Nigel isn’t here, but the culinary teacher is apologetically cleaning up from a faculty breakfast potluck. The smells of hard-boiled eggs and bacon permeate the room.

  I get up and play pretend–Solution Time. “What do we do when we feel Fear?” I have my marker, my whiteboard, and my notes.

  “Adrenaline,” Eric says. “It makes us jumpy. Anxious. Fight or flight.”

  “I always get a weird taste in my mouth,” Len offers. “Sweating.”

  By the time the culinary teacher leaves ten minutes later, the board is covered in words and phrases.

  Adrenaline, jumpy, anxious, fight or flight, weird taste, sweating, can’t breathe, shaking, wanting to leave wherever you are, unsafe, angry about it (is that disgust?), hide under the covers, running from nothing and then hide under covers, goose bumps, heart beating out of chest, overcautious, paranoid. I didn’t add any of my own words or phrases about Fear. It’s the water in my fishbowl / AFT3RMATH.

  I take a picture of the board for my notes, and the five of us gather around Len’s laptop.

  “Came in at four minutes but I still want to cut it to three,” he says.

  We watch, mesmerized, for all four. Len has footage of Nigel drinking gin in his car, talking inappropriately to three cheerleader girls, and more than one classroom tirade—ours included, with a close-up of Nigel spitting that shit at Eric about his dad / failing us all.

  “How’d you get the shots of other Solution Time teams? You were here the whole time,” Eric says.

  “We’re a network,” Len says.

  “A network of Lens,” Carrie says. “That’s both terrifying and soothing.”

  “Are you going to post it publicly or send it to the school board?” I ask.

  “I haven’t decided yet,” Len says.

  Nigel will definitely get fired. It’s only a matter of when / before next Monday—thesis-statement Monday—would be ideal.

  MAKE NOISE

  We train in the weight room for an hour after two slow laps around the track and then go back to the field. Coach Aimee hands me three javs.

  “Your form is . . . something we should work on,” she says.

  “Is that what I’m judged on?”

  She slides me a look like I’m taxing / I probably am taxing.

  Picture Coach Aimee trying to teach me how to throw like the other throwers. I trip twice. Go over the line. I throw too high and too wide. The jav may as well be a yardstick. I can’t get it past the thirty-yard mark and it wobbles out of control / leaves me behind. Coach Aimee looks oddly pleased at this. She knows I’m nervous.

  “Can’t I just throw it the way I throw it?” I ask.

  “I can’t stop you,” she says.

  I throw / a projectile vomit / about 160 feet.

  I leave the field an irresponsible-to-form, yet capable javelin thrower.

  In a weird twist, the whole team is summoned to the gym. I lag back to see what’s going on. Everyone grabs a yoga mat as we walk in, so I grab one, too.

  We stretch and then Coach Aimee’s new student teacher leads us in a guided meditation / I’ve been doing this with Psych Team for months now.

  “Really blow that breath out of your mouth!” she says. “Make noise!”

  My teammates exhale with confidence. They moan and growl and make noises like dying machines. I can only manage to exhale calmly. I want to growl, but I can’t. I just think about Richard last night, stuck in the arrow / sneaking out / Mama said something about a girlfriend. I don’t really meditate at all / am afraid what will happen if I do.

  When I finally get up / last one / the student teacher says, “Don’t you feel so much more ready for tomorrow? Good luck!”

  I feel worse about everything. But mostly that I didn’t hear a single word Coach Aimee said at the end and I hope I didn’t miss anything important.

  I explain this to Carrie as she drives me home.

  “Did I miss anything about report time or anything? I zoned out.”

  “Nope. All you have to do tomorrow is remember your uniform, spikes, track suit, and anything to keep you warm. It’s going to be a chilly one!”

  Carrie is like my track dad or something / compensating for the plywood maze. I can’t tell her that I can stop time / can’t tell anyone.

  POPCORN

  Daddy is working in box #3 / the kitchen. Everything is disorganized / there is a ladder. I can see his boot above me between two beams where the light fixture used to be.

  “Where are the snacks?” I ask the ceiling.

  “In box on table. Make sure no sweets. Not good before meetup,” he says. I grab two bags of plain popcorn—Daddy air-pops it once a week and bags it with metallic red twisty ties—and say I need a shower and I’ll be in for dinner whenever he needs me.

  “Wait. Wait,” he says / climbs down / goes to the intercom unit and asks Richard, “Come to kitchen, please.”

  Richard arrives, a mechanical pencil still in his hand. He looks tired / agitated. He fires me a look like I tattled on him for sneaking out last night. I launch a shrug in reply / try to shrug in Portuguese so he likes me again.

  “We have family meeting after dinner,” Daddy says.

  Richard and I nod.

  “We have problems,” Daddy says.

  Richard and I nod again. Can’t deny that.

  “We are sick family who needs doctor,” Daddy says. “So I bring doctor. Carmichael is coming today!”

  Daddy doesn’t have any friends except for Carmichael. Carmichael was always imaginary to me because I only ever heard him on the phone.

  FAMILY MEETINGS

  We haven’t had one since Don’t call me. Mama always ran the meetings—sometimes about homework and permission slips / sometimes about problems. The problem meetings usually failed / impossible to have a family meeting with an assortment of bombs / this explanation will do.

  CARMICHAEL

  When Carmichael comes, he crawls through the passages, admires the conduit, and he compliments Daddy on his work. They act like brothers who were separated by the Berlin Wall. There is warmth. Carmichael can correct Daddy’s English and tell him he has a chunk of oregano stuck to his front tooth. They drink wine and talk in the kitchen and cook while Richard and I sit, as instructed, in box #2 / the living room waiting for dinner.

  “Carmichael is not a doctor,” Richard says.

  “Maybe he’s an exorcist.”

  Richard sighs / safety off but he can’t grasp the trigger / his hands are fists.

  “Why are you so mad all the time?” I ask.

  Richard gives a look like I should know.

  “How are classes going?” I ask, pointing to the book he’s been carrying around.

  “Pretty good.”

  “Did Mama talk to you this weekend?” I ask.

  “Did she talk to you?”

  “Yeah,” I answer.

  “Is she coming back?”

  “I don’t know,” I say. “I think so?”

  Daddy and Carmichael make noise in the kitchen. Water / metal spoons / laughter.

  “Why were you up so late last night?” Richard asks.

  “I could ask you the same thing.”

  “Are you spying on me?” he asks.

  “Why would I spy on you?” I say.

  He doesn’t answer / looks out the window / the window is steamed up from whatever is happening in the kitchen.

  He’s so jumpy I can’t tell what he’s going to do next / I wish he had a hobby or something he likes to do / something that would make the energy sit still. I have the jav / Daddy has the boxes / maybe Richard goes to a midnight macramé class or yoga / doubt it.

  CARBOHYDRATES

  “Eat! Eat!” Daddy says. “You need carbohydrates to perform well at your meetup.”

  The pile of spaghetti on my plate is large and I am hungry enough to eat all of it. Daddy’s homemade marinara sauce is the best / Richard always picks out chunks of tomato.

  Carmichael hands me two pieces of garlic bread and says, “Eat,” and then turns his attention to Richard. “Tell us about your college, son.”

  I eat half the spaghetti mound as Richard tells a story about his literature class and how he didn’t expect to like it / about his math teacher and how tall she is / about his biology professor who doesn’t believe in evolution. That one makes Daddy and Carmichael laugh.

  “This is American education we came here for, yes, Carmichael?”

  Carmichael just shakes his head.

  “May I have more bread please?” I ask.

  Daddy puts the entire basket in front of me.

  Richard tells another community college story, and Daddy and Carmichael explain that they come from places where education is serious. “No pom-pom cheerleaders,” Carmichael says. “It was study and more study and even then, to go to university?”

  What Carmichael means is that it was impossible.

  Richard says, “Community college isn’t university like you know it.”

  “It is better than poke in eye with burnt stick,” Carmichael says.

  Daddy laughs and I conquer the rest of my spaghetti.

  “Can any of you see that I’m glowing?” I ask.

  All three of them look concerned. I hold up my hands. They’re still glowing.

  Richard and Daddy don’t say anything but Carmichael grabs my hand and says, “You are full of energy! You are readying for a match. Of course you glow.”

  “Meet,” I say.

  “Yes, meeting,” he says. “Do you have cheerleaders?”

  “No,” I say.

  “Serious sport,” he says / his eyebrows wiggle.

  “I guess.”

  “Your father and brother will be there and will cheer you.”

  “I have class,” Richard says. “Sorry.”

  There is a chasm in the conversation / no one but Carmichael can keep it going / Carmichael gives up here.

  Daddy finally pushes his chair back from the table and sends Carmichael and Richard to the northwest passageway to locate the way to the air-conditioning unit, and starts doing the dishes. He hands me the tea towel and tells me to dry because, he makes a throwing motion, “Take care of hands for grip.”

  When we finish, Daddy pulls out his favorite teak cheeseboard / special occasion / family meeting. As he gathers hunks of cheese from the fridge, he says, “In half hour, we have meeting. Go do schoolwork.”

  He releases me from duty without his usual hug / he is hugging cheese / nervous.

  I don’t know what he has to be nervous about / everything is already fucked. That’s why this is called the AFT3RMATH / things can only get better from here.

  Time is moving perfectly backward. I am working toward my own birth / OR1G1N. Sometimes life moves this way / backward / birds get murdered / reclaim your own time. When you lose something, you retrace your steps / this is the same. I came home from the hospital when I was born / was misplaced at some point / am retracing my steps.

  Eventually, I will become who I was supposed to become.

  CHEESEBOARD

  Carmichael is already sitting in Mama’s green chair. I sit on the love seat under the window. The steam from dinner left drip marks / I’m still glowing / Daddy and Carmichael are too engrossed in telling jokes to each other to notice. Richard’s eyes are looking brighter, but he still feels like a void / unloaded rifle / loaded rifle / you choose.

  “Let’s begin,” Carmichael says, sitting forward.

  Daddy clears his throat.

  Carmichael says, “Richard, you must tell Truda what happened with that girl.”

  Richard sits, hands in his lap, shaking his head slightly.

  “I already know the story,” I say.

  “It’s not what you think,” Richard says. “I never even really talked to her. That’s all rumors.”

  All of us stare at him.

  I say, “She’s a year younger than I am. And was in seventh grade.”

  “She didn’t look it,” he says. “But all we did was text and send memes to each other. Nothing else happened.”

  “Jesus,” I whisper. I want to freeze time like last night / give Richard an escape / I don’t know why / there is no escape from this / she didn’t look it.

  Daddy says, “If your brother had done more than this, we would have allowed girl’s brother to beat him.”

  “Jesus,” I whisper again. No wonder I’m Paleolithic. I live among cavemen. “Why are you telling me all this?” I ask.

  “You made mention of the girl at dinner this week,” Daddy says. “You said she refused to talk.”

  “Her name is Giselle,” I say.

  Carmichael asks, “Has she been able to live normal life?”

  My face twists. “Um, yeah. She seems to be living just fine?”

  “Good,” Carmichael says.

  “This is ridiculous,” Richard says. He gets up and starts pacing in the middle of the room. “Mama shows up on Friday night, you guys live it up for a night and then she disappears again and you have me in family meeting court defending shit that didn’t even happen three years ago?”

  “If nothing happened, why is it such a big deal?” I ask.

  Carmichael smiles at me.

  Richard hangs his head.

  Daddy says, “The father of the girl came to our door. He said your brother was pedophile. Mama and I had explain to him about your sister and what she does. If not for that, Richard would have many broken bones.”

  Sister.

  “And yet you still talk to her,” I say to Richard.

  “I’m her only family.”

  “She talks to Mama, too,” I say.

  The room goes quiet. We are missing Mama / not missing Mama / ignoring the accusation / the word pedophile.

  “Why did Mama leave again?” Richard asks.

  “Women are shadows,” Carmichael says.

  Richard raises his voice / faces Daddy directly. “Why did she leave in the first place? You can’t keep a job? You can’t—” Richard circles his hands. “You can’t do whatever it is that keeps a wife happy? What was so wrong?”

  I say, “Everything was wrong.”

  “It was not your father,” Carmichael says.

  Daddy lowers his head. Richard sits back down on the couch.

  x equals You had nothing to do with this.

  x equals Your father is devastated, but it’s for the best.

  Daddy goes to the kitchen and comes back with glasses of wine for him and Carmichael, the cheese plate, and a book.

  The book is a book his grandfather gave him / not in English. He pages through quickly, past many annotations and underlined sections, until he gets to the passage he’s looking for.

  Daddy turns to Richard. “You want to know why Connie left and I will tell you. Before this, you listen to Truda. You purchase thing you did. How say—own it? You own thing you did to that girl.”

  “Her name is Giselle,” I say.

  Richard says, “I didn’t do anything. It was all a lie. You know who did it.”

  Sister / no one says her name / superstition.

  “Then why do you still talk to her every week?” I ask.

  “She knows things we don’t,” Richard answers.

  “She makes them up. That’s how she knows them,” I say.

  “She told me Giselle was sixteen.”

  “Which proves my point.”

  Daddy continues to hold his spot on the page in his book with his index finger. He is watching us talk / table tennis. He and Carmichael are smiling oddly at each other when they meet eyes.

  Carmichael asks Daddy, “You did not do what I told you, no?”

  Daddy’s Carmichael-smile disappears. He nods.

  “Richard, you should no longer be in contact with your sister,” Carmichael says.

  “I’m twenty-one years old and can be in contact with who I want.”

  Daddy says, “You do not listen. You never did. I disconnect phone tomorrow.”

  Carmichael says, “You told me this was already done.”

  Daddy says nothing.

  Carmichael says, “You never lied to me before.”

  Daddy says nothing.

  “You are too quiet with these children,” Carmichael says. “You have made your life so much harder.”

  Daddy pulls a nail out of his pocket and looks around for where he left his hammer. Before he can get off the couch to retrieve it, the living room / box #2 begins to turn clockwise and his book falls from his lap.

  * * *

  —

  We get down on the floor / instinct / try to hold our gravitational footing. The love seat slides toward the corner, Mama’s chair nearly levels Carmichael on its way to the same place.

  The standing lamp falls over / bulb breaks / Richard catches the embroidered wall hanging Mama made as it unlatches from its hooks on the west wall. Daddy races to get two other, larger art pieces from the same wall so they don’t fall on our heads. A forgotten wood carving plunks down and hits Carmichael on the shoulder. The noises from around the house sound like a boat going under. Creaking / bending / breaking / churning. We grab for stability. I cling to the door frame. Richard to the windowsill, and Daddy and Carmichael try to act like men who know what to do / push the couch over / slide the coffee table to safety / eat cheese. Finally, the rotation stops after a full ninety-degree turn. None of us gets up.

  Someone has picked up Daddy’s plywood maze / turned it on its side. Richard and I are sitting on top of a Matisse print on the east wall / now floor, with a perfectly laid-out cheeseboard on our laps. Daddy and Carmichael crawl into the kitchen to clean up spilled wine.