he’d call Tyson out, give him a dose
of his own medicine.
Hey, Wimpy Pants! he’d say.
You’re not scared
of a buggy-wuggy, are you?
Did you know fifty-six species of scorpions
call our home state home? Ms. Treehorn says brightly,
as if this is good news.
I actually do know this.
I also know that
(thankfully)
only one species
(the bark scorpion)
has a lethal sting.
This cute little fellow is an Arizonan,
just like all of you!
Ms. Treehorn watches us squirm in our seats.
I think she might be enjoying this.
Not so boring after all, is it?
Out of the corner of my eye,
I see Tyson staring at the scorpion,
shaking his leg, scratching his head,
brushing his shoulders.
Check my back, he whispers to Keith.
I think something’s crawling on me.
There’s nothing there.
You sure? Tyson hisses.
Uh-huh.
I pretend to listen
to Ms. Treehorn, but mostly
I’m studying that fake-brave bully
getting all twitchy,
the same way Dad acts
when I leave the front door open too long
or try to clean up his stuff.
APPEARANCES
My father wears a sweater vest
every single day.
Even in the Arizona heat.
He also wears huge
egg-shaped glasses
rimmed in silver
that make him look smart.
Which he is
when it comes to stuff like:
astrophysics,
aeronautics,
advanced calculus.
Oddly,
he’s dumb as bricks
about other stuff like:
laundry,
dishwashing,
overbuying.
Which is why
I can never invite my friends over.
So when Georgia says,
Let’s hang out
at your place today, Collin!
I’m prepared
with excuses.
We’re having the walls repainted, I lie.
We won’t touch the walls.
Let’s build a megafort in the living room, says Liam.
We haven’t done that in ages!
Can’t. Fumes are too strong.
Chemical inhalation can cause dizziness, nausea, headache…
All right, Worst-Case Collin. We get it. He rolls his eyes.
How about the basement?
No one’s allowed down there.
It’s where my dad keeps his work files.
I don’t mention his other
strange collections.
Bummer. What about your room? Liam prods.
It’s being painted, too.
Really? What color?
Man, these two are persistent!
My eyes scan the bleachers.
They land on Liam’s gym bag.
Ummm, orange.
You’re painting your room orange? Georgia says.
What’s wrong with orange?
I grab a basketball from Liam’s bag.
Nothing, I guess.
It’s just a little…bright.
Bright is nice, I say, thinking of our curtains
always pulled shut.
I think orange is cool!
Liam snatches the ball from me,
twirls it on his finger,
like a total showboat.
Thank you, Matchstick. I agree.
Let’s shoot some hoops.
We can go to my house another day.
Georgia takes the bait
and the ball.
Fine. But we’re playing HORSE and I go first.
Suit yourself, Gannet.
Just be prepared to L-O-S-E!
Liam takes off running toward the court.
Hurry up, Worst-Case Collin!
For some reason
when Georgia calls to me—
grinning like that,
with her long black ponytail swishing over her shoulder—
my dumb nickname
doesn’t sound so bad.
STINKING
I come home
from the basketball court
sweating, stinking, happy,
in desperate need
of a shower.
It would not be unusual
for a kid to have rubber duckies
in his tub.
Rubber tires on the other hand?
Highly unusual.
And yet
that’s what I discover.
Five snow tires
to be exact.
Too heavy and awkward
for me to move
by myself.
I guess they will stay,
and I will
go
shower in Dad’s bathroom,
if there is any
space.
THE HOARD IS BORN
Late at night
when the rest of the house is quiet,
I swear I hear
munching,
crunching,
scratching.
I imagine mice, bugs, and
little crawly critters
claiming my home
as their own.
Shhhh. Listen.
Are these noises real?
Or am I just imagining
more worst-case scenarios?
Either way, it’s freaking me out.
To distract myself,
I think about nicknames.
I decide to name
the rotten
dust-covered
room-filling
sick-making
pest-attracting
friend-repelling thing
inside my home.
I shall call it
the Hoard.
REFUGE
Outside,
there are lots of safe places:
my friends’ houses,
the pool,
the vacant lot.
Inside,
my bedroom
is the only
refuge.
From now on
I’ll keep my door
closed tightly
so the Hoard stays
OUT!
BUS
The school bus is not exactly on my list
of safe places.
First of all, the seat belt situation is atrocious.
Most of the straps are frayed,
and the buckles are gunked up with old chewing gum.
No one bothers to use them
(except me).
Second, the adult-to-kid ratio is absurd.
A single bus driver cannot possibly keep a watchful eye
on fifty-seven students
and still operate a large vehicle in a safe manner.
Third, Tyson rides the same route as me.
At least he sits in the back,
with his older stepbrother, Jax,
and a bunch of goonish eighth graders.
I pretend not to notice
when the bigger boys
pull Tyson
into a headlock,
rough him up,
&nbs
p; call him worse names
than he calls me,
then whoop hysterically
like it’s all fun and games.
When Tyson catches me
watching,
his face contorts.
I feel a pang of sympathy
but it’s short-lived
because when he passes me
on his way off the bus,
he bumps my shoulder—hard—
and mutters
that he can’t understand
how such a
filthy
pathetic
loser
like me
has any friends
at all.
HYGIENE
Thankfully the school pool is not
full of rubber tires like my tub.
Or stacks of magazines
like Dad’s shower.
Or located down a nearly impassable hallway
like our guest bathroom.
The pool and adjoining locker room
have a seemingly endless supply
of cool, clear water.
Which is important because
where else will I get clean?
LAUNDRY
As soon as
I get home
that afternoon
I
excavate
a
narrow
winding path
through
the basement
praying I won’t
encounter any
of the critters
I heard
the night before.
My hands shake
as
I
unearth
the
washing machine
and throw
all my clothes
inside
hoping
an extra cupful
of detergent
will help wash
Tyson’s
hurtful words
away.
AWAY
There’s no chapter in my orange book
about a grown-up who refuses to throw things away.
There’s no chapter in my orange book
about keeping your closest friends far away.
Of course there isn’t.
Because those aren’t
worst-case scenarios
for anyone normal.
CROSSING OVER
The next day
our unit on Arizona continues.
Ms. Treehorn places a map
on each of our desks.
It’s just a piece of paper,
innocent enough.
But I’m already feeling raw,
and this map
dredges up memories
I’d rather forget.
I trace my finger along
a jagged line.
Snaking somewhere
beneath the Colorado River
is the border
between Arizona and Nevada.
A single bridge staples
Bullhead City, Arizona, and Laughlin, Nevada,
together
along a swollen blue seam.
A lot of folks live in one city
and commute across the bridge
to work in the other.
Just like Mom used to do.
Crossing over
each day.
BORDERS
A tricky thing
about underwater
borders:
it’s hard
to figure out
where one place
starts
and another
ends.
If something
happens
in the
murky
middle,
who’s responsible?
BREACH
I raise my hand,
ask to see the nurse,
pretend
to have a stomachache.
But really
I worry
if I look at this map
a minute longer,
my eyes may
overflow
like the Colorado River
breaching its banks
∞ ∞ ∞
The school nurse
takes my temperature,
brings me some juice,
asks if I’d like to go home.
That’s the last place
I want to go.
So I blame the cafeteria tuna salad,
tell the nurse I probably just need to rest.
She nods, closes
the plasticky curtain,
giving me privacy.
I curl up,
clutch my orange book.
My heart hammers my ribs.
I read
chapter after chapter after chapter after chapter after
chapter after chapter after chapter
until my nerves settle.
* * *
Do not cross a piranha-infested river if you have an open wound, as they are attracted to blood.
Avoid feeding areas such as fishing nets or docks.
Cross the river at night.
Swim or walk quietly.
Disturb the water as little as possible.
PROCEED WITH CAUTION!
WATER
At practice that afternoon,
I’m the first one
in the water.
Pick a cherry,
put it in your basket.
One.
Pick a cherry,
put it in your basket.
Two.
Flip turn.
Kick.
Pick a cherry,
put it in your basket.
Three.
With each weightless lap
I feel better.
Four.
Then worse.
Five.
Back and forth,
through water
I hate and love
at the same time.
I tell Coach Baker
and Georgia and Liam
that my goggles
are cracked.
They believe
the chlorine made
my eyes so red.
UNIFORM
In preparation for our next swim meet,
Coach Baker hands out
team uniforms.
We’re required
to wear the same
yellow swim caps and
embarrassingly small swim trunks
that are tight
in all the wrong places.
A brand called
Wave Makers.
Liam wiggles his butt, says,
More like
Wedgie Makers!
I might not be
in the mood
to laugh,
but I do smile,
and that helps.
TREASURES
Another sale at the Rummage Room? I ask back at home,
assessing the kitchen table, now officially buried.
A spectacular deal.
Too good to pass up!
Dad holds a crinkled receipt.
His fingers trace each number
like they give him
some kind of comfort
I cannot.
Thankfully tacos
have a similar effect.
So I
propose dinner
at Miguel’s.
Dad agrees,
as long as extra hot sauce
is part of the equation.
BACK TO LIFE
A strange thing happens
when Dad and I leave
our house.
No matter how weird
he’s been acting,
the moment we step outside
away from
the Hoard
my father comes back
to life.
I enjoy this
while it lasts.
(Which is never
long enough.)
COLLIN VERSUS THE HOARD
Like the creepy creatures
in those movies Liam loves,
the Hoard has become
something alive,
consuming everything
in its path.
Each day
I steel myself for battle.
I clear new paths.
I excavate pockets
of precious air.
I push, shove, kick
piles of junk,
just trying to make
my way.
I begin to bury
my feelings
and memories
beneath the layers.
I think it may be easier
to survive this strange After
if I forget
how life used to be Before.
THIN ICE
I’m not the only one
with a fighting problem.
In the hallway between classes,
I overhear Principal Rodriguez
breaking up a brawl between
Liam and Tyson.
You boys are on thin ice, he says.
Liam chuckles.
That’s a funny thing to say in the desert!
Principal Rodriguez isn’t amused.
Detentions snowball into suspensions,
which snowball into expulsion.
Snowballs? Brrr…Tyson’s voice is thick with attitude.
Mr. Herrera! Mr. Urvall! Enough!
What I’m saying is your current behavior
could affect your future.
Colleges don’t look kindly
on a record of disruption
and disobedience.
College? That’s like a million years from now,
Liam says.
Fine. Let me use a more immediate example:
three strikes and then
summer school.
T-MINUS 81
Worst-Case Collin Page 5