I point to the northwest hall. Not the right one. It would get her to Richard eventually, but only if he wants to be found.

  As she inches through, I hear the tiny bombs explode inside the plywood / Daddy is saving us all even when he pretends not to notice / pretends not to be here. He forgets that we remember what it’s like for him not to be here.

  * * *

  In the months before Earth entered the fold in time and space, Daddy was working at a cabinetmaker’s shop / cash pay / good money. Until his boss took on a contract too big for them / the mall kiosk job / it changed our whole family. Daddy would go in at six in the morning and come home for dinner and then get in a van with his workmates and drive from Pennsylvania to Staten Island Mall to install the kiosks overnight while the mall was closed. He wouldn’t get home until five in the morning. His boss, high on stress and coffee forgot time / forgot sleep / made the guys come in again at seven to make more kiosks / install / make / install. Daddy / no sleep for weeks / wife then gone from his bed / finally said no.

  The problem wasn’t in his quitting. The problem was in who occupied the most space in our house while he was off at the Staten Island Mall working for overtime pay / he was too tired to pick a side / implied there were sides / Mama left / then he quit / then time stopped.

  They’ve got to work something out soon. Without each other, they’re not okay / we’re never going to get out of this / to understand anything is to understand energy.

  300

  It’s late and I’ve got my crowbar and I’m nowhere near Mama and Daddy’s old room, but I can hear them talking. Laughing about something. Enjoying each other’s company / happiness and old times / friends catching up.

  I pull 300 nails and Mama’s car stays in the driveway until morning.

  Mama

  TROJANS

  Daddy isn’t in the kitchen for breakfast. There’s no note. No sign of Richard.

  I grab my packed lunch and a glass of homemade banana-mango-and-strawberry smoothie and gulp it down until my head aches from the cold / homemade-yogurt honesty.

  I stuff all my books and gear into my backpack and slide through the me-shaped hole and go to the high school. I try to forget about Mama and how she didn’t even seem happy to see me last night / this explanation will do.

  x equals I don’t know the truth about anything.

  x equals I have come to depend on dairy products for trust.

  It’s a nice morning. Going to be warm. We get our uniforms today. I will officially be, after nearly three years in this high school, a Trojan. Yes, I know that’s a brand name for condoms. Everyone knows that / some Trojan schools have even changed their mascot. What’s sad is that most people don’t even know what a Trojan really is. But they know there was a war. They don’t know who won it or where it was, but who cares—let’s make another condom joke.

  PLUTCHIK’S LUNCH MENU

  My father usually packs my lunch with love and Joy, but we have moved past that part of Plutchik’s wheel of emotions. The leftover curry with basmati rice, yogurt, and shredded carrots is Surprise. I am so happy to see it, it’s as if Daddy packed a new puppy / old friend / trip to Aruba into this small rectangular container. Not the same sort of Surprise as seeing my mother last night / maybe this is why the yogurt tastes too tangy.

  “What’s your problem?” Giselle Masterson sits down in the empty chair at our lunch table and aims her words in a razor-whisper.

  I look at her the way you’d expect.

  “Nigel says you’re telling people that you’re going to kick my ass at the meet.”

  After I find my mandible, I say, “I’ve literally never said anything about you to anyone. Except Carrie,” I say.

  Carrie hears her name and stops talking about chemistry with Ellie and Eric.

  “Well, he says you can’t wait to crush me,” Giselle says.

  “I’m not a crusher,” I say / still don’t know what a field judge is.

  Carrie says, “She is so not a crusher, Giselle.”

  Ellie says, “Nigel’s the crusher.”

  We all sit for a moment, considering.

  “He’s such a dick to our group,” Giselle says. “He says he’s going to fail us all.”

  Ellie says, “He just loves drama.”

  Eric is on his phone. Carrie is nodding. I’m still swimming too far out, wondering why Giselle Masterson is talking to me.

  “Did he yell and get all self-righteous?” Carrie asks.

  “Did he talk about Nepal?” Ellie adds.

  “Transformational teacher?” Eric says, without looking up from his screen.

  “Yes! All of it!” Giselle says. “God, what an asshole. I thought he was only like this to us.”

  Eric, still looking at his phone, says, “We talk about it in science club. He’s like that with everybody.”

  Giselle seems new to this information. Frankly, I am, too. We both say “Huh” at the same time.

  Carrie looks around the room. Slaps her palms on her thighs and smiles. She stands up, steps on her chair, then onto the table, which wobbles a bit and Ellie holds it steady / Paleolithic logic.

  Carrie claps the school clap. We’ve all known it since first grade. Two fast claps, pause, then three, pause, then four / Go Trojans. The cafeteria joins in until everyone is clapping and looking at our table. I see Len slowly walking toward us, camera up.

  “Quick show of hands. Who else is being threatened that they’re going to fail Nigel’s bullshit?”

  Hands shoot up. Everywhere. I try to see whose hand isn’t up / everyone’s hand is up. We are all failures because we have yet to get strip-searched in the Katmandu airport.

  Carrie thanks them and sits back down.

  Giselle says, “We’re not going invent anything that actually solves it, right? It’s like writing a fantasy story. That’s what my paper looks like. A fucking fantasy thesis.”

  “Tru’s also been stressed about the paper,” Carrie says, trying to pull me to shore.

  They look at me.

  “I can’t figure out a thesis statement. Plus, my idea is stupid,” I say.

  “Nigel made you think that,” Carrie says.

  “What’s your idea?” Giselle asks.

  I feel so embarrassed / wish I was able to stop time and sprint out of the cafeteria.

  Carrie motions at me.

  “I think we should all give more of a shit about each other,” I say. “I think time stopped because none of us really give a shit about anyone else . . . or even ourselves.”

  Giselle stares at me for two solid seconds. “That’s fucking epic,” she says.

  “Impossible to write about, though,” I say. “Plus, who cares anyway? Life isn’t any different. N3WCLOCK has most people not even thinking about why this is happening.”

  “Why do you think it’s happening?” Giselle asks.

  “The universe noticed we’re falling apart and we need to learn how to rest.”

  As she considers this, I also consider it. I connect my ideas: We can’t give a shit about ourselves or others unless we know how to rest / this is what the arrow is for. That’s the most blunt I’ve ever been about it / the sitting-still energy moves through me and I feel warmer than usual / almost cry.

  “Oh-kay,” Giselle says.

  Carrie says, “Why do you think it’s happening?”

  Giselle says, “My dad says it’s just some weird glitch in the universe that humans shouldn’t bother themselves with. He says we’re too small to understand anything so big and that we’re too big-headed to accept that it has nothing to do with us.”

  “I kind of agree,” I say.

  “Me too,” Carrie says.

  Ellie says, “Yeah.”

  Giselle adds, “I just need this fucking class to stop.”

  Len says, “I could do so much good with an extra two hours a day.”

  Everyone agrees.

  Psych Team has fully assembled at the lunch table now that Len is here. We look at one another. Without a word, we plan the downfall of Solution Time / Nigel / the need for my thesis statement.

  Giselle turns back to me before she leaves and says, “You won’t crush me on Tuesday. Just so you know.”

  “I know,” I say.

  FIELD JUDGE

  I have two school days until my first track meet. It took a whole hour to hand out uniforms and make sure everyone had the right size shorts.

  I ask Coach Aimee about field judges at the end of practice.

  “All they do is measure, mark the book, and tell you what to do. It’s easy.”

  “But what if—like—if Coach Turner is right about me throwing so far—I mean—what if they disqualify me?” I ask.

  “Why would they disqualify you?”

  I shrug.

  “Are you cheating?” she asks / too loudly.

  “No.”

  “Then don’t worry about it. You’ll be fine.”

  I look at my hands.

  * * *

  As I climb up the me-shaped hole to box #7, I consider asking Daddy to cover it / locked from the inside / locked from the outside. Remove the escape. Remove the throw—the possibilities that come with being Paleolithic / trade in my favor before I flip my own switch and show people what I am.

  x equals I don’t know what I am.

  x equals my mother’s car still in the driveway.

  UNIFORM

  Our uniform tops are blue and purple, Trojan cool colors. Plutchik’s colors for Sadness and Disgust. Which is how I feel in this uniform. Makes no sense / I’m fine / usually wear big sweatshirts.

  “Truda?”

  It’s my mother. Her name is Concordia, but she calls herself Connie / says this to every client before they walk out of the angel room and into her crystal ball.

  “Can we talk?” she asks through the door.

  I put a hoodie on over my uniform and sit on my bed next to my backpack, pretending to get ready to do homework, but really I’m starving.

  When she comes in, she tries not to look shocked. “It’s like you live in a barn,” she says.

  “You get used to it.”

  She sits on my desk chair. “Tell me how you are.”

  I can’t tell her about me / she can’t see me glowing.

  “Why won’t you move home?” I ask. “Daddy really needs you. I need you. Richard needs you.”

  She seems uncomfortable with the truth / doesn’t answer.

  “I read our old emails a lot,” I say. “You kept saying that you ‘heard all the reasons.’ And I think I know what you heard. I think they were lies.”

  “You’re too young to—”

  “You’re stuck,” I say. “You’re stuck because you believed those lies.”

  She takes a deep breath and tears form in the corners of her eyes / mascara flakes floating on two little seas. “I know what was said about me,” she says.

  “That’s the thing. You don’t know. Nothing was said about you. We didn’t even have a family meeting. Time stopped. We all got hooked on TV news and trying to figure out what was going on.”

  “I can’t be where I’m not wanted,” she says.

  “Those were lies.”

  “Ask your brother. He still hates me.”

  “That’s called triangulation,” I say.

  “You’re sixteen. How do you know about triangulation?”

  “Psych Team—in school. I know a lot about stuff like this. You’d be surprised.”

  She cups her chin in her palm. “Tell me more.”

  “Richard still talks to her. I think you still talk to her, too. If I’m right, then that makes a triangle,” I say.

  “She talks to Richard?”

  “She called him on Monday. Told him you were a drug addict and in rehab,” I say.

  The look a mother gets when you are the messenger of lies / fury. “What the actual fuck?”

  “And she called you on Monday, too. From what you said to me last night, I’m guessing she told you that Daddy is abusive—again.” I roll my eyes.

  “You’re good,” she says. Her eyes dart around the room as she puts puzzle pieces in their place. “She did call me on Monday. Told me you were in danger. That’s why I’m here.”

  “I’m not in danger, and none of us ever wanted you gone.”

  “She did.”

  “She wants us all dead,” I say / think of the bird / it was very alive when I saw it last—just an injured wing. “Because something’s wrong with her.”

  “I tried everything,” Mama says / there are ten screwdrivers stuck in her head / she removes them one by one. “Since she was a kid, you know? Therapy. More therapy. Group therapy. All secret because your father—well—you know.”

  My father doesn’t believe in American psychology / thinks families should solve their own problems / hammers nail after nail after nail.

  “I want you here and always have. And Daddy. He can barely function without you.”

  Mama blinks and the tears and flakes of mascara tumble down her cheeks.

  “We need you,” I say. “We love you.”

  “I’m just crazy,” she says, “with my crystals and all my bullshit. Remember?”

  “Yeah, no one ever said that about you.”

  “I’m the problem in the family because I—I—”

  “You are totally not the problem in this family,” I say. “Never were.”

  “I tried,” she says. “I don’t know what I did wrong.”

  “You didn’t do anything wrong. You’re a great mom,” I say. “Don’t you remember how we talked about this before? A week before you left. When Daddy was at that job all the time and she wouldn’t stop gunning for you? I told you to just block her out. Pretend she isn’t talking. Don’t take anything personal. That’s how Daddy taught me to deal with her, and it worked.” I give her a moment to stop looking lost / stop being brainwashed. “We really need you to move back. We miss you.”

  She puts her face into her hands / takes a deep breath / wipes her cheeks.

  “My next client is on Monday,” she says. “I have to see my shaman before then. Get a soul retrieval or something. I need time to think.” She pulls a tissue from her shirtsleeve and pats her cheeks dry / blows her nose. “I’ll talk to your dad about coming back after that. I don’t know if he wants me here. And look at this place! I don’t want to live in a barn.”

  “We can fix it. But right now, I’m the only one in this house in the aftermath. I need you here with me.”

  “We’re all in the aftermath,” she says.

  “Not if you’re getting phone calls and not if you’re believing the lies. Sorry. I’m not trying to be a jerk. But it’s true. You can’t be in the aftermath until you leave it behind.”

  She nods. “How did you get to be so smart?”

  See how we skirt the town of our life—round and round on a plywood bypass / circle the problem like we can corral it / wild horses / dead birds / notes that read Dear Truda, I hate you.

  “I’m starving,” I say. “Can we go to the kitchen?”

  When my mother gets up from the chair, she acts as if she’s wearing a gown with a bustle, picks up the fabric and fluffs it out to her sides / Concordia / goddess of peace in a slipshod barn.

  As we inch through the narrow plywood passage to the kitchen, Mama says, “All this building he’s doing! It was an okay hobby, I guess. But now it’s . . . not . . . um . . . very conventional, you know? The place looks crazy!”

  “It’s what he does to survive. He has to survive the lies, too.”

  “Lies,” she echoes / I can hear in her voice she still believes them.

  I used to be the same way / believed everything I heard / she said / I was four / seven / ten—didn’t know not to. What I did know was that I’d never win so there was little point in trying / stayed in my lane / on the bypass / slow lane only / don’t draw attention / be small.

  It’s sad watching Mama be small / she’s so big on the inside.

  BEANO

  One time, I talked to her dog for an hour. It was one of the nights when I plugged all my outlets with chewing gum. The dog went from one outlet to the other and tried to lick the gum off. It presented a problem.

  I wanted the dog to stop yapping all the time. It never shut up. However, I didn’t want to electrocute the dog, either. That would be bad.

  We talked. Her name is Beano, so I said, “Hey, Beano, how come you bark so much?”

  She answered, “Because everybody in this house is deaf.”

  “Deaf how?” I asked.

  “You know,” she answered.

  I knew / I know / it’s just when it’s happening to you, you don’t say anything because your barking is all used up on yourself.

  Weekend in #7 Minor

  YELLING

  Daddy is yelling in the northeast corridor. Mama’s yelling back. I don’t know what language they’re speaking / sounds like Disappointment / needs more angel cards. Pretend-Saturday brunch has been postponed / I’ve eaten two sloppy ham-and-cheese sandwiches while standing next to the fridge.

  “I have to get out of here,” Richard says from the darkened living room.

  I thought I was alone. Richard doesn’t see me jump / probably didn’t see me eat potato chips out of my hand like a horse.

  “I can’t stand it anymore,” he says.

  “They always yelled,” I say. “Maybe yelling will lead to actual talking about stuff.”

  Richard grumbles.

  I lean in the doorway facing the living room.