“I want one last family meeting today,” Mama says.

  Richard and I both groan. That’s five / too many / one week.

  Daddy says, “Will be short. We will talk quickly.”

  “I have to go to Carrie’s to—uh—work on a paper that’s due tomorrow.”

  “You’re a terrible liar,” Mama says.

  “I don’t want to miss your show,” Richard says.

  “It’s not my show. I didn’t even talk to them.”

  “What show?” Mama asks.

  “60 Minutes!” Richard says.

  I smile at Richard / say nothing / it takes him a moment.

  “Oh, snap,” he says. “Busted.”

  I say, “They wanted me to talk about being a time anomaly. I don’t think I am one.”

  Daddy says, “You are very talented girl.”

  “Exactly,” Mama says.

  “I still think we should watch it,” Richard says.

  “Carrie’s mom is recording it for you,” I say.

  Daddy serves a perfect eggs Benedict. He makes mimosas for him and Mama / squeezed oranges first thing this morning. We eat / four dinner chairs / four plates / a family / in the arrow.

  I eye the switch with every bite / chew it like bubble gum / am ready to blow the bubble.

  FAMILY MEETING #543

  To understand anything is to understand energy. Mama is in her chair / Daddy on the couch, lying with his feet up / Richard is in his beanbag / I sprawl on the love seat.

  “I’ll call this to order,” Mama says. “Talk to me about life, you two. What are you working on? What’s happening this week? Can I help with anything?”

  I wait for Richard to go first. As he talks, I see Daddy’s eyes closing involuntarily / we destroyed and rebuilt an entire house / family / in a day / he is tired. Richard doesn’t see this from the beanbag / keeps talking. Coding class / calculus / ecology / online classes are harder / but.

  “I’m excited to write the analysis paper for my lit class. I started writing it a few weeks ago but I have to start over.”

  “Lolita?” I ask.

  “I changed my mind,” he says / idea-stabber / mind-changer. “I was only reading it again to make sure I wasn’t—you know—like him.”

  “Oh, honey,” Mama says. “You aren’t like that. I told you. The bad energy just got into your head.”

  “I feel so stupid,” he says.

  “We all feel stupid,” Mama says.

  “What do you feel stupid about?” he asks.

  Mama says. “I abandoned my family!”

  “We thought you were a yo-yo,” I say.

  “I was a yo-yo!” she says and laughs. “I’m a fucking clairvoyant. And I still let it happen. I’ll feel dumb for that for a long time.” She looks at Richard. “We’ll work it out.”

  Richard seems to believe it / looks ready for a dare.

  I watch Daddy’s eyelids.

  “I have to have a thesis statement written by tomorrow for our Solution Time project,” I say.

  “Sounds easy,” Mama says.

  I look at the switch.

  Richard says, “She’s been trying to write it for five months.”

  “Shit,” Mama says. “Can we help you?”

  I breathe / Daddy’s eyelids are dancing. “I’ll figure it out.”

  “Well, what’s it about?” Mama asks.

  “People giving a shit about other people,” I answer.

  “Like—all people?” she asks.

  “It’s too wide. That’s why I can’t get the thesis statement down.”

  “Wasn’t that class supposed to have something to do with time?” she asks.

  “I studied the psychology of time. And I argued that time stopped because it was sick of us being assholes to each other. So the only way to start it again is to stop being assholes to each other.”

  “Good luck,” Mama says.

  “Yeah,” I say / I get up / walk to the kitchen / to the tool bucket / get my crowbar and Daddy’s claw hammer.

  I say, “Technically, it’s not due tomorrow.”

  Freeze. Nobody make a fucking move.

  I start with my crowbar / use both hands.

  THE ORIGINAL BOX

  There are layers here / slide the hook between them / pull. Whole boxes come off, one at a time. One is made of old paneling. One is made of old vegetable crates. One is made of white pressboard. One is made of my father’s old skateboards. In between there is plywood / oak / maple / cherry / ash / teak / mahogany / sticks and nests / birds / eggshells / saplings / peach buds / there is sky. I remove layer after layer in near silence. Everyone in the living room is frozen, but Daddy is only sleeping.

  Finally, I reach the original box.

  I use Daddy’s hammer to carefully remove it and expose the switch.

  Like flipping pancakes.

  THE SWITCH III

  To understand anything is to understand energy. In the arrow, energy doesn’t stop / I am in the arrow / am the arrow / the arrow is me. Zeno wasn’t wrong / time stands still every single day. Entire nations are stuck in arrows. Entire families. Entire classrooms. Entire galaxies—flying through time inside an unmoving arrow.

  Everything is wrong with the world / people had nine months to stop being assholes to one another / they didn’t stop.

  x equals they didn’t stop.

  In the center of our house, there is a switch. I know what the switch controls.

  “Don’t touch it!” Daddy yells / starts time again.

  Because Daddy is lunging toward me, Richard / reanimated / lunges for me, too.

  Mama sits calmly, inspecting the pins and needles in her hands.

  I decide for the world / for the flying girl / for me.

  I flip the switch.

  * * *

  —

  Nothing explodes / erupts / nothing eerie happens. Just the clock on the oven starts blinking. The analog on the wall—Daddy hung it last night on the same nail—starts to tick.

  Mama looks at her watch / Daddy and Richard stop running toward me.

  I take my phone out of my pocket.

  Date: March 28, 2021 / Time: 5:48 p.m.

  Richard / rifle with a new bayonet looks around the house as if he just landed here / knows us all through a dream. There are no more bombs.

  Daddy stares at me angry / in love. To understand anything is to understand energy / anger / love.

  x equals anger.

  x equals love.

  Flip the pancake / take the tampões de ouvido out of your ears / hear everything / listen.

  OLDCLOCK

  N3WCLOCK stock tanked first thing Monday morning. They lost everything / news mocked them by noon / dumb kids who couldn’t get into a better college. Things went back to normal / people were bigger assholes to one another / by dinnertime, approximately four billion were scolded for being late to the table.

  Scientists had spent Sunday night doing mathematical time equations to make sure we had the time right / headlines increased the font size / 279 / that’s how many days / nine months + six days = 279. Graphic designers had logos ready / by lunchtime at the home of the Trojans there were more than three hundred t-shirt styles available in the “279” store.

  No one would ever know how Daddy did it. Even he couldn’t explain it when we asked. “My intent was to save electric money,” he said. “Was inventing for water heater.” Mama reckoned he was desperate / to understand anything is to understand energy / his sadness needed time to reorient / he bought time / with Somewhere Else ingenuity / not a billion dollars.

  We didn’t move it / dare touch it after I’d flipped it. The four of us built a box / together / agreed we would never touch it again / or only in case of emergencies / Mama made us pinky-swear / embarrassed Daddy into pinky-swearing, too.

  * * *

  Solution Time was cancelled / of course it was / Nigel is not in school today. Rumor has it he was moved to another position / administration / waste of his transformational wit / writing letters to school families about spirit days / yearbooks / sandwich sales.

  Psych Team still meets in our usual classroom / we do Anticipation for fun / last stop on the last cycle around Plutchik’s Clock. I write phrases and words on the whiteboard / habit / healing. Curious, inquisitive, excited! Interested and engaged—willing to wait because you know what’s coming is good. Giddy, nervous, edgy with waiting, awake and paying attention, the feeling of want and the fear of it not being as great as you thought. Relief from other emotions, a way up and a way out. Preparing and planning. Like the night before your birthday. Feeling like tomorrow is going to be good. Dreams. Hopes. The future. I take a picture of it for my notes, even though my notes are moot / Solution Time is over / I have no control over people giving a shit about other people / only myself.

  * * *

  At lunch, while half the cafeteria buys “279” T-shirts, Len shows me a news story on his phone. Puts both earbuds in my ears / takes reaction video / it’s little Jennifer from Omaha, flying around the field behind her house / breaking news.

  * * *

  —

  Breaking news / I’m at track practice. Breaking news / tomorrow is our first away meet. Breaking news / I finally found something I’m good at in high school.

  Breaking news / you are the energy.

  Breaking news / here is a switch.

  Acknowledgments

  Reader, when I was eighteen, I got so tired of being hyper-aware of / scared of / concerned with time that I took my watch off my wrist, threw it into a public trash can, and never put one on again. More than thirty years later, I have to say, it was one of the best things I ever did for myself. After that, I grew my own time / did things that made people wonder about me, like volunteering, giving up TV, living off the land, and writing weird novels—things I wanted to do.

  Class of 2020, I dedicate this book to you because you graduated during a time that tossed its watch into a public trash can. You can now grow your own time, too. Take the dare. Be extraordinary. Live the heck out of your life. Drop me a line and tell me what you’re up to.

  I owe thanks to all the usual suspects. Everyone at Dutton Books for Young Readers, but especially my editor, Andrew Karre. Special shout-out to Samira Iravani and Nicki Crock for this amazing cover and Anne Heausler for making me be a better person.

  Thank you to Michael Bourret for being an epic human being and a great agent.

  Thank you to my friends, many of them writers, but many who are not and yet they work to understand my bizarro life. You all know who you are and I love you.

  Thank you to teachers and librarians and bloggers and booksellers who share my books with readers. Thank you to fans who write me letters that keep me going. Thank you to Livy King, who is so rad, I can’t believe I’m this lucky—I love you. Thank you to Gracie King for giving me sixteen years with her wild mind and beautiful heart—I miss you. Thank you to my parents who have supported me since the beginning—from taking me to meet Grace Hopper to mass-photocopying my first typewritten newspaper in 1982—you two have always understood that I have something to say.

  I owe special thanks to the crew at the Johnson County Library system for asking me to write a speech about time in 2018. That’s where I invented Plutchik’s Clock. It was like throwing my watch into a trash can again / reminded me what’s important.

  To anyone who needs to hear it: Time means nothing. Money means very little. Love means everything. Build a Plutchik’s Clock. Find your switch / pull your switch / soar.

  About the Author

  A.S. King is the award-winning author of many acclaimed books for young readers. Her novel Dig won the 2020 Michael L. Printz Award, and Ask The Passengers won the 2013 Los Angeles Times Book Prize. The New York Times called her "one of the best YA writers working today." King lives with her family in Pennsylvania, where she returned after living on a farm and teaching adult literacy in Ireland for more than a decade. www.as-king.com

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  A.S. King, Switch

 

 

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