Free And Then Things Fall Apart by Arlaina Tibensky Page A

That’s the short story of My Mumps Saga, humorous prequel to The Chicken Pox Chronicles.
    After triumphing over the mumps, my stomach remained a scribble of pain. I was always nervous. So uptight and on edge that any tickle in my throat, any deep laugh from my belly, and I would start to cough. And cough. And cough until I would politely dry-heave my pain and nerves and confusion into the nearest garbage can, cafeteria tray, napkin, wastepaper basket, while Nic nonchalantly held my hair. Charming. I wasn’t dying. I was just having my own version of a breakdown. I didn’t talk about it with my parents. They were busy, what with their marriage deteriorating and all. Matt was beginning to get a little concerned, but I didn’t make a big deal out of it, because what could he really do to help me? Nic? She was there for me, sure, but why clutter her day-to-day with the gory details of my emotionalcollapse? Guidance counselor? Face it, they respond only to anorexics, suicidals, and the Harvard-bound. If it weren’t for Sylvia Plath, Matt’s hunger for me, and my poetry, who knows where I would be? Would it be worse than where I am now?
    Whatev. I got the chicken pox. I’m surprised no one called social services. My life is practically medieval. Appalachian. Pathetic. I need a guided meditation for “Building a Radiant Aura While Your Heart Folds in on Itself Like a Black Hole.”
    Am I being melodramatic? Probably. But it hurts so much, my parents splitting up. The reality of it. I am, everyday here in Poxville, trying to keep myself propped up with stupid jokes and stupid typing humor and The Bell Jar so I don’t have to think about my mom and my dad.
    Staying obsessed with The Bell Jar helps me keep all this tragedy in perspective. Reading for me is like a hot bath for Esther Greenwood. Getting all emotionally wrapped up in made-up people’s lives gives me a chance to take a break from my own life, to stretch my legs under warm water, close my eyes, and inhale until I can think straight. I’m also trying to learn exactly how Esther does it, makes it through—New York, the suburbs, the asylum, Buddy—what tools does she use to endure it all?
    My parents took turns reading to me before bed until I was practically thirteen. We did all of Harry Potter. Twochapters from Dad. Two chapters from Mom. When they went to bed, I’d turn on my bedside lamp and read chapter after chapter ahead until I passed out. But I loved listening to them, each in their own weird way telling me what happened next. Mom was all dramatic books-on-tape with it, and my dad was more straightforward. He just read it, and that was great too.
    When Dad was driving me crazy, I could complain to Mom, mutter how that man of ours is infuriating but don’t we love him anyway. And when Mom was totally pissing me off, I could tell Dad and he’d say something like, “Yeah, well, give her some space, and here, help me fold this laundry.” Now I can’t talk with either of them about the other one or anything. It’s Mom. It’s Dad. It’s me. Each of our hearts are breaking and we can’t even talk to one another like people do in normal families.
    Now I have to have a “relationship” with each of them, totally independent of the other. Which is way more difficult. Especially
when you are an only child
. I have no one to share this with, no “Can you believe them, Chip? Let’s get out of here, go for a bike ride in the forest preserves.” There should be a rule that if you have only one child, you cannot split up—unless the said child dies, which would also be horrible.
    What I’m trying to say is that my parents’ divorce is one of the saddest things, and I can’t believe it’s happeningto me. Although I act like I’m all mockety mock mock, and snarkity snark snark, I want my parents to be married. But my dad couldn’t keep it in his