Read Online Catalyst by Laurie Anderson - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Laurie Anderson
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wrapping pâpier-maché around the legs. While the art elves rummage through a half dozen plastic bins filled with junk, the teacher fires up his glue gun.
Artistic people are too random for me, but these kids look harmless. One girl I recognize. She’s half-famous around here: Melinda Something. A senior tried to rape her in a janitor’s closet last year. She fought him off and pressed charges, which was cool. It made the papers when he was found guilty. He didn’t go to jail, of course. White, upper-middle-class criminals go to the state college, not the state penitentiary. Then they join fraternities.
State college. My future, and only if they have rolling admissions. The nausea starts in my knees and surges upward. I cover my mouth and sink to the floor, my back against the wall. My hands are shaking. They do not feel attached.
Why I belong at MIT:
I’m smart.
I work hard.
I aced the math SAT.
I’m a legacy.
I need very little sleep.
I do not require a social life.
Heat and pressure improve my performance.
I could be the reincarnation of Madame Curie (according to Sara).
Why MIT blew me off:
I’m not smart enough.
I do not work hard enough.
My verbal SAT was less than perfect.
Mom didn’t leave MIT any money in her will.
I scared the admissions officer during my interview.
My essays sucked.
I’m linear, not well-rounded.
I’m too short.
Melinda Something heard me moan. She puts down a spool of copper wire and walks over to where I’m squatting. “Are you okay?”
I nod. She’s a sophomore and would not understand the stress of losing your college. I point at the statue. “What’s that?”
“Mr. Freeman calls it Student Body .”
“It looks like a robot.”
“It’s supposed to be a puppet.” She pulls out her scrunchy and combs through her hair with her fingers. “We’re covering it with representational pieces, junk that stands for all of us. Freeman keeps telling us, ‘Everybody is a piece.’ You look really pale. Want me to get the nurse?”
I shake my head. “She can’t fix this.”
She smoothes her hair back into a ponytail and winds the scrunchy around it. “Got it. Feel free to help, if you want.”
“Thanks. I’ll just watch.”
I watch the puppet grow for the next two periods. They cover it with student council campaign buttons, cheerleader hair ribbons, chess pieces, computer chips, plastic cell phones, excuse cards, a jockstrap and a sports bra (the Student Body is gender-neutral), crayons, erasers, sheet music, and about a million other things. There is an anatomically correct heart glued outside the chest, dark red and shiny. I bet that will be the first thing that gets ripped off. The science geeks are represented by glass test tubes. Worrywart Good Kate wishes they had used plastic.
While they work, I concentrate on alternative career choices. I come up with four.
1. Janitor—I’m great with a toilet brush.
2. Soup kitchen employee—I have significant ladling skills, too.
3. Crack cooker—Drug lords are always looking for good chemists. Except I am terrified of guns. And crack kills brain cells. And Toby would freak out and have the mother of all asthma attacks and . . . Okay, I can’t be a crack cooker.
4. Shirt presser—I could work at that little dry-cleaning place next to the Acme.
Gak. Gak. Gak. I think I have a hairball stuck in my throat. Much as it kills me, I’m going to have to talk to my guidance counselor. I stretch once, then stand.
Mr. Freeman chuckles as he works on the sculpture’s head, a hornet with monstrous eyes. (Merryweather High is the home of the Fight’n Hornets. It’s a long story.) As I leave, the art kids are gluing on hundreds of cutout eyes from the yearbook. All of our eyes together make a kaleidoscope that follows you down the hall. They should call that thing Frankenstudent .
3.3 Dissociation
The guidance office is jammed. Picture a mosh pit of enraged parents ready to body-slam the
Artistic people are too random for me, but these kids look harmless. One girl I recognize. She’s half-famous around here: Melinda Something. A senior tried to rape her in a janitor’s closet last year. She fought him off and pressed charges, which was cool. It made the papers when he was found guilty. He didn’t go to jail, of course. White, upper-middle-class criminals go to the state college, not the state penitentiary. Then they join fraternities.
State college. My future, and only if they have rolling admissions. The nausea starts in my knees and surges upward. I cover my mouth and sink to the floor, my back against the wall. My hands are shaking. They do not feel attached.
Why I belong at MIT:
I’m smart.
I work hard.
I aced the math SAT.
I’m a legacy.
I need very little sleep.
I do not require a social life.
Heat and pressure improve my performance.
I could be the reincarnation of Madame Curie (according to Sara).
Why MIT blew me off:
I’m not smart enough.
I do not work hard enough.
My verbal SAT was less than perfect.
Mom didn’t leave MIT any money in her will.
I scared the admissions officer during my interview.
My essays sucked.
I’m linear, not well-rounded.
I’m too short.
Melinda Something heard me moan. She puts down a spool of copper wire and walks over to where I’m squatting. “Are you okay?”
I nod. She’s a sophomore and would not understand the stress of losing your college. I point at the statue. “What’s that?”
“Mr. Freeman calls it Student Body .”
“It looks like a robot.”
“It’s supposed to be a puppet.” She pulls out her scrunchy and combs through her hair with her fingers. “We’re covering it with representational pieces, junk that stands for all of us. Freeman keeps telling us, ‘Everybody is a piece.’ You look really pale. Want me to get the nurse?”
I shake my head. “She can’t fix this.”
She smoothes her hair back into a ponytail and winds the scrunchy around it. “Got it. Feel free to help, if you want.”
“Thanks. I’ll just watch.”
I watch the puppet grow for the next two periods. They cover it with student council campaign buttons, cheerleader hair ribbons, chess pieces, computer chips, plastic cell phones, excuse cards, a jockstrap and a sports bra (the Student Body is gender-neutral), crayons, erasers, sheet music, and about a million other things. There is an anatomically correct heart glued outside the chest, dark red and shiny. I bet that will be the first thing that gets ripped off. The science geeks are represented by glass test tubes. Worrywart Good Kate wishes they had used plastic.
While they work, I concentrate on alternative career choices. I come up with four.
1. Janitor—I’m great with a toilet brush.
2. Soup kitchen employee—I have significant ladling skills, too.
3. Crack cooker—Drug lords are always looking for good chemists. Except I am terrified of guns. And crack kills brain cells. And Toby would freak out and have the mother of all asthma attacks and . . . Okay, I can’t be a crack cooker.
4. Shirt presser—I could work at that little dry-cleaning place next to the Acme.
Gak. Gak. Gak. I think I have a hairball stuck in my throat. Much as it kills me, I’m going to have to talk to my guidance counselor. I stretch once, then stand.
Mr. Freeman chuckles as he works on the sculpture’s head, a hornet with monstrous eyes. (Merryweather High is the home of the Fight’n Hornets. It’s a long story.) As I leave, the art kids are gluing on hundreds of cutout eyes from the yearbook. All of our eyes together make a kaleidoscope that follows you down the hall. They should call that thing Frankenstudent .
3.3 Dissociation
The guidance office is jammed. Picture a mosh pit of enraged parents ready to body-slam the
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