PIAGET’S FIFTH STAGE / STUDY HALL

  If you’re not careful with your energy—your attention—you run the risk of becoming judgmental. I wonder if Jean Piaget ever came up with a developmental stage for that. When, exactly, do humans become superior assholes? Or is that just called adulthood?

  I look up the worksheet that Ellie gave us in pretend-November about Jean Piaget and his theory. The basic four stages are Sensorimotor (birth–2 years old), Preoperational (2–7), Concrete Operational (7–11), and Formal Operational (12 and up).

  There are scientists who disagree with Piaget’s theory of cognitive development, so I read their arguments against it. Some psychologist in 1979 said that an average of 40–60 percent of college students couldn’t handle Piaget’s stage-four formal operations at all. Another dude in 1994 claims that only one-third of adults ever reach the formal operational stage, which means two-thirds of adults are unable to grasp abstract concepts or use logic to test out ideas. That means there are twelve-year-olds that are more developed than Nigel, considering Nigel has yet to handle the abstract idea that when his peers told him he was a transformational teacher, they were probably pranking him / keeping him happy so he didn’t kick chairs around.

  * * *

  —

  Carrie drives me home after track practice. We didn’t throw today, probably on account of Giselle Masterson acting like I tried to skewer her on purpose at practice yesterday. We trained / I leg-pressed my own weight / Kevin knocked me over with a medicine ball but I’m fine.

  “I hope I didn’t freak you out last night,” she says. “I didn’t want to freak you out.”

  “Nah. You didn’t,” I lie. “I don’t know how anyone believes my sister about anything. Plus, Richard has literally never had a girlfriend. Like, ever.”

  “That’s part of it. Don’t you think that’s creepy? To like—never have a girlfriend? At his age?”

  I shrug in frustration.

  “Big rumor, small town, that’s all,” she says.

  She gives me a sympathetic look and drops me at the curb.

  I walk to the me-shaped hole and climb up.

  PIAGET’S DINNER MENU

  It’s a Sensorimotor kind of dinner tonight. Three infants sit down to roast pork with gravy, mashed potatoes, and a heap of cauliflower. We spoon-feed one another.

  I give Daddy a spoonful of mashed potatoes. “I had a good day in school today.”

  He clears food from my chin with a rubber-coated spoon. “That is very nice.”

  Richard feeds Daddy a spoonful of pork. “I got an A on my literature exam.”

  Daddy lifts him up, pats him gently on the back, and burps him. “Very good, boy.”

  We never removed the other chairs. There are two infants here you can’t see, but you can taste them in the food / residue.

  “How was your practice today, Truda?” Daddy asks.

  “Good. We trained inside, mostly. One girl won’t talk to me, but everyone else is nice.”

  “Is she not able to talk?”

  “She talks to her friends. Hates me,” I say. “Richard probably knows more about that than I do.”

  Richard looks confused.

  “Giselle? Masterson?” I say.

  Richard tugs on his bib / his lip quivers. “I don’t like this cauliflower.”

  Daddy says, “You never did, son.”

  “Why do you make it, then?”

  “Because Truda and I both like cauliflower.”

  “Do I have to eat it?”

  “You are a man now. You can choose not eat the food I have made for you.”

  Richard shrinks. Eats the cauliflower.

  Before I go to bed, I pull 203 more nails.

  Glowing

  NEW TIME

  N3WCLOCK was still the leader in time simulation, but other clocks had been invented by the day Nigel came to scare us all about becoming anything like him.

  In pretend-September, a university class in Japan invented OURCLOCK, which attempted to get people to live in backward-time. Their theory was that if we moved backward until we reached June 23, 2020, we would make up the time we lost. Or gained. Or something like that. It made world news, but no one used it.

  In pretend-October, four women in a grad studies program at Trinity College Dublin invented U-CLOCK, a time simulator that reflected the natural rhythms of your body. “Some people are night owls. Some people love sunrises. We no longer have to live by a clock set by men. We can decide for ourselves,” the leader of the group said. They made and sold an app that could, through artificial intelligence, make a personal clock for everyone. It worked well, made them a lot of money, and yet no one was able to agree on a time to meet for dinner or drinks. Schoolchildren arrived to their classes anytime they wanted and U-CLOCK was their excuse.

  N3WATCH

  At the end of pretend-November, right after pretend-Thanksgiving, the owners of N3WCLOCK sent legal documents to anyone who attempted to make an online time simulator claiming that all were a violation of trademarks and patents. At a TV news conference, the nineteen-year-old CEO wore a watch. He showed it to the camera.

  N3WATCH became the best-selling holiday gift of all time. It beat the Rubik’s Cube by a hundred million sales.

  In pretend-February, N3WCLOCK finally sold their time to most major broadcasters and their logo and time showed in the top right corner of 75 percent of the stations on TV. Their price was a billion dollars / if you ever wondered how much time costs.

  * * *

  I’m not sure how students at other high schools were handling Solution Time, but by the time pretend–New Year came, all of us knew we’d never invent anything that would solve the actual problem.

  We kept going because we knew we’d be graded. I kept going because I wanted people to give a shit about other people. Thousand-dollar N3WATCHes made it harder. Billion-dollar time made it harder. Nigel’s bullshit made it harder.

  HUMAN KILOWATT-HOURS

  What I notice most is the increase in energy. In me. In the world around me. It’s as if energy goes crazy sitting still. It doesn’t know where to go / creeps up my arm / into the jav / into whiteboard markers. It creeps around everyone, all the time. Energy goes in. Energy comes out.

  It’s not the same kind of energy that runs a light bulb.

  It’s stronger.

  Nigel wouldn’t accept this as a fully formed idea because there’s no proof. But time and energy have something in common. I just don’t know what it is, yet. The AFT3RMATH is slowly coming to an end / I feel okay / first time in my life. Success was never possible before / this time / this energy / success is possible now.

  WHAT ENERGY IS

  On pretend-Thursday at lunch I say to Carrie, “The only energy measurement that humans seem to care about is calories.”

  “As opposed to?”

  “Kilowatt-hours.”

  “What the fuck is a kilowatt-hour?”

  “Exactly. But I bet you know how many calories are in that Snickers bar.”

  She looks at the nutrition facts. “Two hundred and fifteen.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means that if I eat this, I will have to run the track three extra laps at four hundred miles per hour to burn it off,” she says.

  “Could you power a light bulb with it instead?”

  “Before or after I eat it?”

  “Before.”

  Carrie inspects the half bar in her hand. “What—like stick little probes in there? A positive and a negative? Use it like a battery?”

  “You just made that up,” I say.

  She nods and says, “Let’s stop talking about calories.”

  Carrie has been on antidepressants for six months. She’s gained eighteen pounds. The people who point out this weight gain to her far outnumber the people who ask how she’s feeling today, or if she feels like dying anymore.

  “Sorry,” I say. “I think you look great.”

  “My ass is huge.”

  “Huge asses are in fashion and I hate to tell you, but you are not otherwise fashionable.”

  She smacks me on my arm.

  I smack her back.

  “So how would you power a light bulb with Snickers?”

  “Burn it,” I say.

  She eats it instead.

  THUNDER AND OLIVES

  As the rest of the school day goes by / chem / algebra II / health III, I track my energy. I write notes about it in class / ignore the lessons.

  x equals how my hands are glowing.

  x equals there is actual light coming out of my hands.

  I feel somehow bigger than I am. I feel stronger. I maybe bumped my head when I fell over yesterday in the weight room / medicine ball could have shifted something. Nigel’s anger-chair could have transferred wattage to me. Or Richard’s intense dislike of cauliflower. I feel brighter than I ever have before.

  * * *

  —

  Five minutes late to the track and Coach Aimee acts like I robbed a gas station. Makes me apologize. Tells me I should pay better attention to time / there is no time.

  Yesterday, I would have just felt like an asshole for being late. Today, I say, “You know, you could have asked why I was late.”

  She makes me run four miles for my mouth.

  x equals how I’m sure the energy is building.

  x equals how other people can’t see me glowing.

  I don’t feel a single step of the four miles. Time has stopped. In the arrow. My running is coming from the same place as thunder and olives / gifted by dirt.

  I get to throw three times.

  “You need more bounce on that last step,” Coach Aimee says.

  I use more bounce.

  “You need more height in the throw,” she says.

  I give more height.

  “You need to follow through,” she says.

  I follow through.

  PLUTCHIK’S DINNER MENU

  The starter will be Joy. You will eat it and feel instantly better. You belong here, you happy thing, you Mona Lisa smile, you fluffy kitten / newly hatched chick / baby bunny.

  Daddy has music playing. He likes Ethiopian music. He likes Icelandic music. He likes everything but country and jazz.

  “Tonight is curry!” Daddy says.

  My phone chimes from my pocket. A text from Carrie. Don’t forget uniforms come tomorrow!

  “You don’t like curry?” he says.

  “I love your curry.”

  “Good,” he says, and swings his hips to the beat. He is a very bad dancer. “What new thing did you learn today?”

  x equals Joy, Trust, Fear, Surprise, Sadness, Disgust, Anger, and Anticipation.

  x equals energy stuck in time.

  “Psychology, mostly.”

  “Is it true we only use ten percent of this?” He taps his head / makes a goofy face.

  “I have no idea.”

  “You seem—down.”

  “Just tired. Thursday. I’ll probably go to bed early tonight,” I say.

  Daddy is making dough. He still calls it “duff” to be funny. When he first learned English, he made that mistake a lot before someone corrected him. “I felt so dumb,” he told us back when I still played with dolls, “but English is difficult, and tough and rough are said same way, so who cares?”

  He kneads / folds. Kneads / folds. Then he rolls the dough in his stiff palms to make balls. “Chapati!”

  I say I have to go to my room and do some homework.

  “You will miss best part! They puff on open flame!”

  Daddy always said he liked American optimism until he moved here. “From over there, they look so proud and successful. But on closer view, they are discouraged and hiding failure.” He sounds judgmental when I quote him, but English is not his first language and Daddy is very direct. Fact: I don’t know many Americans that get as genuinely optimistic about making dinner as my dad.

  I stay at the kitchen table, open my laptop, see the colorful Plutchik wheel, and I open a new document and start writing. Thesis statement: People would give a shit about other people more if they understood their own emotions. This has nothing to do with time. This thesis statement is bullshit. This paper is bullshit. This class is bullshit. Close my laptop. Watch the chapati puff up on the open flame. Daddy squeals every time it happens.

  * * *

  —

  The main course is Trust. You will look around the dinner table and be ventral / vulnerable / calm. You belong here, in this trustworthy place.

  Richard sets the table with a small book opened in his left hand. The book is Lolita by Vladimir Nabokov. I’ve never read the book, but I know what it’s about / wonder why Richard is reading it / big rumor / small town. I fill water glasses as Daddy prepares plates. He has shredded carrot and cut orange slices and serves fresh yogurt.

  Richard is already sitting, book still in his left hand. He ignores us and reads.

  “Did you make this yogurt?” I ask.

  “I did! It is a terrific thing!” Daddy says.

  I hug Daddy.

  Richard says, “The food is getting cold.”

  Daddy says, “The food will not get cold.”

  Richard looks up from his book and he is blank / not trustworthy / not here.

  * * *

  —

  The side salad is Fear. You will feel paranoid that you trusted in the wrong place. You will wonder if Richard is someone else. You will hide it behind your Trust-smile and the kitchen will fill with the sounds of forks on old-world ceramic.

  Richard says, “Sorry to read at the table. I have a big test.”

  Daddy and I nod.

  Minutes pass. The yogurt is the most honest thing at this table.

  The yogurt is the truth.

  DISHWASHER

  “Why don’t we ever use the dishwasher?” Richard asks. His book is finally not in his left hand. He got carrot on it at dinner.

  Daddy and I ignore him. My hands wrist-deep in hot soapy water / reality—I know the dishwasher doesn’t really matter.

  “Go study,” I say. “We have it covered.”

  He stands for a moment watching Daddy and me wash and dry dishes. Neither of them seems to notice that I’m glowing / to understand anything is to understand energy.

  “Go!” Daddy says to Richard. “Study!”

  Richard walks to the new southwest plywood passageway and climbs in / toward box #11.

  By the time we’re standing at the doorway to the kitchen, lights off, countertop wiped down and dried, Daddy and I both exhale with satisfaction and he kisses me on the forehead, which makes me feel five and safe.

  The doorbell rings.

  This is shocking.

  AT LEAST SHE DIDN’T BRING THE DOG

  My mother—she’s insatiable.

  “Give your mother a hug,” she says.

  I comply.

  “Tell me how you’re doing in school.”

  I comply.

  “Why are you so sweaty?”

  I tell her I’m in track.

  “Where’s your brother?”

  Daddy steps into the foyer and says, “Richard is studying for important exam.”

  “I need to see him.”

  Daddy and I just stand there. I have a thesis statement to write. Daddy has nails to hammer. Mama is not in rehab.

  “Holy hell, what are you doing to the house?” she says, after noticing that Daddy’s diorama of conduit and plywood has expanded tenfold since she last saw it.

  “Go find Richard,” Daddy says. He puts on his toolbelt and climbs into the east plywood passage. Opposite direction from Richard.

  She looks at me. “How the hell am I supposed to find Richard?”

  “Go that way.”

  She looks me up and down, inspecting, then looks at Daddy. “What is he doing to you?” she whispers.

  “Stop,” I say. “Just stop.”

  She definitely got a phone call from my sister this week, too.

  “I miss you,” I say.

  “I worry about you,” she says.

  She looks me up and down again. I know my hair is dried-sweat stuck to my head and Mama isn’t used to anyone being sporty. Even in all her American glory, she could never get into sports / can’t see me glowing.

  I hug her again. She smells like sandalwood incense and chicken nuggets. “It’s so good to see you,” I say.

  “It’s been a while,” she says.

  “It has.”

  “We should email more,” she says.

  “I’d rather you lived here.”

  “Your dad has it all worked out, right?”

  I laugh. “He’s barely managing,” I say. I feel bad, but it’s true. Carmichael gives him tips on how to save money with coupons and what temperature the freezer should be / not how to raise children / me.

  “What about Richard?” she asks. “How is he?”

  “Seems fine. Doing good in college.”

  “Does he have a girlfriend yet?”

  “Not that I know of,” I say.

  “He really should. You know?” she says, mostly to herself.

  She’s not usually this flustered or uptight. One thing about Mama is that she could float through stress without flinching / until she couldn’t anymore / Mylanta / this explanation will do.

  “You could at least give me directions,” she says, looking at the open ends of four different uneven pathways.