The Theory of Everything (2 page)

“You're late,” the physics teacher said as I walked into class. He looked more like a French teacher, with his navy blazer, purple bow tie and curly hair that almost touched his shoulders.

“Sorry,” I said, looking around the class for a seat. “I got lost.”

In my dreams I was on time and people clamored to sit next to me, asking me about my unique outfit and what music I was into. “What was R.E.M.'s early work like?” they would ask. “What's so special about The Smiths?” I'd invite them to eat lunch with me, and we'd discuss Voltaire or Salinger over chutney or mochi. Before I knew it, I'd have a whole fan club dedicated entirely to me.

“You must be Sophie Sophia,” he said, looking at his list. “I'm Mr. Maxim. Take a seat.”

I sat in the front row—the only one open—and turned around to check out of the rest of the class: a sea of fluffy-haired girls mixed with normals mixed with the occasional guy in a sports jersey. And a few punk kids. I tried to make eye contact with the punks, but their heads were down. A few of the blondes snickered, but all in all, none of them looked like future members of my fan club.

“So that just about covers the syllabus,” Mr. Maxim said. He was sitting on the front of his desk, which meant he was either
actually
cool or just thought he was. “Does anyone have any questions?”

“Are we going to discuss M-theory?” a kid in the back row asked.

Mr. Maxim hopped up from the desk so fast one of his feet landed in the trash can.

“We have a physics enthusiast in our midst!” he said, trying to shake the trash can off his foot. “Is anyone else familiar with M-theory? String theory?”

I had to sit on my hands so I wouldn't raise them or hug Mr. Maxim, who'd suddenly turned physics class into an afternoon with my dad.

“I thought we were studying gravity,” said one of the blond girls. Judging by the amount of hair spray she'd used, I was pretty sure she was familiar with the concept.

“We are. We're not getting to theoretical physics until the end of the semester, but most of physics
is
theory,” Mr. Maxim said, freeing the trash can from his foot but leaving a red lollipop stuck to the side of his loafer. “Think about the possibility of extra dimensions. Think about black holes and time travel. Think about the millions of things we don't understand. Physics could hold the answers.”

Answers were why I was there, but all the other kid's heads were down, earbuds in ears. Mr. Maxim slammed a book on the desk, and people popped up.

“I get it,” he said. “Not everyone is into science. But physics is more than measuring things. It teaches you to look at the world in a new way. And whether you're hanging at the pool or pondering mortality, physics will make you ask questions. And believe that anything is possible. If you learn nothing else from high school, that will be enough.”

“So I can skip the rest of my classes?” asked one of the earbud guys.

“That's up to you,” Mr. Maxim said. “But as Newton said, actions have reactions.”

“Like detention?”

“Like every action has an equal and opposite reaction,” I blurted out. Some people grew up with the Lord's Prayer, but I'd been hearing Newton's Third Law of Motion since birth.

“Bravo,” I heard from the back of the class, followed by clapping.

And there he was—the first person I'd seen who didn't look like everyone else. His blond hair flopped in front like Morrissey's from The Smiths, and he was wearing one of those little-old-man shirts from the fifties, the kind that buttoned up the front. The kind that made me feel like I was back in New York, just like his wing tips and black Buddy Holly glasses. I christened him Fab Physics Guy.

“Well, well,” Mr. Maxim said, smiling. “I think we've found your lab partner, Ms. Sophia.”

The bell rang and people ran from the room, but I took my time, reveling in the fact that I hadn't freaked out. It was just one class, but it was a start. I felt victory down to my bones. And then I felt the eyes of a certain Fab Physics Guy burning a hole between my shoulders. In the tradition of searching for answers, I had to ask: did anyone know the scientific equation for awesome?

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I was supposed to take chemistry. That was where they put sophomores, especially ones with science grades as nonstellar as mine, but I talked my way into physics. I used the Dad Bomb, something I usually left alone, but since Angelino Sophia was a theoretical physics professor at NYU, it held some weight. Weight that the guidance counselor promised not to share with my future science teacher. I got in on her recommendation, and I was going to absorb as much as possible. There was no way I was going to pass up a chance to find out what was so enticing about the whole physics thing. Why Dad spent more time in the lab than he did with us. And why, in the end, his job won and we lost. Mom always said he left us because of work, but I wasn't sure. Even my friends with Wall Street dads saw them every once in a while or got a text. But I received nothing, which made me develop a little theory of my own, a theory unfounded in facts but based solely on feelings. Dad didn't leave because of work. He left because of me.

|||||||||||

The rest of the day was uneventful, which is exactly what I wanted out of the first day of school. Mom was right—Havencrest was less stimulating than other places, even San Francisco. There, indie kids were everywhere wearing shirts they'd screen-printed that morning or tweeting about the next biggest band. They were nice, but exclusive. Brooklyn was more inclusive, either because I grew up there or because we wore uniforms. It evened things out a bit, or at least made them more obvious. If someone didn't like you, you knew it. In San Francisco, girls would be nice to your face and giggle as you walked away, especially if you were the weird girl. Like me.

So far, the most ironic thing I'd seen in Havencrest was a football player wearing a Sunkist T-shirt, probably from Urban Outfitters. And a few drill teamers wearing Converse with their uniforms, like they were rebelling against Keds. No one had been mean, but no one had been that nice, either. The day was strictly monotone—nothing too high, nothing too low. I couldn't think of anything less stimulating than that. But I had my rules, just in case.

How to Survive a New School
by Sophie Sophia

1. Don't see things that don't exist. At least not until after three
   P.M.
   
2. If you
   do
   see things that don't exist, deny it.
   
3. If that doesn't work, act like you don't speak English.
   
4. Or that you were doing a performance art piece.
   
5. And if all else fails, throw candy and run. Enough chocolate and most people will forget anything.
   

The last bell rang and kids swarmed the halls, rushing for the red doors like it was the apocalypse. I followed them and stepped out into the back parking lot, enjoying the sunshine for the first time since that morning. I was walking along the fence that bordered the football field when I heard my name.

“Excuse me, Sophie?”

There, in all his vintage glory, was Fab Physics Boy. Saying my name. A small part of me wanted to stay and talk to him forever, but the larger part knew I had to leave. I was a ticking time bomb of potential freak-show-ness, and the only way to avoid it was to go. But I couldn't move. My Doc Martens melted into the concrete like they knew something I didn't. Like maybe this year was going to be different.

I looked at him, sun bouncing off his glasses, and smiled. Started to answer. So it's no surprise I heard drums in the distance. And as I looked out onto the football field, I saw a band of giant pandas, marching and drumming with massive lollipops, keeping the beat.

The field looked the same, except instead of being covered with kids, it was filled with a dozen pandas moving like pros, marching right, left and all over the field, forming everything from circles to the letter
W.
Or maybe it was an
M
—it was hard to tell. But they looked amazing, like a White Stripes video. There were a dozen of them decked out in tall red hats with white plumes and red-and-white-striped drum straps that draped across their chests like peppermints. They even carried red and white swirly lollipops instead of mallets—pandas and pops on parade. Too bad the greatness of their outfits didn't match their musical ability. And too bad Fab Physics Boy wasn't there to see it.

“No, no, no,” the lead panda said, stopping and adjusting his black Ray-Ban sunglasses. His hat was the opposite—white with red plumes—and he carried a baton.

“Would it kill you to stay in tune? This is New Order, not rocket science.”

Except it
was
rocket science, at least that's what Dad said. He compared New Order's music to some of the greatest equations ever written, which is why “True Faith” drifted up from the basement, filling the house with the sounds of science.

“Let's try this again,” the panda said, putting a whistle in his mouth. “Tweet-tweet-tweet-tweet!”

At his command, a dozen pandas filed behind him and started playing, badly, as they headed straight toward me. I was half nervous and half curious. I mean, the closest I'd ever been to a panda was at the Bronx Zoo. When I leaned toward it, the guide had told me to be careful, that even though he looked like he wanted a hug, he might deliver a strong left hook instead. That's how powerful they were.

“Tweet!” the lead panda blasted, and then stopped quickly, ten feet in front of me, sending a pile of pandas and the sound of cymbals crashing behind him.

“Hello,” he said, removing his sunglasses and extending a giant paw. “I'm Walt.”

It's not like I hadn't seen anything weird before. I'd been surprised by talking birds and chairs that flew. Rock stars who sang in elevators and gargoyles who came to life, giggling. My episodes were more
Fantasia
than anything else, but still. Things could change. Things always changed.

“I'm Sophie. Sophie Sophia.”

I offered my hand and watched it disappear inside a mound of fur.

“Nice name,” he said. “Did you enjoy our little performance?”

Since he was a million feet tall and I liked to find the positive in things, I focused on that.

“You guys can
march,
” I said. “Seriously.”

“I knew it,” Walt said, rocking back and forth on his heels. “We stink. Merv over there has two left paws.”

The panda picking up the xylophone shrugged.

“Sorry, boss,” he said. “I told ya, music ain't my thing.”

I liked how relaxed he was, how relaxed all of them were, which made me think they were more on the hugging side and less on the punching side. Besides, when had I ever gotten hurt inside of a hallucination?

“No matter,” Walt said. “We'll get it, eventually. But according to my internal clock, it's poker time. Care to join?”

“I've never played,” I said, following them back onto the football field, feet sinking into fake grass. Mind blown.

“I'll teach you,” Walt said. “I'll teach you a lot of things.”

The pandas made a circle around the fifty-yard line and plopped down simultaneously, making the entire field shake. I went down with them, landing in between Walt and the panda with the trumpet.

“Larry,” he said, extending his paw.

“Sophie,” I said, shaking it. “Thanks for having me.”

Walt shuffled and dealt, and Larry mixed drinks, pouring from one flask then another, adding a bamboo stirrer at the end. He handed one to me, which I handed to Walt.

“I'm a Manhattan man, myself, but Merv likes mint juleps,” Walt said. “They're a bit of a girly drink, but he's an old friend, so we make an exception.”

“They're all soda with a stick of sugarcane,” Larry whispered, handing me a cup. “Don't tell Walt.”

I sipped and smiled. It tasted like the time I ate several sugar packets at a diner, only better. Walt pushed a pile of jelly beans over to me, the apparent poker chip of choice, and the game began. I folded almost immediately, every time, but I didn't care. According to Walt, the best way to learn was to lose and then start again. Kind of like surrender.

“Why am I here?” I said.

“Humans are funny,” Walt said. “Never content to just enjoy this Manhattan, this poker game, this pack of pandas.”

He held up his cards. “Can anyone beat a full house?”

The rest of the pandas groaned and shook their heads.

“That's what I thought,” he said. “It's the Walt show, baby!”

We surrendered our jelly beans on the bass drum in front of Walt, and he scooped them up. But instead of keeping them, he poured them into my whale pocket, red, green and yellow cascading into its gray body.

“He looks like he gained five pounds,” I said.

“But at least you have snacks,” Walt said.

“How do you know I like snacks?”

“You're fourteen,” he said. “Besides, sometimes you just know things.”

Like how I knew my dad wasn't like other dads. He lived somewhere other fathers didn't, a place filled with lions and lollipops, Bernoulli and bowling balls. He was either in his basement inventing something or off on an adventure trying to prove theories that existed only in his head. I was too young to understand physics, but Dad had taught me the value of believing in things you couldn't see. Just because I didn't see the same things Dad saw didn't mean they didn't exist.

Walt stood up and tapped the sugarcane stirrer on the outside of his cup.

“Everyone? Can I have your attention? I'd like to make a toast to our newest friend here.”

The pandas stopped talking and turned to face me.

“Sophie, you showed up today whether you wanted to or not. And you did it with curiosity, a big heart and a willingness to learn. From all of us to you, welcome to our tribe, of which you'll always be a member.”

He raised his cup. “To Sophie.”

A chorus of white and black paws went up in the air, red cups waving.

“To Sophie!” they yelled, voices echoing across the field.

To me, I thought, feeling like I belonged for the first time in forever. Even if it was only for a few minutes. Even if no one could see them. Even though they were pandas, they were my friends—reminding me that I still had the ability to make them.

|||||||||||

Wind hit me in the face, and the concrete curb was cold against my skin. Colder than the fake grass I'd been on, colder than being surrounded by pandas. I wasn't sure how long I'd been gone—sometimes it was minutes, other times hours—but the parking lot was empty except for a few kids hanging out in the doorway and football players filing out on the field. The same field where I drank soda with sugarcane and played poker. The same field where I'd found my tribe, only to have them disappear. Typical.

I heard a whistle, but it was just the coach, gathering the guys for practice. I stood up and my pearls swung forward, hitting another necklace. A whistle on a chain, like the coach wore. Like Walt wore. I put it up to my lips and blew it once, twice, three times.

“Walt? Larry? Merv? Anyone?”

I don't know why I thought the pandas would come back, since it had never happened before. My episodes were always different, which is what made them so unnerving. Maybe if they'd contained a cast of recurring characters like any sitcom
,
I'd have been more amused than unsettled. I took off the whistle and turned it over and over in my hand as if it contained a clue. And then I spotted Fab Physics Guy leaning up against the fence. Since I wasn't sure how long I'd been gone, I had no idea how long he'd been there or what he'd seen.

“Hey, there,” he said, walking toward me. “Are you okay?”

I had been until he showed up. So I took a deep breath. Remembered my list. And since it was too late for steps two, three and four, I picked up my bag and resorted to step five—tossing jelly beans and running like a New York Marathoner until I reached my house.