Free Catalyst by Laurie Anderson Page B

you that Sara and Mitch keep calling. They sound desperate.” He shoves a handful of Chee•tos in his mouth. “Did you break up with him or something?”
    “Don’t eat all of those.”
    I lock the bathroom door, strip, and step into the shower. We have hot water again, thanks to Mr. Lockheart and his magic tools. Boiling, scalding, sterilizing water hurts so good. I close my eyes and let it fall on my head. It slips off me as if I were covered in oil.
    I lather up. Soap: C 15 H 31 CO 2 Na. Long molecules designed to suck up dirt, sweat, and humiliation. Rinse, lather, rinse, lather, rinse until the soap melts down to a waxy crescent that jumps out of my hand.
    I know I should think about MIT, be logical, be practical, but I can’t get my brain started. It needs jumper cables. Given my mood, I’d hook them up the wrong way. Little mistake, big consequences. Boom , there goes the brain, the engine, the college application.
    Boom . . . a mistake. What if they made a mistake?
    It happens, even at the best schools. A clerical error. Or the computer messed up. A mistake. It happens. Two kids with the same name apply—one is accepted, the other gets the boot, but the letters are switched. The wrong Kate Malone got into MIT. It was all a mistake.
    Wait until I tell them!
    I can see the future play out like a movie on the shower curtain. I’ll drive to MIT and talk to the admissions officer. When she hears about my rejection she’ll freak and say, “You poor thing! Of course we want you!” She’ll fire her assistant and type up my acceptance letter with her own fingers. She’ll hand me the fat envelope loaded with goodies. Maybe I’ll get more financial aid or a choice dorm room.
    I am so excited I soap up my left leg and grab the razor. This is going to work. Toby pounds on the bathroom door and yells something I can’t hear. I shave my kneecap and ignore him. He can pee downstairs.
    Details, details: MIT is approximately 301 miles to the east, a six-hour drive. I’ll have to leave before dawn. What should I bring? Copies of my transcript and two scientific papers, for sure. Maybe I should leave my essay home. That was definitely weak. I loathe essays. No—I’ll bring it. It will prove I know my strengths and weaknesses. I will even admit that I need to improve my writing skills. My molecular models? I pull the razor along my calf, leaving a smooth runway of skin in its wake. I rinse off the blade. No, don’t bring the models. That would look desperate.
    I lather my foot and shave my hairy toes. I don’t want to look like a hobbit. Toby pounds on the door and hollers again. It doesn’t sound like he’s speaking English.
    “Go away!” I yell.
    I rinse off the razor and twist around to shave the back of my ankle. Toby beats on the door just as the blade slides over my Achilles tendon. I flinch and the razor nicks me. It takes a second for the blood to flow.
    “I’m not opening it!”
    Silence. Good.
    I work on my right leg and concentrate on the plan. There are a few kinks to work out. Bert won’t survive the drive. He can barely make it to the grocery store. I’ll need to borrow a car. And find some cash. And get an appointment. But it’s going to work. I’ll make it work.
    I shave my right leg without a single nick or cut. That is truly a sign from God. I turn off the water and reach for a towel. My hair is clean, my legs are sleek, and I don’t have hobbit toes. MIT will let me in. I am ready for the world.
    Toby is waiting when I open the door. He barges in and yanks on the bathroom blinds.
    “What are you doing?” I ask.
    “Look.” He wipes the steam off the window with his sleeve and points to the red-orange glow down the hill.
    Oh. My. God.
    “That’s what I was trying to tell you, butthead.”
    The Litches’ barn is on fire, a roaring furnace. The trees in the side yard are blazing torches; rogue flames lick the roof of the house. Three fire trucks are on the scene, cherry lights pulsing