Merit Award

He hands me a pre-opened envelope addressed to my name.

"Here."

"What?" The envelope says Michigan Merit Award.

"Oh." Slightly surprised, "How long has this been in your pile of mail?"

"I don't know. I just got it." I know his answer is a lie because Sarah received hers a month ago. I know his answer is a lie because he mumbles, trails off, and takes one half step back with his left foot and stumbles. Which causes him to thrust the letter towards me even more potently. If he doesn't, he falls. He is an icicle hanging by a wick. Dripping, awaiting his breaking point, failing (desperately) to envision the future. "Here."

I secure the envelope from his swaying hand, past the anger that he again managed to open yet another piece of my mail, even after several warnings, death threats and curses. I push together the two ends of the envelope with one hand, and use the other to grip the contained information. My thumb and forefinger are careful tweezers. The information is a Soviet bomb, standing ready to abolish mankind.

I pull the information from the envelope. Time fast forwards. I am eligible for a 2,500-dollar merit award. Apparently, my MEAP scores were more adequate than expected. Damn my pondering.

"You know what this means, don't you?" My words are careful. I have learned to suppress any elation. Bombs explode with elation.

"What? Now you have to enter some kind of contest or something." He is monotone. My bomb is ticking.

I read the letter thoroughly. First at a glance, forward then bottom to top. Then I read through, questioning each word for its presence.

Tick. Tick.

I search for any deceiving loopholes. I know to do this because failure to do so had caused excitement. Cheap phone-order plastic products and diet pills breed false excitement, and close relatives are not welcome.

Tick.

A safe house. A break, I believe more now. I am sorry I lost faith. I finally caught a break.

"You mean, you have no idea what this is?"

"What?"

"Why do you open my mail all the time?" If he reads my mail, he could at least read it properly.

"I do not." The icicle drips; stress on the wick lightens.

"Ye-- This means I get twenty five hundred dollars for college."

Tic--

"Oh. Good for you." He is already half way up the stairs. There is no need to conceal elation. The bomb is a dud. The wick is taut. He is monotone.

I seek him for any extent of pride. I navigate my way through the kitchen, steering strategically, deciding the proper angle to present myself. I am at his back.

He is wearing a white t-shirt. There is a coffee stain on the portion that covers the back between his shoulder blades. He is condescending.

"You realize this means I get twenty five hundred dollars for college, right?"

"Oh, does it? Good for you. I guess that means you're working below your potential."

I close my eyes. A string, where the wick has many, breaks and makes a snapping noise, echoed by a field covered in permafrost and snow. I manifested into the dead field. I am alone. No one hears the snap but me. No one other than I can feel the snap in the back of my spinal cord. I unite with the permafrost.

He mumbles something about grades and lumbers across the kitchen, past me, to burn a half-year frozen venison sausage. The indoor grill receives more of a stare than I do. The grill needs a bad chiseling. The money for my homecoming dress lies within this chiseling, but now I wouldn't chisel that damn grill for the world.