The Science of Breakable Things

by Tae Keller

  Orchidaceae. Cattleya. Fortis.

  *1 Again, don’t ask.

  *2 The eighth graders have the second floor, and the sixth graders have the first floor. Supposedly, the third floor is better than the first, because we don’t have to be by the cafegymnasitorium, but I don’t exactly buy that. I think the teachers just didn’t want to scare the brand-new sixth graders into switching schools.

  *3 Technically, it’s Principal Nutt-Burter—can you really blame us for the nickname?

  It didn’t take long for Mr. Neely to get his enthusiasm back. Today in class he announced we’d continue working with magnets—apparently otherwise known as “natural magic!” Seriously, I have no idea where Mr. Neely finds all his excitement, but I wish I could siphon some of it off and give it to Mom.

  Anyway, when we broke into groups to make compasses, Dari came over to sit with Twig and me. George was back in school today, but he joined Tom K. and Nick without hesitation, as if that was the way it had always been. Nobody else in class seemed to even notice the switch-up—except for Mikayla, that is, who stared at us from across the room, frowning.

  I expected Twig to make a scene, like she had a few days ago, but she took a deep breath and stayed silent. Dari raised an eyebrow at her, and she shrugged, and some kind of communication passed between them that I couldn’t catch. Then he sat down and began writing:

  MATERIALS:

  • Needle

  • Magnet

  • Wax paper

  • Bowl

  • Water

  Dari finished our compass quickly and accurately, as expected, and Twig grinned in approval as she copied his notes into her lab book. She leaned in close to him, her long blond hair forming a curtain between me and Dari’s book,* so I just played with a couple of leftover magnets, flipping one over so it attracted all the other magnets on the table, and then turning it so it repelled everything in its path, like, No thanks, not for me.

  “We need a plan of action for this egg drop competition,” Dari said once they’d finished with the lab, and I startled at his voice, at the sound of reality.

  “Aye, aye, Captain,” Twig said, all sarcastic. I knew she was still upset from the other day, but I don’t think Dari could tell.

  He frowned. “I don’t think I should be the captain here.”

  Twig put her pencil to her lips and said, very seriously, “You’re right. You’re too much of a nerd.”

  Dari considered this. “Can I be mission analyst instead? I like analyzing.”

  Twig squinted at him, and I worried she was going to say something mean, but she said, “You can be mission analyst as long as I’m head sheriff. That means what I say goes, and if you mess up, you’re out.”

  Instead of getting offended or weirded out like most people would have, Dari said, “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Head Sheriff,” and laughed and shook her hand. These were things Dari did a lot—laugh and shake hands.

  “Well, okay,” I said. I wanted to change the subject. I didn’t like the way they were looking at me—as if they were waiting for an answer on a test I hadn’t studied for. “But let’s focus less on these nicknames and more on our egg designs.” My voice sounded cactus-prickly compared to their light, joking tones—and for a wild second, I worried all the fun had drained out of me.

  Twig looked at me and raised her eyebrows, then glanced at Dari. All of a sudden, they were a team, and I wasn’t sure if I liked it. He did all the work and joked around with her—and maybe she’d replace me. But she smiled. “I think we’ve found our captain.”

  Dari laughed and raised his hand to me in salute. Twig did the same.

  And I did not cry—because it’s way embarrassing to cry in the middle of your science classroom. But still, it was pretty nice. Our compass-ized needle floated in our bowl of water on its little wax paper raft, pointing north, at me.

  “I’m not sure I know how to be a captain,” I said, wishing my voice sounded less serious. They were making this a game, and I was making it weird.

  But Dari grinned, and Twig laughed. “Of course you do,” she said, before flicking the compass needle and spinning it round and round.

  * Technically, we’re supposed to tie our hair up for every lab, but Twig rarely does. I don’t think she has since we cut up Renaldo, and that was only because she didn’t want to get frog guts in her hair.

  Well, I guess Dad finally decided to stop “giving me some space” and start enacting a plan of action, shall we say. He picked me up from school today, which was sign number one that something was Not Okay.

  “I’m biking home with Twig,” I said. I felt stubborn about it all of a sudden, even though I’d been dreading it all day. The weather had cracked, the temperature finally dropping below freezing. We all had our down jackets out today, finally admitting to ourselves that winter was a thing that was happening.

  “You can put your bike in the trunk,” he said.

  This is weird to say, but seeing Dad out in the real world was unsettling. I hadn’t realized until then how sucked up we’d been in Mom’s sadness. The two of us were compass needles, pointing straight at Mom. We hadn’t done anything outside together in months. I think Dad was realizing it, too, because when I got into the passenger seat, he wrapped an arm around me and pulled me into an awkward hug.

  “This will be good,” he said. “Doris is really good.” Which was sign number two, because anything involving someone named Doris is definitely Not Okay.*1 I didn’t ask who Doris was, partly because I didn’t want to know, and partly because I already did know.

  My palms started to sweat.

  Dad tried to make small talk on the whole drive over, even though he’s not very good at small talk. The drive took us in the same direction as Lancaster University, where Mom used to work. We had to go through a run-down part of town, and as we drove past those buildings, I wrapped my jacket tighter around my chest, even though Dad was blasting the heater. Thinking about going back to Mom’s lab made me feel kind of sick inside, like even just the thought of it was somehow a betrayal.

  But once we made it through the beat-up neighborhood, we turned left instead of right, and we kept on driving. Eventually, we made it to the parking lot of an unfriendly concrete office building. I was so upset by that point that I wanted to grab my bike out of the trunk and pedal all the way home. Only I didn’t know how to get back, and it was really far, and anyway, Dad would have been really angry if I did that, so I followed him into the building and into Dr. Doris McKenna’s lobby.

  Taking me to a therapist’s office without telling me was basically an act of guerrilla warfare,*2 and I promised myself right then that I’m never going to do this ambush stuff to my kids. I’m never gonna act like I know best and they aren’t capable of making their own decisions.

  I’m pretty sure I had cartoon steam coming out of my ears, because Dad knew I was fuming and didn’t even try to make small talk anymore. We sat in the waiting room, and he picked up one of those doctor’s office National Geographics, propping one ankle over his knee and reading as if everything was cotton-candy-dandy.

  I crossed my arms over my chest, and Dad looked up and frowned. He had the nerve to look confused. “Natalie?”

  I glared at him.

  He rubbed his hand over the side of his face, looking all concerned, like he just realized he made a mistake. “Natalie, we talked about this. Your appointment—remember?”

  I mean, I know he’d mentioned the appointment before, but I never really thought it would happen. And it still didn’t feel fair. He’d made this decision for me—I didn’t want to be there.

  I looked around. The waiting room was too small and about a million degrees too hot. And I was planning my great escape when the therapist’s door opened.

  Dr. Doris came out to call my name. She was young
and pretty, with horn-rimmed glasses and red hair, and she had this huge smile when she said my name, but I just glared at her. I felt kind of bad because the woman was only doing her job, and anyway she hadn’t forced me to come here, so she didn’t really deserve my scowl face.

  But then Dad gave a thumbs-up and said, “Good luck, Nats,” and I didn’t feel bad for scowling anymore.

  Dr. Doris’s office is different from Dad’s office. Dad’s office is painted this creamy white color, and all his furniture is white, but her office is colorful. Everything is bright: bright peach walls, bright blue furniture, bright sunlight streaming in through big bright windows. Colorful little toys sit on her coffee table—Rubik’s Cubes and Slinkys—and her windows are lined with about twenty different plants, with all different-colored flowers, and I have to admit the whole happy-garden feel of the place made me more comfortable. Only then I worried this was some kind of Therapist Trick to make me more comfortable, and then I had no idea how to feel.

  “It’s so lovely to meet you, Natalie. I’ve heard so many great things about you,” Dr. Doris said. Which meant Dad had already talked to her about me. Which was definitely Not Okay. But whatever. “I’m Dr. Doris McKenna, but you can call me Doris.”

  Her smile was kind and inviting, but I knew a Therapist Trick when I saw one. I wasn’t about to call her Doris, as if we were friends—as if I actually wanted to talk to her, instead of being forced here against my will.

  I half shrugged in response.

  “How have you been feeling lately?” she asked.

  I didn’t want to answer, but I’d already been pretty rude, so I said, “Fine,” because that was better than saying nothing at all.

  Dr. Doris smiled and nodded as if she was waiting for me to continue, so I said, “I don’t want to talk about my mom.”

  The look she gave me was so sympathetic and understanding that I almost started crying right there. I was surrounded by tissue boxes that seemed to be demanding, Cry! Cry already! But I did not.

  “What do you want to talk about, Natalie?”

  I hated the way she said my name, all intimately as if we were best friends.*3

  “I’m working on a project for school,” I said, because adults love when you talk about school.

  Dr. Doris’s smile got extra big, and I could tell I was right because, even though she was trained specifically to talk to kids, she was still an adult, so she fell for the whole look, I’m taking initiative in school thing. “And what is this project?” she asked.

  So I told her about Operation Egg and the scientific process and Dari and Twig and all that business. I did not tell her about the five hundred dollars or my secret plan for that money.

  “Twig and Dari said I should be the team captain,” I added, and immediately regretted mentioning it. I’d given her something to latch onto. I burrowed the toe of my sneaker into the teal-blue rug as if I could drill a hole right through the ground.

  Dr. Doris tilted her head. “How do you feel about being the team captain?”

  Which—ugh. It sounded like a question Dad would ask. I shrugged. “Fine, I guess.”

  Dr. Doris set her notebook on the end table next to her and leaned forward. “You look like you might be a little nervous, which would be perfectly understandable.”

  It was like, since she couldn’t talk about Mom Problems, she had to go poking around to find another problem, but everything was totally fine. I mean, of course I was a little nervous. Every time I thought about the competition, I got that plum-pit feeling in my stomach, and being the captain made it even scarier—lonelier, too.

  But I wasn’t about to tell her any of that.

  I looked at my shoes and shrugged.

  When Dr. Doris spoke, her voice was softer. “Have you talked to your parents about the egg project?”

  “Operation Egg,” I corrected.

  “Right.”

  “Yeah, I have.”

  And I’ll spare you all the boring details, because the conversation pretty much went that way for the next hour. Dr. Doris kept steering our conversation toward my parents, and I kept steering it away, so we talked a whole lot about nothing.

  I looked at the clock and counted down—fifty minutes, forty minutes, twenty, ten—and in the home stretch, at five minutes left, she said, “I know you weren’t ready to talk about your mom today, and I respect that, but next week I’d like to discuss the situation a little further.”

  I couldn’t have said anything but Okay, so that was what I said.

  When I came out, Dad didn’t even ask me how it went, but he gave me a hug, which was embarrassing. Happiness and relief practically radiated off him. As much as I love my dad and know he’s trying his best, when I came out of that office, I wanted to punish him. I pushed his hug away without saying anything, and I was quiet the whole ride home. When we pulled into the driveway, I got out and slammed the door, and I could feel his happiness shattering.

  It’s like I couldn’t even help myself. Like suddenly I’m this terrible person who hurts her dad on purpose, and I don’t even know why.

  Maybe I could talk to Dr. Doris about that next week.

  Maybe not.

  *1 Is it just me, or does the name Doris automatically make you think of a lunch lady? Or an old woman who knits cat sweaters? Sorry if your name is Doris—just, you know.

  *2 Guerrilla warfare, n.: We learned about guerrilla warfare and its ambush strategy in school last year, and of course everyone started making jokes about gorilla warfare, and all the boys spent the whole lunch period jumping around and scratching their heads and armpits and grunting like gorillas because middle school boys are the most embarrassing creatures on the face of the planet.

  *3 Twig, my real best friend, hardly ever says my name. She just says, Hey, you, and I’m expected to know she’s talking to me, because who else would she be talking to?

  Most of Twig’s egg drop designs ended up being impossible to create, which was pretty unsurprising, but she insisted on making as many as she could and testing those out. Dari, Twig, and I stayed late after school yesterday, gluing and rearranging and cracking a whole bunch of eggs. Finally, we ended up with six designs, which was pretty impressive, if you ask me.

  “I’m not sure if these are going to work,” Dari said as we put the finishing touches on S’meggs, sticking random twigs into jumbo-size marshmallows. Basically, S’meggs was an egg attached to jumbo marshmallows and sticks and even bars of chocolate. It was inspired by a giant s’more, and I’m pretty sure Twig was hungry when she thought it up.

  “The twigs keep breaking,” Dari said as one of the twigs snapped.

  Twig glared at him with that sleepy-cat face, as if that was a personal insult, and he didn’t comment again.

  We spent hours putting together our contraptions and didn’t get home until late last night, but I insisted we get back to school bright and early this morning—despite it being a Saturday. We came up with a plan, and I have to admit, I was kind of excited.

  Step 1: Observe. We have only a month until the egg drop competition—less, if you consider the holidays—so we need to get going with testing our eggs.

  Step 2: Question. When can we test our egg designs by dropping them out of a third-story window?

  Step 3: Investigative Research. Mikayla and the rest of the JV girls’ volleyball team had their annoying spirit week these past few days, so we knew there’d be a volleyball game at Fountain Middle on Saturday. I double-checked their schedule online. The school would be open then, which meant we could easily get in and sneak up to the third-floor classrooms.*1

  Step 4: Hypothesis. Of course, I’m Managing My Expectations, but I’m sure at least a couple of our six egg drop designs will survive the fall. We’ll probably have to decide which egg contraption is best.

  Step 5: Procedure:
>
  1. Twig sleeps over on Friday, and Dad drops us off at school in the morning so we can “go to the game and show school spirit,” etc., etc.

  2. Meet Dari at the school, and wait until the game starts and everyone is distracted. Then we pretend we need to use the bathroom, and we leave the cafegymnasitorium.*2

  3. Sneak up to the third floor, into Mr. Neely’s classroom.

  4. Drop the eggs from the window.

  5. Sneak back downstairs to examine the eggs and see which ones survived.

  6. Clean up and escape before the game ends, without anybody noticing.

  If anybody had told me just a couple months ago that I’d want to be at school at 8:00 a.m. on a Saturday, I would have laughed and called them Mr. Neely–level ridiculous, but I guess nothing this year was turning out how I’d expected.

  Families wearing red-and-blue school colors were filing into the first-floor gym, and Twig and I dropped into the crowd with them. We were both wearing red-and-blue sweaters to blend in, but of course Twig had taken the “blending in” a step too far—so she was just standing out. She wore one red glove and one blue glove, and had written Go! on one cheek and Red Pandas! on the other cheek, in support of our mascot.*3 The Red Pandas! part was way too long, though, and she’d written the d-a-s! sideways down her jaw.

  So basically, our school spirit disguises weren’t great.

  We followed the crowd into the school, hanging back so nobody would spot us. I could hear my heart drumming in my ears, but I told myself this plan would work out. This would be okay. I shifted my backpack on my shoulders, feeling the weight of our eggs and their armor, trying to move as little as possible so they wouldn’t break.

  And then, up ahead of us, I saw a flash of dark curly hair. I recognized her instantly—Mikayla’s mom. Suddenly I felt like I couldn’t see straight. If she saw me, she’d come over, try to talk to me. She’d be fake and act nice, and she might even invite us to sit next to her—and I’d be trapped in the volleyball game, sitting next to the woman who fired Mom, and the whole plan would be ruined.