Liam and I spend spring break watching cheesy movies,
inventing new games, plotting pranks.
When we swap Lindsay’s hair conditioner
with mayonnaise and she freaks out,
Liam tells me I should add
Bad Hair Days to my orange disaster book.
That’s when I realize
I haven’t checked it once since I arrived.
Which is surprising,
and also
surprisingly nice.
∞ ∞ ∞
On Friday afternoon
Dad picks me up.
He hugs me tight, which tells me
he did miss me.
I’m happy to see him, too,
but as soon as we pull into our driveway,
a familiar ache wracks my gut.
Even though I ate a lot of junk food this week
I don’t think this feeling is indigestion.
My pulse quickens;
the tips of my toes tingle.
I pause on the front steps.
Do I have to go inside?
Welcome Home, the dingy doormat says.
I wish those words
were reassuring
or comforting or inviting.
But they’re the opposite.
Dad looks at me strangely.
Go on inside, bud. He unlocks the door
and nudges me gently.
I take a deep breath
and prepare to face
my old foe.
∞ ∞ ∞
A week away
has given me
new eyes.
I knew our house was bad,
but it’s funny
(or maybe sad,
or scary,
or all of the above)
how a person gets
used to something
when they live with it
every day.
The shock value fades
over time
and you stop seeing
what’s real.
But the moment Dad opens that door,
the contrast between our home
and Liam’s home
hits me like a sucker punch.
The smell is worse than I remember and
I see EVERY THING
more clearly than before, and
holy cow, I cannot believe
how many disgusting, nasty,
unnecessary, inexplicable things
are in my house.
I turn to my dad, to tell him,
We don’t have to live like this,
but he’s already shuffling
through the mess,
retreating to the basement.
Leaving me puzzled and alone
again.
REBOOT
On the upside,
spring break felt like
pressing the reset button
on a video-game console.
Sure, the Hoard thrived
in my absence.
Sure, my dad is acting
weirder than ever.
But I’m recharged,
powered up,
ready.
I will:
solve this problem,
clean this mess,
and fight
(if I have to).
∞ ∞ ∞
My orange book says
emergency situations should be
triaged
which means
to treat the worst first.
How can I triage
this house
when every room is
such a disaster?
I refuse to go back into
Dad’s bathroom.
The basement is a lost cause.
I’m not feeling brave enough
to tackle the kitchen.
The living room isn’t technically the worst,
but it would be nice
to have a place to sit again.
I think the couch is still in there
somewhere.
My work begins at dawn.
KA-BOOM!
It’s Saturday
and Dad has to go
to the university.
Normally this would bum me out,
but I’m grateful for the chance
to clean while he’s away.
He gets so jittery and irritable
whenever I try to tidy up.
I eat breakfast
(leftover muffins that Sharon baked)
then I get to work.
I sift, sort, chuck.
The Hoard didn’t see this coming!
Ker-POW!
Sha-ZAM!
Ka-BOOM!
Three jumbo plastic bags swell
before I even reach the coffee table.
I carry them to the curb.
The garbage collectors will be surprised
to see so many bags outside
on trash day.
Hours tick by.
I’m on a roll.
The Hoard’s hurting bad.
Which has me feeling good.
My stomach grumbles.
I’d eat that can of corn in the cupboard,
but the can opener is still missing.
It’s okay. Lunch can wait
until the couch is excavated.
∞ ∞ ∞
Between flyers, pamphlets, coupons,
I find pages scrawled with numbers and symbols.
Scribbles of brilliance, Mom would say.
I place them neatly in a folder,
in case they contain solutions
to the world’s greatest mysteries.
Then, a slip of paper catches my eye.
A checklist.
□ Study for vocab quiz
□ Make your bed
□ Floss! (your teeth and the dance)
□ Sprinkle kindness like confetti
□ But, when necessary, fight evil
□ Eat your veggies
□ Say hi to Liam
□ Keep your chin up ☺
I know Mom wrote this for me
a few years ago,
but I feel like
I was supposed to
find it now.
I tuck the list
into my T-shirt pocket,
pressing it close
to my heart.
∞ ∞ ∞
I work for a few more hours,
buoyed by the thought
of Mom’s checklist
and excited to show Dad
the progress I’ve made.
I know he’ll be twitchy at first,
until he sees
how much better
less mess
can be.
I hope he’ll smile as wide
as Ms. Treehorn.
I hope he’ll kiss
the top of my head and say,
Gee, bud,
what would I do
without you?
∞ ∞ ∞
It’s nearly dark
when Dad finally comes home.
I hear him struggling,
breathing heavily.
Cardiac arrest?
Punctured lung?
Fleeing a rabid raccoon?
I sprint to the kitchen
along a freshly cleared path.
My muscles tic,
ready for rescue.
∞ ∞ ∞
Thankfully
Dad is f
ine.
Well, not fine—
madder than mad.
But not mortally wounded, at least.
His face is caught
in the doorframe,
sandwiched
between two giant bags of garbage
dragged back from the curb.
His whole body shakes.
I see panic
behind his glasses.
The door’s been open
too long.
What were you thinking?
He yanks the bags.
He curses.
If you drop the garbage,
you can close the door, I say.
No! No! No!
Don’t worry, Dad.
I kept the important stuff.
I was careful with your notes.
Drop the bags!
No matter
what I say,
he refuses
to let go.
SPLITTING
Black plastic snags
on the latch,
stretching
until it splits.
Garbage spills
everywhere.
All my hard work,
wasted.
I can almost hear
the Hoard roar
with evil laughter.
Mocking me.
Winning again.
Beating me down.
The front door slams
shut.
Dad stumbles inside.
His fingers
tremble
as he touches rescued treasures—
old egg cartons, a cracked wooden spoon, knotted shoelaces—
checking to make sure they are
okay.
But nothing about this is
okay.
UNSOLVABLE
An hour later
Dad’s still sitting
in the heap of garbage.
His eyes dart across
each wrapper,
each crumpled napkin,
each expired coupon,
taking inventory of the precious things
I so foolishly mistook for trash.
I was just trying to help.
I’m sorry, I say.
Except I don’t feel
sorry at all.
Just confused
and a little bit frightened.
I must be missing
some piece of this equation.
No matter how much
I stretch and pull and yank my brain
I cannot make
garbage + junk + filth = happiness
I worry Dad may be
even more unsolvable
than the Riemann hypothesis.
HELP WANTED
The latch on the front door
broke when Dad crashed through
with all those bags last night.
Dad says
he’ll fix it.
He says
he’ll fix everything.
I’m tired of waiting.
I leave the house
as soon as the sun rises.
Miguel waves
as I ride my bike
past the taquería.
He hangs a sign in the window:
Help Wanted
I have this weird urge
to stop, grab the sign,
slip it over my head, wear it
like a massive, awkward necklace.
Or leave it dangling
on our front door
for everyone to see.
Instead I pedal faster,
putting distance between
me and the Hoard.
DRIFT
The shopping mall project
shut down indefinitely,
which means I can wander freely.
I take deep gulps of air,
soak in the sun,
let myself
drift.
Usually
where my feet travel,
my mind follows
Today my thoughts chart
their own course.
They tug me
back,
back,
back
to memories
I usually keep
buried.
THE ACCIDENT
The bridge across the river
The fog at dawn
narrow.
thick.
The guardrails
The current
weak.
strong.
The desert weather
When it should have been
wet.
dry.
The other driver
The water level
high.
deep.
Mom’s hospital shift
She couldn’t afford to be
early.
late.
Bright yellow
did nothing
double lines
to stop
the other car
from speeding
too far
too fast
to avoid.
SINKING
It wasn’t the crash
that caused the most
damage.
Neither
Laughlin nor Bullhead
sent help
fast enough
to that spot
in the river.
That invisible
line
between
here and there.
Everyone called it
a fluke
but what if
someone had been
better prepared?
Maybe
she wouldn’t
have been
trapped
inside that car
when water
replaced
air.
HUMMINGBIRD
After a good, long walk,
my mind feels clearer.
Sifting, sorting, confronting
memories of the accident
opened up new spaces.
I pause—watching as a hummingbird
hovers, darts, sips,
flies
free.
Ms. Treehorn told us
more than a dozen species
migrate through this area each year
in search of survival.
A new idea
buzzes around
in my head
until it’s impossible
to ignore.
If I can’t defeat
the Hoard
maybe
I can at least
escape.
Yes. That’s it.
I’ll become a hummingbird.
EMAIL
I bike to the library,
log on to one of the public computers
where I can send messages quickly
and collect replies
that don’t take up space
on counters, tables, or sinks.
Organizing is simple:
Just click, click, click.
Then empty the trash can
into cyberspace.
Without breaking a sweat.
Without breaking a door.
Without breaking a heart.
REACHING OUT
I message Georgia first,
surprised to see her online.
She says she’s helping her grandmother
sort, scan, digitize
family photo albums.
Guess what?
No newborn pics of me.
Do U want 2 look 4 them? I reply.
NO, she types quickly.
Not the photos…
I know what you mean. Still no.
Actually…
I do. All the time.
I can help U look 4 them.
Someday. If U want.
I don’t.
OK. If U ever change UR mind…
It’s just…
What if…
They don’t want me
to find them?
What if they R thinking the same about U?
Maybe @ 18, Georgia replies.
You’ll buy a lottery ticket? Go 2 college?
Register 2 vote?
I send her a string of goofy emojis.
She sends a face with bulging eyeballs back.
I can look at my adoption files
when I turn 18.
Then you can help me
find them.
OK. Should I make a countdown calendar?
She sends a smiley face with the tongue sticking out.
I send her an alarm clock gif
and type the words,
T-minus 5.5 years.
Unlike Georgia,
I don’t have
five and a half years.
I need to find someone
now.
SLUDGE
I return home
starving.
I scrounge around
for something to eat,
but our kitchen is
worse than ever.
In an effort to save
empty yogurt containers and
pickle jars last night,
Dad accidentally tipped over
a value-size vat of cooking oil
which has been leaking, seeping
through the junk mail and newspapers
that cover the countertops,
coating everything
with a greasy sludge.
At least the lack of
dining surfaces
gives Dad and me
a good excuse
to go out,
Worst-Case Collin Page 11
