Chaos Theory Read Free

question that he’ll be my unwilling partner. He’ll push me. He’ll make me better.
    I shower fast, throw on my school clothes, and dash for my car. An unpredicted light snow drifts down. Crap. I never leave town if it’s going to snow; Mom and Dad will be freaking.
    In the parking lot, Drug Guy is standing next to a tank-shaped man who looks like a comic book heavy, complete with no neck and red beefy hands. Tank’s loading up elementary kids into his silver minivan, scrawny Dōgi pant legs sticking out beneath parkas. Once the kids are tucked in, my new sparring partner shakes the guy’s hand, palming a piece of paper into his. The minivan takes off, while Drug Guy heads for a red Ford Mustang—classic model. As he opens the door, he scans the parking lot, sees me, and freezes.
    We stand like that, each with our hands on car door-handles. Like heaven’s sending a warning, the light snow converts to giant clumps. Through the lacy curtain, I nod. In unison, we each open our car door and get in. Hands shaking, I insert my key and rev her up. Drug Guy starts his car too and pulls in behind me. Exiting the interstate and stressed out over the snow and the creep at my back, I monitor my rearview mirror as he tails me through the city streets. I park in my driveway—my home. He knows where it is now. The falling snow has dumped four inches or more.
    ***
    After that workout, sleeping like the dead should have been easy; instead, life bounces at me. First, Drug Guy threatened me—again? Second, Chaos experiment—logic brain says, scrap it . I’d scoured the Internet all week for a formula to interpret the data—none, nada, zip. All that work this fall is useless.
    When the alarm goes off, I grab the first thing in the closet, make a NASCAR pit stop in the bathroom, and head down to breakfast.
    â€œYou look tired. Everything okay?” Mom radar is incredible. That would make a great science project, but there’s probably not a formula for that either.
    â€œThings are weird right now.”
    Behind his propped-up computer tablet, Dad reads one of his journals. I love the smell of his coffee. Mornings aren’t mornings without the bitter aroma. “Weird how?”
    I chew on eggs and organize my thoughts. Exactly which weird do I share, Drug Guy or my going-nowhere science project? Snap decision. “I blew my science project. It’s not going to work.”
    â€œWhy not?” Dad keeps reading.
    â€œThere’s no formula to plug my data into.”
    Dad leaves his tablet to eye me. He waits for me to elaborate, sipping his coffee.
    â€œIt’s Chaos Theory in a five-by-one-by-one-foot box.”
    Dad snorts and coffee almost blows out his nose cause he coughs and wipes at it. Mom stops behind me.
    â€œA locker?” he asks and laughs so deep in his chest that I swear the table shakes.
    Behind me, I hear Mom set the frying pan on the stove. “You’re working on chaos theory in a locker ?”
    â€œNot anymore. If I can’t plug the data into a formula, it’s over.”
    Dad stops laughing. He looks over my head at Mom, sharing the parent look . Mom’s irritating birdsong clock chirps. She sits down in the chair next to me with her tea. Mom likes her tea hot or not. She sips it all day long as the huge traveling mug cools. Maybe I can do a science project on taste buds and scent. That’s cool. Why do some people like coffee and others tea? How fast can I collect the data?
    Dad doesn’t stick his head back into his tablet or drink his coffee. “Just because an experiment fails doesn’t mean you throw it out. You worked on this all fall?” He pauses before “fall” like the time frame means something.
    â€œYeah, but the judges will laugh like Sandy does.” I mimic what they might say: “Did you see the wacky girl’s messy locker experiment?”
    Dad pushes. “People laughed all