about something else.
Tyson busted up my face, Dad.
That’s what really happened.
I didn’t slip. He’s been picking on me
for a while. But we’re okay now. I think.
He lets out a long breath.
I should’ve told you, I say.
I wish you had, bud.
I really, truly wish you had.
I know, but—
His expression shifts, lightens.
Because now your poor swim team
has an extremely sticky diving board to deal with.
I laugh and a smile creeps onto his face
for the first time
in days.
∞ ∞ ∞
We drive the next few miles in silence.
Dad’s crinkled forehead tells me
there’s a storm of thoughts
brewing and thundering in his mind.
I wish I could see inside.
I wish I could understand.
I wish I could help.
I’ve missed a lot lately, he repeats. Too much.
And I’m sorry for that.
He takes one hand off the steering wheel.
He finds my shoulder and gives it a squeeze.
I’ll make it up to you, bud.
The last time he said that
he gave me a bag of junk.
Even though
things are improving,
I still don’t really know
what to expect.
LITTLE BY LITTLE
Dad takes me to a mini-golf course
down the road from our motel.
We have such a good time
that we return to play
on Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday.
Spending this time together
is a million times infinity to the infinity power better
than any bag of junk.
At first
our conversations are like
our putts:
short,
a little wacky,
frequently ricocheting backward.
For Dad,
mathematical theorems and proofs
are easier topics than
feelings.
At least we’re talking.
It’s a start.
DCS
It turns out
one of the people
Dad met with the other day
was from the Arizona Department of Child Safety,
AKA the parent police.
When he tells me this,
I get panicky.
They’re not going to take me
away from you, are they?
No, bud.
They just want us to attend some sessions, Dad says,
which sounds like a party invitation,
even though I’m pretty sure
it’s the exact opposite.
We drive across the bridge
from Bullhead City to Laughlin,
along the same route
Mom used to take to work.
Out the window
I try to spot
that underwater borderline—
floating suspended between different places,
just like me.
ROOM TO TALK
At first
the meetings with the DCS people are
awkward
like standing outside in your tighty-whities,
uncomfortable
like itching powder down your pants,
painful
like finding a rusty can opener with
your foot.
All I want to do is escape.
I can tell by Dad’s constant fidgeting
that he feels the same.
∞ ∞ ∞
In the afternoon
I have a one-on-one meeting
with some guy named Mitchell.
He’s got ridiculously bushy eyebrows,
a too-short tie,
and a lonely cactus in a really ugly pot on his windowsill.
I brace myself for more torture,
but thankfully he doesn’t ask a million questions.
Actually he only asks one question:
Do you want a root beer?
I do.
He gives me a cold can.
Then he gives me lots of room
to talk if I want, or not.
After I finish my soda,
and read all the goofy comics
taped to the wall behind his desk—
the kind that Mom would have found hysterical,
I decide maybe he’s not so bad after all.
It’d probably be rude
not to say anything,
so I recite a passage from my
old orange book:
the chapter about pythons.
The one that says it’s practically impossible
to escape a squeezing snake on your own.
The one that says
it’s okay to need help sometimes.
I’m glad you feel that way, Mitchell says.
Underneath his eyebrows,
his eyes are actually pretty friendly-looking.
That’s why we’re here.
SWIMMING
Dad asks me to give him
swimming lessons
in the motel pool.
He says there are lots of things
he’d like to learn
to do better.
I start with sidestroke, my favorite.
Show him how to pick a cherry,
put it in the basket.
One.
Pick a cherry,
put it in the basket.
Two.
The cherries,
like the memories we’re making,
don’t weigh us down.
They do the opposite.
UNKNOWNS
Dad tells me he’s been talking
to the counselors and doctors.
We all agree
that I should get some additional help.
I’m going to spend some time
at a hospital of sorts, Dad replies.
Why? I say, startled. The burn on your back is healing well.
The doctors said you have no serious injuries.
That’s mostly true, bud.
Except I need to work on other parts of myself.
So that I can keep you safe.
What do you mean?
There are special therapies and support groups
for people struggling with compulsive hoarding disorder.
I’ll be gone a few weeks, and then we’ll see.
These sorts of things don’t heal overnight.
But everything’s getting better. You seem better!
I know. However, it’s a bit like my equations—
some solutions are more complex than others.
Because there are so many unknowns?
Exactly, bud.
Thankfully that’s never stopped me from trying.
Why should this be any different?
STARTING OVER
I’m fighting the urge to worry.
Afraid things could go back to the way they were.
Afraid things will change too much.
What will happen to me while you’re gone?
I can’t stay here by myself.
Of course you can’t. Dad kneels down.
She tells me you made all sorts of plans together.
She told you?
Are you mad?
Not at all.
I’m proud of you.
For being brave.
For seeing things
I couldn’t see, didn’t want to see.
Things that are still hard for me
and probably always will be.
Things that will take time.
He takes a breath, pulls me close.
Which is why you should go
spend a few weeks in Maine this summer.
I’ll miss you, I say, fighting back tears.
You’d better! He laughs.
You’re really not mad
I reached out to Aunt Lydia?
Mad? No. Maybe a little jealous, though.
Hiking, camping, fishing?
Sounds like fun to me.
Aunt Lydia promised beaches and roller coasters, too, I say,
surprised but pleased that these activities
no longer feel worthy of so much fear.
Aww, way to rub it in! He musses my hair.
When you come back in July,
I’ll try harder. I’ll get the help I need.
We’ll start over, take things day by day.
We’ll move to a new house.
A clean house.
With a backyard?
Sure.
With enough space for a tree house,
and a superdeluxe mini-putt course?
I’ll see what I can do, he says.
It sounds almost too good
to be true,
like sinking a hole in one.
And maybe it is.
But maybe it’s not.
I wrap my arms
around his barrel chest.
Even in this crazy heat,
he’s wearing a wool sweater vest.
It smells like barbecued sheep.
It scratches my cheek.
And yet, it’s one of the things
I love about him.
What do you think, bud? Deal?
Spectacular deal, I say.
Too good to pass up.
JAWS
A few days later,
a demolition crew arrives
at our old house.
The wrecking machine
has the jaws
of a T. rex.
I watch
as it chomps down
on charred wood.
Its steel teeth
peel back singed boards
like skin,
exposing blackened guts
that were once
the Hoard.
BLOSSOM
What do we have here? Mitchell asks
when Dad and I stop by the DCS offices
in the afternoon.
I hand him a terracotta pot
filled with wet dirt,
fresh green leaves,
and a small yellow blossom.
A survivor, I say.
The demo crew helped me
rescue it from our window box
before they tore down the house.
Mitchell gives me a wide, grateful smile.
His eyebrows squash together, forming one
very impressive unibrow.
Dad nods in approval
and pulls the blinds open,
letting sunshine pour in.
Much better.
on the windowsill next to his cactus
(which is still ugly,
but at least it’s a little less
lonely-looking now).
SMILE
Before Georgia leaves
for Camp Barracuda
and I leave for Maine,
she comes to say goodbye
in person.
Which means I can’t hide
behind a computer screen anymore.
I have something for you, she says.
She places a small pocket mirror
in my palm.
I can’t replace
your favorite photograph,
but this should help.
In case you need to remember
your mom’s smile.
Then she gives me
one more thing:
A kiss!
KISS
I’m dying.
Kaput.
Gonzo.
Adios, amigos.
I will see my mother’s smile again (in heaven)
just like Georgia promised
before she planted
that kiss!
Which stopped my heart from beating
completely.
And killed me
dead.
NOT DEAD
Turns out
I’m still alive.
Not dead.
Just suffering
from severe shock.
And maybe
LOVE.
Which feels
just as terrifying
and horrifying
and exciting
as every worst-case scenario I ever studied.
Except this
I am totally, utterly unprepared for.
And maybe that’s what makes it
so great.
KALAMAZOO
Mrs. Wolcott honks the car horn.
Georgia turns to wave
one last time.
My lips form the word Kalamazoo.
I see Georgia
through the passenger window.
Kalamazoo, too! she mouths.
My cheek is still
burning
as the car drives
away.
I unwrap my fingers
and hold the mirror
up.
It catches the sunlight
and then
I see
Mom’s smile
smiling back at me.
Just like Georgia promised.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I didn’t have a bright orange book of instructions to help me write and revise this story, but fortunately many excellent people guided me through the process. Many thanks to Christa Heschke, Daniele Hunter, and McIntosh & Otis for championing my work and emboldening me to take creative risks. Thanks to my amazing editor, Julie Bliven, for seeing the potential in Collin’s story and for loving these characters as much as I do. Your wisdom, patience, and keen editorial eye are unparalleled. To the wonderful team at Charlesbridge, including Kristen Nobles, Donna Spurlock, Jordan Standridge, and copyeditor Hannah Mahoney. I am so grateful for your skill, dedication, and hard work.
My critique partners and writing pals saved me from disaster on multiple occasions. Special thanks to Erin Cashman, Diana Renn, Sandra Waugh, Kip Wilson, Linda Elovitz Marshall, Suzanne Warr, Craig Bouchard, and everyone in my Littleton and Concord kidlit writing groups. Shout-outs to the Lucky 13s, the Electric Eighteens, and the wonderful folks at the Writers’ Loft, and The Room to Write.
Kwame Alexander’s New England SCBWI keynote speech inspired me to give verse a shot. Sarah Tregay maintains one of the most comprehensive lists of novels-in-verse on the internet; thank you for introducing me to the brilliance of Karen Hesse, Nikki Grimes, Thanhha Lai, K.A. Holt, Sarah Crossan, Helen Frost, Margarita Engle, Sharon Creech, Caroline Starr Rose, Elizabeth Acevedo, and many more. Their books became refuges, treasured teachers, and poetic playgrounds. I was lucky to learn from some of the best, including Emma D. Dryden, Sonya Sones, Andrea Davis Pinkney, Ellen Hopkins, and Padma Venkatraman. Your encouragement was a life raft.
Utmost appreciation to all the librarians, teachers, and booksellers who help
put books in the hands of young readers. Hometown hugs for my local independent bookstore, the Silver Unicorn in Acton, Massachusetts. High fives to my magnificent Middle Grade Book Clubbers. Keep reading and writing. I can’t wait to read your books one day!
I consulted many sources while researching this story, including the work of Tracy Schroeder, Jessie Sholl, and Kimberly Rae Miller, as well as the work of the following doctors: David F. Tolin, Gail Steketee, Randy O. Frost, Michael A. Tompkins, Suzanne A. Chabaud, Tamara L. Hartl, Fugen Neziroglu, and Katherine Donnelly. Additional information was provided by the American Psychiatric Association, the National Alliance on Mental Illness, the International OCD Foundation, National Institute of Mental Health, and the World Health Organization.
My family and friends fill my life to the brim with love. Thank you all, for everything and every thing. My fascination with words, my insatiable curiosity about the world, and my love of storytelling are gifts from my mother—a poet and so much more. My father is a lighthouse, guiding me to shore time and time again. When my debut novel released, my in-laws practically converted a hair salon in Ontario, Canada, into a bookstore, proudly displaying my book alongside shampoos and conditioners, handselling dozens of copies to well-coiffed readers. I am grateful to be part of your famiglia.
Whenever a task feels daunting (like writing an entire book), my father reminds me to do one thing at a time. That’s exactly how I wrote this story—word by word, line by line, page by page. And believe me, it was slow going, especially with two small kiddos at home. In fact, the majority of this book was written in my car, parked outside my local grocery store while my daughters napped in their car seats. (It’s not an official title, but I do consider myself the Writer-in-Residence of the Market Basket parking lot. Ah, the writing life is glamorous indeed.) AJ & FJ, despite your challenging sleeping habits, you are the most wonderful children. I love you infinity times infinity. And of course, Stefano. You are my Best-Case Scenario.
* * *
According to recent studies, compulsive hoarding disorder affects between 2 percent and 6 percent of the population, and is characterized by excessive accumulation of and difficulty discarding possessions, regardless of their value. Some researchers believe the actual numbers are higher, as hoarding often remains unreported, unrecognized, and untreated. In America alone, approximately six to nineteen million people cope with severe hoarding tendencies. Many of those impacted are children like Collin, who must learn to navigate daily risks of physical and psychological harm.