“THE CHAOS EFFECT”
by Marieke Nijkamp
I’M NOT A PYROMANIAC, I already told you. But according to the Minnesota criminal statutes, the car fire is arson in the second degree. Who knew Grandpa’s car was that valuable? Who knew he even had anything of value left? It makes me wonder if Dad had it fixed up for him; it’s exactly the type of thing he would do.
It hardly matters. In the end everything burns. And every morning I scatter the ashes on my way to school.
* * *
I don’t remember the first night. I blocked it from my memory, and I’m perfectly happy to never access it again. I remember too many nights since. The creak of the door opening. The light from the hallway falling into the room—one long yellow bar of light that edges all the way from the door’s threshold across the floor scattered with clothes—and the books from school across the comforter, lying haphazardly over the bed—to the wall just behind me. The footsteps.
The touches.
The smell and caress of his sour breath.
The impossibility of escape.
He always smiles in the morning.
* * *
Paper does not burn as well as matches. It smolders and curls and almost immediately turns to ashes, until there’s nothing left of the drawings I made, the equations I solved, the formulas that help me make sense of the world. I don’t understand them anymore, anyway.
* * *
I do remember the first night when I let myself go numb. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t stop him. I could only pretend it wasn’t happening, pretend I didn’t feel his hands on me, his skin against my skin, his grunts in my ear.
I tried to scrub his touch off once. I took a scalding hot shower. I emptied an entire bottle of shower gel. I scrubbed until my legs were raw and my fingers bled.
It didn’t help. Not even for a day. I hurt all over and still smelled of bergamot and orange blossom when he came a few nights later. So I decided there and then—I could pretend to go numb. I could pretend not to feel. I could pretend not to feel for long enough that I would start to believe it.
Until I forgot what it meant to feel altogether.
* * *
Adam gave me a T-shirt for my fifteenth birthday a couple of months ago. It’s an olive-green top with “F(X) = |X|” printed on the front. The back simply says “AVOID NEGATIVITY.” He found it in a thrift shop, and he was so proud of it. It was the first time he bought me a present all on his own. He wrapped it himself.
The shirt has languished in my wardrobe ever since. I told him I was keeping it for a special occasion. And I did.
It burns surprisingly well.
* * *
The worst times are when we’re all alone through the night. On days when Dad’s work sends him to offices in other states and he takes Mom along for a quick getaway. When Adam is at T. J.’s because the large house spooks him in the dark.
When it’s just us and there’s no one to sneak around for, no need to worry that anyone might walk in.
Those are the nights that last forever.
* * *
Hair does not burn well either. It melts and sizzles and smells. It burns a little easier when you cut it off, but it’s not nearly as satisfying. The strands of hair are nothing but lifeless extensions of me.
* * *
When I come downstairs with my hair cut ragged, Dad is already on his way to work. Adam grins broadly, Mom sighs her displeasure, and Grandpa smiles. I try to shift away from it and focus on Adam’s happiness instead.
He gives me a double thumbs-up. “Wicked, sis.”
I reach up and run my hand across my scalp. It feels different, though I’m not sure if “wicked” is the word I’d go for. It’s prickly. Lighter.
I glance at my reflection in the window. Green. Mine.
“You look like a troll. A really cool one,” Adam continues gleefully. “Doesn’t she, Grandpa?”
“She looks like a creature of legend, that’s for sure.” Grandpa thumps Adam’s shoulder. They’re good friends, the two of them, and I have no idea how that ever happened. “But I wouldn’t go for troll. Wood nymph, perhaps. Or a mermaid.”
“A nymph? An Ent, maybe.”
“Oh no, she’s far more elegant than—”
I don’t want him to think me elegant.
They continue to talk about me, as if I’m not there, until Mom snaps, “Would you be quiet, the two of you?”
I pour myself a mug of coffee and sit down at the kitchen table, as far away from Grandpa as I possibly can, and brace myself for Mom’s reaction. She continues making breakfast, punctuated by long-suffering sighs, but once we all have bacon and toast, she rounds on me.
“I know you’re going through a . . . phase”—she spits out the word as if it tastes disgusting—“and we’ve made allowances for your anger and for your stories. But the school has informed me your grades are falling. And this is simply unacceptable. Whatever will Reverend Winters say?”
Perhaps he’ll notice me, I want to tell her. Instead, I stuff a strip of bacon into my mouth and chew with abandon.
Adam snickers. Grandpa raises his mug in salute.
“Between this and your grades, it seems your dad and I will have to have a conversation when he’s home,” Mom says.
“Sure.” I shrug, but it only seems to infuriate her more.
* * *
I successfully avoid Zoe for almost two weeks, with only the most perfunctory of greetings when our paths cross in class, but I can’t avoid her forever. And right on cue, as if my green hair’s a beacon, when I walk to my locker, she comes bounding down the hallway. She screeches to a stop when she sees me, her sneakers skidding on the linoleum.
“Jenna Georg Cantor. You dyed your hair green.”
I hesitate. “Way to state the obvious, Z.”
“It’s different.” She walks around me, observing me, and even though I know it’s Z., my skin crawls. “It’s different, but it suits you. Did your mom go through the roof when she saw it?”
“Pretty much,” I say. I can’t smile yet. I keep my voice level. But I hope this means she’s forgiven me.
Her hand sneaks into mine, and she pulls me to a quiet corner. “Are you okay? Like, really okay?”
“No.” I flinch. I wish I could take it back the moment I say it. “I don’t think so, but I’m trying to be.”
Z. doesn’t look convinced. She always has such an easy smile. She isn’t pretty by traditional standards—her light brown hair is always tousled, her nose is crooked from that time she broke it during volleyball, and she’s broad and muscular. But when she smiles she is radiant, and I miss that smile.
“I’m sorry?” I try.
“Don’t be silly.” She wraps me in a one-armed hug. It’s slightly awkward, but it also feels a little safe. She squeezes. “We all have our ugly moments. We all have our secrets.”
I draw in a breath and wait for her to say more, wait for her to tell me she knows my secret. Her words sound like the perfect lead-up, and outside of my own family, Zoe is the one who knows me best. She must have noticed something.
But she hasn’t. No one has. She doesn’t say anything more than “Don’t you dare disappear on me like that again.”
And I want to be relieved. I am relieved. But somewhere, deep down, I would much rather she guessed it. I’d rather she knows and breaks the dam that keeps my words inside, barred by a hundred throwaway comments.
* * *
If hope is the thing with feathers, as Mrs. Lee taught us, then secrets are things with talons. They’re light at first, almost unnoticeable. They’re comfortable and easy to hold. But over time they grow heavier and develop sharp edges. Words become harder to share, and secrets cling to you and claw at you until they’ve dug themselves so deep, you’d have to tear yourself apart to get rid of them.
Until you do they’ll strike out at everyone who gets too close.
* * *
I spend the whole school day with Zoe, and it feels like old times except when it doesn’t. She makes jokes about things that happened in the days before, and I don’t have a reference for them. She comments on hanging out with Kamal who, it turns out, is a theater kid. She shows me the flyer for a musical the theater club is putting on at the end of the year—The Addams Family—and notes for the role she wants to learn to be a part of it.
“I didn’t know you were into theater,” I say.
She slowly eats the whipped cream off her mocha, savoring each bite. “I didn’t know either, but it sounds fun.”
“I’m sure both your coaches will be thrilled by another curriculum.” As always, Zoe’s schedule exhausts me just thinking about it.
“Spoilsport.” She rolls her eyes. “Volleyball season will end soon, and so will our swim meets. The rest of the year will just be swim club and endless free time. I can fit it in.”
She hums and then sings, “Let your darkest secrets give you away.”
I take a bite from my brownie. It tastes bland, though I’m quite sure that’s me and not the Coffee House. Our entire class comes here, frequently, because the coffee is good and the sweets are better. And Zoe . . . Zoe would be a regular if she didn’t schedule her days to the fullest. “You’re impossible.”
She spoons up some whipped cream and unceremoniously presses the spoon against my nose. I bat at her, and she laughs without abandon. I love her and I hate her at the same time.
When we’ve reached the bottom of our mugs and have scraped up all our crumbs, Zoe leaves me for a bit to go to the bathroom. I try to gather all her scattered belongings to put them back into her backpack.
I fold the flyer carefully, and then I stare at the papers for Zoe’s new theater project. They’re three notebook pages filled with finely scribbled notes and comments, in Zoe’s hand and another. Kamal’s, maybe? Zoe wants to play Alice, but beyond the name, I can’t find much about the character. The Addams Family, on the other hand, are outlined in quite some detail. Kamal calls them “objectively dysfunctional but supportive and macabrely happy.”
My fingers curl into a fist, crunching the paper. I breathe hard.
I should fold the notes and put them with the flyer.
I should fold the notes and put them with the flyer.
I cannot let my anger get the best of me, but it burns, too. A deep and steady burn that, when it flares, eviscerates everything in its path.
And the people around me are laughing and talking like the world is still the same as it was three months ago, as if nothing at all has changed.
I crumple the notes further and stuff them into the pocket of my jeans.
Once Zoe is on her way back to volleyball practice, I dig my lighter out of my coat and let the fire lick up the notes. I’m sorry, Z.
I scatter the ashes on my way home.
* * *
When I’m home, Dad sits on the couch. He stares at me, and I drop my backpack on the floor. He doesn’t comment on it. It’s such a flashback to our conversation this summer, and I’m sure something must have happened.
For a brief, irrational, awful moment, I want him to tell me it’s Grandpa. It doesn’t have to be something bad; maybe the bank decided not to take his house. Maybe Aunt Beate has decided she can take him in after all. Maybe. Maybe. Maybe. I just want him gone.
“Dad?”
He runs his hand through his hair, and it sticks up a little. He’s still wearing his tie and his jacket. “Jenna, your mom called me, and she believes we should talk.”
My stomach drops, but when he indicates I should sit on the couch, I do. In the farthest corner. He looks nothing like Grandpa, and it may be a small mercy, but I’m forever grateful of it.
“Your behavior this last couple of months has been unlike what we’ve come to expect from you, Jenna. I know Grandpa’s presence has required all of us to adapt, but I thought you and he got along. He’s been trying, and this . . .” He gestures at me, at my hair. “Your acting up only makes things worse.”
I open my mouth and close it again. The words stick in my mouth. They claw at me.
The first time I tried to tell Dad. I told him Grandpa scared me.
He told me I just needed to get used to him.
The second time I tried to tell Mom. I told her Grandpa touched me.
She was too busy with preparations for her PTA meeting. It wasn’t her fault. It was far easier to tell her when she wasn’t paying attention to me.
I just wish she had been.
“Work is sending me to Chicago after the weekend. An impromptu meeting at HQ. Mom is coming along. It’ll only be for a day or two, but I expect you to take that time to sort out whatever is bothering you about this arrangement. We expect you to pull your weight at home. We expect you to raise your grades. And we want to know how you plan to do it by the time we get back. Talk it through with Grandpa if you want. He’ll be here, and he volunteered to help.” Dad reaches out to take my hand, and I let him. I don’t know what else to do. “We don’t care about the green hair—which is to say, Mom will get used to it. You’re fifteen—you’re supposed to experiment and we want to give you that freedom. But we have to be able to trust you to be responsible, okay?”
Silence falls heavily between us. Then I do what I’m supposed to do. I nod. I’m a good girl who listens to her parents. Even when they don’t listen to me.
“Yes, Dad.”
I get up from the couch and start walking.
I start walking, and I don’t stop.
* * *
If you keep feeding the fire, it will grow and wait to devour you. You don’t realize it until it’s too late.
* * *
I don’t know where to go. I could go back to the empty office building, but afternoon leads into dusk, and dusk leads into late night, and too many people will be there. I can wander the streets, but as my parents have taught me time and again, it isn’t safe for a girl to be out on her own at night. But then again, when home isn’t safe either, does it really matter?
Without consciously making the decision, my feet take me in the direction of the office building. I felt comfortable there. Perhaps I can squat there. Or disappear. Perhaps I can light the whole thing ablaze and dance with the flames.
I walk to the very edge of our neighborhood. The office building is haphazardly planted between it and the business park another mile or so down the road. Perhaps that’s why renting the floor space never caught on. Or perhaps they always meant to build it as a teen playground of sorts.
I sneak around the fence, but at night the building is nothing like the one I know. There are lights inside, and faded music drifts down from the roof. A few yards away from me, someone laughs. I step back.
A beer bottle smashes against the concrete walls.
Then the yellow beam of a flashlight suddenly shines in my direction. I raise my arms against the sudden brightness.
“Who d’we have ’ere?” someone slurs.
A guy steps into the light. He’s blond. Black-rimmed glasses. Maybe a few years older than me. He clings to a beer bottle, and it looks like it’s all he can do not to stagger.
The light beam moves, and another guy steps closer too.
I freeze. I push my hands deeper into my pockets, and my heart picks up the pace.
“What are you doing here, little girl?” the first says.
The second guffaws. “Are you going for the Big Bad Wolf aesthetic, dude?”
“She looks lost,” Bottle defends himself.
“Am not,” I mutter, but probably too quiet for anyone to hear. Still, the words matter to me. And the guys are too wrapped up in their fairy tale.
“Oh Grandmother, what a big mouth you have.”
“All the better to eat you with.”
The beam shakes as the second person laughs. The two reach out and bump fists because they’re drunk and gross and teen boys through and through.
Bottle steps a little closer again. “Come here, little girl, I’ll show you something big.”
I want to move. I don’t move. I can’t move. And I hate myself for it. What am I if I can’t even protect myself from this?
But deep in my pocket my fingers curl around my lighter. I play with the spark wheel, and for a moment I think I could accidentally set myself on fire. And while I can push lit matches against my arm to remind myself to feel, I can’t do that. I will burn down the world before I burn with it. I can blaze this path too.
I turn around and start walking. One step before the other. Slow at first. Faster.
“It’s just a game, little girl,” one of the guys jeers. His feet crush glass, and a moment later, another bottle smashes against the outside of the building.
I keep walking. I don’t look back.
It’s just a game. It’s not just a game.
It’s the first time I’ve ever been able to walk away, and if it’s also the last, it will still have meant everything. But even fractals start at a random point. Perhaps, eventually, patterns will emerge.
* * *
The butterfly effect is one of the principles of chaos. Fractals are too: they’re never-ending patterns, repetitive, and infinitely detailed. They’re the most gorgeous designs.
That seems contradictory, doesn’t it? Chaotic designs? But at the heart of chaos theory is this: there are patterns everywhere, even when they seem complex and entirely random. That’s why the method for creating new fractals was originally called “the chaos game.” Fractals will become patterns. And under the right conditions, chaos will start to form order.
Perhaps if I create enough chaos, order will come again.
* * *
I walk until I’m back home, until I sag down against a tree in our front yard. I light the lighter in the cup of my hand. Let is extinguish. Light it again.
The flame is a comforting ball of warmth in the darkness. I could stare at it forever. But it isn’t enough. The papers, the clothes. The hundred small things I burned. It isn’t enough to create chaos, and it won’t stop Mom and Dad from leaving me alone again with him.
I want patterns. I want flames to reach to the skies. I want him to feel fractured too.
I’m not a pyromaniac. I told you I can control my impulses quite well. But I won’t be the only one hurting anymore.
* * *
The interior of a car burns easily. I break a window and spread gasoline across the seats. It stinks, but I know it’ll burn. I’ve grabbed the newspaper from the door pocket next to the driver’s seat and turn that into a torch.
With one of the windows open for oxygen, and the dark of night around me, I wait until the paper smolders.
Then I toss it in.
The gasoline flares. The flame spreads like wildfire, and within moments it absorbs everything. It’s loud. Violent. I wonder how long it’ll take for Grandpa or my parents to wake up.
I walk across the street. Sitting down on the sidewalk, I rest my elbows on my knees and watch.
This is calculation. This is chaos. This is freedom.