Catalyst Read Online Free PDF Page B

is a student teacher, exactly three years older than I am. She has nothing to teach me, null, nada, nut’in. A teacher (a good teacher) is composed of molecules of education and intelligence, bonded together by patience and passion. Miss Devlin breaks down into equal parts desperation, hair spray, and mints. Her bonds are not strong. She could fly apart at any minute.
    “Much better,” Miss Devlin says. “Now who wants to tell us the story of the birth of Athena?” She waddles down the aisle checking for contraband headphones and comic books. I bet her panty hose are slipping off her butt. “Athena? Daughter of Zeus? It was in last night’s reading?”
    Mitch raises his hand. Of course he did the reading. He probably read it in the original Greek.
    I study the parking lot. Time in English class passes so slowly, I swear I can see the cars rusting. After about a million years, a dented gray van pulls in and cruises the aisles looking for an open space. I sure hope they brought their IDs.
    I blink. No way. It can’t be. It’s the Godmobile, my father’s church van. And it’s looking for a place to park. I lean forward, forgetting about Athena and Zeus and Mitchell, who can be absurd, but tastes good. The van hesitates in front of an open spot marked for disabled parking, then moves on. I sit back in my seat, flash-frozen. Why is Dad here? He hates coming here. We fight about it. He says it’s unnecessary because I “have everything under control” and other assorted garbage which really means I am on my own.
    Another layer of ice forms. Maybe someone is dead. Maybe it’s Toby, who is a perverted moron, but he’s my brother, and what if a bee stung him and he had a bad allergic reaction and his throat swelled closed and he choked to death in math class? He hates math. What a horrible way to die.
    Stop. Breathe.
    No one is dead, no one is dying. Get a grip, think happy thoughts. Dad has the letter. The Fat Letter. The fat letter from the thank-you-Jesus Massachusetts Institute of Technology and Salvation. Holy Mother, I’m going to Cambridge. I don’t need a safety school or a backup plan because everything is working out just the way I planned it. The ice shell around me melts, the sun comes out, and a rainbow streaks across the sky. The letter has details from Student Housing and Financial Aid and a note from the track coach welcoming me aboard and my summer reading list and advice to incoming freshmen (that’s me!). My temperature soars past 98.6 degrees Fahrenheit. I am burning with joy one-oh-one, one-oh-two, one-oh-three. I fry this high school skin to a crisp and emerge from the ashes, a college student. Get me out of here, I’m free, I am so gone. What is the point of sitting here? Why waste Miss Devlin’s valuable time?
    The Godmobile stops and parks in a visitor’s slot, next to the nurse’s car. I’m halfway out of my seat before I realize it.
    “Kate Malone? Is something wrong?” Miss Devlin asks.
    Delete that thought. Reality intrudes. The mail never, ever, ever comes earlier than four o’clock. There is no way on earth he can have that letter. No way. I sit back down. “Leg cramp,” I say. “My gluteus maximus hurts.”
    Mitch chokes back a laugh. Miss Devlin knows nothing about my anatomy, but he does.
    The door of the Godmobile opens. It can’t be the letter. It can’t be the letter. Dad sits there for a second, then he takes off his seat belt and gets out of the van. I hope it’s the letter. He looks very small from up here.
    Miss Devlin draws a family tree of the Greek gods on the board. Athena was born from the skull of Zeus, jumped out as a full-sized adult, dressed for battle. (Bad Kate screams: Why do we need to know this?) Time drips off the clock while I keep one eye on the door and the other on the parking lot. This is the type of torture that Zeus would approve of.
    Dad returns to the Godmobile just before the period ends. He’s wearing the Serious Loving Pastor Face. Dad