Free Catalyst by Laurie Anderson Page A

back. Come on, Malone . . . Kate!”
     
    The guidance secretary tells me that my counselor had to drive a girl to the hospital. She fainted and cracked her forehead on the edge of his desk. Georgetown rejected her. Stitches, for sure.
    The adults in this place need better math skills. Merryweather High has more than one thousand seniors. Eighty percent applied to college. College rejections arrive the same week that fall schedules have to be filled out. We have a total of four guidance counselors.
    That is what we call an imbalanced equation, class.
     
    Mitch is waiting for me outside French. I worm my way into a gaggle of giggling freshman and sneak past him.

    3.5 Iron
    When the final bell rings, I scurry along the back halls to the locker room. I need to run until I bleed, run all the fluids out of my body, pound, pound the road, unplug the hardware, destroy the system. Right now I could run a marathon and worship every step.
    So, of course, Coach Reid declares that today we’re conditioning in the weight room. He unlocks the door and directs people to the silver instruments of torture: lat pulldown, biceps curl, leg extension. He hesitates when he gets to me. I’m a graduating senior and there are thunderclouds gathered above my head.
    “All right, Malone. You get a treadmill,” Coach says. “Don’t slack.”
    No, sir. I step onto the middle treadmill and punch in a flat course, 3.1 miles, a six-minute-mile pace. Forget about a slow, safe warm-up. I want to feel it.
    The room heats up quickly. The radio is badly tuned to a metal station. Weights clang against one another, athletes grunt and strain. The stair-steppers grind, whnrr-whnrrwhnrr. The girls on the steppers keep their hands on their hips and their chins up. The guys on the other treadmills try to match my pace.
    Oh, yeah?
    I crank it up another notch. I streak through a half mile, my sneakers blistering the rubber belt. The guy to my right can’t hack it. He backs off, slows down. The guy to my left has sweat dripping down his cheek. He’s holding his left elbow against his side. I chuckle.
    Coach Reid is helping a sophomore bench-press twelve pounds. “Stop showing off, Malone,” he shouts.
    Bad Kate hopes the sophomore drops that weight on Coach’s foot. Good Kate is frantically pointing to our tender Achilles tendon. I know I can run faster than this. I take it higher. My sneakers squeak, sounding like tiny voices on helium: “ brrp . . . brrrpp . . . messed-up . . . screwed-up . . . messed-up . . . screwed-up.”
    The guy on my left gives in to his cramps and decelerates. Wussy boy.
    “Slow it down, Malone,” Coach orders.
    The sneaker voices move up off the belt and whisper that they are disappointed in me, that I’m stupid, that I should be ashamed of myself, young lady. Run faster, Kate. Just a little faster, push it.
    I am flying, whipping through the air. The faces around me blur. My right knee sends up a warning signal, my Achilles is screaming. I can feel the fibers in my quads fraying. Give me the pain, bring it. I want my heart to explode, a bruised cherry smashed deep in my chest. The muscles under my ribs seize up. I think my shirt is on fire.
    “Kate. Kate. Kate. Kate.” I don’t know who is saying that. How can they be standing still when I’m running so damn fast?
    “Look out, Kate!” Another voice, fading away. Another ghost.
    The lights flicker. Coach Reid yells in my ear, but I can’t hear him. His hand slams the red STOP button.

    3.5.1 Rust
    Okay, so I might have passed out a little bit when they dragged me off the treadmill. I just needed a nap. A nap, some dinner, and a shower. No big deal. Just leave me alone.

    3.6 Dissolve
    When I get home, I park Bert by the front door and don’t bother to carry any books inside. I brush past Toby in the front hall.
    “Don’t say a word,” I warn. “I’m not here. You don’t see me.”
    He nods. “You’re not here. I don’t see you. Well, when you show up, I’ll tell