Switch: Part Two

Except, in Centralia, everyone knew the energy was a noxious mine fire burning for decades and they eventually had to move away.

One of the mini-assignments included three links to articles about people who were suddenly able to do extraordinary things. Anomalies: a fifth grader in Illinois had recently solved an impossible PhD math equation/a girl named Jennifer in Nebraska had figured out how to fly.

Stop. Gain time to orient.

He will not know that the concession stand is open and selling his favorite candy: Good & Plenty.

“It’s impossible.” Two other judges have come by to nod in agreement. I am surrounded by skeptics while time has stopped and there is no solution.

They will go to the smorgasbord afterward and eat maple syrup that is not actually maple syrup, but artificially-flavored sugar liquid on their not-real pancakes.

“We need to celebrate,” he says. I picture going out to McDonald’s with other kids my age. He continues, “I will make a meringue!”

I weave through all the frozen reporters and camerapeople and lights and gawkers and neighbors and I take Daddy by the hand and pull him stumbling toward the car.

At the very least, you need the egg yolks to be yellow. These eggs are feeble/barely more than blond. Daddy raises his eyebrows and he stares. Poached eggs depend a lot on yolk color.

He is literal/gullible. He thought she really thought he was a sweetheart.

The residue of the note—it’s asbestos, not a virus/immunity is impossible once you inhale. Only thing to do is remove it/then heal your fiber-sliced lungs.

But now I think it’s because of my crowbar. I think the universe is rewarding me for dismantling Fear.

The old linoleum floor is now the wall where the stove was.

“It would be an understatement to say this is being good at something. You’re clearly exceptional at javelin, right?” he says.

He flusters again, then asks me a few questions about college and the Olympics/I give him stock answers as if Coach Turner took over my audio.

I know what he’s trying to do—he’s trying to make me into the girl who can fly or the kid who does raucous math/he’s trying to make me agree/alien headlines.

I have no idea what anyone said to me. It was all some sort of static.

Mama is delirious with therapy in the driveway. She’s spinning and her psychic skirt is the wheel that drives her machine.

It’s Daddy, from the roof where he’s replacing a shingle, who says, “Why are you not at your meetup practice?”

Part of box #7’s plywood is curling away from the wall/losing structural integrity with each turn/slow leak brown liquid.

The electric roaster oven we usually only use for holiday roasts is on the floor next to him, steam billowing from it/no exhaust fan/the windows are dripping with sweat.

The sink is in the backyard now/look out the living room window/along with two toilets, the water heater, a bathtub, and the chest freezer where Daddy stored his blanched vegetables.

The synonyms are not good. Deviant, aberration, heretic, exception, bohemian, fanatic, flake, freak, three-dollar bill, dingbat, ding-a-ling, weirdo, teratogeny. I wonder if Ashley would go for “The Punks” but I doubt it. And teratogeny is just insulting.
“So—they’re making us look like freaks?” I ask.

The synonyms are not good. Deviant, aberration, heretic, exception, bohemian, fanatic, flake, freak, three-dollar bill, dingbat, ding-a-ling, weirdo, teratogeny. I wonder if Ashley would go for “The Punks” but I doubt it. And teratogeny is just insulting.
“So—they’re making us look like freaks?” I ask.

The synonyms are not good. Deviant, aberration, heretic, exception, bohemian, fanatic, flake, freak, three-dollar bill, dingbat, ding-a-ling, weirdo, teratogeny. I wonder if Ashley would go for “The Punks” but I doubt it. And teratogeny is just insulting.
“So—they’re making us look like freaks?” I ask.

Thunder makes the aluminum bleachers shiver/tinny.

Gravity makes us walk in corners. On corners. Straddle/navigate/struggle through valleys and rills.

I’m also the one who broke the toilet when I was in seventh grade. It was an accident. I didn’t know not to put polymer beads in the drains.

Mama and I are slowly trying to clear up our sleeping mess of pillows, blankets, and hallway flotsam, when I hear a knock on the door.

Behind them all, outside in the hedgerow of nondescript evergreen bushes, is Richard, who drove them here.