The One Tree of Luna by Todd McCaffrey Page B

how is anyone supposed to look when they learn that their father’s dead, that he’s convicted in the eyes of the public of being a mass-murdered/terrorist and that they’re considered his happy accomplice? Would I have looked better if I’d’ve smiled? With all those blackened teeth in my face?
    Did anyone REMEMBER that it was Halloween? How was I supposed to look, trick-or-treating with my Dad?
    I spent a year being mad at my dad. Maybe I would have spent longer but strange things happened in the joint, things I never would have expected. I suppose the strangest thing of all is that I lived — that and they let me out.
    It’s true that my dad wanted to be the most notorious evil genius in history. And he tried, he really did.
    He almost succeeded in creating a mini-blackhole gun. I had to work
really
hard to handle that one and, even so, we ended up with the Anomalizer.
    When that didn’t work, he tried to make “Evil Genius Pills” and that’s where the trouble
     began.
    My dad was really, really, really smart. And he never set out to be evil. He made mistakes. But because he was really, really, really smart his mistakes were worse than most.
    My mom died in childbirth. The car had broken down because dad had stolen some parts for his
     infinite poker player — the machine that was supposed to make it so he could never lose at
     poker. Because the car stopped along the highway, dad had to deliver me himself. Biology
     wasn’t his specialty — even after, he was never really good at it. He wouldn’t say — but I
     read the police reports — mom died from a ruptured artery. It’s rare but not uncommon. Her
     death was ruled “death by misadventure.”
    So I grew up with dad. And he tried. He never really
saw
me, though. Because whenever he
really
looked, he saw my mother and he couldn’t bear it. So, instead, he saw a girl-clone of himself. My mother was arty, airy, light-hearted, heavy-humored, and totally the sort of person my dad needed to keep him grounded. Only she was dead and I was supposed to be my dad’s clone. So for him — by day — I was the emo-Goth super-scientist nerd lab Egor.
    At night, in my special room, I could be me and draw pictures of butterflies, play with Barbies and pretend I was a normal girl. I even managed to get pink dresses and I’d put them on when I was playing.
    My mother’s memory preyed on him. I guess I was maybe four or five when I finally realized what my dad was trying to do — back then — and that was bring my mother back to life. He studied biology and he worked on resurrection, revitalization, and several things.
    He came up with some good ideas but, somehow, ChemCo always seemed to patent them before he remembered to file. So he was never given the credit he deserved. He’d threaten to sue; they’d rattle their lawyers; and finally there’d be a small settlement — enough to distract him and off he’d go in a new direction, sure that this time he’d find the answer and bring mom back to life.
    For the first two years or more, I was his willing accomplice in this. He’d tell me all about my mother when he was working and I got this brilliant image of her, I could see how much he loved her and how great our lives would be with her back — maybe I’d have her in my special room and we’d play tea or house. Maybe — and I only thought this in the deepest, secretest parts of my mind — maybe she’d let me wear
dresses
to school! And then maybe (and now I couldn’t even really bring myself to think this even in the deepest, secretest parts of my mind because it was just too miraculous and impossible), maybe I’d get friends and I wouldn’t have to take karate classes and break all the bullies’ bones at recess — and then I’d never get sent to the Principle again.
    But that stopped the night he tried to