Heaven's Far Below

01: Catalyst

Heaven's Far Below

Temperance Palmer

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For all mothers:

A question with no answer.

A riddle with no rhyme.

A mystery with no clues.

This book is what I've written for you.

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01: Catalyst

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[kat-l-ist] noun

a substance that causes or accelerates a chemical reaction without itself being affected

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Textbooks, I've come to realize, are like moms.

Nobody voluntarily picks up their textbook--all dusty with its cover half missing--to simply crack it open and read. Though every once in awhile, when you're stumped, you're forced to search for it in your mess of a bedroom and flip it to the last few pages for the answer you're looking for. And whether you like it or not, you realize that it's better than having to solve every single step by yourself because no matter how difficult and complex the problem, the answer page will always be there to simplify everything.

Especially when you're like me and splurge all your money for the teacher's edition.

"Come on," I snarled as I quickly scribbled an answer on my lab worksheet. Normally, I finished my work the night before it was due, but when the opportunity of having an available TV remote to myself for two hours arose, I jumped at it and now, I was paying the consequences of fitting two more episodes of Law and Order into my schedule. And that was partially the reason why I was forced to copy answers out of my copy of 'Fundamentals of Inorganic Chemistry' instead of using my noggin.

Lewis, who sat next to me at the dining table with his now bowl of sky-blue milk, grimaced at me as if he was saying 'ooh, you didn't finish your work' and raised his eyebrows--a skill he had learned from me that constantly angered his mom.

"Don't act like you always finish your homework on time. I've seen your report card," I hastily replied, "And let me tell you, buddy, it's not the greatest thing since sliced bread. So keep those eyebrows lowered or I'll shave them off in your sleep."

He stuck out his blue raspberry stained tongue.

"I'll cut your tongue off too while I'm at it."

Before the eight year old could scream an insult at me about how he desperately needed his tongue, Dad stepped through the kitchen entrance, frustration and weariness showing on his face. I closed my textbook quickly with a thud and pushed it off the table.

"How long do I have to listen to the two of you fight and bicker?" Dad said, rubbing his eyes as he crossed the kitchen to the coffee maker.

I glanced at the clock on the microwave. "Not for long. Hanna and Fatima should be here soon."

Dad, now armed with his mug of coffee, took a seat at the head of the table. "Call them. There's no school today."

Well, that wasn't something I heard everyday.