Catalyst Read Free Page A

here’s the deal. I’m still waiting to hear from MIT. I’m not making any decisions until I get their letter. It’ll be here any day.” (Totally true, every word.) “I really need that note.”
    He taps his lips with the end of his pen, then scribbles me an excuse. “And once you hear from MIT, we’ll sit down and go over everything, all your options.”
    “MIT is the only option I care about.” (More truth.)
    “You’re getting obsessed.”
    “A well-managed obsession can be very productive. How come you got in so late last night?”
    “I got a call from a panicked mother. Her little boy was running a high fever. We took him to the ER—turned out to be an ear infection. Remember how Toby used to get those?”
    I nod. “You should have heard him coughing last night. I think he should stay home from school.” I pick up the excuse, fold it, and put it in my bag. “I have practice after school, and you have that chicken dinner. Don’t forget. The congregation gets pissed when you don’t show up.”
    He picks up the scissors and slices through the paper. “Don’t say ‘pissed.’ It’s crude.”
    “The congregation gets perturbed when you forget to show up at these things. Oh, and don’t make any plans for me on Saturday. I’m working in the morning and getting my contacts—finally—in the afternoon.”
    He keeps cutting. “You’re changing the subject again. I don’t know why you keep avoiding this. It’s not like you.”
    La-la-la-la-la. I am not listening. Let him have the last word. I am the child, he is the father, and all is right with the universe. I grab my books and— ow —that twinge again in my chest. I think I strained a pectoral muscle lifting weights for track. The books slide awkwardly against one another. My keys were sandwiched between mythology and chemistry. I toss them in the air and catch them. “When the letter comes, bring it to school, okay?”
    He keeps cutting. “Have a good day. God bless, Kate.”

    2.2 Transition Element
    The church next door is dark and the stone walls give off a chill. Dad refuses to spend money on floodlights because he says churches don’t need security. I shiver and hustle to my sad excuse of a motor vehicle, a Yugo named Bert.
    I usually drive to school on autopilot. Not today—leaving late has landed me smack in the middle of rush-hour traffic. This is bad. Bert fears traffic. Bert is a wuss, a tissue box on tires with a bulimic hunger for motor oil. I pet the dashboard as I turn onto the main road, and promise him a filter change if he can get me to school without overheating.
    A minivan cuts in front of us and stops at the next yellow light. Come on, lady, get the lead out . The driver, a mom wearing big sunglasses, is either screaming or singing to the kids strapped into the back seat. Start, coast, stop. Another yellow, a long red. Shoot.
    I cover the temperature gauge and jiggle my left leg. If Dad hadn’t slowed me down, I’d be at school right now. God bless. Why does he insist on saying that? I don’t inflict scientific theories on him. I don’t make him contemplate the elegance of the periodic table or particle physics. He knows I’m allergic to the G-word. He does it just to annoy me.
    The light turns green, and the minivan heads for the elementary school. I steer Bert to the entrance ramp of the bypass. Once we merge, I put on the hazard flashers and settle into the slow lane. The sore muscle in my chest whimpers as I wrestle the gearshift into third.
    Don’t get me wrong, I’m not against religion. Religion is good, apparently. Millions of people seem to enjoy it. But I’m not buying it, especially the brand-name version my dad sells. I don’t see that his blessings have ever helped anything.
    A line of cars passes me, horns honking, middle fingers saluting. Sometimes I wish I did have faith. If I did, I’d pray for another thousand miles on this heap. And to be accepted by MIT, of course. A full scholarship would be