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Part Two
1NCID3NT / EV3NT
Track Meet
RETAIL THERAPY
More than half the people at my school have a N3WATCH now. I’m sure they’re on time for stuff, but that’s not why they have them. They were on time before the watch / another fashion accessory / were just scared.
When people don’t know when something is going to end—or start again, in this case—they go a little cracked. Everything feels like forever. Energy trapped in the unknown / like the fire under Centralia, Pennsylvania. Except, in Centralia, everyone knew the energy was a noxious mine fire burning for decades and they eventually had to move away. There is no moving away from a fold in time and space.
Except for N3WATCH / makes the fire go out / only in your mind.
THE ANOMALIES
In late pretend-February, Ms. Moreland, our social sciences and history teacher, made us research the effects that the stoppage of time had on our society. 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. The third article was of most interest to me / more important than flying. It was about a doctor who could heal fractured bones without eight weeks in a cast—he would just touch the break and it would heal.
I found the restoration narrative encouraging.
I remembered Beano and her claim that everyone in my house was deaf. She wasn’t being literal / talking dogs are not usually literal / we can all hear just fine. Yet restoration was necessary and pulling nails was my part in that.
It was the way in which I learned how to rest inside a fold in time and space / move inside an unmoving arrow / heal inside the AFT3RMATH.
* * *
By the time we decided to destroy Nigel, stretches on Plutchik’s Clock became more natural. It didn’t have to be a certain time of day or hour I put aside, I could simply feel my feelings when they happened / not be ashamed to have them / move on with my life.
It’s a matter of survival / same as purging sister / always moving forward.
Robert Plutchik didn’t just invent his wheel and then walk away from it. His whole life was a study of emotion and evolution. How we evolved as emotional beings. How we survived because of our emotions.
Paleolithic / cavemen had the same emotions we do / instinct.
Fight or flight is a well-known and accepted reaction to Fear. It has saved many lives. But what we overlook when we ignore talking about emotions in day-to-day life is that there is survival in Joy or Anger. In all of our emotions / if we listen.
x equals how Disgust is a reaction to poison.
x equals vomiting until the poison is gone.
Plutchik didn’t stop there. In his decades of study, he found he was able to predict the socioeconomic future of a family line based on how they deal with emotions / trauma. I’m no Robert Plutchik, but from the look of my house, lies and silence can destroy a family’s future more effectively than a hurricane can.
GRAVITY
Last night was a night of learning for all of us. Mostly we learned not to walk on the exposed walls / old floor without knowing where the wall studs are. This was a concern only in the rooms or halls that are missing full plywood safety boxing. My foot went clear through from the living room to the corridor / two sheets of drywall / never meant to bear weight. Richard tried using his skis to walk around / they got caught up in the conduit. Carmichael continued to crawl for the most part, as he solved plumbing problems all over the house.
When I said good night and went to my room, everything was a ninety-degree mess. GPS: If I face the window at the front of the house, the floor is now the wall to my right / the ceiling, the wall to my left / my doorway is two and a half feet high / six and a half feet wide / nothing comes with directions.
Before bed, I did basic cleanup. Bed upright, mattress back on it, comforter and sheets and pillows. I found my teddy bear. I found my phone charger and an outlet on the wall-now-floor and plugged in my phone.
* * *
—
Today is waking up to a pile of my own furniture and clothing, my yellow comforter wrapped around me. I remember / the house turned. I get my backpack from under my desk, now on its side, and gather the things Carrie told me to bring. Uniform, track suit, spikes, and I toss in a small fleece blanket because she said it would be cold.
I’m unsure where my me-shaped hole will lead me this morning. Maybe to school, maybe to the sky.
I go to the kitchen where Daddy and Carmichael had put the table in the right place, picked up the fridge, and got it working. The sink is disconnected and on the floor. My lunch is on the table like always and no one is around.
I leave a note on the table. Happy Birthday, Daddy! See you at the meet! ♥
It turns out my me-shaped hole leads to the sky, but I go out anyway. Climb down the roof sideways, and then have to jump to get to the grass in the backyard.
Carrie sees me walking through the parking lot at school. “Bad morning?”
I look down at myself. There’s grass in my hair and the arm of my sweatshirt has dirt on it.
SURPRISE SURVIVAL
Psych Team talks about survival. How we must destroy Nigel’s world with Len’s video before he knows it’s about to fall apart / can retaliate.
I find Plutchik’s graph on survival sequences. “Look. You find an obstacle or an enemy. It makes you Angry. You destroy the enemy.”
“This class is my enemy,” Carrie says.
“And so we shall destroy it,” Len says. “Before the end of the week.”
“But not today,” Carrie says. “It’s track day. Tru and I have to focus.”
Eric asks Carrie something about track and I zone out and study Plutchik’s survival sequence chart for an answer to how I feel about my house being turned sideways. There’s no way to tell Carrie—even though she was at my house two days ago. She wouldn’t even believe it. I skim the emotions. Joy / Trust / Fear / Oh.
I find Plutchik’s survival explanation for Surprise:
Unexpected event → questioning what it is → stop → gain time to orient.
I stare at the words. Stop. Gain time to orient. Like Zeno’s arrow.
No other survival issues connected to Plutchik’s emotion wheel have anything to do with time / this is a personal breakthrough. I know what’s wrong with time.
Time was surprised.
So it just stopped in order to orient.
Or someone stopped it.
I don’t tell anyone.
Special things happen during phenomena like this. Like our house becoming a bingo spinner. Surprise!
UNIFORM II
The top is still tight across my chest and I feel conscious about my boobs and how people can see them when I run / bounce / throw.
I’m worried my ass looks big / shorts are tight.
I’m worried about Daddy. He doesn’t know what to do at American high school stadiums. The one time I took him to a football game, he talked about the lights so much he made all the people around us mad with his electricity / halogen logic. And today he’ll be alone because Mama and Carmichael and Richard are busy.
He will not know to buy me a candygram.
He will not know that the concession stand is open and selling his favorite candy: Good & Plenty. It’s the only candy he eats.
Today, he is fifty-one years old. My mother is forty-six. Neither of them knows how far a javelin is usually thrown by high school girls.
I think of the medal I might get.
I think of how maybe it will be a day to celebrate and maybe people will be happy for me. I have no idea why this goes through my mind as I walk to the field judges alongside Giselle Masterson and the other two girls. They probably don’t care whether people are happy for them or not.
JAVELIN CHECK
They make sure it’s the right weight and the right style. They don’t even look at me—no idea I’m about to make them doubt their sanity. Or mine. Or whatever else is about to happen.
It’s my favorite jav: teal with purple highlights. It’s my favorite weight: 600g. It’s my favorite day: Tuesday. It’s my favorite weather: cold and overcast.
HOLD / DECK / UP
On Hold.
The runners are running / jumpers are jumping and I thought I’d feel more self-conscious being in the middle of the field but it’s all so busy. Makes me wonder why I never went to a track meet before / went surfing before / did anything I haven’t done yet before.
I want to try new things.
I want time to start moving again so we don’t always have to spend our free time thinking about solutions.
I don’t even think there’s a problem.
On Deck.
I don’t look up at the bleacher people, cheering on their running / jumping / throwing kids. I don’t look up at all, really. Not ever.
I’ve always had trouble with eye contact / attention / praise. I have echoism. Google that if you want. I’ll wait.
Up.
Watch me throw, now.
ANGRY
That’s what the main field judge is—angry. She thinks I’m messing with her head when I tell her I shouldn’t throw unless the track and beyond it is clear. She rolls her eyes like I’m making a joke / the runners who know me watch as they round the far turn.
“Throw. Or be disqualified.”
So I throw.
The field judge thinks I’m cheating the minute I throw because of course she does. I’ve been building this throw for a week / month / year / my whole life.
She inspects my arm and hand as the two other judges try to measure my throw but can’t because their tape isn’t long enough. She asks the assistant judge to retrieve my javelin, which is on the opposite side of the track, which means I just threw at least two hundred and thirty feet (just short of the women’s world record, NBD).
She disqualifies the first throw due to “technical difficulties,” and that’s when Coach Turner shows up and argues. She won’t budge. Coach Turner eventually says, “Technical difficulties, my ass. The only technical difficulty here is inside your head.”
I stare at the grass, mostly. Someone gives my jav back to me. I stand there looking at it / the grass / then the crowd. Daddy is standing and clapping. Still. Three or more minutes since my throw.
No one has told him to sit down.
SECOND OF THREE
On hold. Giselle Masterson throws a really nice 123'. Her form makes my form look like it’s dry heaving. She has javelin DNA. I have DNA that can’t stop expanding via plywood, conduit, and energy.
On deck. Kelly throws a wobbly 95'. Best throw today, so she should be happy, but she’s not. She will not be happy until she is Giselle Masterson.
Up.
The field judge looks at me like I’m about to rob her house / murder her dog.
I walk back to the grass beyond the toe board—I call it the runway like I’m an airplane because I am about to fly.
NEVER TURN YOUR BACK TO THE THROWER
This is an actual rule in the rule book / I read the rule book fifty times / it’s why I was so freaked out about field judges. Now, I am more freaked out by field judges because this one refuses to understand the Paleolithic nature of me and this spear.
She probably relies on N3WCLOCK, too.
Anyway, the field judge has her back to me, which means she’s the only one breaking rules today. Not me.
I sprint, step sideways three times, hop, and throw. Feet off the ground, I launch it toward the woods at the edge of our stadium. It won’t make it all the way there, but it’s nice to think about what would happen if it did. The jav lands even farther than my first throw.
They have prepared themselves with two measuring tapes. One judge stands where the jav landed and holds a stick with the zero part of the tape attached, another judge waits to see how far that judge gets until her tape runs out. The second judge has another tape. He puts his stick at the end of her tape and walks back to the toe board.
Math gets involved.
I’m standing here. Coach Turner and Coach Aimee are here. Giselle, Kelly, and Petra (finally remembered her name) are back in the warm-up area, spike-throwing their javs to stay in the zone.
The second judge walks toward the toe board with his tape extended nearly the full distance.
“Two fifty-seven,” he says.
“Two fifty-seven?” the field judge asks.
He looks at her crooked. “Yeah.”
She waves at the judge still out beyond the throwing area, holding the stick at the place where the javelin landed. “Two fifty-seven is impossible. That’s world-record stuff, Carl. Come on. This is ridiculous.”
“You’re a freshman?” she asks me.
“Junior.”
“Did you just move here? Don’t remember you from last year,” she says.
Coach Turner says, “This isn’t an interrogation. Tru throws better than anyone I ever saw. Well—farther, anyway.”
“We can’t mark two fifty-seven,” she says.
“Why not?”
“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. The same people will go to church on Sunday and pray to an invisible man. They will check their N3WATCH to make sure they aren’t late for the sermon. 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.
“I am not impossible. Let me throw it again,” I say.
Coach Turner puts his index finger to his lips for me to shut up. He is arguing for me / I will only fuck it up. Coach Aimee is surprisingly bitchy on my behalf. I’m glad she’s consistent, at least.
THREE
On hold, Kelly tells me that Giselle Masterson has written a letter to the PIAA / state athletic board and reported me for using performance-enhancing drugs. There is a 75 percent chance Kelly could be lying about this.
Giselle throws a tired 105'.
On deck, while Kelly throws, I ask Giselle.
“Did you really report me for using drugs?”
She looks startled. “Who told you that?”
We both look at Kelly as she throws a decent 88'.
Giselle shrugs. “Javelin throwing in my family is sacred,” she says. “Like Jesus-sacred.”
“So you think I’m taking drugs?”
“I don’t know,” she says.
“I’m not taking drugs,” I say.
“You’re up.”
“I know. But this throw won’t count—even if I push it all the way to Ohio.”
“You should probably just quit,” she says.
WHAT YOU DON’T KNOW ABOUT THE TALENT SHOW
One time I could sing.
I would stand in the backyard
when we lived at the townhouse
and I would breathe right
like the teacher taught me.
Hand on my diaphragm.
I was in third grade
and I loved Diana Ross
because Mama loves Diana Ross.
Talent show /
signed up secret, decided
lying was better than
an audience with my family inside of it.
Sister was in fifth grade
signed up to do lip sync with her friends /
saw my name /
said at the dinner table
Did you hear Truda is going to sing at the talent show?
The way she said it / pressed the button
the button under the table /
the button born in her hand /
she pressed it and
they all laughed at me until I told the chorus teacher
to take me off the program /
out of chorus.
Mama: You’ll only make a fool of yourself.
Richard: Trust me. You don’t want to do that at your age.
Daddy: You will be better off.
The button / switch works on everyone.
Everyone.
TWO NINETY
I look into the stands before I throw and Daddy is still standing, his right hand acting as a visor even though there is no bright sun. He’s watching, making sure I’m not making a fool of myself / am better off than a third grader singing “Baby Love.”
I roll my neck. Roll my shoulders. Throw one last time.
I hadn’t heard it before because I wasn’t listening. This is my first track meet. I am the last contestant—the way they wasted time arguing. My whole team—Carrie, Kevin, and John and all the sprinters and that kid who pole vaults and that high jumper who might make it to states again, and even Giselle Masterson, Kelly, and Petra—are standing on / around the bleachers and yelling my name. Go Tru! Throw it, Tru! Go Becker!
I’m not used to this / can’t make out if they mean to support me or burn me later under the scoreboard as an example.
My run is good / hops are good / form is good. I stop way short of the toe board because going over it scares me. My release is clean and I feel like maybe my dry-heave form is simply mine and I don’t need to be like Giselle-javelin-DNA.
