What Goes Up

by Christine Heppermann

After three years of braces,

  a.k.a. tooth jail,

  my mouth had been released

  for good behavior.

  I leaned over and flashed

  my freedom in the rearview mirror,

  trying on different smiles.

  Mom stopped at a red light on Route 9.

  That’s when I saw what at first seemed

  like a happy coincidence.

  There’s Dad and the Invasive Species

  (not what I called her then)!

  Mom frowned. Where?

  Behind us!

  I texted him from the orthodontist.

  He didn’t say they had a school visit.

  She looked over her shoulder. I don’t see them.

  Right back there. I turned to

  wave. They were gone.

  Mom said, I guess

  you made a mistake.

  The light changed,

  and we continued forward,

  but I know what I saw:

  His car. Him. Her.

  Together.

  Did they deliberately

  turn off the road to avoid us?

  I could tell Mom didn’t want to

  talk about it. For the rest

  of the ride back to school,

  I kept my mouth closed.

  Common Sense

  I had no way to

  prove

  Dad was lying

  when I asked him

  if that was his car,

  and he said

  no.

  Then again,

  if he had brought home

  a mushroom

  with a smooth, greenish cap,

  a thick, ringed stalk,

  and close, white gills

  that he found

  growing under oaks

  in late September,

  I wouldn’t have

  swallowed that, either.

  The First Time

  The second time,

  at Stop & Shop,

  I ducked behind

  the avocados.

  The third time,

  in the library parking lot,

  I faked tying my shoe

  until he got in his car.

  The fourth time,

  on the escalator at the mall,

  he was going up,

  we were going down.

  That’s the guy? Ian

  swiveled around, but

  I grabbed his hand

  and pulled him along.

  The first time

  I ever saw Tim

  was at my front door,

  when he showed up

  yelling about

  his whore of a girlfriend,

  Mom’s piece of shit husband,

  and was she aware, and did

  she have a clue?

  Please Touch

  After

  the scat hit the fan,

  it was hard for me

  not to imagine

  Dad passing through

  the Discovery Den

  on his way to

  the Invasive Species’s office,

  passing by all the bones

  and pelts and skins and feathers

  and rocks and shells and petrified

  wood and the sign that says

  “Please Touch,”

  and thinking, Sure,

  don’t mind if I do.

  Eradication

  With sustained and dedicated effort,

  invasive species can be eradicated

  when conditions in the environment

  no longer support their presence.

  Dad was not in the room

  when Mom broke the news to me

  that the I.S. had

  gotten a different job

  teaching middle school science

  in Cleveland.

  Or, Ian said,

  she’s just telling you that

  so you won’t go looking

  for the body.

  I agreed that Mom

  definitely had a motive,

  but how to explain

  her alleged victim’s

  recent Instagram pics

  of Lake Erie?

  Dad hired

  a new education coordinator

  named

  Kevin.

  Trick or Treat

  Dad could tell

  that every

  Aren’t you precious!

  and

  What a cutie!

  was making me

  furious.

  Another door,

  another stranger’s

  And what are you?

  A honey mushroom?

  Well, isn’t that sweet.

  Finally

  I’d had

  enough.

  I’m Armillaria mellea,

  and I’m deadly.

  Oh my,

  said the man

  surrendering

  Snickers.

  Don’t worry, you’re

  safe, Dad chimed in,

  but your oak tree?

  He made a slashing

  motion across his neck

  and smiled.

  Destroying Angel Poisoning

  The cruel part is,

  the symptoms don’t appear right away.

  A victim can finish every bite and feel perfectly

  fine. She can do the dishes and go out dancing, the

  taste

  lingering

  in her

  mouth.

  She can

  come home happy,

  sleep

  well,

  wake up

  rested,

  take a

  shower,

  make

  coffee,

  catch

  the bus,

  sit down

  at her desk

  in Ohio and start

  her day still not

  knowing that she’s

  doomed.

  Haunted

  My name,

  whispered in the doorway,

  drags me out of a dream.

  I roll toward the wall

  to make space.

  The mattress creaks.

  Our spines collide.

  This ghost has cold toes.

  I’m sorry, she says, I just can’t

  share a bed with that man.

  I reach back and grab

  her hand, breathing deeply

  in and out

  in and out,

  pretending that

  at least one of us

  can sleep.

  And in the Morning

  I pour Cheerios into a bowl.

  Dad irons his pants.

  Mom takes one more swig

  of tea and reminds me

  not to forget my lunch,

  as if everything’s normal,

  as if we don’t believe in ghosts.

  Nature on Display

  Ian tried to imagine

  Mom’s reaction if the I.S.

  had decided to stay

  at her job and not move away.

  He said, Talk about a catfight by the

  mountain lion diorama,

  and I was like, Haha, yeah, for real,

  but I bet it would be

  more like the bison diorama:

  two females grazing

  beside the male, ignoring

  each other, acting natural.

  What if Mom Went on Tinder

  What kind of guy

  might entice her

  to swipe right?

  A Chris Pine look-alike,

  shirtless, in a kitchen, posing

  casually by the dishwasher

  to show off his incredibly hot

  loading skills?

  I guess I’ll never know,

  since she swiped left

  on happiness,

  sanity,

  self-respect,

  and gave Dad

  another chance.

  They
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  They were committed to working on their marriage.

  They knew that the last few months had been rough on me.

  They wanted me to know I could always talk to them.

  About anything.

  They

  They

  They

  did seem committed

  to pretending

  like everything can go back to normal

  so long as we don’t say her name.

  Pinched

  In kindergarten I had this friend,

  Corrine,

  who thought she was

  the boss of me,

  and so did I.

  On a sleepover

  at my house, Corrine said

  we were going to make

  a fort,

  not with blankets,

  but a real one

  out of plywood she found

  in my garage.

  She said we didn’t need

  a hammer or nails,

  which neither of us

  knew how to use, since

  masking tape would do.

  It wasn’t like me,

  but somehow

  I spoke up and told her

  that wouldn’t work,

  and she pinched my arm

  until it turned red.

  Thank God her family moved

  to New Jersey, Mom has

  said more than once.

  She was so mean to you.

  But at that sleepover

  I was the mean one.

  How would Mom like it

  if I told her I think

  marriage counseling

  seems like a huge

  waste of time

  when it’s obvious

  she believes everything

  will hold together

  just because

  she wants it to?

  Suspicious

  Ian sends the disc sailing.

  Kat leaps for the catch.

  On the sidelines,

  I cheer and clap.

  On the field,

  the whole team swarms.

  Ian lifts Kat into a hug,

  his hands on her back.

  His hands.

  On her back.

  God, I hate myself

  almost more than I hate

  the I.S. for turning me into

  the kind of girlfriend

  who can’t just enjoy the win,

  who knows it makes no sense

  to be suspicious.

  Scientific Proof

  Human beings are more than genes,

  my biology teacher, Geoff, reminds us.

  He even wrote on the board:

  D

  N

  A

  Does

  Not

  Always

  Determine

  Natural

  Ability!

  And yet

  he was

  Disappointed,

  Noticeably,

  At

  my lackluster performance

  on the first biology test

  and

  Definitely

  Not nice

  About

  my apathetic semester.

  I expect more from you, Jorie.

  Really?

  I think I did enough, Geoff,

  by supporting your theory that

  Dad, daughter—

  Nothing

  Alike.

  Clueless

  I’m like one of those idiots

  who buys a turtle and then decides

  it’s too much work and releases it

  into the wild thinking it will find

  a great new home in the pond

  and make lots of new turtle friends.

  After caring for Ian,

  trusting him,

  feeding him my secrets,

  pulling him close

  and then letting him go,

  how stupid of me not to realize

  he would bite back.

  Ash tree bolete

  Bleeding mycena

  Cinnabar-red chanterelle . . .

  First Impression

  After school in the art room,

  my freshman year,

  he came in with Theo,

  and Theo asked me about

  my spore print and interrupted

  my explanation. Wait, so if I

  licked this—he flicked his tongue—

  I’d get high?

  I told him no, that it wasn’t

  a psilocybin, and even if it was . . .

  Dude, Theo called toward the sink

  where Eddie was rinsing his brushes,

  Remember that time we were shrooming

  and you thought your sister’s guinea pig

  was possessed?

  Let Jorie talk, dickweed.

  I didn’t think Ian knew my name,

  but his smile, the way his hair

  flopped into his eyes made me

  so glad he did.

  Forage Date

  It was too early in the season,

  but Ian acted impressed

  with the winter leftovers

  I showed him—faded turkey tails,

  blobs of birch polypore.

  We passed by the marsh

  at Vassar Farm, and the peepers

  were going nuts, and he said, How

  do they know that’s a mating call?

  It’s like scientists assume guy frogs

  only think about one thing.

  We had a great time

  imagining what the peepers

  might be saying, like

  What’s the WiFi password?

  or

  Check out my new slam poem!

  or

  Your body, your choice!

  We don’t have to reproduce!

  We can just cuddle!

  The Female Responds

  By the barn, the male spread

  his sweatshirt over the wet grass

  for the female to sit on.

  (The female was impressed.)

  I can just see you as a nerdy

  little kid, Ian said, plopping down

  next to me. I bet you were adorable.

  Ha. I casually scooted closer.

  Six-year-old me would be kicking you

  in the nuts right now.

  He laughed. Adorable and fierce.

  My favorite combination.

  First-Grade Science Fair

  All weekend I worked hard,

  cramming my poster board

  with charts and facts and illustrations.

  The scissors left a purple dent.

  My fingers bled Elmer’s glue.

  Principal Wolbert taped the blue ribbon

  to Julia Crespo’s dumb volcano.

  Later he came over and shook

  my hand. Nice job, young lady.

  Over my head, he smiled at Dad

  and winked, and Dad smiled back

  and let him have it!

  On the Ride Home

  Claire, he practically accused her

  of not doing the work herself.

  Mom sighed. I thought she should

  label the parts of a mushroom

  and be done with it. You’re the one

  always pushing her to show off.

  Dad drove right past the ice cream store

  where he had promised we’d celebrate.

  Oh, so you think she should hide

  her intelligence to make

  condescending pricks like that

  feel better? What a great lesson!

  Showing Ian How It’s Done

  In my room,

  he gently

  breaks off

  the stem,

  sets the cap

  gill-side down

  on a sheet

  of orange paper.

  How long do we wait?

  Careful

  not to bump

  the edges,

  I coverr />
  the cap with

  a mason jar.

  At least

  a few hours.

  I usually leave it

  overnight.

  He smiles.

  Sweet. I get to

  come back

  tomorrow.

  My First Spore Print

  Dad knew it was hard being patient,

  so he took me to the park,

  pushed me high on the swing,

  listened to me whine.

  Can we go home and look now?

  How about NOW????

  Since then, I must have made

  hundreds more. Thousands.

  Yet I still get excited

  every

  single

  time

  the magic works.

  Artist’s Statement

  The color of the spores—

  white or cream or rust or pink or purple

  or black or red or (in the case of

  false parasols) green—can help with

  species identification.

  That’s how most mushroom hunters use them.

  I see them as proof of hidden beauty.

  Okay, TBH?

  Sometimes I feel like

  the real reason I make them is

  because I’m lazy.

  All I have to do is

  put the cap down, and the mushroom

  paints.

  Ian’s Slightly Different Explanation

  Just hear me out!

  Spores are reproductive cells, right?

  So when you set the cap down on the paper

  and the gills, um, spill their seed

  it’s like . . . (He mimes

  masturbation.)

  Stop! You’re gross.

  Hey, dude, I’m not the one

  making mushroom porn.

  Spore Print Fail

  There’s no guarantee.

  Normally

  I lift the cap

  and find

  a pattern.

  And then

  sometimes there’s

  nothing but

  a damp splotch,

  a slimy mess

  not worth

  saving.

  All I can do

  is toss it out,

  try again.

  Artistic Evolution

  At first I turned them into

  the obvious: bicycle wheels,

  flowers, suns, gaping monster

  mouths. A Russula-print

  snow family—Mom, Dad, me—

  on my third-grade Xmas card.

  In my abstract phase,