Worst-Case Collin

by Rebecca Caprara

  Liam and I spend spring break watching cheesy movies,

  inventing new games, plotting pranks.

  When we swap Lindsay’s hair conditioner

  with mayonnaise and she freaks out,

  Liam tells me I should add

  Bad Hair Days to my orange disaster book.

  That’s when I realize

  I haven’t checked it once since I arrived.

  Which is surprising,

  and also

  surprisingly nice.

  ∞ ∞ ∞

  On Friday afternoon

  Dad picks me up.

  He hugs me tight, which tells me

  he did miss me.

  I’m happy to see him, too,

  but as soon as we pull into our driveway,

  a familiar ache wracks my gut.

  Even though I ate a lot of junk food this week

  I don’t think this feeling is indigestion.

  My pulse quickens;

  the tips of my toes tingle.

  I pause on the front steps.

  Do I have to go inside?

  Welcome Home, the dingy doormat says.

  I wish those words

  were reassuring

  or comforting or inviting.

  But they’re the opposite.

  Dad looks at me strangely.

  Go on inside, bud. He unlocks the door

  and nudges me gently.

  I take a deep breath

  and prepare to face

  my old foe.

  ∞ ∞ ∞

  A week away

  has given me

  new eyes.

  I knew our house was bad,

  but it’s funny

  (or maybe sad,

  or scary,

  or all of the above)

  how a person gets

  used to something

  when they live with it

  every day.

  The shock value fades

  over time

  and you stop seeing

  what’s real.

  But the moment Dad opens that door,

  the contrast between our home

  and Liam’s home

  hits me like a sucker punch.

  The smell is worse than I remember and

  I see EVERY THING

  more clearly than before, and

  holy cow, I cannot believe

  how many disgusting, nasty,

  unnecessary, inexplicable things

  are in my house.

  I turn to my dad, to tell him,

  We don’t have to live like this,

  but he’s already shuffling

  through the mess,

  retreating to the basement.

  Leaving me puzzled and alone

  again.

  REBOOT

  On the upside,

  spring break felt like

  pressing the reset button

  on a video-game console.

  Sure, the Hoard thrived

  in my absence.

  Sure, my dad is acting

  weirder than ever.

  But I’m recharged,

  powered up,

  ready.

  I will:

  solve this problem,

  clean this mess,

  and fight

  (if I have to).

  ∞ ∞ ∞

  My orange book says

  emergency situations should be

  triaged

  which means

  to treat the worst first.

  How can I triage

  this house

  when every room is

  such a disaster?

  I refuse to go back into

  Dad’s bathroom.

  The basement is a lost cause.

  I’m not feeling brave enough

  to tackle the kitchen.

  The living room isn’t technically the worst,

  but it would be nice

  to have a place to sit again.

  I think the couch is still in there

  somewhere.

  My work begins at dawn.

  KA-BOOM!

  It’s Saturday

  and Dad has to go

  to the university.

  Normally this would bum me out,

  but I’m grateful for the chance

  to clean while he’s away.

  He gets so jittery and irritable

  whenever I try to tidy up.

  I eat breakfast

  (leftover muffins that Sharon baked)

  then I get to work.

  I sift, sort, chuck.

  The Hoard didn’t see this coming!

  Ker-POW!

  Sha-ZAM!

  Ka-BOOM!

  Three jumbo plastic bags swell

  before I even reach the coffee table.

  I carry them to the curb.

  The garbage collectors will be surprised

  to see so many bags outside

  on trash day.

  Hours tick by.

  I’m on a roll.

  The Hoard’s hurting bad.

  Which has me feeling good.

  My stomach grumbles.

  I’d eat that can of corn in the cupboard,

  but the can opener is still missing.

  It’s okay. Lunch can wait

  until the couch is excavated.

  ∞ ∞ ∞

  Between flyers, pamphlets, coupons,

  I find pages scrawled with numbers and symbols.

  Scribbles of brilliance, Mom would say.

  I place them neatly in a folder,

  in case they contain solutions

  to the world’s greatest mysteries.

  Then, a slip of paper catches my eye.

  A checklist.

  □ Study for vocab quiz

  □ Make your bed

  □ Floss! (your teeth and the dance)

  □ Sprinkle kindness like confetti

  □ But, when necessary, fight evil

  □ Eat your veggies

  □ Say hi to Liam

  □ Keep your chin up ☺

  I know Mom wrote this for me

  a few years ago,

  but I feel like

  I was supposed to

  find it now.

  I tuck the list

  into my T-shirt pocket,

  pressing it close

  to my heart.

  ∞ ∞ ∞

  I work for a few more hours,

  buoyed by the thought

  of Mom’s checklist

  and excited to show Dad

  the progress I’ve made.

  I know he’ll be twitchy at first,

  until he sees

  how much better

  less mess

  can be.

  I hope he’ll smile as wide

  as Ms. Treehorn.

  I hope he’ll kiss

  the top of my head and say,

  Gee, bud,

  what would I do

  without you?

  ∞ ∞ ∞

  It’s nearly dark

  when Dad finally comes home.

  I hear him struggling,

  breathing heavily.

  Cardiac arrest?

  Punctured lung?

  Fleeing a rabid raccoon?

  I sprint to the kitchen

  along a freshly cleared path.

  My muscles tic,

  ready for rescue.

  ∞ ∞ ∞

  Thankfully

  Dad is f
ine.

  Well, not fine—

  madder than mad.

  But not mortally wounded, at least.

  His face is caught

  in the doorframe,

  sandwiched

  between two giant bags of garbage

  dragged back from the curb.

  His whole body shakes.

  I see panic

  behind his glasses.

  The door’s been open

  too long.

  What were you thinking?

  He yanks the bags.

  He curses.

  If you drop the garbage,

  you can close the door, I say.

  No! No! No!

  Don’t worry, Dad.

  I kept the important stuff.

  I was careful with your notes.

  Drop the bags!

  No matter

  what I say,

  he refuses

  to let go.

  SPLITTING

  Black plastic snags

  on the latch,

  stretching

  until it splits.

  Garbage spills

  everywhere.

  All my hard work,

  wasted.

  I can almost hear

  the Hoard roar

  with evil laughter.

  Mocking me.

  Winning again.

  Beating me down.

  The front door slams

  shut.

  Dad stumbles inside.

  His fingers

  tremble

  as he touches rescued treasures—

  old egg cartons, a cracked wooden spoon, knotted shoelaces—

  checking to make sure they are

  okay.

  But nothing about this is

  okay.

  UNSOLVABLE

  An hour later

  Dad’s still sitting

  in the heap of garbage.

  His eyes dart across

  each wrapper,

  each crumpled napkin,

  each expired coupon,

  taking inventory of the precious things

  I so foolishly mistook for trash.

  I was just trying to help.

  I’m sorry, I say.

  Except I don’t feel

  sorry at all.

  Just confused

  and a little bit frightened.

  I must be missing

  some piece of this equation.

  No matter how much

  I stretch and pull and yank my brain

  I cannot make

  garbage + junk + filth = happiness

  I worry Dad may be

  even more unsolvable

  than the Riemann hypothesis.

  HELP WANTED

  The latch on the front door

  broke when Dad crashed through

  with all those bags last night.

  Dad says

  he’ll fix it.

  He says

  he’ll fix everything.

  I’m tired of waiting.

  I leave the house

  as soon as the sun rises.

  Miguel waves

  as I ride my bike

  past the taquería.

  He hangs a sign in the window:

  Help Wanted

  I have this weird urge

  to stop, grab the sign,

  slip it over my head, wear it

  like a massive, awkward necklace.

  Or leave it dangling

  on our front door

  for everyone to see.

  Instead I pedal faster,

  putting distance between

  me and the Hoard.

  DRIFT

  The shopping mall project

  shut down indefinitely,

  which means I can wander freely.

  I take deep gulps of air,

  soak in the sun,

  let myself

  drift.

  Usually

  where my feet travel,

  my mind follows

  Today my thoughts chart

  their own course.

  They tug me

  back,

  back,

  back

  to memories

  I usually keep

  buried.

  THE ACCIDENT

  The bridge across the river

  The fog at dawn

  narrow.

  thick.

  The guardrails

  The current

  weak.

  strong.

  The desert weather

  When it should have been

  wet.

  dry.

  The other driver

  The water level

  high.

  deep.

  Mom’s hospital shift

  She couldn’t afford to be

  early.

  late.

  Bright yellow

  did nothing

  double lines

  to stop

  the other car

  from speeding

  too far

  too fast

  to avoid.

  SINKING

  It wasn’t the crash

  that caused the most

  damage.

  Neither

  Laughlin nor Bullhead

  sent help

  fast enough

  to that spot

  in the river.

  That invisible

  line

  between

  here and there.

  Everyone called it

  a fluke

  but what if

  someone had been

  better prepared?

  Maybe

  she wouldn’t

  have been

  trapped

  inside that car

  when water

  replaced

  air.

  HUMMINGBIRD

  After a good, long walk,

  my mind feels clearer.

  Sifting, sorting, confronting

  memories of the accident

  opened up new spaces.

  I pause—watching as a hummingbird

  hovers, darts, sips,

  flies

  free.

  Ms. Treehorn told us

  more than a dozen species

  migrate through this area each year

  in search of survival.

  A new idea

  buzzes around

  in my head

  until it’s impossible

  to ignore.

  If I can’t defeat

  the Hoard

  maybe

  I can at least

  escape.

  Yes. That’s it.

  I’ll become a hummingbird.

  EMAIL

  I bike to the library,

  log on to one of the public computers

  where I can send messages quickly

  and collect replies

  that don’t take up space

  on counters, tables, or sinks.

  Organizing is simple:

  Just click, click, click.


  Then empty the trash can

  into cyberspace.

  Without breaking a sweat.

  Without breaking a door.

  Without breaking a heart.

  REACHING OUT

  I message Georgia first,

  surprised to see her online.

  She says she’s helping her grandmother

  sort, scan, digitize

  family photo albums.

  Guess what?

  No newborn pics of me.

  Do U want 2 look 4 them? I reply.

  NO, she types quickly.

  Not the photos…

  I know what you mean. Still no.

  Actually…

  I do. All the time.

  I can help U look 4 them.

  Someday. If U want.

  I don’t.

  OK. If U ever change UR mind…

  It’s just…

  What if…

  They don’t want me

  to find them?

  What if they R thinking the same about U?

  Maybe @ 18, Georgia replies.

  You’ll buy a lottery ticket? Go 2 college?

  Register 2 vote?

  I send her a string of goofy emojis.

  She sends a face with bulging eyeballs back.

  I can look at my adoption files

  when I turn 18.

  Then you can help me

  find them.

  OK. Should I make a countdown calendar?

  She sends a smiley face with the tongue sticking out.

  I send her an alarm clock gif

  and type the words,

  T-minus 5.5 years.

  Unlike Georgia,

  I don’t have

  five and a half years.

  I need to find someone

  now.

  SLUDGE

  I return home

  starving.

  I scrounge around

  for something to eat,

  but our kitchen is

  worse than ever.

  In an effort to save

  empty yogurt containers and

  pickle jars last night,

  Dad accidentally tipped over

  a value-size vat of cooking oil

  which has been leaking, seeping

  through the junk mail and newspapers

  that cover the countertops,

  coating everything

  with a greasy sludge.

  At least the lack of

  dining surfaces

  gives Dad and me

  a good excuse

  to go out,