Holding Up the Universe(5)

He holds up his middle finger in my direction. From the back, our younger brother, Dusty, kicks the seat. “Stop fighting.”

“We’re not fighting, little man.”

“You sound like Mom and Dad. Make the music louder.”

A couple of years ago, my parents got along pretty well. But then Dad was diagnosed with cancer. The week before he was diagnosed I found out he was cheating on my mom. He doesn’t know I know, and I’m not sure Mom knows, but sometimes I wonder. He’s cancer-clear now, by the way, but it hasn’t been easy, especially on Dusty, who’s ten.

I turn up the song, an oldie—Justin Timberlake’s “SexyBack”—and I can feel myself settling once again into my zone. I’ve got four soundtrack songs that I wish would start blasting every time I walk into a room, and this is one of them.

We pull up outside Dusty’s school, and he goes leaping out before I can stop him. I get out after him, taking the keys so Marcus can’t drive off with the car.

This summer, Dusty started carrying a purse. No one talks about it—not my mom or dad or Marcus.

Dusty is halfway up the walk before I chase him down. I have to keep my eyes on him so I don’t lose him. He has the darkest skin of the three of us, and his hair is the color of a copper penny. Technically, Mom is half black, half Louisiana Creole, and Dad is white and Jewish. Dusty is dark like Mom. Marcus, on the other hand, couldn’t be whiter. Me? I’m just Jack Masselin, whoever the hell that is.

Dusty says, “I don’t want to be late.”

“You won’t be. I just wanted to … Are you sure about the purse, little man?”

“I like it. I can fit everything in here.”

“I like it too. It’s a really damn cool purse. But I’m not sure everyone’s going to dig it as much as we do. There might be some kids here who are going to be so jealous of that purse that they’ll make fun of you.” I see about ten of them walking past us right now.

“They won’t be jealous. They’ll think it’s weird.”

“I just don’t want anyone to be rough on you.”

“If I want to carry a purse, I’m going to carry it. I’m not going to not carry it just because they don’t like it.”

And in that moment, this scrawny kid with big ears is my hero. As he walks away, I watch the way he moves, straight as an arrow, chin up. I want to follow him all the way into school to make sure nothing happens to him.





7 Careers for Someone with Prosopagnosia


by Jack Masselin





Shepherd (assuming face blindness doesn’t extend to dogs and sheep).

Tollbooth operator (assuming no one you know is taking the route you’re working).

Rock star/boy band member, NBA player, or some other profession along these lines (where people expect you to have an ego so massive they won’t be surprised if you don’t remember them).

Writer (the most recommended job for people with social anxiety disorders).

Dog walker/trainer (see number one, above).

Embalmer (except that I might get the corpses mixed up).

Hermit (ideal, except the pay isn’t very good).





I clear a path all the way to my first class, where I take a seat in the row closest to the door, in case I need to flee at some point. I just fit behind the desk. Under my shirt, my back is damp, and my heart skips a beat. No one can see it, though. At least, I hope no one can see it because there’s nothing worse than being known as the sweaty fat girl. As my classmates trickle in, a few of them stare. A couple of them snicker. I don’t recognize any of the eleven-year-old kids I once knew in these teenage faces.

But school is exactly what I expected, yet more at the same time. For one thing, Martin Van Buren High School has about two thousand students, so it is a place packed with commotion. For another, no one looks as shiny and polished as they do in the TV and movie versions of high school. Real teens aren’t twenty-five years old. We have bad skin and bad hair and good skin and good hair, and we’re all different shapes and sizes. I like us better than our TV selves, even though sitting here, I feel like an actor playing a part. I’m the fish out of water, the new girl at school. What will my story be?

I decide that what I’ve got here is a clean slate. As far as I’m concerned, this is me starting over, and whatever happened when I was eleven, twelve, thirteen doesn’t exist now. I’m different. They’re different, at least on the outside. Maybe they won’t remember I was that girl. I don’t plan on reminding them.

I look them in the eye and give them my father’s new signature taped-up-corner smile. This seems to surprise them. A couple of them smile back. The boy next to me holds out his hand. “Mick.”

“Libby.”

“I’m from Copenhagen. I’m here for the exchange program.” Even with crow-black hair, he is Viking-like. “Are you from Amos?”

I want to say I’m an exchange student too. I’m here from Australia. I’m here from France. But the only boys I’ve talked to in the past five years are the ones at fat camp, which is why I don’t do anything but nod.

He tells me how he wasn’t sure at first whether to come here, but then he decided it would be a good experience to see the heartland of the States and “the way most Americans live.” Whatever that means.