Clarissa had dressed herself, had gotten up and brushed her teeth and combed her hair and ate a bowl of cereal. The house had been deathly silent. Mom was dead asleep, dad was wherever he was. China. Clarissa finger the crack and wonders if it goes all the way to China. No ants crawled in and out of the crack, no weeds grew out of it, so maybe it was bottomless.

In her pajamas, had watched some Saturday morning cartoons, had played with some dolls, had wondered if it was possible to tip the refrigerator over. She stood in front of it, door open, for a long time, looking at all of the half-eaten food. Until she got cold, and then got used to the cold, and the got used to the light, and then shut the door, and then felt very warm. Went upstairs, but on the funeral clothes, because she wanted to think seriously about funeral thoughts. There was a crack in the sidewalk a block from their house.

Walked to the crack and there was: sunshine and distant lawnmowers and an occasional passing car. It was nearly summer. Close enough to summer that it was pretty much summer. The sky didn't bother with clouds anymore and the breezes were half-hearted, left-overs from spring, mild and easy to ignore. Clarissa had walked to the crack, noticing other cracks on the way, although none of them were as good as this crack.

Yes, this crack would do, was just about perfect. She wasn't sure about the science, but she felt pretty confident. Step on a crack, break your mother's back, but not just any old crack. There were cracks all over the world, and mothers pretty much everywhere. And everyone had one. Clarissa looked up, across the street, through her bangs, squinting at the light the bounced into her eyes from her cheeks. Everyone had a mother. How weird was that. Even Mr. Fogarty, who was about two hundred years old, lived in that house, the one with the ramp in front because Mr. Fogerty couldn't walk steps. Even Mr. Fogarty had a mother, once.

No. The crack had to be a real crack, a good crack, and close crack. If Clarissa was going to break her mother's back, she need the right crack to do it. And this one looked pretty good. Clarissa stands, lifts one foot and hovers over the crack in anticipation. She wants to break her mothers back, but will that kill her? Does she want to kill her? Does she want her mother to be dead? What's a broken back, anway? There's a lot of bones in a back. Which one would break? Or was it all of them? Clarissa isn't sure. That question sounds like science, and there's not much science in stepping on cracks to break your mother's back.

Clarissa puts her foot down, and thinks about it. If she breaks her mothers back, then her father would have to come take care of her. He'd have to take care of both of them, and her mother would have to stay in bed all day, and Clarissa wouldn't have to school anymnore.

But if her mother died of a broken back, her father would have to come get her, and he might take her to China. She would be upside down, and she would have to eat slimy noodles and learn to speak Cat Knees. But she still wouldn't have to go school. So it was decided then.

Clarisaa lifts up her foot and brings it down on the crack. Step. She does it again. And again. Just to be sure, she walks a little down the sidewalk, and walks back, stepping on the crack. Then she keeps walking and turns around and does it again. After a while she starts thinking about the refrigerator, and how cold it was standing in front of it, so she goes home.

Clarissa's mother, back at home, twisted into a horrible pretzel shape. It's one thing to have your back broken. But broken over and over again, all morning long, that's truly horrible.