Sweaty Betty
Nervous Nelly
Forget grizzly bear attacks and typhoons—
apparently growth spurts,
overzealous sweat glands,
and responsible emergency preparedness
are the real threats.
DISCOVERY
There were times Before
when an avalanche of ideas
would bury my dad,
when he needed to dig through
mountains of notes and numbers,
clawing and tunneling his way out.
I’d sneak down the stairs,
into the basement,
clutching the railing,
stealing glimpses
of whiteboards
webbed with equations,
stacks of books
rising from the floor
like stalagmites in a cave,
computer screens
washing the room
in a pulsing blue glow.
Dad paced, muttered,
surely on the brink
of a breakthrough.
Discovery is a messy process, Mom would say.
Your father works best
in a state of creative chaos.
COLLECTIONS
Part of that chaos
came from Dad’s collections:
newspaper clippings,
calculations on napkins,
pages torn from notebooks.
He was supposed to keep all that stuff
at the university or
in the basement.
If his papers appeared upstairs,
Mom shuffled them into neat stacks
and clipped the important-looking sheets
into fat binders onto labeled shelves.
Then came the broom,
the dustpan,
the garbage bin.
Dad would grimace,
twitch,
flinch.
Sometimes he’d go out
for a walk,
or take me to Miguel’s,
where half a dozen tacos
with extra hot sauce
helped him forget
that Mom was
messing
with his mess.
NUMBERS
Miguel, have I ever asked about your number? Dad said
one afternoon when we visited the taquería together.
Phone number? Miguel asked, loading up a tray with food.
It’s right on the sign.
No, a different kind of number.
A lucky number?
I suppose you could call it that.
Everyone has at least one number
they feel connected to.
Ah, yes, I understand.
Miguel winked at me.
He tapped some buttons on the cash register.
Today, Professor Brey,
that number is $11.97!
I knew that made Dad happy,
because both eleven and ninety-seven
are prime numbers—
his favorite.
8
Mom always chose
the number eight.
She liked its symmetry.
Best of all
8
is an upright
infinity
looping looping
looping
around around
around.
No beginning
or end
because she was
supposed to be
with us
forever.
PRIME TIME
In class Ms. Treehorn says,
Can anyone tell me
what a prime number is?
Me! Me! Sabrina, the class kiss-up, squeals.
Georgia’s hand rockets up, too.
Collin can!
I shoot eyeball laser beams at her.
But Georgia keeps smiling,
like she’s doing me a favor.
Go ahead, Collin.
Sabrina huffs.
Everyone stares at me.
I have no choice.
A prime number
can only be divided evenly
by one and itself.
Wonderful!
Thank you, Collin.
Now can anyone tell—
Collin’s dad is a mathematician, Georgia interrupts,
still wearing that smile.
He’s solving one of the most important
math problems in the world.
What kind of dork squad decides that? Keith snickers.
The Clay Mathematics Institute, I mumble.
Boring! Tyson groans,
which sounds like BOH-RANG!
He’ll get a million dollars
if he gets it right, Georgia says.
That grabs everyone’s attention,
especially Ms. Treehorn,
who’s skilled at sniffing out
dreaded little things called
learning moments.
Collin, is this true?
I nod the blazing tomato
that is my head.
How fascinating.
Tell us more!
If you want to make
scrambled eggs
out of my brain,
ask me about
the Riemann hypothesis.
If you want to see
my father light up
like a Christmas tree,
ask him about it.
I wish Ms. Treehorn
would just forget
about this stupid
learning moment.
She won’t.
So I recite something Dad’s said a billion times:
It’s a conjecture that the Riemann zeta function
has its zeros only at the negative even integers and…
The room is silent.
Even Ms. Treehorn blinks,
head cocked, confused.
Yeah, I don’t really get it either, I say.
My palms sweat.
It has something to do with prime numbers.
It’s one of the Millennium Prize Problems.
And your father is really working on a proof?
He’s…trying.
But the truth is
I’m not so sure anymore.
2
2 is a prime number.
2 is the number of years
that have passed since Before became After.
2 is the number of cars
that collided on the bridge.
2 is the number of states
separated by the river that runs under the bridge.
2 is the number of minutes
it took emergency responders to break the window.
2 is too many.
2 is the number of people
left in our home now that Mom is gone.
2 is not enough.
MOVING FORWARD
The weeks
and months
after the accident
were a
blur.
Dad didn’t go back
to work right away.
The university said
he should take some time.
I wanted to stay home with him,
but Aunt Lydia
and Liam’s mom, Sharon,
and even a grief therapist
said school and routine
would help me
move forward.
Except
I j
ust wanted to go
backward.
REMEMBERING
I never stood a chance
against Mom’s morning
smooch attacks.
Go away, I mumbled
even though I knew
she never left for work
without saying goodbye.
Mom poked me in the ribs
once, twice, three times.
I squirmed, sat up,
rubbed crusties from my eyes,
and surrendered.
Thatta boy.
She hugged me hard.
I hugged her back but
I pulled away
before she could plant
some horribly embarrassing
pink pucker mark
on my cheek.
That lipstick Mom wore
must’ve been a mix of
permanent marker and superglue.
No matter how hard I rubbed,
her kisses refused to budge.
Right as she was about to launch
another attack,
her watch beeped.
Ha! I dove out of reach.
Saved by the bell, she said,
her laughter bright
as the dawn sun
peeking over the horizon.
She stood, yawned,
straightened her scrubs,
and placed a slip of paper
on the bedside table.
A BETTER GOODBYE
Mom left me checklists
whenever she worked
early-morning shifts at the hospital.
The lists helped me
worry
less
and helped Dad
focus
more.
This one said:
□ Get dressed
□ Wash face
□ Do the funky chicken dance
□ Eat breakfast
□ Brush teeth
□ Battle fire-breathing dragon
□ Pack homework
□ Go to school
She always added a few silly things,
claiming I needed to
lighten up a little,
be less of a
worrywart.
∞ ∞ ∞
Wait! I said. What about my lunch?
Oh, shoot! I’m sorry, Collin.
She glanced at her watch.
I don’t have time right now.
Mooooom!
It’s fine, bud. Dad will take care of it.
I groaned. The last time
Dad had packed my lunch,
he’d given me a Tupperware
full of bean salad. Seriously.
If you thought a smooch attack was bad,
try surviving
a bean-induced gas attack
during a post-lunch game of dodgeball.
Mom patted my shoulder.
I’ll make it up to you. Promise.
Before she closed the door
Mom said,
I love you.
I should’ve said,
Have a good day
or
Drive safe
or
I love you, too.
But I was still
tired and grumpy
so instead
I only muttered
two words:
Bean. Salad.
I wish so badly
I could have said
a better goodbye.
GOING BACK
When Dad eventually returned to work
after the accident
he discovered
that someone had been using his office.
He was convinced
this new colleague was
stealing precious equations,
unlocking the secrets
of his almost-solved
million-dollar math.
Dad complained
to the dean,
who explained
there was a shortage
of space on campus.
She assured my father
that many faculty members
enjoyed shared offices.
When Dad put up a fight,
he was told to
embrace collaboration
or find a new place to work.
That’s when he started
bringing all his files home.
LAYERS
Without someone to keep
Dad’s collections in check,
layers accumulate
like the sedimentary rock formations
Ms. Treehorn taught us about.
It happens so slowly at first
I don’t really notice, until
papers
cardboard
magazines
replace
carpet
tile
hardwood.
I try to tidy up, throw things away.
But Dad gets all twitchy, so I let it go.
GROSSBOMBS
Liam slides a plastic baggie
across the lunch table.
Jawbreakers! Georgia squeals.
Dibs on the purple one!
She plucks a candy from the bag.
These are most definitely choking hazards,
so I start explaining each step
before choosing a red candy,
hoping it’s cinnamon-flavored.
Georgia’s nose scrunches,
mashing her freckles together.
She drops the candy into her palm,
inspects it—first purple, now acid green.
She shrugs, pops it back into her mouth.
I roll mine across my tongue,
cautiously passing it from cheek to cheek.
It tastes like cherry, then grape, then…
I realize too late
that Liam’s smile
is a smirk.
Sour bitterness—
one hundred million times infinity worse
than anything the lunch ladies have ever served—
affronts my taste buds.
Georgia and I double over, gagging.
Liam doubles over, laughing.
We recover, sit up, and fire
spit-covered ammunition
from the cannons of our mouths
straight at Liam.
Prank candy, suckers! he cheers,
savoring the sweet taste of our suffering.
They’re called GrossBombs.
Found ’em at the Henny Penny.
Pretty awesome, huh?
More like awesomely revolting.
Georgia wags her tongue
like a dog panting on a hot day.
I chug chocolate milk,
trying to wash away the taste.
Liam pulls a box from his backpack,
reads the label:
A deceptively delicious outer coating
hides a truly gross explosion of flavor!
Ick! Prepare for payback, you punk, Georgia warns.
She might talk tough,
but Georgia has
a forgiving heart.
THE STATE OF MY HEART
mom mom
missing mom missing mom
missing mom missing mom missing mom
missing mom missing mom missing mom
missing mom missing mom missing mom
mom missing mom missing mom
missing mom missing mom
missing mom
mom
!
BULLIES
Watch it, Leggy Peggy!
I hear Tyson’s voice,
but I don’t see
his sneaker
stuck out
in the aisle.
The linoleum floor has little green flecks
I’ve never noticed before.
Tyson and Keith
explode with laughter
as sour-bitter-nasty
as that prank candy.
You okay? Georgia kneels by my side.
Aww. He needs his girlfriend to help him up.
I am not his girlfriend, Georgia snaps.
Then, to me, she mutters,
Sorry, Collin, that didn’t come out right.
Just ignore them.
I nod, trying to also ignore
the hives rising up my neck,
the sweat soaking through my shirt.
I tug too-short jeans, trying to cover
clumsy, too-long legs,
wondering when
this body, this life,
will feel like my own again.
* * *
If you are caught in a riptide, do not struggle against the current.
Swim parallel to shore.
Reserve your energy by floating on your back.
Once the riptide subsides, attempt to swim back to shore.
STAY CALM!
OUTSIDE
My house is yellow.
The trim is blue.
The stucco is chipped a little here
and there.
The window boxes have been empty for a while,
but Dad pays a landscape guy twenty bucks
to spruce up the yard every few months.
He says when I turn fourteen,
he’ll let me mow the lawn.
As if I’d jump at the chance
to operate a machine
with sharp, spinning blades.
It doesn’t matter, though.
Grass barely grows in Bullhead’s heat.
Plus, our mower is buried
somewhere in the garage,
where a litter of raccoons
or maybe armadillos
is probably curled up on the engine,
cozy beneath the rubble
of newspapers, random yard signs,
and a thousand pink plastic flamingos
that Dad bought on special
when the garden center went out of business.
The point is, our house looks
borderline normal