hours?
I hold Dad’s hand so hard
my nails leave my initial
c
c
c
c
pressed
four times
into his palm.
EMBARRASSING
Dad stands in the middle
of the roaring, blinding night.
He keeps blinking his eyes.
Maybe because the smoke stings.
Or maybe because
when the walls and roof collapse,
our secret will be completely
exposed.
Or maybe he keeps blinking because
he’s not wearing
his egg-shaped glasses.
I realize he’s also not wearing
any pants.
He follows my eyes,
staring
at our burning house,
staring
at the crowd
staring
at his bare chicken legs
and his tighty-whitey underpants.
Oh, my, isn’t this rather embarrassing?
We do the only thing
we can do:
between our tears
we laugh.
REVEAL
After a sleepless night
at the hospital
we return
the next day
to assess the damage.
The morning sun
shines down
on the gaping,
steaming
pit
that was
our home.
Yellow caution tape,
like ribbon on one of Liam’s gag gifts,
wraps the perimeter.
The smell
is unlike anything
I’ve ever known,
singeing a memory
into my nose forever.
I think it’s important
for Dad to be here,
even though I know
it will be hard.
To my surprise,
he isn’t twitching.
Maybe it’s the shock,
but he doesn’t try to disappear
behind the tape,
to sift through
charred treasures.
He just keeps polishing
a new pair of eyeglasses
with the edge of his shirt,
like he can’t believe
the image he’s seeing.
He looks at the house.
He looks at me.
House. Me. House. Me.
Finally
our eyes meet,
sharing
the same thought.
His hand is tight
on my shoulder.
Bud, what would I do
without you?
THANKFUL
I’m thankful
we built the tree house.
I’m thankful
we camped outside.
I’m thankful
Georgia kept us awake.
I’m thankful
Liam smelled the smoke.
I’m thankful
I memorized those disaster preparedness chapters
that weren’t so pointless after all.
Mostly
I’m thankful
Dad wasn’t inside
when smoke
replaced air.
But
how can I be
thankful
for all those things,
and still be
thankful
for the fire?
AMENITIES
Even though Dad says
a motel is just
a temporary living solution
part of me wishes
we could stay forever.
Each day, someone comes to clean our room.
The first time it happened
I thought there’d been a break-in.
Except instead of wrecking the place,
the mystery intruders
smoothed down the bedsheets,
vacuumed the burgundy shag carpet,
scrubbed the toilet.
And instead of stealing stuff,
they left us tiny bottles of shampoo and soap squares.
Also, the motel has these awesome things called amenities,
which include:
a pool,
where I swim each day;
a vending machine,
where I buy bags of chips and candy bars;
a computer in the lobby,
where Georgia and I send messages
back and forth.
MESSAGES
It’s easier to talk
with Georgia
from behind a screen
for now.
Some afternoons we chat
for what feels like ten seconds
but must really be a few hours,
because the clerk at the front desk
gets super cranky
and eventually yells,
Scram, boy!
Quit hoggin’ the interweb!
GONE
Everything is
gone.
Well, technically
unsalvageable.
That’s the word
the insurance man uses.
Irreplaceable
is the word
my dad prefers.
Good riddance
are the words
I choose
but do not share,
because
Dad is
fragile.
At least he’s not
unsalvageable.
LOSS
I’m only sad
about the loss
of one thing:
My favorite photograph of Mom
I tell this to only
one person:
Georgia
THE HUMAN HEART
Georgia says
there is space inside
the human heart
for infinite love
and infinite sadness
and all the messiness
in between.
Is that one of your grandmother’s proverbs? I ask.
Nope, she types.
Found that nugget of wisdom
inside a fortune cookie.
She sends a smiley-face emoji
followed by a single
If the human heart
can (apparently) stretch to fit
an entire, infinite universe
of emotion,
why do I feel
as though mine
might burst?
PERENNIAL
Mom was wrong.
She said we had to buy
new flowers each year
because annuals die
and don’t come back.
But a few days after the fire,
I find a yellow flower
poking its head
toward the sunshine.
Even though no one
has touched
our window boxes
in years.
Even though
everything else around it
is blackened with soot.
I wonder if this tiny
miracle
is like the ocotillo plant—
quiet,
protecting itself
until the rains
(or fire hoses
)
drench its roots
and wake it up.
CONFESSION
Liam opens the door
to his house.
I stare down at a crack
in the front steps,
trying to decide what to say.
I haven’t seen my friends much since the fire.
Sharon begged us to stay at their house,
but Dad and I opted for the motel
until things get settled.
Today I finally feel ready for a visit.
Here. Liam hands me a cup of Jell-O and a spoon.
We sit on the steps,
poking the jiggly snack.
Why didn’t you tell me
what was really happening, dude?
I just…couldn’t.
I thought I was your best friend?
Your brother-from-another-mother?
You are.
I lift my eyes,
even though they feel
heavy as two dumbbells.
I’m trying to find a way
to explain something
that I still don’t totally understand myself.
Remember that movie you made us watch?
He wiggles his spoon. The Blob?
No. The one about the creature from outer space.
What about it?
The main character really wanted to tell everyone
where he came from, but he couldn’t.
Because he had to protect his home planet and his alien family
from being studied or attacked or worse.
I don’t know if this makes any sense,
but right now it’s easier to talk
sort of sideways
about a movie,
than directly
about real life.
Liam finishes his Jell-O
in one giant, slurpy gulp.
He uses the back of the spoon
to scratch his head,
which usually means he’s thinking.
My mom thought something was up.
She’s been bugging me for months.
I told her to stop overreacting.
She’s going to kill you, you know?
With her yoga-boa arms?
Yup. Watch out. He chuckles.
What’s your special book say about that?
Well, the book’s gone.
But I’m pretty sure
there are worse ways to go.
ONE CONDITION
I don’t think you should call me
Matchstick anymore, Liam says.
It doesn’t feel right, because, well, you know.
Fine. And you can stop calling me Worst-Case Collin.
Deal. With one condition, he says.
I’m afraid to ask…
It’s nothing skullduggerous.
Is that even a word? I ask.
How should I know?
I’m the one going to summer school.
Did you know Tyson’s going to be there, too?
Talk about torture.
Anyway, I’ll stop calling you Worst-Case Collin,
if you agree to stop worrying so much.
I filled in the first few pages for you.
Maybe this will help.
Liam reaches into his pocket,
pulls out a small green notebook.
On the front
in his crooked handwriting, it says:
Best-Case Collin’s
Best-Case Scenario Handbook.
* * *
If you win the lottery,
claim your prize.
Then donate all the money to your best friend Liam.
THANKS, DUDE!
* * *
If your dad solves the Riemann hypothesis and wins a million dollars,
book some plane tickets to Disney World
and bring your best friend Liam.
GOOD TIMES!
* * *
If Miguel accidentally adds an extra zero to your order and delivers sixty tacos instead of six,
grab the hot sauce
and call your best friend Liam.
CHOW DOWN!
DEATH BY HUGGING
This is awesome.
I mean it.
Thanks, Liam.
You have to fill in the rest.
I will, I say.
I promise.
Out of nowhere,
he flings his arms around me.
I’m really going to miss you this summer, dude.
Uhhh, me, too.
Promise one more thing?
You’re so demanding.
He squeezes me tighter.
Promise you won’t have too much fun in Maine without me?
I’ll try.
But Liam, I rasp, I really can’t breathe.
Best-case scenario #47: Death by Hugging.
Wow. Who knew you were such a softie? I tease.
You think a softie would have killer pythons like these?
He releases me then flexes his chicken arms.
You’ve totally been doing yoga with your mom.
Sounds like someone’s jealous of these guns.
Pow! Pow! Pow!
Admit it! I laugh.
Fine. I’m a multidimensional man-boy.
I do yoga!
No shame in that.
At least that’s what Georgia says.
And you listen to everything she says, so…
My cheeks blaze.
He points a finger at me.
Ha! I knew it!
You like her, don’t you!?
Your turn—admit it! Admit it!
I wind up to give him a good wallop,
but then he says, I think she likes you, too.
His words stop me mid-slug.
For literally the first time ever
I actually hope
that Liam’s right.
WORRY
It’s not like some overnight cure or anything,
but Liam’s silly book helps.
It’s good to be prepared,
but worry took up
a lot of space
in my heart
and my head.
I’m better off
without quite so much of it
cluttering me up.
TYSON
Dad’s talking to
an insurance guy,
a police officer,
some neighbors.
I’m standing on the sidewalk,
waiting.
It’s getting hot out.
I want to escape
to the tree house
where it’s shady,
but the caution tape says
it’s off-limits.
Hey. Tyson’s voice makes me jump.
Then I remember
the promise I made to Liam
about worrying less.
And I remember how it felt
to be brave
when I pulled Dad
away from the flames.
Hey, Tyson says again, inching closer to me.
What? I reply.
Bummer about the fire.
His words are slow and quiet,
not sharp and mean, like usual.
That really sucks.
I shove my hands in my pockets.
My dad walks toward the car, waves.
I have to go, I say.
Hey. I saw you…
I stop.
Carrying all those bags one night.
I
heard you crying.
Just. Shut. Up. Please.
Geez. Chill out, Sweaty Betty.
No! Don’t tell me what to do.
And stop calling me names!
Whoa. Someone grew a backbone.
I narrow my eyes to little slits.
He takes a step back.
Look, if I’d known
what was really going on,
that you were being suffocated in there
by all that crap, like everyone’s saying,
maybe I wouldn’t have acted
like such a jerkwad.
I start to walk away, but he stops me.
What I’m trying to say is…
I’m kinda…sorry. Okay?
I pause. I swallow hard.
And if I’d known
about your allergies,
I would never have put those
scorpions in your desk.
His head whips around. Huh?
I’m sure he’s going to punch me.
His eyebrows arch.
He snorts, then shrugs.
Maybe we could call it even?
I blink, straighten my shoulders. Maybe.
Okay. He nods.
I’m not sure if this counts
as an official truce,
and it definitely doesn’t feel
like friendship,
but at the very least
it’s something better
than before,
and right now
that’s enough.
∞ ∞ ∞
Nice to see you and Tyson chatting, Dad says
as we drive back to the motel.
That was the most we’ve said to each other in years, Dad.
Really? He looks surprised.
Really.
Guess I’ve missed a lot lately, he says, a little sadly.
Remember that diving board incident?
Secrets, like worries,
seem like silly things
to collect these days.
Of course! I filed a complaint with the athletic department.
Demanded they increase the foot-friction-factor
of their equipment.
You didn’t. Please tell me you didn’t.
I absolutely did! It was unsafe!
Our house was unsafe.
Even though it’s true,
as soon as I say the words,
I regret them.
There’s a rawness
to this particular truth
too tender
to touch
yet.
So I tell him the truth
Worst-Case Collin Page 16
