Wreck: A Novel by Kirstin Cronn-Mills

Author:Kirstin Cronn-Mills [Cronn-Mills, Kirstin]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781510739048
Publisher: Sky Pony
Published: 2019-04-02T05:00:00+00:00

When Allison goes to the post office, I make two signs on printer paper, with a bunch of colored markers. The first one says WHAT IS YOUR FREAKING PROBLEM? HE’S DYING. CAN’T YOU HELP US? The second one says HE JUST WANTS TO SEE YOUR DUCK UP CLOSE. WTF. BE KIND.

Then I tape them onto Mama Duck’s portrait in the back room—carefully, so I don’t smear the chalk—take a photo, and email it to Mama Duck’s handler. Way too smart-ass, but whatev. I won’t get an answer anyway.

It’s 10:30, and my dad’s snoring up in his room. Pop-up shop days make him sleep hard, which is good. I’m sitting at the kitchen table, shoving my action figures into various contortions. Nothing’s happening.

Ike sits down across from me. “Need some ideas? Cholula Man is here.”

“Who came up with that nickname?”

He grins. “When we jog, your dad says it’s the hot sauce that gives me my extra strength.”

“Guess that’s your superhero name now.”

He picks up the bottle and shows it to me like he’s showing it off on a game show merchandise showcase. “Mexican superpowers in a concentrated, easy-to-use food additive.”

I laugh.

“Back to the question.” He puts the bottle next to the salt and pepper, where it belongs. “Want some help?”

“I’m failing big time, so, sure.” I tumble the Star Wars X-Men Fam across the table to him. He moves them around a little bit, his mouth twisted up like it’s the biggest puzzle in the world. Then he gets up, goes to the fridge, and takes out an apple and a can of the liquid protein stuff Dad sometimes drinks instead of forcing himself to eat. He puts them down on the table and goes for a knife and a cutting board.

“What the hell?”

“Watch.”

Ike cuts up the apple into pieces the size of big dice, then gets a fine-point Sharpie from the can of pens in the Everything Room. He puts a heart on one, then a frowny face on another. A smiley face, a lightning bolt, and a money sign go on some others. He puts the symbols on every side of the pieces. Then he puts Professor X on top of the can of Promote.

“Got your camera?”

“Not on me.”

He gives me a look. “How you gonna take photos, doofus?”

His laughter follows me up the stairs.

When I come back down, he’s made a background for Professor X and his can of Promote with a dish towel draped over a cookie sheet, propped up by the toaster. “Our new photo studio.” He’s proud.

You think you sculpted a bear, but it’s really a moose. You think you drew a caterpillar, but it’s really a turtle. You think your photos are just action figures, but then you add in apple chunks. Art is like that. You gotta go with it.

I click off a few shots, up close and far away. Then I take Professor X out of his wheelchair, leave it on top, and splay him in front of the can. That seems a little bit more realistic.

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