Don’t worry, Georgia says to me under her breath.
I ran quality control.
I squint.
The candies are identical,
except one promises brief pain followed by sweetness.
The other, the opposite.
Remind me why I agreed to this?
You lost a bet, Liam replies smugly.
For the record, it’s a contested win
marred by controversy and skullduggery.
Dude, you sound way too much like your dad
when you use big words like that.
You lost. Deal with it.
I’d rather lick the scuzz off the locker-room floor
than eat another GrossBomb.
But a bet is a bet.
I lean closer.
Hey! No sniffing allowed! he shouts
Fine.
I grab the candy from his left hand.
My mouth waters.
Cinnamon flames engulf my tongue.
I display the Fireball between my teeth,
pulling my lips into a tingly, victorious smile.
Liam looks disappointed.
Georgia looks pleased.
Too pleased.
Did she perform some act of skullduggery
for me?
The thought sends a funny warmth
through my chest and into my belly.
Or maybe
that’s just the cinnamon.
BAD IDEAS
At the vacant lot
posters announce:
New shopping mall
coming soon!
I think this is
a bad idea
because shovels will disturb
the ground.
A bad idea
because giant blocky buildings
will crowd
the sky.
A bad idea
because new stores
will entice Dad
to buy more crap
we don’t need,
with money
we don’t have.
A bad idea
because I’ll have one less
safe place.
HALT
Apparently I’m not the only one
who thinks the shopping mall
is a very bad idea.
The next day
protesters flood the site.
They carry signs,
shouting,
Preservation!
Demanding,
Proper excavation!
By the end of the week,
construction halts.
CHURN
I find Dad
hunched in the shadows
of his room
churning through stuff.
I navigate
piles of junk
wondering why
we need crates
of wire clothes hangers,
bent and twisted
like metal spiders wrestling.
Or dozens of boots
with no matches,
in sizes neither of us wears.
I tiptoe
high-step
over
each obstacle.
When I finally
reach him,
I tap his shoulder.
He jumps,
yanks the headphones off.
Hey, bud.
Dad, I need a haircut.
He looks annoyed.
I’m distracting him
from something
important.
I stare at the pages
spread across his bed,
expecting to find
scientific data sheets,
academic journals,
the Riemann hypothesis—solved!
Instead
I see catalogs and flyers
advertising deals for things
that will not help
explain the universe,
cure rare diseases,
solve a math equation,
or give a boy
a haircut.
∞ ∞ ∞
He tells me to look
in his bathroom
for some clippers
to cut my own hair.
He’s too busy
to take me to the barber shop.
The papers,
the deals,
the junk,
all more important
than me.
I suddenly want to light a match
and burn everything.
I take a few deep breaths
and decide burning down the house
is not a good idea.
Other bad ideas include
cutting my own hair.
I’m pretty sure
I’d cause irreparable damage
to my head.
But maybe
if I find the clippers,
Georgia will agree
to help me.
∞ ∞ ∞
The bathroom smells
swampy.
Constellations of mold
splotch the ceiling.
Soggy magazines
look bruised and beaten,
ink bleeding
blue, black, green
on the floor.
Bottles and jars
crowd the countertop.
The faucet cries endlessly,
one drip-drop tear
at a time.
If I weren’t so red-hot mad,
my eyes might
do the same.
∞ ∞ ∞
Inside the first drawer
I find five crusty tubes of toothpaste.
Mom’s old makeup
is in the second drawer,
including that sticky
smooch-attack lipstick
that should have been
thrown away
long ago.
I twist the cap, but the pink shade
looks ghoulish in this light,
nothing like the color
of Mom’s real smile.
I jump back
when I open the third drawer.
This brown furry thing
isn’t a rodent,
but it’s still disturbing.
It’s one of Dad’s bizarro collections:
tufts of hair
trimmed from his beard
and his head
(and I hope nowhere else).
The clippers
may be hiding
at the bottom,
but I sure as heck
won’t reach my hand in
to find out.
I open the final drawer.
It’s even grosser
than the last,
scattered with a thousand
pale-yellow crescents.
More clippings:
fingernails;
toenails, too.
I slam the drawer shut.
I want to run
OUT
of this room
of this house
of this life
as fast as I can!
Instead
the Hoard forces me
to climb
over jagged mountains
of garbage,
while I scream a silent river
of the biggest, baddest words
inside my head.
BORDERLESS
I escape into nature,
seeking wide-open spaces
where I can
breathe.
I venture beyond the vacant lot,
leaving its chain-link boundaries
behind.
My shadow stretches
as the sun arcs.
A few tumbleweeds
roll past, as aimless and lost
as I feel.
I look up, squint,
search the sky
for answers.
Mom and I used to play a game
spotting shapes and patterns
in the clouds,
spinning stories about their meaning,
like fortune-tellers reading tea leaves.
Today the clouds are stubborn;
they don’t tell me much
about the future.
At least they help me
remember
the past.
PERFECT
I’m sure there were times
when Mom acted grouchy after a long shift at
the hospital,
when she made me wear something mortifyingly dorky
to a family function,
when she cooked something revoltingly healthy like
kale casserole for dinner.
The logical part of my brain knows
no one is perfect.
Not even Mom.
But my heart refuses to believe it.
Or, at the very least,
it won’t let me remember
anything but the good stuff.
And right now
I’m fine with that.
LEAVING
I can’t help but wonder
if Mom hadn’t left us
the way she did—
too soon,
without a choice—
would she leave us
now?
Would the Hoard
push her
over the edge?
Would it take her
away?
Would she choose
to go?
No, because if she were
still here,
the Hoard would never
have grown.
She would have kept
the beast
at bay.
* * *
If you need to enter a room, try to open the door by turning the knob.
If that doesn’t work, locate tools to remove the lockset from the door.
If there is no time to unscrew the hardware, use a heavy, solid object to strike the hinges until they break.
Kick the door at its weakest point.
Run at the door, slamming it with your shoulder again and again until it opens.
KEEP TRYING!
NEST
The next day after school,
Georgia cuts my hair
in a shady spot outside the gym
with scissors borrowed
from the sixth-grade craft closet.
When I ask her to be careful
not to chop off my ears,
or accidentally stab herself with the shears,
or give me some hideous style like a mullet,
she takes a deep breath and shares
her grandmother’s favorite Chinese proverb:
That the birds of worry
fly over your head,
this you cannot change.
But that they build nests in your hair,
this you can prevent.
It takes a few minutes
for this idea to sink in,
but as it does, I feel better.
I won’t save the clippings
the way Dad does,
in a creepy drawer of secrets.
Instead
I let them fall to the ground
for some bird
to pick up
and build a nest with
elsewhere.
Georgia chatters about diving
while she tries to tame
my overgrown mane.
I let her voice,
her laugh,
carry me
far away.
Only the top divers and swimmers in the state
train at Camp Barracuda, she tells me,
snipping the last few strands.
Now close your eyes.
She places something on my head.
Much better. Open!
She holds up a round pocket mirror.
In it, I see my reflection
wearing a hat
with a long silver fish on the front.
What’s this?
A barracuda! she squeals.
I’ve been invited to join their summer dive team!
I’m so happy for her.
Until I realize it means
she’ll be gone
all summer,
hours away
from Bullhead City.
I feel bad
wishing
she would stay.
Mostly I wish
I were a faster swimmer
or a better diver
so I could go, too.
3
Georgia, Liam, me.
Together
we are three.
A prime number,
indivisible,
because nothing can
break us apart.
Except maybe swim camp.
Or summer school.
And possibly the Hoard.
GIVING
Your protein filaments look good, Dad says,
standing in my doorway that evening.
Huh? Oh. You mean my hair?
He nods.
I’m sorry I couldn’t take you
to the barber shop the other day, bud.
I want to make it up to you.
My heart jumps,
hoping he’ll suggest
root-beer floats at the diner,
a game of mini-golf,
anything for us to do together
away from the Hoard
Or, even better,
maybe he’s finally decided to clean up a little…
He disappears for a second,
then returns
heaving a giant bag
into my room.
What’s this? I peek inside
at an assortment of outdated electronics.
For you, bud.
I’m sure there are treasures
in there somewhere!
I run my fingers through
my newly cut hair,
trying to hide
my disappointment.
He has good intentions, but
my father keeps giving me
stuff
that I don’t need
or want.
SPACE AND TIME
I persuade Dad to take me to Miguel’s.
At dinner his favorite topic of conversation is
the space-time continuum.
This is interesting because
space
and
time
are the only two
things
I actually wish
he would give me.
I just don’t know
how to tell him that.
EQUATIONS
While we wait for our meal,
I slide a sheet of paper
across the table.
It’s a selfish diversion,
but I know Dad won’t mind.
He smacks his
lips,
rubs his palms together,
like checking my math homework
is more scrumptious than
the towering platter of nachos
we just ordered.
The last few equations are
completely impossible, I say.
Those are the best sort!
No, really. Ms. Treehorn must’ve forgotten
to give us some of the information.
Dad studies the page.
Not so! He beams.
Fun math problems
usually have a lot of unknowns.
I generally think fun and math
don’t belong in the same sentence.
I guess that just proves
how different
we really are.
UNKNOWNS
The nachos arrive.
Dad’s half of the plate
grows cold
as he tries to explain
X + Y = Z
If you know X,
you can figure out Z,
and then you’ll know Y.
But no matter how much
I study my father,
I cannot figure out
why.
WHY
Why is Dad one person
here
and
why
is he so different
at home?
Why
can’t someone
so smart
understand?
Why
can’t someone
with such gigantic eyeglasses
see
what he’s doing
to our house?
What he’s doing
to me?
T-MINUS 62
Spring break is less than two weeks away.
When I remind Dad of this,
he looks at me with surprise and disbelief,
as if I just told him
that brown cows make chocolate milk.
Maybe I can come to work with you? I suggest,
dreading a week at home with the Hoard.
He shakes his head,
says he has too much to do.
He’s developing a new syllabus
for summer courses.
Summer courses?
You never teach in the summer, I say.
It’s a spectacular opportunity.
Too good to pass up.
Plus we need the money, bud.
My heart sinks.
∞ ∞ ∞
A few days later,
Sharon invites me to stay over
at their house for spring break.
Worst-Case Collin Page 8
