business.”

“Thanks, Kate. I feel much better now.”

“Just don’t leave it where Dad can find it, okay? We don’t need any more fireworks around here.”

A car rolls up the driveway and Mr. Spock barks.

“Speak of the devil,” Toby says with a yawn.

1.2 Atomic Family

I jog to my room and dive into bed just as the back door opens. Keys clang on the kitchen table, then slide off and drop to the floor. I can hear Dad chuckle. Whatever tragic emergency yanked him out of here at dinnertime must have turned out all right. Maybe he talked a jumper off the ledge, or rescued a small child, or negotiated peace in a faraway country. Maybe he won a poker game.

He turns off the lights in the family room, then climbs the stairs. He passes my room, opens Toby’s door . . . quiet pause

. . . he closes it. He walks down the hall to his own room, whistling Bach. Another pause.
Click-click
. His door shuts.

Toby and I are the proton and neutron of our atomic family unit. Dad is the loosely bonded electron, negatively charged, zooming around us in his own little shell. From the outside, we seem to fit together perfectly. From the inside, things are different.

Enough. I am going to sleep right now. This minute.

Any second now.

Watch me sleep....

Shoot.

I turn over and punch the pillow. My friends all have tricks for falling asleep. Sara meditates. Mitch recites the presidents, in order. Travis reviews all of his relatives: the stepsiblings, half-sibs, ex-in-law great-aunts, and third cousins twice removed by divorce, then added back by remarriage. (His parents change spouses the way some people change clothes.) Travis rarely has insomnia.

My dad was married only once, to my mom. The marriage broke up when she died nine years ago. I have one brother, some cousins in Australia, and two living grandparents: one in a nursing home and one in a commune. Half a dozen relatives, tops.

Still awake. Stone-cold awake. In a few hours, I will be mixing unstable chemicals near a Bunsen burner. That is not a pretty picture. I’m freezing. I get out of bed, open the closet door, and pull down my old comforter from the top shelf. I spread it over the top of my blankets, then snuggle in. The extra weight feels safe, the satin edge smooth like candy against my cheek.

Still awake. Sigh. Let’s try the mantra.
MIT, MIT, let me in, let me in.

Bad mantra. It makes my heart beat faster and my stomach churn.

Sara doesn’t understand why I’m so stressed. I should have told her. I should have told Mitch, too. Maybe even Dad. You know how you’re supposed to apply to five or ten or twenty of your top schools and then a couple of safeties Just in Case? Well, I sort of didn’t follow the rules. And I sort of neglected to tell anyone. I only filled out one application, to MIT, and I don’t sleep anymore.

Sara sleeps fine because she’s Bryn Mawr early decision and has a hefty financial aid package. She thinks I should be positive, not fractured crazy, that I should breathe and visualize happy thoughts. Happy thoughts, happy thoughts. Massachusetts Institute of Technology. My home planet. My people. Visualize opening the envelope: “We are pleased to inform you . . .” Visualize jogging on the Cambridge campus, visualize the chem lab, my goggles, my perfectly starched, size four lab coat.

They will let me in. They have to let me in. There is no option.

An owl hoots and I peek out the window beside my bed. The moon is up, but it’s not throwing much light. The cemetery behind our house is dark. Beyond the last row of graves, down the hill, down to the stone fence, the air is black. At the bottom of the hill there is a farmhouse, the Litch house, with one light turned on in a second-story window. Teri Litch is either up very late or obscenely early. I doubt she’s angsting about college acceptance letters. She’s probably planning a bank robbery.

I lie back down and put my arm above my head so I can hear my watch tick. When does night end and morning begin, anyway? Officially, I mean.

Zen questions like that work better than warm milk. I submit and submerge.

2.0

Delayed Reaction

SAFETY TIP: Store flammable substances appropriately.

Bump. Bump. Bump.

The wall behind my head is being bumped.

Bumpbumpbumpbump.

Oh, God. Toby. Are all fourteen-year-old boys like this? If he doesn’t give it a rest, his equipment is going to fall off, I swear. I’ll never be an aunt.

Bumpbumpbumpbumpbumpbumpbump.

At least he’s not coughing. And he has enough oxygen for aerobic exercise.

Bumpbumpbumpbumpbumpbumpbumpbumpbump.

But there is a time and place for everything. Preferably where I can’t hear it. I sit up and pound the wall with my fist. “Knock it off, perv!”

Something crashes.

I smile and pull up the covers. If he’s going to whack off before school, he should do it in the shower and clean up afterward.

School.

My eyelids snap open, roller blinds tugged hard and released. What day is it? What time is it? I pull my watch close to my nose. Quarter to seven. Today: chem lab, history quiz, track practice. Crapcrapcrap. I’m late. I’m way late. Sixty minutes late. I’ve lost an hour. Oh, crap. I hate being late.

I put on my glasses, get out of bed, turn on my computer, and open my closet in one movement. Clothes: black sweater, jeans. Clean underwear, clean, unnecessary bra. (God forgot to give me breasts. Is it any wonder I’m an atheist?) Socks—two pairs. My toes still think it’s February.

Sophia noses open my door and slinks in, Mr. Spock close on her heels. My audience. I strip and log on to the Net. My skin is so pale it looks blue, like skim milk. That can’t be healthy. I get dressed and toss my dirty stuff in the hamper. My e-mail is mostly stupid jokes forwarded by people who think they know me.
Delete all.
Ms. Cummings sent me a chemistry geek article. Her note says, “It’s coming soon—chin up!” And a smiley face.

Good Kate smiles back. Bad Kate taps her watch. We’re late, we’re late.

I turn to the computer, then spin around to my dresser.
Whoa, dizzy
. Moving too fast. I grip the chair until the room comes back into focus. I swear I am going to drink chamomile tea tonight and try for a normal bedtime.

I pull my hair back in a ponytail, bolt for the door, trip over the dog, and almost smash my face into the wall. Stupid dog.

2.1 Acid

It takes an average of twelve minutes to get out of this house in the morning. Today I’ll do it in five. I dump two cups of cat food in Mr. Spock’s bowl—they can share. I fill the water bowl from the tap—no, Sophia, I’m not washing it out for you—and put it on the floor.

I lay out Toby’s meds on the counter: a daytime cough suppressant, two asthma inhalers, multivitamin, extra vitamin C. I used to put out his cereal bowl, but he hates that. I wish I had time to make him oatmeal. Pop-Tarts, he’ll snarf those in a heartbeat. I pop a couple of vitamin C myself and drink a glass of orange juice. Once upon a time, when I was truly the perfect daughter, I used to make breakfast for Dad. He never ate it.

Enough. Check the calendar.... Church dinner tonight, won’t have to cook . . . did I pack my racing shoes? . . . my contacts come in on Saturday . . . call work, make sure they’re letting out me early . . . allergy doc has to postpone Toby’s shots. Wait—did Mr. Spock get a rabies shot this year? Why did I think of that, and where did I put my keys?

“Running late?”

The voice startles me. I didn’t notice Dad sitting in the corner, watching me over the top of
The Post-Standard
. The light above the kitchen table makes the shadows under his eyes darker than usual. He’s wearing an ancient sweater with a frayed collar over a black turtleneck, and the jeans that I ironed last night. Meet my father, Rev. Jack Malone, God’s public relations guy. The preacher.

“I overslept,” I explain.

He turns the page, lays the paper on the table, and smooths it flat. Dissecting the news gives him sermon ideas. His tools are positioned next to his tea mug: scissors, yellow legal pad, black felt-tip pen, and file folders. Oh, and the industrial-size bottle of Tylenol. Dad gets wicked bad headaches, migraines sometimes.

“You’ve been oversleeping a lot,” he says.

“I’ve had a ton of homework.” I peek under the pile of newspapers by his left elbow. Nothing. “Have you seen my keys?”

He straightens the pile. “You’re graduating in two months. Why do you have so much homework?”

“Most of my teachers are insane, that’s why.” Keys . . . I shake the old photo bag I use for a purse. No jingling. Darn. Did I leave them in the car? I never do that.

“Kate.”

Uh-oh. He’s using the God Voice.

“Sit down. We need to talk.”

Arguing would be a waste of time. I sigh and take my seat, keeping the table between us. “What are we talking about?”

He lines up the scissors and pens parallel to the edge of the newspaper. “College. We need to talk about college. Every time I bring it up, you change the subject.”

“No, I don’t. Can you write me an excuse? Homeroom is about to start.”

“See? You did it again. I’m still your father, you know. Now tell me what is going on.”

When Dad gets like this, all
I’m-the-father-and-I-know-best
, our tiny kitchen expands into the arctic tundra with a sink at one end, and a refrigerator and stove at the other. Wind howls across the frozen wasteland, mercury freezes.

I cross my arms over my chest. “All right, here’s the deal. I’m still waiting to hear from MIT. I’m not making any decisions until I get their letter. It’ll be here any day.” (Totally true, every word.) “I really need that note.”

He taps his lips with the end of his pen, then scribbles me an excuse. “And once you hear from MIT, we’ll sit down and go over everything, all your options.”

“MIT is the only option I care about.” (More truth.)

“You’re getting obsessed.”

“A well-managed obsession can be very productive. How come you got in so late last night?”

“I got a call from a panicked mother. Her little boy was running a high fever. We took him to the ER—turned out to be an ear infection. Remember how Toby used to get those?”