The Theory of Everything (22 page)

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I had just texted Finny and was headed south when I heard his voice.

“Sophie?”

“Finny!” I screamed, turning and throwing my arms around him. If I had to fill the gaps, why not start immediately?

“What the heck?” he said, backing up. “You can't text me like that and just disappear.”

“Wait, what? I sent you a text that I was okay.”

“And meeting with a physicist,” he said. “The
one
thing I wanted to do while I was here, but instead I was looking for you at the library, hoping I hadn't missed you. Hoping you hadn't been hauled off to the police station.”

“But I sent you a note,” I said. “I told you I was okay.”

“Like an hour later! Just because you see things and your dad's missing doesn't mean you can act like you're the only person on the planet,” he said. “There are other people. And we have feelings, too.”

He stood in the middle of the sidewalk, arms crossed. This love thing was going to be harder than I thought. And if I couldn't do it with Finny, I didn't have a chance of doing it with anyone else.

“I'm sorry,” I said, taking a step toward him. Trying. “But things are about to get really exciting, and I'd hate to do them without you.”

“I'm sure you would,” he said, pouting.

I wished I could hold my breath, like I did with Mom, and eventually it would be okay.

“It sucks to get dumped,” I said.

He stood there, giving me the silent treatment I deserved.

“What if we made a deal?” I said.

“Go on,” Finny said, arms still crossed.

“What if you got unmad at me now, and then as soon as we got on the train, you could ignore me for, like, ever?”

“You know I like to talk on the train,” he said.

I grinned.

“There's no way I'll be able to keep that deal!”

“That's what I'm counting on,” I said.

“Just admit it,” Finny said.

“Admit what?”

Finny uncrossed his arms, fully aware that he had the power.

“That you need me,” he said.

I wanted to shout it out to him, to Dad, to Mom, to all of them, but I paused for dramatic effect.

“Are you kidding?” I said. “I need you like Jack White needs Meg.”

“He's doing solo stuff now.”

“Whatever!” I said. “I need you.”

“Uh-huh, uh-huh, uh-huh-huh-huh,” he said, dancing around, waving his arms.

“What is
that
?”

“Victory dance,” Finny said. “I knew I was needed. I just wanted to hear you say it.”

“Hearts?” I said, stepping closer.

“Hearts,” he said as I wrapped my arms around him, the way Walt did with me.

And then I whispered in his ear, “Dad wrote a theory about me.”

“I know!” Finny said, backing up and unwrapping himself from the hug. “The Sophie Effect. I've been waiting for you to get to it. I didn't want to spoil the surprise.”

“Surprise!” I said. “It's better that you already know about it since I'm going to prove it and everything.”

“How?” Finny laughed. “It's one of the most scientifically impossible things I've ever read.”

And there, like the old friend I'd never liked in the first place, it showed up. Doubt.

“Wait, you don't believe it?”

“It's a theory,” Finny said. “I believe it has theoretical applications.”

“Exactly,” I said. “And I'm about to apply them to my life.”

It was one of the first times I'd witnessed his skeptical face. I wanted to tell him about Dad, about how I wasn't just doing this for me, I was doing it for him, but I didn't want to add guilt to doubt.

“Dr. Russo thinks I can do it,” I said.

Finny straightened up. “She does?”

“Yeah!” I said. “I even made a list at her office.”

I took out my Moleskine notebook and handed it to Finny.

“What are we trying to prove, exactly?”

“We!” I said. “You said we.”

“As if I could stay away,” he said. “You know I love a puzzle.”

“You love me!”

“I do, kooky as you are,” he said. “So what's next?”

“Since there's no scientific way to measure travel, the best way to prove the Sophie Effect is to prove its opposite, which is what I've wanted to do all along.”

“Oh!” Finny said, excited again. “You want to stop traveling.”

“Exactly,” I said. “And according to Dad's book, the only way to do that is repair my heart, love style.”

Finny looked at my list. “I think we should start with the cookie one.”

“Which cookie one?” I said, looking at my Moleskine.

“Number four,” he said. “Do something nice for someone else. Since you've pretty much put me through hell a million times, I think that someone should be me. And I request cookies.”

He handed me my notebook—the one I was supposed to use to track data for the Normalcy Project and never did—and I put it in my bag.

“There used to be an amazing bakery around the corner,” I said, walking toward West Fifth Street. “Can you hear the chocolate chips calling?”

Finny put his hand to his ear and craned his neck, like he was listening. “I can!” he said. “Too bad I'm going to eat them.” He walked to catch up with me and then grabbed my arm so I'd stop. “If I come with you, you have to promise me one thing,” Finny said.

“Yes, I'm buying,” I said.

“That's great, but that's not it,” he said. “You have to promise me you won't run away.”

His voice sounded all crackly when he said it, the way Mom's did, the way mine did after an episode. It never occurred to me that my stress wasn't just mine, it also applied to Finny.

“Got it,” I said, squeezing his shoulder, but I didn't promise. The night was young, the city was big, and I had a theory to prove.

She's running to stand still.

—U2, “Running to Stand Still”

“Order up,” the barista said, putting two hot chocolates with whipped cream on the bar.

Finny and I were at Chocolate Chocolat, where I'd just eaten the best chocolate chip cookie ever to inhabit my mouth.

“Want more?” I said, getting back in line. “No telling when we'll eat again.”

“We're eating at six with Peyton,” Finny said. “At some Italian place on Broadway, remember?”

“I remember,” I said, even though I fully expected to miss it. I was going to be busy being a test subject, trying to prove the Sophie Effect and save myself before I hopped on a train. I walked back to the table with our hot chocolates and half a dozen cookies. I opened the box and handed Finny another one.

“Mmmm,” he said, munching. “I think you can cross number four off your list.”

“Great,” I said, even though I didn't feel any different. Too bad this filling-your-heart thing wasn't more like a video game. My life would have been a lot easier if I heard a
ding
every time a hole was filled. “What's next, poetry?”

“I have something better,” Finny said, taking an orange Sharpie out of his bag. “Give me your arm.”

He flipped it over, revealing my forearm, and drew a heart with an arrow running through it. On the inside he wrote “SS + FJ 4EVR.”

“Cute,” I said. “And the purpose of this is?”

“We're madly, deeply in love!” he said, grinning like he'd just solved all my problems.

“Fake love,” I said, running my finger over his design. “Don't you think our hearts can tell the difference?”

“Maybe,” he said, his face falling. “Why? Don't you feel anything?”

“Not yet,” I said. No dings. But since I didn't want to disappoint him, I said something else. “It's not your fault, though. My heart probably has so many gaps it's going to take more than a fake-lationship to repair it.”

“True,” he said, opening the box and taking another cookie. “But as far as fake-lationships go, this is a pretty good one.”

“It's amazing,” I said, finishing off my hot chocolate. It was the best friendship of my life, but not because he was with me then. It was because he was always there—after I got suspended, after my freak-out at Café Haven, after Mom admitted she thought I was crazy. My chaos continued, but so did his loyalty.

“Ready to get out of here?”

“Sure,” he said, wiping cookie crumbs off his mouth. “I'm feeling rather poetic. And walking is great for the creative process.”

Walking also connected me to Dad, my feet taking me places he'd been. Dad loved walking so much that he used to pick a street and take it as far as it would go. Broadway was one of his favorites because it ended up at the top of Manhattan, his problem solved by the time he got there. I could only hope it did the same for me.

“Your current crush is Drew, right?” Finny said, following me down the sidewalk.

“As far as I know,” I said. “Do you have a crush on him, too?”

“I am completely crushing on his style, but not his person. It's possible to fall in love with clothing, you know.”

I knew. It was probably easier to love my Army Navy jacket than an actual person.

“I've got it!” Finny said, stopping in front of the Strand bookstore. “Check this out: Roses are red, hearts have holes, too. If you'll plug mine up, I'll give it to you.”

I laughed. “I christen you the rhyming scientist.”

“What would you do—something more esoteric? Like a haiku?”

“Of course,” I said, leaning against the wall next to him. I counted syllables on my fingers as I recited. “You are my coffee, waking me up to myself. Pour another cup.”

Finny laughed so hard people stared.

“That's how we met!” I said. “Coffee is a pivotal part of our relationship.”

“But it's not very romantic. Should we go inside?” he said, motioning to the store. “For inspiration?”

And then I remembered what I had in my pocket:
The Pocket Emily Dickinson.
I took it out.

“Ooooh,” Finny said, practically drooling. “Is that—”

“A souvenir? Yes,” I said. “I'll tell you about it later, but right now I need to study the greats.”

I turned to a poem called “Wild Nights” and held the book open between us. It was definitely passionate, but what struck me most about it was the word
moor.
I loved it. It sounded like
more
but actually meant “anchored.” Secured. Emily wanted to secure herself to another person. Maybe that's what love was all about—safety—like how I felt the first time I saw Drew. It was like he filled one of the holes in my heart I didn't even know was there. And even though I hadn't said it out loud or written it down, I think that was poetry enough.

“Let's come back to this one,” I said, even though I knew I was finished. “What's next? Yoga?”

“Sure!” he said, the optimistic partner in crime. “I'm sure there's one down the street.”

This time I followed Finny, thinking about love. There was romantic love, which I'd just attempted. There was friend love, which I was attempting all over the place with Finny. And then there was unconditional love. The kind where people loved you exactly as you were, no matter how you showed up. Could yoga possibly help with that?

“I smell incense!” Finny said, opening the door to Yoga Love.

We walked into a class already in session, took off our shoes and coats and grabbed mats from the shelves lining one wall. I felt out of place in my skirt and tights, but since yoga was all about self-acceptance, it was probably okay. Finny and I set up our mats in the back in case we needed to make a speedy exit.

“Arms over your head and inhale,” the teacher said. “Exhale, dive forward.”

My hair flopped in my face.

“Inhale, rise up halfway and exhale, bow forward.”

Finny looked seasick.

“Inhale, float back to plank and exhale, go through
Chaturanga Dandasana
to Downward Facing Dog.”

Finny collapsed on his mat, and I got into Down Dog, the only pose I really knew. I tried to think about peace. About loving the world. But it was hard to open my heart when all the blood was rushing to my head. She took us through the sequence four more times, which was really three times too many.

“Arms out to the side like wings and inhale, rise toward the sky, exhale, hands to your heart.”

Good thing she'd guided my hands there, I thought. My heart was beating so fast it would have popped out of my chest if my fingers hadn't been there to block it.

“Nice work, everyone,” she said. “Let's move on to
Surya Namaskara
B.”

“The
B
stands for let's bail,” Finny said, his face red and sweating. He made it through two sequences before he fell on his mat, which he now rolled up and returned to the wall. I did the same, and we both headed for the door.

“Namaste,”
she said as we were leaving.

“Namaste,”
I said quickly, pushing Finny out the door before he could laugh. I knew it was a special word, but it always made me laugh, too. It sounded like “my nasty.” And there was nothing sacred about that.

Finny put his hand in front of my heart, hovering a few inches away from my shirt.

“Oh, heart of hearts, are you filling? Do you feel the love, or do you just feel tired?”

“Tired,” I said. Like bone tired. And not just from the yoga. It was exhausting trying to make something work that clearly was
not.
It was like Finny said. The Sophie Effect was impossible to prove.

“Don't give up yet,” Finny said. “We have one more thing on your list.”

He popped inside the dollar store and came out with a box of sidewalk chalk.

“What did your list say? It can't hurt, right?”

I tried to crack a smile, but my lips stayed small, horizontal.

“So forget about the list,” Finny said, handing me a piece of purple chalk. “Let's just have fun.”

He took a piece of pink chalk and together we drew little hearts and big ones, wide ones and skinny ones all over the sidewalk, up the buildings, down the curbs and into the street. Hearts to catch people's attention, reminding them to put more love in the world. Reminding me to let love in. One guy high-fived me, and a little girl smiled as I drew hearts around her feet. I looked over and saw Finny connecting his hearts with swirls and getting smiles from strangers, right and left. We drew hearts around dogs, bicycles and fire hydrants, leaving little signs, messages to my heart, letting it know I understood. Messages to Dad, letting him know it was okay to come home. I knew the chalk would fade, but it didn't matter. I was connecting. Leaping. And I wasn't alone. Except when I looked up from doodling, I was. And I was at 34th Street.

“Finny?” I said.

His bird's nest hair wasn't anywhere, but Walt was. And he was standing in front of me wearing a pink tutu.

“Care to dance?”

I took his paw and he led me into Herald Square. Pandas sat at tables and on benches and still others wore tutus, which is when I realized: Walt hadn't come to me. I went to him. I traveled.

“Crap!” I said, flopping down next to Larry, who had one leg up on the bench.

“Are your muscles tight, too?” he said, attempting a hamstring stretch.

“Something like that,” I said. Except it was nothing like that.

“What's going on?” I said to Merv, who was kicking. It looked less like dance and more like karate.

“Rockettes tryouts are today,” he said. “We're all auditioning.”

“Why?” I said.

“Dancing improves marching skills,” Walt said. “You should try it sometime.”

“Yeah,” I said. “Because if poetry and yoga won't help me prove the Sophie Effect, high kicks will.”

Walt stood up and balanced on his tiptoes. “You want my advice?”

“Yes,” I said. “Generic as it may be.”

“You're thinking about love in the general sense,” he said. “Maybe the real work is closer to home.”

“Like Havencrest?”

“Even closer than that,” he said. The rest of the pandas had formed a line in the middle of the square and were waiting.

“You have a choice,” he said, adjusting his tutu. “You could sit here with a sad face, or you could realize you're doing all you can. Forgive yourself a little. And then celebrate how far you've come.”

He held out his paw, and I took it, joining my tribe in tutus.

The pandas linked arms, shoulder to shoulder, while I stretched mine as far as they would go around Walt and Larry's waists. Walt counted off, and before I knew it, we were kicking, blurs of black, white and Doc Marten flashing in the sun.

“You'll have to kick higher than that,” Walt said, sending his leg up to eye level. Grinning.

“If the shaman thing doesn't work out, you definitely have a backup job,” I said.

We kicked together, one perfect unit, as Merv busted out his own enthusiastic, acoustic version of “New York, New York.”

As my legs stretched longer, I forgot about the Sophie Effect.

As my limbs went higher, I forgot about being lonely. Being angry. Being me.

I was finally getting the hang of it when Merv's chorus ended and it was over. The pandas and I took a bow and then we unlinked, tutus running for water, me wondering where I'd run to next.

“Drink up, doll,” Walt said, handing me a bottle of water. “Hydrate that beautiful brain of yours.”

“And my heart?”

“You're closer than you know,” he said. And then he pointed to the Broadway street sign. “Just keep going. You're headed in the right direction.”

The pandas disappeared, and the old Broadway reappeared. I didn't see Finny, just an old guy sitting inside a doorway holding out a tattered hat. I think it was a fedora.

“Lady, spare a dollar?”

“Enjoy,” I said, putting one of my five-dollar bills in his hat.

SOPHIE: Where are you?

I texted Finny as I continued up Broadway, shadowed by tall buildings and tailed by taxis. I passed a theater, which was showing
Mamma Mia,
but remembered Dad talking about when everything was all
Cats,
all the time. It made me miss Balzac. I found him when he was a kitten, sitting on our stoop, all blue eyes and fur, no collar. When I asked if I could keep him, Mom said no, he was too hairy, but Dad said yes, and that I should bestow a regal name upon him. I ran inside to the bookshelf, closed my eyes and spun. When I opened them, I was pointing at
The Quest of the Absolute,
by Honoré de Balzac.

“I christen you Balzac,” I said to the tiny fur ball who would turn out to be my best friend. He didn't care that I saw things that weren't there or that we moved a lot, just that I let him climb all over me when I was reading in bed, snuck him tuna from my sandwiches and talked to him every morning. His mom might have been Siamese, which gave him blue eyes, but his dad was definitely Maine Coon. Balzac was a talker who responded to anything that would respond, which Mom described once as manic.