Free Some of the Parts by Hannah Barnaby Page B

doing something about your unhappiness, but it’s really just the illusion of action. There is nothing to show for it at the end of the meeting.
    I don’t want Dad to get sucked into that vortex. He needs real results, he needs materials and supplies, tangible achievements. I make a mental note to tell him that I would like crown molding in my bedroom. If I can keep him working on
this
house, maybe he’ll forget he wants a different one.
    I take a quick detour on my way to the shower to check Mom’s journal for new entries. Like Dad, she doesn’t make any effort to hide it—it lives in her nightstand drawer, waiting to be written in. And then to be read. I know how wrong it seems that I do this, but I think of it this way: My parents have become like mannequins of themselves, like characters flattened in a book, and I need to follow their story. Sometimes I even need to direct it a little, push it in the right direction, because there’s one thing we all agree on: None of us like surprises anymore.
    And I’ll admit there’s a slightly more selfish motivation, too. I want to know if Mom and Dr. B. are talking about me.
    Only one new installment since the last time I looked. Naughty Mom. She’s supposed to write in it every day. (I know this because the first entry says,
Dr. Blankenbaker wants me to write in this book every day.
)
    Drove past the Victorian on Sycamore Street today,
it says.
They painted the trim a new shade of blue again. It seems as if they can’t decide on what color would be best. I could tell them. I know exactly what blue they should have there, and exactly what flowers should go in the planters. All they have in there is trailing ivy. It’s such a waste. Everything seems like such a waste.
    I close the book and set my hand on its cover for a moment, like a blessing. Then I tuck it away again, leaving it in its dark drawer home.
    —
    School proceeds in its pleasantly predictable way. I think I see Chase a few times among the sea of faces, but I don’t allow myself to actually look for him. Now that the door to feeling has opened a crack, I’m not as insulated as I was before. A riot of noise and color hits me when I walk into the gym to help with the carnival prep. I manage to get Mel’s attention with a wave.
    “You are my only hope,” she says as she walks toward me. She is wielding a hammer in a vaguely threatening way. “No one here respects my authority.”
    “That’s because they’ve never seen you handle a chipmunk,” I hear myself tell her.
    She taps her chin thoughtfully with the clawed side of the hammer’s head. “Maybe I should suggest a taxidermy exhibit for the carnival. That’d shut them up.”
    I nod, though we both know that displaying Mel’s skills would probably cause more social harm than anything else. It wouldn’t help me renormalize, that’s for sure.
    “Oh well. At least, I can order you around.” She winks elaborately, then yells, “Back to work, lackey!”
    Her instructions are forceful, but not very specific. I look around for something to work on, something that doesn’t require excessive risk or noise. There’s a group of kids arguing about paint colors for the game booths, and I’m about to walk over and offer my services when I see Amy.
    She’s using a nail gun to put the booths together, the staccato shots ringing off the gym walls in a way that both excites and terrifies me. The fluorescent lights cast a glare on her safety goggles, so I can’t see her eyes, but her jaw is set in a way that I recognize. She is squatting, and her whole body is tense, like she’s an animal ready to take off running. There is nothing about her posture that says,
This would be a good time to come talk to me.
But I see her so rarely that I decide to chance it. I wait until she pauses between nail shots and cautiously walk over to her. My heart is hammering in my chest, but I won’t let it show in my voice.
    “Hey.”
    It seems that I’ve been a