Catalyst Read Free

in, Mr. Spock close on her heels. My audience. I strip and log on to the Net. My skin is so pale it looks blue, like skim milk. That can’t be healthy. I get dressed and toss my dirty stuff in the hamper. My e-mail is mostly stupid jokes forwarded by people who think they know me. Delete all. Ms. Cummings sent me a chemistry geek article. Her note says, “It’s coming soon—chin up!” And a smiley face.
    Good Kate smiles back. Bad Kate taps her watch. We’re late, we’re late.
    I turn to the computer, then spin around to my dresser. Whoa, dizzy . Moving too fast. I grip the chair until the room comes back into focus. I swear I am going to drink chamomile tea tonight and try for a normal bedtime.
    I pull my hair back in a ponytail, bolt for the door, trip over the dog, and almost smash my face into the wall. Stupid dog.

    2.1 Acid
    It takes an average of twelve minutes to get out of this house in the morning. Today I’ll do it in five. I dump two cups of cat food in Mr. Spock’s bowl—they can share. I fill the water bowl from the tap—no, Sophia, I’m not washing it out for you—and put it on the floor.
    I lay out Toby’s meds on the counter: a daytime cough suppressant, two asthma inhalers, multivitamin, extra vitamin C. I used to put out his cereal bowl, but he hates that. I wish I had time to make him oatmeal. Pop-Tarts, he’ll snarf those in a heartbeat. I pop a couple of vitamin C myself and drink a glass of orange juice. Once upon a time, when I was truly the perfect daughter, I used to make breakfast for Dad. He never ate it.
    Enough. Check the calendar.... Church dinner tonight, won’t have to cook . . . did I pack my racing shoes? . . . my contacts come in on Saturday . . . call work, make sure they’re letting out me early . . . allergy doc has to postpone Toby’s shots. Wait—did Mr. Spock get a rabies shot this year? Why did I think of that, and where did I put my keys?
    “Running late?”
    The voice startles me. I didn’t notice Dad sitting in the corner, watching me over the top of The Post-Standard . The light above the kitchen table makes the shadows under his eyes darker than usual. He’s wearing an ancient sweater with a frayed collar over a black turtleneck, and the jeans that I ironed last night. Meet my father, Rev. Jack Malone, God’s public relations guy. The preacher.
    “I overslept,” I explain.
    He turns the page, lays the paper on the table, and smooths it flat. Dissecting the news gives him sermon ideas. His tools are positioned next to his tea mug: scissors, yellow legal pad, black felt-tip pen, and file folders. Oh, and the industrial-size bottle of Tylenol. Dad gets wicked bad headaches, migraines sometimes.
    “You’ve been oversleeping a lot,” he says.
    “I’ve had a ton of homework.” I peek under the pile of newspapers by his left elbow. Nothing. “Have you seen my keys?”
    He straightens the pile. “You’re graduating in two months. Why do you have so much homework?”
    “Most of my teachers are insane, that’s why.” Keys . . . I shake the old photo bag I use for a purse. No jingling. Darn. Did I leave them in the car? I never do that.
    “Kate.”
    Uh-oh. He’s using the God Voice.
    “Sit down. We need to talk.”
    Arguing would be a waste of time. I sigh and take my seat, keeping the table between us. “What are we talking about?”
    He lines up the scissors and pens parallel to the edge of the newspaper. “College. We need to talk about college. Every time I bring it up, you change the subject.”
    “No, I don’t. Can you write me an excuse? Homeroom is about to start.”
    “See? You did it again. I’m still your father, you know. Now tell me what is going on.”
    When Dad gets like this, all I’m-the-father-and-I-know-best , our tiny kitchen expands into the arctic tundra with a sink at one end, and a refrigerator and stove at the other. Wind howls across the frozen wasteland, mercury freezes.
    I cross my arms over my chest. “All right,