Worst-Case Collin

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Worst-Case Collin Page 9

by Rebecca Caprara


  I’m so happy,

  I could cry.

  Of course I don’t

  because Liam would tease me nonstop

  for the entire week

  and probably for all of eternity.

  I still want a new nickname but

  Crybaby Collin is not what I have in mind.

  Instead, I do my best end zone victory dance

  and karate chop the Hoard

  on my way out the door.

  * * *

  To prepare for a typhoon, assemble an emergency kit with flashlights, batteries, medical supplies, and food.

  Fill the bathtub and other large containers with fresh water.

  Make a family communication plan.

  Cover your windows with plywood or storm shutters.

  Bring in all outdoor furniture and decorations.

  Stay inside during the storm.

  Keep away from windows and glass doors.

  Do not be fooled by a lull-it could be the eye of the storm-winds will pick up again!

  If the storm is too severe to shelter in place,

  EVACUATE!

  PEACE OFFERING

  Yo, Shaggy Maggy!

  Tyson yanks my hair in the lunch line.

  Your locks are gone

  but you still reek like a freak!

  Jax and his eighth-grade buddies

  sit at a picnic table nearby,

  egging Tyson on.

  He calls me more names,

  trying to make himself look BIG

  by making me feel

  small.

  The only things that stink

  are your jokes, Liam says, stepping beside me.

  Someone makes a sizzling sound,

  because Tyson just got burned!

  Jax shakes his head,

  like his little bro’s suddenly nothing

  but a big disappointment.

  Liam, it’s not polite

  to make fun of someone’s intelligence,

  or lackluster sense of humor, says Georgia.

  Liam whips around,

  blink, blink, blinking.

  Georgia strides forward,

  her long braid swaying as she moves.

  Sorry about that, she says,

  flashing a sympathetic smile.

  Now Tyson and Jax

  blink, blink, blink

  at Georgia.

  Here. An open palm.

  One round red candy.

  Truce? she says oh-so-sweetly.

  Tyson’s slow bully brain

  tries to process

  what’s happening.

  His older stepbrother shrugs,

  gives a nod of approval.

  Tyson reaches out

  to accept

  the unexpected peace offering.

  TRAITOR

  Seriously? What was that all about? Liam snorts.

  Georgia doesn’t answer.

  She just walks over to the swings,

  smiling.

  Her legs pump

  out

  and in.

  Seriously? Liam asks again,

  turning to me.

  He thinks Georgia’s a traitor.

  But I know better.

  Sweet revenge, I say,

  pointing across the field,

  where Tyson folds in half,

  grabbing his guts,

  spitting a slobbery GrossBomb

  into dry grass

  while a circle of kids

  laughs and jeers.

  SHOW-AND-TELL

  Ms. Treehorn asks us to bring something

  meaningful to class

  and explain its importance.

  I’m pretty sure show-and-tell

  is for kindergartners,

  yet my classmates gladly share

  ballet slippers,

  stamp collections,

  action figures.

  I squirm in my seat,

  wondering if Liam has shaken

  some of that itching powder

  down my pants.

  Sabrina holds up a backpack

  with a metal frame and thick straps.

  It’s not what I expected her to bring at all.

  I used this last summer

  to hike the Bradshaw Mountains, she says.

  It’s hard to picture Sabrina hiking;

  she usually acts so prissy.

  But when she heaves the pack over her shoulder,

  we all see a different side of her.

  I had to carry everything on my back.

  I could only bring essentials.

  What a fantastic adventure!

  How long was your trek? Ms. Treehorn asks.

  One week.

  When I get older, I’m going to backpack across Europe.

  Like my parents did.

  They traveled with one bag each for six months.

  Only one? Really?

  Yes, ma’am.

  Dad says it was liberating.

  Mom calls it the best decision of her life.

  Until she had me, obviously.

  Eventually we move on to the next student,

  but I’m stuck on that backpack.

  Hiking in the mountains is rife

  with innumerable dangers,

  yet I keep imagining

  the freedom and

  possibility

  of carrying hardly

  any things

  at all.

  MY TURN

  At the last minute,

  I change my mind.

  Instead of my original item,

  I open the orange book

  and read a chapter

  out loud.

  Everyone laughs

  when they should be

  paying attention.

  * * *

  To stop a zombie attack, shoot the flesh-eating, brain-munching, undead ghouls directly in the head.

  As an added precaution, burn the bodies.

  If that fails, collect food, water, and other necessities.

  Seek refuge. Hunker down.

  HIDE!

  FOSSILS

  Ms. Treehorn holds up

  a curved stone.

  Now it’s my turn.

  Can anyone guess what this is?

  A very small armadillo? I venture.

  Not quite.

  Look closer.

  She passes it to me.

  I study the tiny armored creature

  trapped between

  layers of hardened silt and clay.

  It’s a fossil, obviously, Sabrina says,

  grabbing it from my hands.

  Indeed!

  A marine trilobite

  found not too far from here.

  There’s no ocean around here! Sabrina balks.

  Not anymore, Ms. Treehorn says.

  But there used to be.

  In the desert? Really? I ask.

  Yes. Time has a way of making

  big changes.

  About 520 million years ago,

  Arizona was home to a shallow sea

  that created many of the sedimentary rock formations

  visible in our nearby canyons.

  The archaeologist who gave me this says

  trilobite fossils are quite common in these parts.

  What makes it special

  if it’s so common? Sabrina asks.

  Ms. Treehorn’s face turns

  ocotillo red.

&
nbsp; I suppose it’s special

  because it reminds me

  of someone special.

  STRIKE ONE

  Swim practice is cancelled,

  even though we really need

  to train for our upcoming meet.

  Liam’s stuck in detention

  for putting a chocolate bar

  that looked like a turd

  in the pool.

  He didn’t want to swim extra laps today.

  He’s a real knucklehead sometimes.

  But he’s never afraid

  to act.

  SECRET

  Georgia and I sit

  in a sliver of shade

  underneath

  the basketball hoop,

  watching heat

  rise off the blacktop.

  It’s quiet when it’s

  just the two of us.

  Quiet, but not

  awkward.

  If you have a secret,

  you should tell it, Georgia says,

  out of nowhere.

  I grip the basketball

  as hard as I can.

  I’m afraid

  it’ll slip away.

  My palms are sweating

  that badly.

  You should tell your secret

  to someone you trust, she adds.

  What does she know?

  What does she suspect?

  I wish I could tell her

  what’s really going on in my life,

  but the worst-case scenarios

  running through my head

  roar and rumble,

  keeping me quiet.

  I already lost my mom.

  I can’t lose

  my friends, too.

  My fingertips follow

  rubber lines

  across the ball’s bumpy orange skin,

  wishing it were a globe

  with a path to follow

  out.

  ∞ ∞ ∞

  I lied at show-and-tell, Georgia says.

  I look at her,

  puzzled.

  That blanket my mom knit?

  I didn’t get it the day I was born.

  I got it when I was seven months old.

  Okay, I say.

  That doesn’t seem criminal.

  Why’d you lie?

  Collin,

  my mom wasn’t there

  when I was born.

  Georgia,

  isn’t that scientifically impossible?

  Not if you’re

  adopted.

  Oh.

  That’s my secret.

  She doesn’t ask for mine.

  She might not even know

  I have one.

  ∞ ∞ ∞

  My fingers relax.

  The ball rolls free.

  I wish I could hold her hand

  but my palms are too sweaty.

  So I just look at her eyes,

  which are looking at her shoes,

  staring so hard,

  blinking so fiercely,

  like she’s trying to fix

  the untied laces with her mind,

  in a feat of remarkable telekinesis.

  I hate

  that I don’t know

  what to say.

  Lately my dumb book

  seems no good for anything.

  Some days I wonder why, she says quietly.

  I try to help Georgia by

  making questions become answers.

  What if your birth parents couldn’t take care of you?

  What if they wanted more for you?

  What if…?

  She scuffs her sneaker

  on the ground.

  My head spins,

  like that hotshot trick

  Liam can do,

  with the basketball

  balanced on his fingertip.

  Don’t get me wrong, she says.

  I’m happy.

  And lucky.

  Still…

  She turns to me.

  Some days

  I feel like

  a throwaway.

  My heart seizes up.

  My father never throws

  anything

  away.

  Especially not people.

  Living people, dead people.

  He keeps us all.

  In spite of the weird, cluttered

  life we live,

  it’s one of the reasons

  I love him.

  I lean over Georgia’s foot

  and tie her laces into

  a looping tight

  double knot.

  It is a small thing to do,

  but I can’t find any words,

  and I need her to know

  I’ll do what I can

  to keep her

  from falling.

  To keep her

  from getting hurt.

  Because she’s not

  a throwaway to me.

  When I finish the bow

  that looks like a floppy

  sideways infinite number eight,

  she cups one of her hands

  over mine.

  She doesn’t seem to mind

  that it’s sweaty and gross.

  I knew you were

  the right person

  to tell.

  If you ever need

  to tell me something,

  I’m here, Collin. Okay?

  ∞ ∞ ∞

  We walk toward the bike rack,

  both of us looking up

  at the cloudless, uncluttered sky.

  Georgia says,

  I wish I could’ve met her.

  I think she must be talking

  about her birth mom.

  Turns out

  she’s talking about

  mine.

  PHOTOGRAPHS

  I reach into my backpack,

  pull out the handful of

  memories

  I couldn’t bear to share

  at show-and-tell.

  Now the time feels right.

  Georgia studies them

  with serious eyes.

  She holds each glossy rectangle

  with careful fingers.

  She lifts my favorite photograph

  up to the light.

  Tell me about this one, she says,

  like an archaeologist gently

  chip-chip-chipping

  hard stone,

  dust-dust-dusting

  layers of dirt

  from a fossil

  that’s been trapped

  for too long.

  She is so beautiful, Georgia says.

  She has the best smile.

  She also had the best laugh, I say,

  describing the things

  a photograph can’t.

  Your dad still has those glasses.

  And those vests!

  So many crazy vests!

  Where does he find them?

  The Rummage Room.

  I laugh, even though it’s not really funny.

  Liam looks the same.

  Only now he’s bigger

  and goofier.

  And more annoying, I say.

  Georgia picks up another photo:

  Mom and me together

  in the garden,

  squinting into the sun.

  Happy.

  Wow, Collin. You look…

  I wait and wait.

  So much like h
er.

  You have exactly

  the same smile.

  STAY

  I stay behind at school,

  making up some story

  about an extra-credit assignment,

  when really

  I have nowhere else to go.

  The pool is being shocked.

  Georgia has a dentist appointment.

  Liam’s in detention.

  Even the Henny Penny is off limits.

  Mrs. Finnick told me to quit spooking her customers,

  haunting the aisles,

  never buying so much as a jelly bean.

  Besides, Tyson likes to hang around there.

  The only thing I need less than a bag of broken

  electronics

  is trouble from him.

  The janitor finishes cleaning the floors.

  The hallway smells like lemons and bleach.

  I watch him return his mop to the closet

  and wave goodbye.

  I’m alone.

  Or so I think.

  SO CLEVER

  You think you and your dork squad

  are so clever, don’t you?

  Humiliating me in front of Jax and all his friends?

  I wheel around, stumble back.

  Tyson’s eyes burn with anger.

  Getting your freckle-faced girlfriend to do your dirty work, huh?

  Did you really think you’d get away with a stunt like that?

  The only thing nastier than those prank candies is YOU!

  A split second later,

  I’m staring at the green flecks

  in the linoleum

  again.

  Except this time

  no one’s around

  to help.

  Filthy!

  Pathetic!

  Loser!

  Slam!

  Pound!

  Punch!

  Now there are little red spots

  all over the freshly mopped floor.

  STAND UP

  Georgia forgot something

  in her locker.

  When she comes back to get it,

  she finds me.

  Why don’t you ever

  stand up for yourself?

  Her eyes are wet.

  We should tell someone, she says.

  I shake my head. No.

  I don’t want to bring

  any extra attention

  to my life.

  I also don’t want

  Georgia to ruin

 

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