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Authors: Laurie Anderson
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it can remind me of who I am on days when I forget or want to forget like this one. If there were any justice in the world, I’d be able to flatten myself and slide through the vents in the locker door like Alice in Wonderland, Kate in Wonderland, off with her head!
Try again. 27-18-28.
The humiliation. Searing, scarring humiliation. I can’t go to the cafeteria, not ever again. Maybe I could tell them I was banned, that I was caught putting rat poison in the peas or I ran in the hall with scissors. I can’t go to English class, either, because Mitch will be there. Come to think of it, I can’t ever see him, or Sara, or Travis . . . I can’t ever go home, can’t go to work . . . kids don’t run away to join the circus anymore, do they? Too bad. I could work in the sideshow as Idiot Girl. Or I could run away to New York City and do something dramatically stupid in a subway station.
Jigglejigglejiggle. Why won’t this freaking thing open?
I lean my head against the locked locker. The metal draws the heat away from my brain. Everyone assumes I’ll go to Syracuse or Ithaca or Drexel, because I applied there, remember? Remember how I sweated over those essays? Remember how I told Dad I wrote the checks for the application fees? Remember how everyone bought the myth that I had been accepted by my safety schools? That I even applied to my safety schools?
The freak show could bill me as the Amazing Lying Egghead. See her bullshit the family! See her lie straight-faced to friends! See her completely tank her life!
If I concentrate hard enough, I should be able to separate the molecules of the metal locker door and melt through the surface. Since the lock is jammed, they’d wouldn’t find me until my body had mummified. That would work.
Two hands on my shoulder, a deep voice in my ear: “I’ve been looking everywhere for you.” Mitchell “Harvard Asshole” Pangborn pulls me away from the locker and spins me around. He lifts my chin with his fingers. He can’t lift my eyes.
“I know,” he says.
“Already?”
“You started a fire in chem class, Malone. Everybody knows.”
If I concentrate hard enough, maybe I could separate the molecules of linoleum and wood and steel and concrete beneath my feet and sink slowly into the earth.
“It wasn’t a real fire,” I say.
“You could have been hurt.”
“Ha.”
He pulls me into his sweatshirt, and now I have to concentrate not to fall into the spaces between his molecules of skin and muscle and bone. I pull back.
“Don’t. I can’t be hugged right now. I can’t have all this ‘It’ll be okay’ stuff, okay? Don’t be nice to me. I’ll scream, I swear.”
He shoves his hands into the pockets of his jeans. I pull the strap of my photo bag higher on my shoulder and squeeze my books until their edges bite my arms.
“I don’t know what to do,” he says.
“Join the club. Where’s Sara?”
“She’s sick. A stomach bug, Travis said.”
“She ate Jell-O with nuts last night.”
He steps close again, slips his hand around the back of my neck. “Kate.”
I shrug him off. “I meant it, Pangborn.” I look up, not at his eyes because that would be the end of me, but to glance around the hall. The thousands of bodies have vanished— poof! I didn’t hear the bell. Somewhere a clock is trying to tick, its hands stuck in molasses.
“I can’t open my locker,” I say.
He steps around me and spins the dial, 27-18-28. Click-click-click . The lock surrenders and the door swings open between us. I throw my books inside and slam it shut.
“I’m late,” I say. “I have to go.”
3.2 Significant Figure
That crackle you hear? That’s the sound of hell freezing over. Alert the media: Kate Malone is ditching class.
The art teacher, Mr. Freeman, and his students are building a statue in the front lobby. The statue is a giant stick figure with two metal legs, a pole for the body, and two long arms thrust in the air. A guy with a skanky mullet is
Try again. 27-18-28.
The humiliation. Searing, scarring humiliation. I can’t go to the cafeteria, not ever again. Maybe I could tell them I was banned, that I was caught putting rat poison in the peas or I ran in the hall with scissors. I can’t go to English class, either, because Mitch will be there. Come to think of it, I can’t ever see him, or Sara, or Travis . . . I can’t ever go home, can’t go to work . . . kids don’t run away to join the circus anymore, do they? Too bad. I could work in the sideshow as Idiot Girl. Or I could run away to New York City and do something dramatically stupid in a subway station.
Jigglejigglejiggle. Why won’t this freaking thing open?
I lean my head against the locked locker. The metal draws the heat away from my brain. Everyone assumes I’ll go to Syracuse or Ithaca or Drexel, because I applied there, remember? Remember how I sweated over those essays? Remember how I told Dad I wrote the checks for the application fees? Remember how everyone bought the myth that I had been accepted by my safety schools? That I even applied to my safety schools?
The freak show could bill me as the Amazing Lying Egghead. See her bullshit the family! See her lie straight-faced to friends! See her completely tank her life!
If I concentrate hard enough, I should be able to separate the molecules of the metal locker door and melt through the surface. Since the lock is jammed, they’d wouldn’t find me until my body had mummified. That would work.
Two hands on my shoulder, a deep voice in my ear: “I’ve been looking everywhere for you.” Mitchell “Harvard Asshole” Pangborn pulls me away from the locker and spins me around. He lifts my chin with his fingers. He can’t lift my eyes.
“I know,” he says.
“Already?”
“You started a fire in chem class, Malone. Everybody knows.”
If I concentrate hard enough, maybe I could separate the molecules of linoleum and wood and steel and concrete beneath my feet and sink slowly into the earth.
“It wasn’t a real fire,” I say.
“You could have been hurt.”
“Ha.”
He pulls me into his sweatshirt, and now I have to concentrate not to fall into the spaces between his molecules of skin and muscle and bone. I pull back.
“Don’t. I can’t be hugged right now. I can’t have all this ‘It’ll be okay’ stuff, okay? Don’t be nice to me. I’ll scream, I swear.”
He shoves his hands into the pockets of his jeans. I pull the strap of my photo bag higher on my shoulder and squeeze my books until their edges bite my arms.
“I don’t know what to do,” he says.
“Join the club. Where’s Sara?”
“She’s sick. A stomach bug, Travis said.”
“She ate Jell-O with nuts last night.”
He steps close again, slips his hand around the back of my neck. “Kate.”
I shrug him off. “I meant it, Pangborn.” I look up, not at his eyes because that would be the end of me, but to glance around the hall. The thousands of bodies have vanished— poof! I didn’t hear the bell. Somewhere a clock is trying to tick, its hands stuck in molasses.
“I can’t open my locker,” I say.
He steps around me and spins the dial, 27-18-28. Click-click-click . The lock surrenders and the door swings open between us. I throw my books inside and slam it shut.
“I’m late,” I say. “I have to go.”
3.2 Significant Figure
That crackle you hear? That’s the sound of hell freezing over. Alert the media: Kate Malone is ditching class.
The art teacher, Mr. Freeman, and his students are building a statue in the front lobby. The statue is a giant stick figure with two metal legs, a pole for the body, and two long arms thrust in the air. A guy with a skanky mullet is
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