sorry,” he says. “I’m sorry.”
I heard that.
I wish I were three feet tall and he could pick me up and he still had a beard and he wore cotton sweaters that felt soft on my cheek and I could cry it all away and I would wipe my tears on his shoulder and I could suck my thumb and suck the end of my ponytail and he wouldn’t tell me only babies did that and he would rock me on the front porch with the wind coming clean from the north and he would sing nursery rhymes with made-up words like Mom used to and he could teach me the alphabet again and how to walk and how to run and maybe I would do it better this time.
Dad clears his throat. “It’s not the end of the world, honey. You have all those other schools. Come here. . . . ”
He pulls me into a hug. He is wearing the tweed jacket from last night (smells like chicken) and it scratches my cheek. The ground shakes. The iceberg that traps us shifts and groans and I come so close—this close—to being his daughter, the Malone girl, Jack’s girl, and letting him be Daddy and love me for all these stupid mistakes, and letting him try to put a Band-Aid on this one even though we both know it’s going to bleed for a very long time, but it’s the Band-Aid that counts.
I have not inhaled since I saw the envelope. I am inert, an expired reaction.
“You could talk to Mr. Kennedy,” he says. “He’ll help you choose from the other schools. You have options, honey.”
I am so dead that I can’t even think about what this means.
“Or I could talk to him. I have a meeting in the guidance department”—he looks at his watch over my shoulder—“in a minute.”
I step back, a rush of cold air on my cheeks. “Why?”
He cracks his knuckles. “Mrs. Litch asked me to come. The police are involved because of the fight Teri was in yesterday.”
I stand up straighter. “And you thought you’d drop off my letter on the way?”
He frowns. “No, it was more than that. You asked me . . .”
The iceberg stops groaning and arctic salt water swirls, restoring the space between us, putting us back in our places.
“I have to get back to chem.”
We both look through the door. The cartoon has lulled the class into their happy place. Alice is lost again. Dad folds the letter and inserts it back in the envelope. “We’ll talk about this tonight. I know you’re upset, but we’ll figure something out.”
He hugs my head and I hold my breath. I take the envelope and turn my back to him. I step over the threshold, enter the classroom, and close the door behind me, quietly, so it doesn’t disturb anyone.
3.0.1 Scientific Method
At my lab table, I review the experiment:
Step 1. Hypothesis—I am brilliant. I am special. I am going to MIT, just like my mom did. I am going to change the world.
Step 2. Procedure—Acquire primary and secondary school education. Follow all rules. Excel at chemistry and math, ace standardized tests. Acquire social skills and athletic prowess; maintain a crushing extracurricular load. Earn national science fair honors. Apply to MIT. Wait for acceptance letter.
Step 3. Results—Failure.
Step 4. Retrace steps. Procedure flawless.
Step 5. Conclusion—Hypothesis incorrect. I am a loser.
So simple.
I light the Bunsen burner. The thin envelope goes up in flames.
3.1 Flammability
Someone has been messing with my locker. 27-18-28. Jigglejigglejiggle the handle. Locked. 27-18-28. Jigglejigglejiggle. Damn.
If I weren’t trapped in a hall of bodies I could kick this sucker or punch it or find a chair and smash it against the crap metal piece of shit until I was standing in a pile of kindling up to my ankles and then the lock would tumble into place and the handle would jigglejiggle-open. If there weren’t four thousand strangers bumping into me one after the other, I could get a crowbar and pry this thing open because I have to get my books and my notebooks and look at all the stupid crap that is stuck to the inside of my locker so
I heard that.
I wish I were three feet tall and he could pick me up and he still had a beard and he wore cotton sweaters that felt soft on my cheek and I could cry it all away and I would wipe my tears on his shoulder and I could suck my thumb and suck the end of my ponytail and he wouldn’t tell me only babies did that and he would rock me on the front porch with the wind coming clean from the north and he would sing nursery rhymes with made-up words like Mom used to and he could teach me the alphabet again and how to walk and how to run and maybe I would do it better this time.
Dad clears his throat. “It’s not the end of the world, honey. You have all those other schools. Come here. . . . ”
He pulls me into a hug. He is wearing the tweed jacket from last night (smells like chicken) and it scratches my cheek. The ground shakes. The iceberg that traps us shifts and groans and I come so close—this close—to being his daughter, the Malone girl, Jack’s girl, and letting him be Daddy and love me for all these stupid mistakes, and letting him try to put a Band-Aid on this one even though we both know it’s going to bleed for a very long time, but it’s the Band-Aid that counts.
I have not inhaled since I saw the envelope. I am inert, an expired reaction.
“You could talk to Mr. Kennedy,” he says. “He’ll help you choose from the other schools. You have options, honey.”
I am so dead that I can’t even think about what this means.
“Or I could talk to him. I have a meeting in the guidance department”—he looks at his watch over my shoulder—“in a minute.”
I step back, a rush of cold air on my cheeks. “Why?”
He cracks his knuckles. “Mrs. Litch asked me to come. The police are involved because of the fight Teri was in yesterday.”
I stand up straighter. “And you thought you’d drop off my letter on the way?”
He frowns. “No, it was more than that. You asked me . . .”
The iceberg stops groaning and arctic salt water swirls, restoring the space between us, putting us back in our places.
“I have to get back to chem.”
We both look through the door. The cartoon has lulled the class into their happy place. Alice is lost again. Dad folds the letter and inserts it back in the envelope. “We’ll talk about this tonight. I know you’re upset, but we’ll figure something out.”
He hugs my head and I hold my breath. I take the envelope and turn my back to him. I step over the threshold, enter the classroom, and close the door behind me, quietly, so it doesn’t disturb anyone.
3.0.1 Scientific Method
At my lab table, I review the experiment:
Step 1. Hypothesis—I am brilliant. I am special. I am going to MIT, just like my mom did. I am going to change the world.
Step 2. Procedure—Acquire primary and secondary school education. Follow all rules. Excel at chemistry and math, ace standardized tests. Acquire social skills and athletic prowess; maintain a crushing extracurricular load. Earn national science fair honors. Apply to MIT. Wait for acceptance letter.
Step 3. Results—Failure.
Step 4. Retrace steps. Procedure flawless.
Step 5. Conclusion—Hypothesis incorrect. I am a loser.
So simple.
I light the Bunsen burner. The thin envelope goes up in flames.
3.1 Flammability
Someone has been messing with my locker. 27-18-28. Jigglejigglejiggle the handle. Locked. 27-18-28. Jigglejigglejiggle. Damn.
If I weren’t trapped in a hall of bodies I could kick this sucker or punch it or find a chair and smash it against the crap metal piece of shit until I was standing in a pile of kindling up to my ankles and then the lock would tumble into place and the handle would jigglejiggle-open. If there weren’t four thousand strangers bumping into me one after the other, I could get a crowbar and pry this thing open because I have to get my books and my notebooks and look at all the stupid crap that is stuck to the inside of my locker so
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