Catalyst Read Free Page B

nice. A microwave for my dorm room, a work-study job in a decent lab. God could pay for my contacts, cure Toby’s asthma, get Mitch’s parents off his back about his major, and develop a cure for AIDS. If I believed in God, I’d pray all the time. Dad would croak.
    We’re approaching the big hill, the one that makes Bert shudder. I floor it for a second to gain some momentum, then take my foot off the gas and coast to give the engine a second to cool down before the big push.
    I am not the daughter Rev. Jack Malone wants. He is not the father I need. It’s as simple as that. Rev. Dad (Version 4.7) is a faulty operating system, incompatible with my software.
    I downshift, accelerate, and cross my fingers. Halfway up the hill and Bert is panting, but it doesn’t smell like anything is on fire. Slow and steady, eyes up.
    Dad and I might be able to tolerate each other if he had a normal job. Everybody argues with their father. But nobody else has to listen to what Jesus would think about MTV, or what He would think about class rankings. Nobody else has to play the role of sweet little preacher’s girl in addition to getting into college and ironing clothes and feeding the pets and making sure my brother takes his medicine.
    Crap.
    I should have checked Toby’s peak flow reading before I left. Dad will forget. I fumble in my bag for something to write with and come up with one of Mitch’s Harvard pens. I scrawl “pk flw” on the back of my left hand. We crest the hill and I pat the dashboard again. A filter change and premium gas, I swear, buddy.
    2.2.1 Base
    You’re probably wondering what happened to my mom.
    It was pneumonia—resistant to drugs, resistant to oxygen, hungry, fast, and fatal.
    She got sick on a Thursday and died three days later. Her lungs filled up and she drowned. It took everybody by surprise. Especially the doctors.
    I was in fourth grade. I didn’t enter the science fair that year. Everything was blurry.
    I know I am supposed to be all tragic and freaked out because my mom is dead, but sorry, I’m not. Sometimes I miss her; it’s not like I’m heartless, but I’ve lived half of my life without her. She’s like a distant aunt, someone who was fun to play with, but forgets to send birthday cards. I dream about her sometimes. I think it’s about her, anyway.

    2.3 Caustic
    I park the car in the last row of the Merryweather High student lot and sprint to the door. I walk through the metal detector without setting off any alarms. I’ll have to get a late pass, but that shouldn’t be—
    “Hold it right there, honey.” The security guard stands up and walks over to me.
    The guard and the metal detectors are new this year. They allow our parents to think we are safe.
    The guard hitches up her pants and tries on a firm but friendly smile. “I need to see your student ID,” she says.
    Good God. I sigh and swing my photo bag around. The card fits in the plastic sleeve on the front flap.
    She clears her throat. “Like I said, I need to see your ID.”
    “What?” I look at the bag. The sleeve is empty, the card gone. Oh, crap. Oh, smelly crap. “It must have fallen out in the parking lot. I had to run. Or it’s in my car. I’ll get it for you second period. Excuse me, I have to go. I’m way late for chem.”
    She slides sideways and blocks my path. “I can’t let you enter the building without proper identification.”
    “Yes, you can. Mrs. Watson does it all the time.”
    “That’s why Mrs. Watson was fired. I’m in charge now. I follow orders.”
    Deep breath. Be nice. “I’m Kate Malone. I’m ranked third in the senior class. I’m National Honor Society, a peer counselor. Look.” I pull out my wallet and show her my license. “That’s me.”
    She studies it and crosses her arms over her bosom. “There is nothing on that license that says you are a student here. You could be disgruntled. You could be hostile.”
    “Do I look hostile?”
    “You are a teenager.”

    2.4