Catalyst

by Laurie Halse Anderson

  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?”

  I nod. “You should have heard him coughing last night. I think he should stay home from school.” I pick up the excuse, fold it, and put it in my bag. “I have practice after school, and you have that chicken dinner. Don’t forget. The congregation gets pissed when you don’t show up.”

  He picks up the scissors and slices through the paper. “Don’t say ‘pissed.’ It’s crude.”

  “The congregation gets perturbed when you forget to show up at these things. Oh, and don’t make any plans for me on Saturday. I’m working in the morning and getting my contacts—finally—in the afternoon.”

  He keeps cutting. “You’re changing the subject again. I don’t know why you keep avoiding this. It’s not like you.”

  La-la-la-la-la. I am not listening. Let him have the last word. I am the child, he is the father, and all is right with the universe. I grab my books and—ow—that twinge again in my chest. I think I strained a pectoral muscle lifting weights for track. The books slide awkwardly against one another. My keys were sandwiched between mythology and chemistry. I toss them in the air and catch them. “When the letter comes, bring it to school, okay?”

  He keeps cutting. “Have a good day. God bless, Kate.”

  2.2 Transition Element

  The church next door is dark and the stone walls give off a chill. Dad refuses to spend money on floodlights because he says churches don’t need security. I shiver and hustle to my sad excuse of a motor vehicle, a Yugo named Bert.

  I usually drive to school on autopilot. Not today—leaving late has landed me smack in the middl
e of rush-hour traffic. This is bad. Bert fears traffic. Bert is a wuss, a tissue box on tires with a bulimic hunger for motor oil. I pet the dashboard as I turn onto the main road, and promise him a filter change if he can get me to school without overheating.

  A minivan cuts in front of us and stops at the next yellow light. Come on, lady, get the lead out. The driver, a mom wearing big sunglasses, is either screaming or singing to the kids strapped into the back seat. Start, coast, stop. Another yellow, a long red. Shoot.

  I cover the temperature gauge and jiggle my left leg. If Dad hadn’t slowed me down, I’d be at school right now. God bless. Why does he insist on saying that? I don’t inflict scientific theories on him. I don’t make him contemplate the elegance of the periodic table or particle physics. He knows I’m allergic to the G-word. He does it just to annoy me.

  The light turns green, and the minivan heads for the elementary school. I steer Bert to the entrance ramp of the bypass. Once we merge, I put on the hazard flashers and settle into the slow lane. The sore muscle in my chest whimpers as I wrestle the gearshift into third.

  Don’t get me wrong, I’m not against religion. Religion is good, apparently. Millions of people seem to enjoy it. But I’m not buying it, especially the brand-name version my dad sells. I don’t see that his blessings have ever helped anything.

  A line of cars passes me, horns honking, middle fingers saluting. Sometimes I wish I did have faith. If I did, I’d pray for another thousand miles on this heap. And to be accepted by MIT, of course. A full scholarship would be nice. A microwave for my dorm room, a work-study job in a decent lab. God could pay for my contacts, cure Toby’s asthma, get Mitch’s parents off his back about his major, and develop a cure for AIDS. If I believed in God, I’d pray all the time. Dad would croak.

  We’re approaching the big hill, the one that makes Bert shudder. I floor it for a second to gain some momentum, then take my foot off the gas and coast to give the engine a second to cool down before the big push.

  I am not the daughter Rev. Jack Malone wants. He is not the father I need. It’s as simple as that. Rev. Dad (Version 4.7) is a faulty operating system, incompatible with my software.

  I downshift, accelerate, and cross my fingers. Halfway up the hill and Bert is panting, but it doesn’t smell like anything is on fire. Slow and steady, eyes up.

  Dad and I might be able to tolerate each other if he had a normal job. Everybody argues with their father. But nobody else has to listen to what Jesus would think about MTV, or what He would think about class rankings. Nobody else has to play the role of sweet little preacher’s girl in addition to getting into college and ironing clothes and feeding the pets and making sure my brother takes his medicine.

  Crap.

  I should have checked Toby’s peak flow reading before I left. Dad will forget. I fumble in my bag for something to write with and come up with one of Mitch’s Harvard pens. I scrawl “pk flw” on the back of my left hand. We crest the hill and I pat the dashboard again. A filter change and premium gas, I swear, buddy.

  2.2.1 Base

  You’re probably wondering what happened to my mom.

  It was pneumonia—resistant to drugs, resistant to oxygen, hungry, fast, and fatal.

  She got sick on a Thursday and died three days later. Her lungs filled up and she drowned. It took everybody by surprise. Especially the doctors.

  I was in fourth grade. I didn’t enter the science fair that year. Everything was blurry.

  I know I am supposed to be all tragic and freaked out because my mom is dead, but sorry, I’m not. Sometimes I miss her; it’s not like I’m heartless, but I’ve lived half of my life without her. She’s like a distant aunt, someone who was fun to play with, but forgets to send birthday cards. I dream about her sometimes. I think it’s about her, anyway.

  2.3 Caustic

  I park the car in the last row of the Merryweather High student lot and sprint to the door. I walk through the metal detector without setting off any alarms. I’ll have to get a late pass, but that shouldn’t be—

  “Hold it right there, honey.” The security guard stands up and walks over to me.

  The guard and the metal detectors are new this year. They allow our parents to think we are safe.

  The guard hitches up her pants and tries on a firm but friendly smile. “I need to see your student ID,” she says.

  Good God. I sigh and swing my photo bag around. The card fits in the plastic sleeve on the front flap.

  She clears her throat. “Like I said, I need to see your ID.”

  “What?” I look at the bag. The sleeve is empty, the card gone. Oh, crap. Oh, smelly crap. “It must have fallen out in the parking lot. I had to run. Or it’s in my car. I’ll get it for you second period. Excuse me, I have to go. I’m way late for chem.”

  She slides sideways and blocks my path. “I can’t let you enter the building without proper identification.”

  “Yes, you can. Mrs. Watson does it all the time.”

  “That’s why Mrs. Watson was fired. I’m in charge now. I follow orders.”

  Deep breath. Be nice. “I’m Kate Malone. I’m ranked third in the senior class. I’m National Honor Society, a peer counselor. Look.” I pull out my wallet and show her my license. “That’s me.”

  She studies it and crosses her arms over her bosom. “There is nothing on that license that says you are a student here. You could be disgruntled. You could be hostile.”

  “Do I look hostile?”

  “You are a teenager.”

  2.4 The Crucible

  It takes ten minutes to convince Cerberus to escort me to the office, where the principal vouches for me and commends the guard for her vigilance. Good dog. By the time I make it to the science wing, room 313, first period is nearly over.

  AP Chem is home: the orderly rows of lab tables, clinking glass beakers and test tubes, and the molecular models floating overhead like satellites, beaming data down to us. I’m in my element here. If I had my way, I’d study chemistry all day, with maybe a math class thrown in every once in a while for diversion.

  Ms. Cummings is writing a formula on the board. She looks over her shoulder. “I was wondering if we’d see you, Kate.”

  I set the late pass on her desk. “Car trouble.”

  “I was hoping it was something more significant.”

  “You and me both.”

  Ms. Cummings moved to our district my freshman year and set up a science geek club the day she arrived. She turned me on to nanotechnology, got me over my biochem prejudice, and supervised all my science fair entries, including the one that took the national award. She is my fairy godmother in a lab coat and goggles. I don’t even hold it against her that she goes to Dad’s church and sings in his choir.

  Twenty-six sets of eyes follow me to my table. Twenty-six pair of lips whisper the same question. “Are you in? Are you in? Are you in? Are you in, Kate?”

  I shrink smaller and smaller as I walk to the back of the room. By the time I get to my table, I have to pull myself up onto the stool looming ten feet overhead. Everybody is always into everybody else’s business around here. Pisses me off.

  “Well?” asks Diana Sung, my lab partner, 3.86 GPA, accepted by Rensselaer Polytechnic Institute.

  “I didn’t check the mail yesterday,” Bad Kate lies.

  “She hasn’t heard yet,” Diana reports to the rest of the class.

  Several dweeb-kings nod smugly: Ed Davis, 3.97, accepted by every college he applied to, all fifteen of them; Omar Hakeen, 4.12 (we get extra brownie points for super-advanced honors courses), full ride to Howard University; Eric Warren, 3.84, headed to Dartmouth to study pre-med and play hockey.

  I put on my safety goggles and study the boiling water bath on our hot plate. “What’s their problem?”

  “They have a pool going. The odds on you getting into MIT are four to one.”

  “For?”

  Diana fiddles with the graphing calculator. “Against.”

 
“It’s just a paperwork problem. Guidance said it’s happening more and more. Where’s Mariah?”

  “Sick. Allegedly.”

  Mariah Yates is waiting for her acceptance letter, too. She’s wound up tighter than a psychotic terrier on crack. If she doesn’t get into her top school, she’ll snap. Totally. Her parents will be paying room and board at a mental hospital.

  Diana uses a sharp pencil to copy the numbers from the calculator. “She’s been accepted at eight other schools. There is no reason for her to freak out.”

  I lean closer to the boiling water in the beaker. Angry bubbles race to the top of the water and explode. Applying to only one school seemed like such a good idea at the time.

  “Whatever,” I say. “Let’s finish this.”

  Our experiment is supposed to show the relationship between gas temperature and pressure. We have to stick some sealed tubes of air into beakers of cold water and hot water and figure out what the temperature does to the air pressure in the tubes. Not exactly rocket science, but fun enough. Diana has already taken the cold readings. The water in the beaker is at full boil now: bubble, bubble, toil and—

  Slam!

  Mariah Yates stands in the doorway clutching a letter to her chest, black mascara running down her face.

  “I got into Stanford!” she shrieks.

  Most of the class breaks into applause. A couple of guys pull out their wallets and pay up. They bet against Mariah? Fatal error. She’s just this side of crazy, yes, but it’s a brilliant kind of crazy, the kind that will either go down in flames her first semester or change the world.

  I write down the temperature and air pressure data and reach for the calculator. Mariah shows her letter to Ms. Cummings.

  I am so very happy for her.

  2.5 Reactants

  The faded sign on the wall says the cafeteria seats five hundred. As if. At last count, the student population here at Marvelous Merryweather High was 4,317. Hence the need for “lunch” at 8:30 in the morning. Hence also the tables sized for elementary students, the theory being that if they use smaller seats, more kids will be able to squeeze in.