Read An Infinite Number of Parallel Universes Online
Authors: Randy Ribay
An Infinite Number of Parallel Universes
Randy Ribay
Copyright © 2015 by Randy Ribay.
All rights reserved.
This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission from the publisher; exceptions are made for brief excerpts used in published reviews.
Published by
Merit Press
an imprint of F+W Media, Inc.
10151 Carver Road, Suite 200
Blue Ash, OH 45242. U.S.A.
ISBN 10: 1-4405-8814-7
ISBN 13: 978-1-4405-8814-3
eISBN 10: 1-4405-8815-5
eISBN 13: 978-1-4405-8815-0
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, corporations, institutions, organizations, events, or locales in this novel are either the product of the author's imagination or, if real, used fictitiously. The resemblance of any character to actual persons (living or dead) is entirely coincidental.
Many of the designations used by manufacturers and sellers to distinguish their product are claimed as trademarks. Where those designations appear in this book and F+W Media, Inc. was aware of a trademark claim, the designations have been printed with initial capital letters.
Cover design by Frank Rivera.
Cover image ©Clipart.com.
To Kathryn.
And to those who've found friendship on the fringes, to those still searching.
Infinite thanks to: My students, for making me want to write something they might want to read; My teachers, for helping me learn to do things good; Kendall Miller and the poets at The Sieve and the Sand, for helping me to stop worrying about quality and just write; Joanna Klink, for teaching me how to make a curtain move; Explosions in the Sky, Devotchka, Sigur Rós, Youth Lagoon, Brandi Carlile, Kishi Bashi, and That Dream Was Our Life, for making music that fills my head with imagery; Coffee, for giving me superpowers; Cole, Val, Jason, Eric, Vlad, and Casey, for helping me “research” by starting a D&D campaign (goblin armor!); James, for letting me steal his car fire; Those who read early drafts of this story, for providing valuable feedback and encouragement; Aaron Kim, for being my CP (until his baby became more important than me); The South Jersey Writers Group, for being my local writer friends; Mindy McGinnis, for giving me sage advice when everything became real; The Fearless Fifteeners, for their commiseration and companionship; My therapist, Lori Lorraine, for helping me sort through all the feels; My Boys' Latin family, for being awesome; Jacquelyn Mitchard, Deb Stetson, Meredith O'Hayre, and the rest of the team at Merit Press, for believing in this story and helping to refine it; The crew at Dee Mura Literary, for helping me navigate the publishing world; My agent Kaylee Davis, for her amazing editorial eye and for fielding my innumerable distraught texts and emails (fear not, there will be more!); My dog-children, for being soft and loving without fail; My family, for making sure I survived into adulthood and for putting books in our house; My wife Kathryn, for unending support and honest feedback that sometimes makes me so sad but always makes my writing better (better writing > sadness).
- Title Page
- Copyright Page
- Dedication
- Acknowledgments
- Prologue
- Archie
- Mari
- Dante
- Sam
- The Party, Gathered
- Colossally Stupid
- Through the Night
- Onward to Discover
- What You Think Matters
- One Hill at a Time
- Surprised by the Spinning World
- Yes and No
- The Edge of the World
- An Arrow Unloosed
- Over Adventure
- The Slow-Moving World
- Pretty Cool People
- What No Longer Matters
- Three Thousand Miles
- In the Rearview Mirror
- Can't Take a Joke
- Inventing Constellations
- Broken and Healed, Awake
- Colossally Stupid
Nobody can hear the music over the rustling of the plastic that covers the broken window. It flaps and billows as the air rushes past at seventy miles an hour, testing the strength of the duct tape.
Sam lowers his book and reaches between the front seats to turn up the volume, but Mari smacks his hand away without taking her eyes off the road.
Sam leans back. “That's the third time you've hit me today.”
“That's the third time you've deserved it,” Mari says. “I'm driving. I control the music.”
“It's true. It's like a law, or something,” Archie says. He removes his glasses and cleans them with his shirt. But that does not fix the cracked lens.
“Oh, so
now
you want to take my side,” she says.
“What, you want me to say he's right, then?”
“This isn't about the music, Arch, and you know it.”
“Then what is it about? Last night? Or what I said to Dante?”
From the front seat, Dante holds up a hand, his forearm wrapped in gauze that has bled through in spots. “Can we please not do this right now?” he asks. “Let's just get there and then go home so we don't miss too much school.”
Mari adjusts the visor to shield her eyes from the sun, which hangs low in the sky above the road. Archie turns to the window to watch the farmland roll by. Sam reaches into his pocket for his phone only to remember that it's lost in the tall grass, hundreds of miles back.
The road runs straight for a stretch, hemmed by a low wooden fence. The road then curves to the left and swings to the right before straightening out again. They pass a hill where four cows gather within the shade of a few small trees next to a pond.
The road climbs. As it crests, Archie, Sam, Dante, and Mari catch their first glimpse of the mountains. They loom on the horizon, faint but formidable. It seems they are guarding the continent from itself.
Inside the car, nobody speaks.
The plastic rustles.
The radio plays.
But nobody hears it.
The Irrationality of Pi
Friday
Archie stands on an uneven sidewalk examining his father's “new” place, an old three-story row house. Chipped bricks. Peeling paint. Warped wood. He removes his glasses and cleans the lenses with his shirt. It's a bright day, the kind of day for seeing things clearly.
“It looks like shit,” Archie says. “No offense.”
His father laughs. “You have to see what it's going to be, not what it is, Arch.”
“It's going to be
condemned.”
“It's going to be your new home starting one week from tomorrow.” His father climbs to the top of the stoop and then turns to Archie. “I'll admit the outside looks kind of rough, but we'll work on that.”
“You don't know anything about this kind of stuff,” Archie says.
“I'm learning,” his father says, adjusting his trendy new glasses. “A friend of mine has volunteered to help. He flips houses for a living.”
Archie wonders who this friend might be. His father never used to have friends. He never used to restore old homes or wear trendy eyeglasses. Archie considers pointing this out. Instead he asks, “So this is really happening?”
The approach of an electric hum makes Archie turn. He spots an old woman whirring down the middle of the street in a motorized wheelchair with a pumpkin in her lap. Archie waves. The old woman nods but does not stop.
“Trust me, it'll be gorgeous,” his father says. “This neighborhood's right on the verge of turning around. There's a farmers' market. Art galleries. Great restaurants. There's even a hip bowling alley that opened up just around the corner.”
“I would argue a bowling alley is, by definition, not hip.”
“I guess you'll just have to see for yourself.”
Archie sighs and lifts his eyes back to the house. It is balance and order that bring Archie comfort. Not this. This bothers him as much as the irrationality of pi. Even though the move is only a thirty-minute transposition, it means starting senior year at a brand new school in about a week and a half. Apart from Sam and Sarah. From Dante.
From Mari.
In one week, they'll be four points on the other side of the y-axis.
“You're absolutely certain there's no way I can just keep on living with Mom?” Archie asks. “I'll give you all my Star Wars figures. Even the Luke Skywalker with double telescoping lightsaber.”
His father sighs. He walks down the front steps, puts a hand on Archie's shoulder, and squeezesâin what Archie supposes is a gesture of paternal reassurance. “As tempting as that is, you know this has already been settled. Now, come on. Check out the inside.”
His father heads into the house, but Archie hangs back for a moment. He looks up. A tangle of wires chokes his view of the sky. A pair of white and red sneakers with the laces tied together is draped over one of the lines.
A stray dog approaches, tongue lolling out to one side. It reminds him of Mari's dog but mangier. Archie keeps his distance and makes his way into the house. He closes the door and locks it.
“You've already checked about my grades, right?” Archie asks, stepping into the foyer. Sunlight spills in through curtainless windows. Everything smells of cleaning product and sawdust.
“For the millionth time, yes. They will transfer exactly as they are on your transcript, and you'll be ranked accordingly. No penalty.” His father spreads his arms, palms outturned. “So what do you think? Way nicer than the outside, right?”
Before answering, Archie wanders around the first floor. He stomps his foot upon the dark wood floors to check for weak spots. He pushes against an old column to test its structural integrity. He knocks on the walls because he's seen people do that in movies.
“Meh,” he says, concluding his inspection.
“You have to admit it's better than the apartment. Those thin walls. The curry-scented hallways. The raccoons.” He shudders.
But Archie does not want to concede anything, having conceded so much already. Granted, his father had agreed to buy him a used car after he got his license, so he'd be able to zip back over the bridge for Monday night D&D and Wednesday night Magic with his friends. But still. It wouldn't be the same as seeing them at school every day. As being able to bike a few blocks to hang out with them whenever he wanted.
And the thought of trying to find a place within the already-established social arrangement of his new school filled him with exhaustion and despair. It had taken him years to locate likeminded individuals. What would be the odds of re-creating such a miracle within just a few months? Archie could have calculated them but chose not to. Too depressing.