Authors: Cristin Bishara
She aims a remote control at her stereo and turns the music off. “Darn,” she says, snapping her manicured fingers. “I thought you were gone for good.”
“What did you do to my books?” I say, thrusting my thumb over my shoulder. “To my room?”
“We’re even,” Kandy says. She fishes through the magazines until she finds her pink journal. She holds it up with one hand, and she brandishes the scissors with the other.
I’m reminded of the fact that she checked the box next to “yes” on her design school app. Yes, she’s been convicted of, or has pled guilty
to, a crime other than a traffic offense. Vandalism? Assault and battery? Attempted murder?
“We’re even?” I spit back at her. “My shin is still bleeding.”
Kandy narrows her eyes at me. “Stop talking,” she says, waving her hand in the air like I’m a bothersome insect. “Your voice irritates me.”
“Your existence irritates me.” Maybe I’m being too bold, knowing what she’s capable of, but I’m shaking I’m so angry. “I’m going downstairs to tell my dad. You’re busted.”
Kandy’s ears perk up, like this is what she’s been waiting for. “I’m going downstairs to tell my dad.” She imitates me using a high-pitched, little-kid voice. Then she adds, “Go ahead. They’ll never believe you.”
“Of course they will. There’s evidence all over my room.”
“You did it. To yourself. It’s so, like, obvious you hate it here, and you didn’t want your dad to marry my mom. You’re trying to sabotage it.” She starts in with the little-kid voice again. “Kandy ripped up my books. We can’t live here anymore. We have to go back to California. Boo-hoo.”
“You’re sick.” I take a step backward.
“You know,” Kandy says with a creepy smile, “just before you chickened out and ran into the cornfields, I had the chance to finish your sorry ass. Next time I won’t hesitate.”
“He-si-tate,” I say, reaching behind me for the door. She’s more psychologically damaged than I realized. “Wow. Three syllables.” Can she hear the spooked tone in my voice?
The expression on Kandy’s face changes from annoyance to malice. “Just stick to the rules. You stay out of my life, and I’ll stay out of yours.” She holds up her journal again. “Understood?”
“You suck,” I say. I slam her door and hurry back to my room before she decides to leap off the bed and rip my intestines out through my nose. I sure as hell hope Dad is still downstairs, within earshot. Otherwise I could end up a grainy photo on the back of a milk carton.
Have You Seen Me?
I lock my bedroom door, then shove a few moving boxes against it. At least that’ll slow her down, if she tries to get in while I’m sleeping. It wouldn’t hurt to put a baseball bat underneath my pillow.
With a heavy sigh, I flop down on my bed. I’m beat. But I can’t ignore the mess. It’s like someone split an atom in here. All my lovely books, paper corpses everywhere. A pure and penetrating sorrow hits me, same as when I see a dead roadside animal. Little lives. Flesh and blood—an impossible combination of carbon, hydrogen, nitrogen, oxygen, phosphorus, and sulfur. So much like books. The elegant combination of words. Arranged just so, to make a genius work of literature. How could Kandy not respect the life—the brains—that went into those pages?
Moron.
I pick up the pages, one at a time, and sort them into piles. After about an hour, I’ve got the papers organized into the books they used to be. There were nine victims, including Brian Greene’s
The Hidden Reality: Parallel Universes and the Deep Laws of the Cosmos
, and two Michio Kaku books. My Einstein biography is beyond repair. And
String Theory 101
looks like it’s been through a shredder. I wonder if Kandy used her teeth. Her fangs. I wouldn’t be surprised.
Oh, wait. She used her scissors. The ones she was still holding in her hand, taunting me.
The noise that comes from my chest is half moan, half wail. I stare at the stack of pages that makes up my mangled Hubble book from George. I look to my dresser to take inventory. George’s photo is still there, so are the two snapshots of Mom. The dogs are missing. Probably knocked behind the dresser.
I pick up my garbage can and center it in the midst of the unreadable books. Really, there’s no use in having piles of paper like this. Pages are missing, ripped too badly. First in the can, the remains of
String Theory 101
. Such a good book. Next is the Einstein biography with its broken spine. A few pieces of paper are hidden under the bed. I reach underneath, ready to angrily crumble them into wads.
Half a page drifts across the floor, and when I pick it up, the words “multiverse” and “parallel worlds” catch my eye. I hold the paper in my hand and read the entire paragraph.
One of the quirkier aspects of superstring theory is that it calls for eleven dimensions of space and time. This version of quantum theory also allows for the multiverse, or parallel worlds. In these worlds, alternate possibilities play out
.
Parallel universes. Alternate possibilities. My breath catches in my throat and I keep reading.
A unified theory is what Einstein was after for thirty years but never achieved. It would change our understanding of everything, from subatomic particles to immense galaxies
.
It would redefine our concept of space-time and the flexible fabric of the universe
.
My hand goes to the back of my neck. I run my fingers over my tattoo. The Einstein tensor,
Rμv −½gμvR = −κTμv
, which expresses space-time curvature. No, it can’t be. I hungrily read more.
Space could be peppered with connections that link distant points; hidden spatial dimensions might be right next to us, and we just can’t see them
.
The tree. Could it be a wormhole?
I dump the trash can onto the floor and shuffle through the loose pages, looking for Brian Greene’s book about hidden realities, but instead finding an index that corresponds to another. “Wormholes, pages 178–181.” Now where are those pages? I should march back across the hallway and rip into Kandy’s clothes closet. Take her designer shoes and hack off the heels with a kitchen cleaver.
There’s page 177. Almost. And under that are the pages I need.
Simply put, wormholes are tunnels, connecting two positions in space-time
.
I scan ahead and find this:
In an infinite number of parallel universes, infinite possibilities play out. At every quantum juncture, what could
happen, does. As Yogi Berra once famously said, “If you see a fork in the road, take it.”
I wander around my room, rooting through the moving boxes, pulling stuff out in handfuls. Now it really looks like a bomb went off in my room. I unearth a flashlight, my digital camera, my wallet with twenty-seven dollars cash, and a fresh notebook and pen. I toss it all into my backpack, along with a change of clothes. Into the front zipper pocket, I slide the postcard from George and the new snapshot of Mom.
At daybreak, I’m going back to the tree. If it really is a wormhole, I’m about to prove string theory and make science history.
And maybe, just maybe, I’ll bump into Mom.
I hit my snooze button again. I feel weak, burned, like I’ve spent too much time in the sun, electrolytes zapped. About ten percent of me is saying, Get your butt out of bed. But ninety percent of me wants to sleep. It’s a simple case of mathematics. I guess traveling through space-time takes its toll. So does a gash to the leg.
By the time I push the moving boxes away from my door, put on some jeans and a T-shirt, and haul myself downstairs, everyone’s in the kitchen. Yeah, I’m super-anxious to get back to the tree, but I need to eat, and breakfast smells good.
“Morning, sunshine.” Dad stands over a griddle. He flips an enormous golden pancake. Butter, flour, a bowl of batter, and a package of bacon clutter the countertop.
I cock my head, give him a look. “You’re cooking?”
Dad grins. “At it again.”
“Seriously,” I say. “I thought you were strictly toast and cereal.”
Now Dad gives me a funny look. “What?”
There’s something different about Dad. I guess I didn’t notice it last night, but he looks … hmm … younger? Yes, that’s it. It’s his hair. It’s more black than gray. When did he start coloring it?
“Good morning, Ruby.” Willow dabs egg from the corners of her mouth.
I shove a giant cardboard box out of the way and sit down. “’Morning,” I say to Willow, not Kandy. Kandy gives me a venomous look, which I return in kind. Then we proceed to ignore each other. A symbiotic relationship, though I can’t ignore her perfume. Between that and the hairspray, a mushroom cloud is forming over the kitchen table.
Dad shuffles to the table in his slippers and slides a giant pancake onto my plate. “Spread some lingonberry preserves on it,” he says. “Tell me what you think.”
“You’re wearing a paisley apron,” I say, trying to blink the sleep out of my eyes.
“Of course I am. You bought this apron for me, remember?”
I try to remember. A mouse pad, an electric shaver, a jazz CD. Those are the most recent birthday and Christmas gifts.
“Eat your pancake before it gets cold.”
I reach for the lingonberry preserves. I’ve heard of cranberries, blueberries, strawberries, blackberries, even gooseberries. But lingon-berries? I search the table for the maple syrup, but there is none.
“The batter is Irish oatmeal, whole wheat flour, buttermilk,” Dad says. “It’s for
Gourmet
magazine.”
“For an advertisement?” I carve out a bite. It’s perfect. Light, fluffy, sweet.
Dad hands me a hot cup of coffee. “Drink this. Wake up, space cadet.”
Willow pushes her plate away. “I can’t eat another morsel,” she says. She checks her watch. “We need to push off for Cleveland.”
“Have fun, you two,” Dad says. “Don’t max out the credit cards.”
“Weren’t you just in Cleveland yesterday?” I ask.
“Yes, but that was a spur-of-the-moment appointment,” Willow explains, digging through her purse and finding her keys. “And I guess I should be glad I wasn’t home. I would’ve been worried sick about you.”
Dad glances at me with a look of reproach.
“Yeah, I’m really sorry about that.”
“Today we’re going to a mall.” She turns to me, an apology in her eyes. “Ruby, we didn’t invite you because we didn’t think you’d care for it. It’s sort of—”
“High fashion,” Kandy finishes. Then she looks at me with total disgust, like I’ve got the pneumonic plague.
“I told Kandy I’d treat her to one splurge item,” Willow clarifies. “For the start of the school year. If you’d like, we can bring you something—”
Kandy snorts. “What would she do with designer heels, Mom?”
“Oh, Kandinsky,” Willow says with an admonishing tone.
Kandy’s posture turns rigid. “Do. Not. Call. Me. Kandinsky.”
“It’s your name.”
“For another two hundred and eighty-one days. When I turn
eighteen, I’m filing the paperwork for a legal name change. Then I’ll be Amy or Jennifer. Something normal.”
“Why would you want an ordinary name?” Willow looks wounded. “Well, I know you still like Kandinsky’s art.”
Kandy rolls her eyes.
I point my fork at my plate. “Good pancakes, Dad,” I say, mouth full. “Yum.”
“You like?”
“I love.”
Kandy stands up, leaving her plate at the table like she’s at a restaurant or something. “My opinion? They’re too sweet, or big, or, like, I don’t know.”
Dad’s face goes blank. “Too much sugar?”
“I guess,” Kandy says. “They need cinnamon.”
Dad scribbles on a notepad.
Kandy grabs her purse—a huge thing with a flashy metal logo—and Willow kisses Dad good-bye. As they leave, Willow harangues Kandy about being civil to her, seeing that she’s the one with the credit card. The garage door grinds up, and car doors slam shut. A few moments later, the garage door is back down with a satisfying, final jolt.
“Scrambled or over-easy?” Dad asks.
“No thanks.”
“You’re eating too fast.”
“I’m in a hurry,” I say. “I’ve got a lot to do today.” I shouldn’t have slept so late. I need to get my gear and head for the oak tree.
“Really? What’s on the agenda?”
I’m tempted to spill the beans, but now I feel like it’s a secret I need
to keep to myself, until I have more data and a better grasp of what’s really going on. I don’t want the word getting out yet. I want the tree to be my discovery—all mine—at least for a while.
“Library,” I say, which is true. Because now I need something on string theory since my books are torn too badly. Thank you, Kandy.
“I’ll give you a ride,” Dad says.
“I can walk,” I say, though I wish I could find a pair of crutches to keep the pressure off my leg. After a long night’s sleep, it feels okay for now.
“I’d rather drive you,” he says.
“Da-ad,” I moan. “I’m not a little kid. Besides, you have work to do.”
His eyes go to his notepad, and the writing he needs to finalize. “Be back by five,” Dad says. “Don’t make me panic again.”
“Promise.” I’m finally a little more awake, and my mind is racing ahead to all the field work that’s waiting for me. Taking photos and notes, translating the foreign inscription that’s over the tree’s door.
I’m about to eat the last bite of pancake when I notice a framed photo sitting on top of a moving box. It’s the one of the dogs, Isaac and Galileo, their ears straight up, looking through our sliding-glass door.
“What’s this doing down here?” I ask, picking up the photo. “This was on my dresser.”
“We haven’t unpacked that box yet,” Dad says.
“But—”
“What was it you said about that photo?” he asks.
Even though the photo is black and white, I know that Isaac’s
collar is green, and Galileo’s is blue. “It’s like they’re still waiting for me to open that sliding door,” I say. “Like they’re still right there.” My cheeks burn hot. Man, I miss those dogs.
Isaac and Galileo. Perfect dog names. But wait. I couldn’t have been the one who named them. We got the dogs when I was two years old.
“I never thought about it before. Who named the dogs?”