Catalyst (3 page)

I nod. “You should have heard him coughing last night. I think he should stay home from school.” I pick up the excuse, fold it, and put it in my bag. “I have practice after school, and you have that chicken dinner. Don’t forget. The congregation gets pissed when you don’t show up.”

He picks up the scissors and slices through the paper. “Don’t say ‘pissed.’ It’s crude.”

“The congregation gets
perturbed
when you forget to show up at these things. Oh, and don’t make any plans for me on Saturday. I’m working in the morning and getting my contacts—finally—in the afternoon.”

He keeps cutting. “You’re changing the subject again. I don’t know why you keep avoiding this. It’s not like you.”

La-la-la-la-la. I am not listening. Let him have the last word. I am the child, he is the father, and all is right with the universe. I grab my books and—
ow
—that twinge again in my chest. I think I strained a pectoral muscle lifting weights for track. The books slide awkwardly against one another. My keys were sandwiched between mythology and chemistry. I toss them in the air and catch them. “When the letter comes, bring it to school, okay?”

He keeps cutting. “Have a good day. God bless, Kate.”

2.2 Transition Element

The church next door is dark and the stone walls give off a chill. Dad refuses to spend money on floodlights because he says churches don’t need security. I shiver and hustle to my sad excuse of a motor vehicle, a Yugo named Bert.

I usually drive to school on autopilot. Not today—leaving late has landed me smack in the middle of rush-hour traffic. This is bad. Bert fears traffic. Bert is a wuss, a tissue box on tires with a bulimic hunger for motor oil. I pet the dashboard as I turn onto the main road, and promise him a filter change if he can get me to school without overheating.

A minivan cuts in front of us and stops at the next yellow light.
Come on, lady, get the lead out
. The driver, a mom wearing big sunglasses, is either screaming or singing to the kids strapped into the back seat. Start, coast, stop. Another yellow, a long red. Shoot.

I cover the temperature gauge and jiggle my left leg. If Dad hadn’t slowed me down, I’d be at school right now.
God bless.
Why does he insist on saying that? I don’t inflict scientific theories on him. I don’t make him contemplate the elegance of the periodic table or particle physics. He knows I’m allergic to the G-word. He does it just to annoy me.

The light turns green, and the minivan heads for the elementary school. I steer Bert to the entrance ramp of the bypass. Once we merge, I put on the hazard flashers and settle into the slow lane. The sore muscle in my chest whimpers as I wrestle the gearshift into third.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not against religion. Religion is good, apparently. Millions of people seem to enjoy it. But I’m not buying it, especially the brand-name version my dad sells. I don’t see that his blessings have ever helped anything.

A line of cars passes me, horns honking, middle fingers saluting. Sometimes I wish I did have faith. If I did, I’d pray for another thousand miles on this heap. And to be accepted by MIT, of course. A full scholarship would be nice. A microwave for my dorm room, a work-study job in a decent lab. God could pay for my contacts, cure Toby’s asthma, get Mitch’s parents off his back about his major, and develop a cure for AIDS. If I believed in God, I’d pray all the time. Dad would croak.

We’re approaching the big hill, the one that makes Bert shudder. I floor it for a second to gain some momentum, then take my foot off the gas and coast to give the engine a second to cool down before the big push.

I am not the daughter Rev. Jack Malone wants. He is not the father I need. It’s as simple as that. Rev. Dad (Version 4.7) is a faulty operating system, incompatible with my software.

I downshift, accelerate, and cross my fingers. Halfway up the hill and Bert is panting, but it doesn’t smell like anything is on fire. Slow and steady, eyes up.

Dad and I might be able to tolerate each other if he had a normal job. Everybody argues with their father. But nobody else has to listen to what Jesus would think about MTV, or what He would think about class rankings. Nobody else has to play the role of sweet little preacher’s girl in addition to getting into college and ironing clothes and feeding the pets and making sure my brother takes his medicine.

Crap.

I should have checked Toby’s peak flow reading before I left. Dad will forget. I fumble in my bag for something to write with and come up with one of Mitch’s Harvard pens. I scrawl “pk flw” on the back of my left hand. We crest the hill and I pat the dashboard again. A filter change and premium gas, I swear, buddy.

2.2.1 Base

You’re probably wondering what happened to my mom.

It was pneumonia—resistant to drugs, resistant to oxygen, hungry, fast, and fatal.

She got sick on a Thursday and died three days later. Her lungs filled up and she drowned. It took everybody by surprise. Especially the doctors.

I was in fourth grade. I didn’t enter the science fair that year. Everything was blurry.

I know I am supposed to be all tragic and freaked out because my mom is dead, but sorry, I’m not. Sometimes I miss her; it’s not like I’m heartless, but I’ve lived half of my life without her. She’s like a distant aunt, someone who was fun to play with, but forgets to send birthday cards. I dream about her sometimes. I think it’s about her, anyway.

2.3 Caustic

I park the car in the last row of the Merryweather High student lot and sprint to the door. I walk through the metal detector without setting off any alarms. I’ll have to get a late pass, but that shouldn’t be—

“Hold it right there, honey.” The security guard stands up and walks over to me.

The guard and the metal detectors are new this year. They allow our parents to think we are safe.

The guard hitches up her pants and tries on a firm but friendly smile. “I need to see your student ID,” she says.

Good God. I sigh and swing my photo bag around. The card fits in the plastic sleeve on the front flap.

She clears her throat. “Like I said, I need to see your ID.”

“What?” I look at the bag. The sleeve is empty, the card gone. Oh, crap. Oh, smelly crap. “It must have fallen out in the parking lot. I had to run. Or it’s in my car. I’ll get it for you second period. Excuse me, I have to go. I’m way late for chem.”

She slides sideways and blocks my path. “I can’t let you enter the building without proper identification.”

“Yes, you can. Mrs. Watson does it all the time.”

“That’s why Mrs. Watson was fired. I’m in charge now. I follow orders.”

Deep breath. Be nice. “I’m Kate Malone. I’m ranked third in the senior class. I’m National Honor Society, a peer counselor. Look.” I pull out my wallet and show her my license. “That’s me.”

She studies it and crosses her arms over her bosom. “There is nothing on that license that says you are a student here. You could be disgruntled. You could be hostile.”

“Do I look hostile?”

“You are a teenager.”

2.4 The Crucible

It takes ten minutes to convince Cerberus to escort me to the office, where the principal vouches for me and commends the guard for her vigilance. Good dog. By the time I make it to the science wing, room 313, first period is nearly over.

AP Chem is home: the orderly rows of lab tables, clinking glass beakers and test tubes, and the molecular models floating overhead like satellites, beaming data down to us. I’m in my element here. If I had my way, I’d study chemistry all day, with maybe a math class thrown in every once in a while for diversion.

Ms. Cummings is writing a formula on the board. She looks over her shoulder. “I was wondering if we’d see you, Kate.”

I set the late pass on her desk. “Car trouble.”

“I was hoping it was something more significant.”

“You and me both.”

Ms. Cummings moved to our district my freshman year and set up a science geek club the day she arrived. She turned me on to nanotechnology, got me over my biochem prejudice, and supervised all my science fair entries, including the one that took the national award. She is my fairy godmother in a lab coat and goggles. I don’t even hold it against her that she goes to Dad’s church and sings in his choir.

Twenty-six sets of eyes follow me to my table. Twenty-six pair of lips whisper the same question. “Are you in? Are you in? Are you in? Are you in, Kate?”

I shrink smaller and smaller as I walk to the back of the room. By the time I get to my table, I have to pull myself up onto the stool looming ten feet overhead. Everybody is always into everybody else’s business around here. Pisses me off.

“Well?” asks Diana Sung, my lab partner, 3.86 GPA, accepted by Rensselaer Polytechnic Institute.

“I didn’t check the mail yesterday,” Bad Kate lies.

“She hasn’t heard yet,” Diana reports to the rest of the class.

Several dweeb-kings nod smugly: Ed Davis, 3.97, accepted by every college he applied to, all fifteen of them; Omar Hakeen, 4.12 (we get extra brownie points for super-advanced honors courses), full ride to Howard University; Eric Warren, 3.84, headed to Dartmouth to study pre-med and play hockey.

I put on my safety goggles and study the boiling water bath on our hot plate. “What’s their problem?”

“They have a pool going. The odds on you getting into MIT are four to one.”

“For?”

Diana fiddles with the graphing calculator. “Against.”

“It’s just a paperwork problem. Guidance said it’s happening more and more. Where’s Mariah?”

“Sick. Allegedly.”

Mariah Yates is waiting for her acceptance letter, too. She’s wound up tighter than a psychotic terrier on crack. If she doesn’t get into her top school, she’ll snap. Totally. Her parents will be paying room and board at a mental hospital.

Diana uses a sharp pencil to copy the numbers from the calculator. “She’s been accepted at eight other schools. There is no reason for her to freak out.”

I lean closer to the boiling water in the beaker. Angry bubbles race to the top of the water and explode. Applying to only one school seemed like such a good idea at the time.

“Whatever,” I say. “Let’s finish this.”

Our experiment is supposed to show the relationship between gas temperature and pressure. We have to stick some sealed tubes of air into beakers of cold water and hot water and figure out what the temperature does to the air pressure in the tubes. Not exactly rocket science, but fun enough. Diana has already taken the cold readings. The water in the beaker is at full boil now: bubble, bubble, toil and—

Slam!

Mariah Yates stands in the doorway clutching a letter to her chest, black mascara running down her face.

“I got into Stanford!” she shrieks.

Most of the class breaks into applause. A couple of guys pull out their wallets and pay up. They bet against Mariah? Fatal error. She’s just this side of crazy, yes, but it’s a brilliant kind of crazy, the kind that will either go down in flames her first semester or change the world.

I write down the temperature and air pressure data and reach for the calculator. Mariah shows her letter to Ms. Cummings.

I am so very happy for her.

2.5 Reactants

The faded sign on the wall says the cafeteria seats five hundred. As if. At last count, the student population here at Marvelous Merryweather High was 4,317. Hence the need for “lunch” at 8:30 in the morning. Hence also the tables sized for elementary students, the theory being that if they use smaller seats, more kids will be able to squeeze in.

I head for our table and stop. It has been taken over by football players, an entire squad of shoulders and thick forearms. Not my cup of tea, football players, though a few of the lads have lovely tight ends. They smell showered, and they’re eating French toast fingers. Showered men and French toast—quite an olfactory combination. My pheromones moan. Down, girl. Concentrate. Be alert. Where are my people? I squint and scan, looking for recognizable life-forms. I can’t wait to get my contacts. These glasses are useless.

A red flannel figure hunkers at the far end of the table, a slumped shape I’d know anywhere.

Teri Litch.

Teri Litch reading
People
magazine, eating her federally subsidized breakfast. Every school has a Teri—the kid who peed her pants in fifth grade and sat in it all day. The kid who wore only two different outfits in seventh grade. Our Teri put on one hundred pounds in ninth grade, then stopped eating in tenth. The ugly girl, the one who smells funny, studies carpentry at vo-tech, stomps around with sawdust in her hair, and has fists like sledgehammers. Teri beat me up every year in elementary school, fall and spring. I turned the other cheek for a while, then I learned to run. Intelligent life pursues self-preservation.

Teri turns the page and glances up at me, her glasses glinting in the sun. Uh-oh, don’t disturb the bear.

A purple football jersey grunts at me. “Malone.”

I turn away from Teri to Brandon Figgs, my favorite tight end. We hooked up for a while last year, but I always wanted to say
shut up, can we please start kissing now because you are so dumb I want to scream
. Unfortunately, he kissed like a vacuum cleaner. It didn’t last long.

“Have you seen Mitch?” I ask.

Brandon shakes his head. The player next to him says something rude. It involves Teri and his jockstrap. Do I have to give details? His buddies crack up. Brandon laughs, chokes, and dribbles milk out of his mouth, which makes everyone laugh harder. So attractive.

A flush creeps up Teri’s neck.

This is where I should stick up for her. I am Kate Malone, after all. I’m the preacher’s kid, Rev. Malone’s skinny little girl. I am supposed to practice all that love-your-neighbor stuff.

Teri gives me the finger.

All righty, then.

2.5.1 Bonds

“Kate!”

The shout comes from the back of the room.