The Science of Breakable Things
Page 17
“Mikayla,” I said, but I couldn’t really comprehend what she was saying. I’d spent so much time worrying about how much Mikayla had hurt me that I’d never really stopped to think about how I’d hurt her. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”
But Mikayla rolled her eyes again. “It’s whatever, Natalie. I don’t care anymore. And I know what happened, by the way. With you guys breaking into the lab—which is seriously stupid.”
I opened my mouth to speak, to ask her to keep it a secret, but she looked at me and sighed. “Don’t worry. I’m not going to tell anybody. I haven’t told anybody yet, have I?”
Four years ago, Mikayla and I picked plants and created make-believe cures, and we didn’t have a wisp of weirdness between us. Four years ago, we were different people.
“Thanks,” I said.
A smile tugged at her lips, even if she tried to hide it. “You’re literally not even interesting enough to gossip about.”
We got to our lockers, and I helped her slide the cardboard tray into hers. She didn’t say thank you, but she didn’t need to. We could never go back to being best friends, but maybe things didn’t have to be so bad between us anymore. Maybe things could be okay.
I went to sit with Dari in front of his locker as he put the finishing touches on our presentation. Dari was still grounded, pretty much indefinitely. Although that didn’t seem to change his life so much. He was still doing homework, always.
He sat hunched over our poster board, checking it for the millionth time. He’d written all the facts and numbers in the center of the board, but he’d also painted a border of smiling eggs to add an “artistic design element.” He’d used a drawing compass to outline them, so they looked more like happy polka dots than like eggs—but they were perfect if you asked me.
Twig got to school just before the second bell. She burst up from the stairwell, waving her crumpled presentation notes over her head, and when she saw Dari’s egg border, she squealed and tackle-hugged him.
Things had worked out all right.
Later, in science class, we presented first, because Dari wanted to, and I guess we kinda owed him that much. We all talked about S’meggs, then Twig talked about velocity and Dari talked about angles.
And when it was finally my turn to present my question and research, I said, “I’ve been wondering about breakable things, and how to protect them.”
I looked over at Mr. Neely, and he grinned because it wasn’t the most scientific question ever, but it was the right one.
And for our final assignment, we had to choose someone else’s presentation to reflect on. As soon as Mr. Neely said it, a part of me knew whose project I would pick, but I still surprised myself by getting out my notebook when Mikayla did her presentation.
OBSERVATIONS:
• Mikayla Menzer has potted plants.
• She explains that one plant was a control, which grew in direct sunlight. The second and third plants grew in boxes, one with holes poked on the left side, the other with holes on the right.
• The second and third plants are bent all funny, toward the holes, and the third one even stretched its way through the holes, escaping from the darkness and reaching into the light.
• Mr. Neely says Mikayla did #great! but adds that she could have used a control plant that grew in the dark, without any light.
• Mikayla Menzer says he’s right—that she didn’t think of it. But I know she did. She just couldn’t bear the thought of killing something.
• Mikayla Menzer tugs at her braid and says she’s done.
• Mikayla Menzer still smells like sunscreen.
I’ve been thinking more about perennial plants. About how sometimes life needs to go underground, bury itself deep to survive, and how maybe that’s not a bad thing. It’s just necessary. And that’s okay.
And now all of those plants are blooming again, and they’re reaching up to the sun, and suddenly the school year is over.
We have to turn in our lab notebooks now, and I considered saying I’d lost mine, because how can I turn this in when I was supposed to observe the world scientifically, objectively, and I so clearly haven’t?
When it comes down to it, though, Mr. Neely asked us to find something that intrigued us and study it with all our hearts. So here’s my observations, Mr. Neely. Here’s all my heart.
Last year, when our English teacher handed out composition notebooks and told us to write our deepest feelings, nobody took her seriously. How silly, we thought, to write our secrets where anybody could read them.
And yet somehow this Wonderings journal turned into the most important assignment I’ve ever had. I told Doris about it, in one of our sessions, and she was overjoyed in that dorky way of therapists. “It’s so wonderful that you’ve found an outlet,” she said, “a way to express yourself.”
But somehow, after that day in the greenhouse with Mom, I pretty much stopped writing. I couldn’t tell Doris that, of course, not after she’d gotten so excited, but the truth was, all of a sudden, I didn’t need it anymore.
Because now I can speak.
Mom and Dad and I are being honest with each other. And, honestly, Mom is not completely back to the way she was, but she’s going to therapy twice a week, and she even started working again, part-time. There’s a whole lot of strength in that, and I feel proud knowing I’m her daughter.
The weird thing? That Blue Bearded Iris never grew. Mom and I waited for it to grow while the Korean Fire, our survivor flower, blossomed around it—but that iris seed refused to sprout.
“I think it’s time to give up,” I said as Mom and I worked in the garden, weeding and watering. It had been over a month since we planted the iris, and we still didn’t speak much. There were still hard days and bad days, but we were in the greenhouse every day, side by side, even when there wasn’t much work to be done. This was how we said we’re trying.
Mom sighed. “We don’t give up, Natalie.” She ran her hand over that empty patch of dirt and said, “We keep going and try something new.”
So Mom and I went to the plant nursery. We bought all the iris seeds they had, in every color, and then we bought some orchids, too.
Those flowers didn’t take long to grow. They seemed to sprout overnight, like magic or science or something in between, and they filled nearly every nook and cranny of the greenhouse, bursting with color, growing fierce and bold and brave.
First nothing, then everything.
We walked through the greenhouse aisles, running our hands along the petals, stopping only when we reached that one empty spot. Nothing would grow where the blue iris had died. And I’m sure there’s some explanation, something scientific, but it felt like more than that.
Here was this vacant space that demanded to be remembered. And as Mom and I stood there, I curled into her, breathing in her dark chocolate smell.
Maybe one day we’ll visit that mysterious blue field in New Mexico. We’ll walk through all those unnaturally bright flowers and talk about everything that happened in these past few months—maybe even in the past few years. One day Mom will tell me the complicated, messy truth of herself, and I’ll analyze those last few observations, and we will swing forward—into the us that is always changing, always growing.
But right then, in that greenhouse, full of life and light and second chances, we were okay. As it turns out, you can’t always protect breakable things. Hearts and eggs will break, and everything changes, but you keep going anyway.
Because science is asking questions. And living is not being afraid of the answer.
Depression is not a dirty word. Depression is one of the most common mental disorders in the United States and is nothing to be ashamed of. If you or someone you love is struggling with depression or another mental illness, know you are not alone. Know there are people who can help.
If you need to talk, please contact the National Alliance on Mental Illness (NAMI):
1-800-950-6264
Or visit the NAMI website for resources: nami.org
Sarah Davies, superhero agent extraordinaire, thank you a thousand times for reading an early version and saying, Go deeper. Thank you a million times for saying, I know you can. Huge thanks also to the rest of the Greenhouse team, as well as the amazing Rights People.
Chelsea Eberly, thank you for reading this book over and over. For understanding these characters, sometimes better than I do. And, of course, thank you for championing Natalie’s story.
A huge thank-you to the rest of the Random House team: Mallory Loehr, Michelle Nagler, Katrina Damkoehler, Stephanie Moss, Barbara Bakowski, Christine Ma, Kelly McGauley, Julie Conlon, Adrienne Waintraub, Lisa Nadel, Kristin Schulz, Jillian Vandall, Emily Bamford, Joe English, Emily Bruce, and more. I am a lucky author.
Mama Keller, my first and favorite editor, thank you for believing in me always, ever since I penned the Pinky Detective Stories. For reading countless drafts of countless stories, for teaching me how to be a better writer. But most of all, thank you for showing me how to be a better person.
Papa Keller, thank you for demonstrating the value of hard work and determination. You lead by the best example. And Sunhi: you are the Twig to my Natalie, a radiant source of humor and kindness and love, my sister and my best friend. Grandpa, thanks for letting me use your apartment as a temporary office (and for putting up with Spike).
Massive thanks to the friends who read drafts: Adelina, for supporting me back in high school when I whispered, I’m writing a book; Lila, for your love and honesty; Sam, for “fixing” books; Booki, for derp-ing through the industry with me. We’ve come a long way since our intern days. Thanks also to Tanaz for reading, and to the Swankys and Electrics.
Jabberwocks, thank you for your enthusiasm and support. Thank you for being my work family.
Lois Ann Yamanaka, Sandy Chang, Liz Foster, Alison Lazzara, and Dan Torday—thank you for word lists, prompts, assignments, and critiques. Thank you, too, for reminding me that I have something to say—and that’s a good thing.
And of course Josh Nadel, my first reader: you are my rock. Thank you for reading drafts and washing dishes and saying “Cobalt Blue Orchid.” This book wouldn’t be the same without you, and neither would I.
TAE KELLER grew up in Honolulu, where she wrote stories, ate Spam musubi, and participated in her school’s egg drop competition. (She did not win.) After graduating from Bryn Mawr College, she moved to New York City to work in publishing, and she now has a very stubborn Yorkie and a multitude of books as roommates. Visit her at TaeKeller.com, follow her on Twitter at @TaeKeller, and subscribe to her newsletter at bit.ly/taekellernews.
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