Worst-Case Collin

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Worst-Case Collin Page 6

by Rebecca Caprara


  I’m not saying

  I’m a super-nerd

  or a teacher’s pet

  or one of those kids

  who just loves every minute of school,

  but being here is better

  than hanging with the Hoard,

  which is one of the reasons

  Liam’s summer countdown calendar

  gives me serious heartburn.

  Or maybe it’s all the tacos

  Dad and I have been eating?

  * * *

  If you experience bloating, belching, nausea, or belly pain after eating, you may suffer from indigestion.

  Do not chew with your mouth open or eat too fast.

  This makes you swallow air, which can add to discomfort.

  Limit greasy, extra-sugary, or fried foods.

  Avoid spicy and acidic ingredients.

  Symptoms may be more intense when you’re stressed.

  RELAX!

  INCANDESCENT

  On the day of our swim meet

  I scan the bleachers,

  packed with fans.

  I’m so excited to see Dad

  that I surprise myself

  and Coach Baker

  by actually winning

  my backstroke event.

  Way to go, bud! Dad cheers.

  You are becoming increasingly hydrodynamic.

  A fixed incandescent point in this natatorium.

  Translation, dude? Liam whispers,

  totally confused by the compliment.

  I’m getting faster.

  He called me a star of the pool.

  Your dad always uses the weirdest words.

  I know, I say, beaming.

  It’s one of the reasons

  I love him.

  SPLASH

  A man wearing a hat

  with a long silver fish on the front

  is talking to Coach Baker.

  When Georgia sees the scout,

  she turns rigid as a pole.

  I worry she’ll trip and fall or

  belly flop big-time.

  But she climbs the ladder confidently,

  steps onto the diving board,

  lifts her chin.

  Go, Gannet!

  We clap

  when she does her

  front flip with a twist.

  She

  barely

  makes

  a

  S

  P

  L

  A

  S

  H

  !

  SUITS

  The health effects of

  extended chlorine exposure

  haven’t been adequately studied,

  so I err on the side of caution

  and shower quickly but thoroughly

  after swim meets and practices.

  Though mostly

  I’m grateful for the chance

  to bathe somewhere other than

  the grimy, cluttered bathrooms

  at home.

  Before leaving the locker room,

  my teammates and I

  hang our new race suits

  on hooks in the locker room,

  forming a row of practically identical

  Wedgie Makers.

  It would be easy

  to mix them up.

  I’ll write my name

  on the tag later.

  Dad’s waiting for me now.

  SMALL VICTORIES

  When the hostess at the restaurant

  asks our name for the wait list,

  Dad rattles off a bunch of letters

  that do not spell Brey.

  Ten minutes later

  the intercom booms,

  Communist, party of two!

  Now seating

  the Communist party!

  Dad’s amusement is contagious.

  By the time we land in the booth,

  our stomachs ache

  with laughter.

  Over root-beer floats

  as big as our faces,

  we toast to my small victory

  in the pool.

  Then Dad dives in,

  describing quantum mechanics

  with the same enthusiasm

  Coach Baker reserves for swim meets:

  intense eyes,

  wild hand gestures,

  occasional hollers.

  When he doesn’t notice

  the vanilla ice cream

  smeared across his bushy beard,

  I hand him a napkin.

  How embarrassing!

  He grins, wiping his face clean.

  Gee, bud,

  what would I do

  without you?

  The waitress delivers our cheeseburgers

  and asks if she can get us anything else.

  Dad surveys the table.

  A tomato-based condiment, please.

  And the third largest city in North Dakota.

  Pardon?

  Hint: It’s not Bismark

  or Fargo!

  She stares blankly at us.

  We need ketchup

  and some forks, please, I say,

  stepping in as translator.

  Yes! That’s my boy!

  Grand Forks it is!

  Population 56,057.

  The waitress sighs before setting some silverware

  and a bottle of Heinz on the table.

  So, bud, Dad says, spearing a pickle

  with the third largest city in North Dakota.

  We’ve been having heated debates

  about mathematical space-time models at work.

  I’m curious: what are your theories

  regarding the origin and ultimate fate

  of the universe?

  He’s 100 percent serious.

  This is his idea

  of casual dinner conversation.

  I describe an article I read online

  and tell him about an experiment we did

  in science class, trying to connect

  concepts I barely understand.

  He nods, his eyes bright.

  Away from the Hoard,

  unplugged

  from his headphones,

  he listens, lips quirked

  in an eager smile.

  Then he fills in the gaps

  of my half-baked

  explanations and observations

  with shimmery specks of brilliance.

  Somehow taking all the garbage

  that tumbles out of my mouth

  and constructing something

  incredible.

  Yes, I say.

  That. Exactly.

  Spectacular! he hoots,

  jotting down notes and numbers

  on a fresh napkin.

  I wish I’d thought of that!

  He scratches his chin.

  Hey, bud…

  Yeah, Dad?

  You amaze me.

  You really do.

  Thanks, Dad.

  If only I could perform

  that same magic trick at home—

  transform the Hoard

  into something beautiful.

  Something to make me feel

  proud

  and amazed.

  Instead of

  all the hard-to-name

  emotions

  I’m collecting

  inside.

  GOOD RIDDANCE

  On Wednesday morning

 
; an unexpected

  ray of hope—

  Keith is moving to Seattle.

  Ms. Treehorn throws a goodbye party,

  wishes him good luck at his new school

  Liam, Georgia, and I exchange glances

  silently saying, Good riddance!

  We toast paper cups of fruit punch,

  celebrating

  one less bully

  to make our lives miserable.

  Across the room,

  Tyson’s face

  turns to stone,

  cold and mean,

  like a grumpy gargoyle.

  Not even chocolate chip mini-muffins

  cheer him up.

  * * *

  If you are indoors when an earthquake strikes, take cover beneath a desk, table, or doorway.

  Stay clear of windows and gas lines.

  If you are outside, move to an open area, away from falling structures or debris.

  PREPARE FOR AFTERSHOCKS!

  DOORBELL

  Later that week

  we play hockey

  in Liam’s living room

  which is as different from mine

  as imaginable,

  with polished wood floors,

  ample open space,

  and a couch you can actually sit on.

  Georgia stands in front

  of the coffee table goal,

  covered with makeshift padding

  I insisted she wear for safety.

  I feel like a human marshmallow! She giggles.

  Well, you look like a sumo wrestler, Liam says.

  Uhh, thanks?

  I secure more pillows to her arms and legs

  with bungee cords that Liam found

  in a neatly organized utility closet.

  The simple fact that he could easily locate them

  is a miracle to me.

  The hazard-free floor is another miracle.

  So is Georgia’s laugh.

  I decide she has the second-best laugh in the world.

  (After Mom’s, of course.)

  TRASH TALK

  Liam is a magnificent

  trash-talker.

  Want my autograph now or later?

  They call me Matchstick ’cause I’m on FIRE!

  Oh, really?

  I heard Principal Rodriguez say you were on thin ice!

  Shhh! You evil eavesdropper! He nabs the ball.

  I chase, slash

  his quick ankles.

  Booya! Booya!

  Send my fan mail to www-dot-Liam-rules-dot-com!

  Crocodile mouth, armadillo butt!

  What does that even mean?

  Wouldn’t you like to know! Ha-ha!

  I’m mid–slap shot

  when the doorbell

  rings.

  DOORBELL DREAD

  We pause the game

  to see who it is.

  I hope it’s not Georgia’s dad,

  coming to pick her up so soon.

  Sharon walks down the hallway, yoga-calm.

  She opens the front door

  not just a sliver,

  not a crack,

  W – I – D – E O – P – E – N.

  My pulse quickens,

  my hands grow clammy

  as I imagine

  what would happen

  if someone came to my house

  unannounced

  and stuck their head

  inside.

  Oh. It’s just Audrey from across the street, Liam tells us.

  Sometimes the mail carrier accidentally delivers

  our packages to her house.

  Come on. Let’s get back to our game.

  I can feel Georgia watching me.

  You okay? she asks,

  her voice muffled

  behind all those pillows.

  Yeah. My mouth is dry,

  my skin feels hot,

  but I try to act cool.

  Are postal mix-ups included

  in that handbook of yours? she teases,

  nudging my elbow.

  Nah. I shake my head

  and force a chuckle.

  I make a mental note

  to add Uninvited Visitors

  to my growing list of

  disasters worth preparing for.

  When I get home, I’ll inspect our locks and bolts.

  ∞ ∞ ∞

  I wish I could stay

  at Liam’s house

  all weekend,

  with its clean floors,

  home-cooked meals,

  and open front door.

  But Lindsay invited a bunch of her friends over,

  and Liam warns me to get out

  while I still can.

  Save yourself! he cries, pretending to

  gouge out his eyeballs.

  If only I could

  offer him refuge

  from the incoming swarm of

  hair-tossing,

  lip gloss–smacking

  gossip-yappers.

  ∞ ∞ ∞

  Before I leave

  I let Liam flip through my orange book.

  It’s alphabetized by scenario, I tell him.

  He says there must be a chapter missing between

  Gila monsters and

  Halitosis.

  I double-check but

  unfortunately

  there’s nothing in there about

  Girls.

  Just like Uninvited Visitors,

  lots of things in life

  don’t come with instructions.

  * * *

  Gila monsters are sluggish yet venomous.

  If you are bitten, remove the lizard as quickly as possible.

  Pry open the animal’s mouth with a stick, knife, or other tool.

  Wash the wound with antibacterial soap.

  Call your local animal control and poison centers.

  Seek treatment at the nearest medical facility.

  Ensure your tetanus immunizations are up-to-date.

  Watch for signs of infection.

  There is no antivenin for Gila monster bites.

  BEWARE!

  HEATSTROKE

  I ride my bike home.

  It’s almost eighty degrees outside

  and it’s only February.

  At this rate,

  summer will be a

  doozy.

  After just five minutes,

  I feel like I’m going to faint.

  Thankfully the Henny Penny is only a block away.

  I sip from the drinking fountain,

  then browse the air-conditioned aisles

  for almost an hour,

  until Mrs. Finnick tells me to stop loitering

  and get lost.

  ∞ ∞ ∞

  By the bike rack

  my ears ring.

  I swear I hear:

  Filthy.

  Pathetic.

  Loser.

  My book says

  dizziness and confusion

  are symptoms of heatstroke,

  so I visit the fountain one last time.

  Filthy!

  Pathetic!

  Loser!

  I lift my head,

  wipe water from my lips.

  I see Tyson (minus his usual sidekick),

  sluggish, venomous,

  snickering by the shopping cart corral.

  I jump back on my bike.

  At least the b
lazing heat

  stops him

  from chasing me.

  SMELLS

  Ms. Treehorn told us

  one’s sense of smell

  is most closely linked

  to memory.

  She’s probably right,

  because whenever I’m at the Henny Penny

  and I get a whiff

  of jasmine

  or licorice

  or rubbing alcohol

  my skin gets prickly.

  For one teensy

  tiny

  second

  I think maybe,

  just maybe,

  Mom is in the next aisle over

  buying more of that lotion

  that made her hands soft as flower petals.

  Or nibbling jelly beans from the candy counter,

  the black ones that no one else ever buys.

  Or picking up groceries after work,

  that clean-hospital smell lingering on her clothes.

  NEW SMELLS

  There’s a reason

  perfumes don’t contain

  notes of

  unwashed laundry,

  soured milk,

  musty mildew,

  stewed garbage,

  thousand-year-old burrito.

  These are the smells

  that have replaced

  jasmine and licorice and rubbing alcohol.

  These are the smells that

  assault me, remind me

  day after day

  that the Hoard

  is winning.

  That Tyson

  is right

  about me.

  * * *

  The symptoms of heatstroke include core body temperature above 104°F, fainting, headache, dizziness, rapid heartbeat, and muscle weakness.

  If you suspect you may be suffering from severe heatstroke, immediately seek medical help. In the meantime, move to an air-conditioned environment or shady area.

  Reduce all physical activity. Drink plenty of fluids.

  Remove any heavy, tight, or unnecessary clothing.

  Cool off with cold compresses, showers, or baths.

  CHILL OUT!

 

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