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N3WCLOCK is a prosthetic limb / we’re pretending it isn’t. Looking at a wolf / calling it Grandma.
We just kept working, like ants.
N3WCLOCK workplace timeclocks were made / special chip connects / your sweat lives in Wi-Fi now. Stamp your card / collect your pay / take up a hobby on the weekend. Billions of people believing in something they don’t understand / happy with that.
And people call me an anomaly.
REST
To understand anything is to understand energy. Solution Time is energy lost / busywork for children. Not for long.
I have discovered Bertrand Russell, thanks to two quotes that Len showed me:
“To realize the unimportance of time is the gate to wisdom.”
—Bertrand Russell
“Immense harm is caused by the belief that work is virtuous.”
—Bertrand Russell
* * *
Russell was a twentieth-century philosopher who wants me to rest / wants us all to rest / wants us all to stop balancing something as ridiculous as workweeks and leisure time / wants us to get bored enough to be creative / learn about ourselves. Wait /
Wait.
If there was a way to change the people in the world, it would have happened by now. It’s been nine months since time stopped. Whoever started this thing will to have to shut it down / call it a fail / concede to the fact that we are all too dull to invent anything new—too dull to do something good for ourselves.
The need for Nigel and Solution Time would be gone by the time “The Anomalies” aired on Sunday. I am the anomaly / never dull / who will make this happen.
NO ONE ASKS
It’s surprising, but not even Coach Aimee asks me where I was yesterday. We just stretch like normal and run our slow laps and no one is treating me like I’m anything special / just how I like it.
Until Kelly says, “Your interview was cool. What you said about Giselle was really nice. My little brother thinks you’re cute and wants to be your boyfriend.”
“How old is he?”
“Seven.”
I laugh and she laughs and this all feels like a horror movie setup.
“I’m glad they didn’t cut that part out,” I say. “I didn’t see it.”
“The part about the special they’re doing—about how you’re, like, magic? My whole family is going to watch. Did you see the blind girl in Florida who can see now?”
I am being compared to Jesus miracles on American television / Daddy will hammer more nails / Mama will use me for advertising.
* * *
—
Giselle and I walk to the locker room together. Carrie isn’t avoiding me / I’m avoiding her / still quitting track.
“You looked great on TV,” she says.
“Thanks.” I think about telling her that I didn’t want to be on TV but that’s too hard for most people to understand / I just want to rest / be tucked in by Bertrand Russell.
“I don’t know what you are, but I don’t think you’re a freak,” she says. “I think it’s rude the way they talked about you. My dad’s saying you might be an alien and he’s not that dumb, you know? He’s just—I don’t know.”
“He’s jealous. And I get it. And I’m glad you don’t think I’m an alien. Look. Are my eyelids blinking vertically or horizontally today?”
“Like regular eyes,” she says.
“I was kidding.”
“It was nice what you said about me,” she says.
“I’m going to quit track,” I say.
“What? Why?”
I shrug.
I stop by my gym locker and pick up my stuff, go up the steps so I can leave via the front doors / take a lazy walk. Carrie won’t see me / drive me home / won’t understand Bertrand Russell. The way people are now, the only way they’d consider practicing idleness, timelessness, and creativity is if we tooled the name / B3RTRAND RUSS3LL / invented an app.
JENNIFER
“Why can’t they let me have this one thing?” I ask this to a squirrel. I ask a tree / the grass / a blob of dog shit. “Just this one time?”
Instead, I’m a joke / water-cooler conversation / debated / debatable / debased / a teenage girl who did something great / let’s interview her dad.
I try to enjoy my walk. The trees are sprouting leaves. The sun is warm.
My phone ringtone thumps with electronic bass and the number has an area code I don’t recognize.
“Hello?”
A little girl’s voice is on the other end. “Is this Truda Becker?”
“Who’s this?”
“My name is Jennifer,” she says. “I’m calling from Omaha, Nebraska.”
“Okay,” I say.
“I’m—uh—I’m the girl who can fly,” she says. “Ashley gave me your number because—”
“Because she’s trying to get me on the show,” I say.
“No,” Jennifer says. “Because sometimes I think about flying right into a wall. Or traffic. Or just—I don’t know. I’m sad and no one understands.”
“Why are you sad?”
“Because I’m a freak?”
“You’re not a freak,” I say. “You’re amazing.”
Jennifer is quiet for a while. I can’t tell if she’s crying / flying into a wall.
“You okay?” I ask.
“Do you think this will ever go away? Like, when time starts again or whatever?”
“I don’t know,” I say.
She starts to cry. I can hear how ten she is. Little sobs / big tears. I watch a squirrel jump from one tree to another, barely making it to the branch.
“It’s going to be okay,” I tell her. “Stop thinking about what’s going to happen. Just keep flying. It’s fun, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Then keep doing it.”
She sniffles for a while and takes a few controlled breaths. “It’s incredible,” she says. “Isn’t it incredible to be able to do something like this?”
“I just throw a javelin. Flying seems a lot more cool.”
“Yeah,” she says. “I guess it is.”
I’m getting closer to home. I like Jennifer / always wanted a little sister / can’t stop being upset about Carrie / wish I was ten again / remember ten and almost cry, myself.
“I have to go now, but you can call me or text if you need to, okay?”
“Okay. Thanks for talking to me.”
“Thanks for calling. It’s so nice to meet you.”
“Keep throwing!” she says.
“Keep flying,” I say / we hang up.
BERTRAND RUSSELL’S DINNER MENU
Daddy’s blackened Cajun chicken alfredo is not concerned with getting to work on time / golfing on the weekend. The cheese sauce is not judging Daddy for not having a job / for using his time to build boxes to protect his family / making art / even if the art is ugly.
He’s not bored / the alfredo is honest as yogurt / that’s what happens / B3RTRAND RUSS3LL.
Carmichael is here and in the kitchen / plywood still under us so we don’t stomp through the west wall / now floor. Behind him there is a working upright sink that empties into a bucket and one wall cabinet that’s temporarily secured to the wall / ceiling at a slight angle / no door. No one has had time to clean, so the linoleum floor / now wall / is filthy, especially in the spots that used to live under appliances and cabinets. The whole house smells vaguely of natural gas.
Carmichael, Daddy, and Richard cleaned out the house as much as they could today. The backyard is now a graveyard of furniture and household things that cannot survive twisted at a 90- / 180- / 270-degree angle.
As we gather for dinner, we all act as if we’re having a typical dinner, not in the living room where the carpet is on the wall. Even Carmichael has gotten used to it / is pouring wine into glasses that are balanced on the edge of the fridge door / no normal surfaces left.
“You were not here to set table,” Daddy says to me.
“Sorry I was late. I walked home slowly,” I say.
“Are you okay?” Mama asks. “You must be exhausted.”
“They’re doing a special on Sunday night,” Richard says. “Maybe 60 Minutes will call you!”
There is no rest / now I know who wrote to Ashley, anyway.
“Do you still have clients this week?” I ask Mama.
“I have three tomorrow afternoon,” she says. “A cat, a grandmother, and a life-coaching session.”
“What do cats tell you from the afterlife?” Richard asks.
Carmichael says, “Meow!” and Daddy and Mama laugh and I think it’s wrong for Mama to take money from people and lie about their dead cats and grandmothers.
“They actually say more than that,” she says. “They send love to their owners. And gratitude.” She takes a bite of bread. “You’d be surprised what animals can tell us.” She looks sad / I wonder where Beano is / if the trade was worth it for her.
We eat in quiet and I chew my Cajun chicken slowly.
“I love you and am grateful for you,” I say to Mama / am inspired by dead cats. She reaches her hand to my face and strokes my cheek with the back of her index finger.
We smile at each other.
To understand anything is to understand energy / smiles are conduit / frowns are conduit / compliments can power a toaster / water heater / whole town.
“You are both so beautiful,” Daddy says, “I could cry.” Daddy can only pretend / hammer nails / give compliments. Nine months ago, Mama left / he quit his job / time stopped. Now Mama is back / what comes next we don’t know.
“Are you staying now?” Richard asks Mama.
“I am.”
“Why did you leave?” he asks.
“We will answer this at meeting,” Daddy says.
Richard’s frown is conduit / too many family meetings.
“I am honored by your invitation,” Carmichael says.
Mama’s frown is conduit / to understand anything is to understand energy / is to understand jealousy.
“If you didn’t have to go to work or college, would you be bored?” I ask.
All four of them look at me, wondering who I was asking / why I’m changing the subject. I make the I’m-asking-all-of-you gesture and wait.
“I’d probably watch too much TV,” Mama says. “If we still had a TV.”
“I’d sleep more. And probably play video games,” Richard says. “I miss video games.”
Carmichael and Daddy think.
I say to Richard, “You’d learn more Portuguese.”
“True.”
I look at Mama. “You’d probably learn something new about tarot cards or palmistry or something.”
“I’ve been wanting to take another course for years,” she says. “Or take up oil painting.”
“I do not get bored,” Carmichael says. “I keep busy, always.”
Daddy nods. That’s his answer, too. Clearly / look around / plywood carnival fun house / not moving forward.
* * *
Someone has made my bed and tidied my room. My guess would be Mama because she put things in places only a mother could choose. She even put my bathroom bucket in a place that offers privacy. Tonight’s family meeting—we will get an answer / I already know the answer. To understand anything is to understand energy.
I lie on my bed and daydream about Bertrand Russell. Earth falling into a fold in time and space suited Daddy just fine / still does. It would suit me fine, too, if I didn’t have to go to school. I could use some boredom / time to throw things really far / wish I could fly like Jennifer—I’d never stop.
The intercom squeaks from the wall / floor under my bed now.
It’s meeting time.
THREE-QUARTERS THERE
We’re in the living room. Carmichael sits on the couch with Daddy now that Mama has her chair back. All other furniture is gone except the old kitchen table / pushed to the edge so we have more room.
Richard is already here / yelling. I wish I could push him into the AFT3RMATH, but everyone needs to find it in their own way.
“You can’t just be a yo-yo like this! Moving in and out. Think of what Tru needs for once, you know?”
“Hi,” I say.
“She’s leaving again,” Richard says.
“I am not leaving again,” Mama says. “I didn’t even say that. I asked to see your phone.”
Carmichael says, “I would like to see your phone, Richard.”
Richard says no.
Daddy reaches into Richard’s hands and takes the phone. Richard jumps on him. There is wrestling / Carmichael joins in. I look at Mama. We both remember the day of the bird / the day Richard cried all the way through dinner—even with extra tapioca pudding.
I don’t even sit down / this isn’t a family meeting / I already know why she left.
It wasn’t just the bird. It was never just the bird. We are the birds.
Daddy was usually immune to sister’s screwdriver / her rages / her lies. During the kiosk job, she turned on Mama. Mama talks to dead cats / grandmothers / was not equipped to handle that sort of thing.
Sometimes things are that simple / a switched person can be flipped / on / off.
I look at Carmichael, who is back on the couch now. Richard has gone to box #11. Daddy has Richard’s phone / is reading texts from sister. I ask, “So, why is our house turning?”
Carmichael answers, “Lies.”
“Whose lies?”
“I cannot tell,” he says. “There are so many.”
* * *
When I check my phone, Carrie has sent me links to two websites. Both are about “The Anomalies.” I swear if I ever hear that word again, I’ll spontaneously combust. Ten bucks says 60 Minutes will not be interested in that.
Listen. We’re all anomalies.
Look at Daddy / Mama / Richard. None of us are really who we say we are.
Mama is no psychic. Daddy is no builder. Richard is no scholar. And I am no national teenage hero. We’re just a family / pocked with shrapnel / our bathrooms are in the backyard now. Even Carmichael isn’t a plumber / he’s got a CPA certificate on the wall of his living room / hates numbers.
The anomalies are every one of us. Every day. None of this is normal. Nothing is normal. No one can define normal / anomalies are impossible with no control group.
NAILS
I don’t know if Carmichael and Daddy are teaming up, but there’s more plywood / more boxes than one man could construct in a day / we live in a giant four-ply kiosk that doesn’t sell anything but confusion. The only way to get anywhere is to stop time and pull nails for extra hours.
I get 659 out before I can’t lift the crowbar anymore.
We Are Psych Team
THE EMAIL
All of us agreed that we couldn’t just send a random video to the school board. We had to claim it.
Len says, “Like the way terrorists claim—uh—”
Eric says, “Probably not a good comparison.”
“We should write a letter,” Ellie says. “Short and sweet.” She opens her laptop.
Carrie says, “To Whom It May Concern.”
Ellie says, “We have attached a video to this—”
“It’s a short film, not a vine,” Len says.
Ellie says, “We have attached a short documentary film to this email.”
“Too big to attach,” Len says. “We’ll link it.”
Ellie deletes. Starts again. “We are Psych Team—five students who have been using our Solution Time to study how the human mind could solve the time problem.”
Eric jumps in. “Sadly, due to the advisor, Nigel Andrews, we can no longer continue with our projects or our study of how time affects the human mind. He has acted—uh—”
“He has been a bully every day he’s come to class and mocks our projects and our personal selves, leaving us deflated and depressed,” Carrie says. “He recently told not only our class, but all classes of Trojans, that he plans to fail us and hurt our futures by doing so.”
“That might need to go shorter,” Len says.
Carrie says, “Cut the part about failing us.”
I say, “Let’s end it. How about Mr. Andrews has no business being around children?”
“Add this as a PS,” Len says. “If you don’t act on this, we will move on to phase two. After seeing this, we do not think you want to see phase two.”
Ellie screen mirrors it to the whiteboard. We read it. We cut it up / streamline it.
Len says, “Can I cut it back even further?” and Ellie hands him her laptop / he edits.
“When do we send it?” I ask.
“Now,” Len says. “Right now.”
We are Psych Team.
Please watch this documentary.
Nigel Andrews must go.
You do not want to see phase two.
FREAK SCHOOL
Len walks with me to my locker. “So, I saw the trailer for the 60 Minutes special they’re doing on anomalies,” he says. “They were asking around for footage of your throw.”
“No one has footage,” I say.
“I have footage,” he says.
“You didn’t send it to them, did you?”
He shakes his head.
“Send it to me,” I say.
“On it,” he says, and moves toward his next class / head down / pressing the send button.
