Cristin Bishara: Relativity

Of all the things I want to tell him, I wish I could tell him we kissed. We kissed! On a park bench in downtown Ó Direáin, in Universe Four. And again outside Shanghai, after talking about LEGOs and wildflowers that only grow on Mount Diablo. And once again, in Universe Seven, under a ceiling painted with glow-in-the-dark stars. A love-buzzed feeling surges through me just thinking about his biceps.

My phone lights up, but it’s only a text from Willow. All okay today? She sends the same exact message, every day. Yep, I respond and tuck the phone away.

Mrs. Gambier claps her hands. “Attention!” She finally has her supplies precariously arranged on her desk. “Just yesterday, I had a wonderful conversation with Mr. Manning about something called dark adaptation. Has anyone heard of this phenomenon?”

Sure, I’ve heard of dark adaptation. I raise my hand, but she’s too excited to stop.

“When you go star gazing, you have to let your pupils adjust. After about thirty minutes, they go through dark adaptation.” Mrs. Gambier opens her eyes wide, as if to illustrate. “There’s a pigment called visual purple that builds up in the retina, and then you can see. You can see thousands of stars. Millions!”

I was under the impression that this was art class, not science. For a second, I wonder if Kandy was screwing with me, and I’m in the wrong room after all. I smooth my class schedule across my desk and eye it warily, though I’m sure Mrs. Gambier is the art teacher and Mr. Norton is AP physics.

“Today,” Mrs. Gambier announces, “we’ll be splatter-painting a large canvas. Everyone will be responsible for finding three shapes that we’ll call constellations. The longer you stare at the canvas, the more you’ll see. You have to give it time for your pupils to adjust, so to speak. Your constellation-shapes will then be the starting points for smaller oil compositions. Any questions?”

The class breaks into noisy chaos for a few minutes, until Mrs. Gambier raises her voice above the din. “One at a time!”

Kandy squirms, probably worried about ruining her designer jeans and shoes. “What about our clothes?” I ask.

Kandy glances at me, and for a moment our eyes meet, and I swear I see a glimmer of humanity. The same way I’ve been looking at her lately, now that I understand. She’s still counting days until she can change her name to Amy or Jennifer or something ordinary. Much to Willow’s chagrin, she’s got the countdown posted on neon paper on her bedroom door: 250 DAYS TILL LEGAL NAME CHANGE. Below that, the other sign remains: GET LOST, GO AWAY, DIE.

I suppose that Kandy’s also, always, doing a reverse countdown. Calculating how old Maddy would be if she hadn’t miscarried, or aborted. I haven’t asked what happened. I’m glad that Maddy is out there, in another universe. But Kandy will never know.

There’s a knock at the classroom door and then the door opens slightly. It’s Dad. He peers into the room, leaning in from the hallway.

“Forgive the intrusion.” He scans the rows until he sees me. He winks.

“Yes, Mr. Wright?” Mrs. Gambier says. “Everything all right?”

“Could I see Ruby, please?” He waves me toward him.

I stand up and start toward the door, leaving my notebook open on my desk. “Get your stuff,” he says. So I go back for my cane, and gather my books and pen and toss them into my new backpack.

When we get out into the hallway, I close the classroom door behind me. “Why are you here?”

“I already signed you out,” Dad says. “I thought we could go to Cleveland today, to the Natural History Museum.”

“Really? Don’t you have to work?”

He shrugs, strokes the stubble on his face. “I finalized some catalog copy last night, and for some strange reason my email and cell phone aren’t working today. I can get calls and messages from everyone except the office.” A mischievous smile plays across his lips.

For a second, I’m worried this isn’t my real dad. Am I in the right universe after all?

“You never blow off work.”

“Never say never.” He gestures to the closed classroom door. “Are you missing anything important in there?”

“Nah. Kandy will fill me in later. I think.”

He hands me a postcard. It’s a view of the Golden Gate Bridge, shot from Juniper Campground on Mount Diablo. I flip it over, already knowing it’s from George.

Rubes—I’ll be in Columbus for a wedding the last week in April. Can you drive down for a day? Miss you .

George

“Can I?” I ask Dad.

“Sure,” he says. “Get the dates so we can put it on the calendar. I’ll drive you. We can spend the night, maybe check out the sights.”

“Thanks,” I say, grinning. Now I have a countdown of my own. Seven months till the end of April. That’s about 210 days.

“Seems you two are meant to be friends for the duration,” Dad says, taking my backpack for me.

We’re meant to be. Destined.

“Willow told me about a great Chinese restaurant in downtown Columbus,” Dad says. “Maybe we should take George and his parents there for dinner one night.”

“We’ll order pork buns and Peking duck, and the barbeque assortment platter.”

Dad puts his arm around me, and I lean into him. “I’m glad you’re home, Ruby,” he says. “Safe and sound.”

We walk down the hallway together. He pushes open the double doors, and outside, the Ohio sky is a stunning shade of blue.

Not a cloud in sight.

This is a work of fiction, but string theory is real, as are the theoretical physicists mentioned in this book (Hugh Everett III, Brian Greene, Michio Kaku, and Lisa Randall) and their respective publications. As of this writing, there are no books entitled String Theory 101, Fluid Universe, String Theory Basics , or Parallel Places & Peculiar Physics .

My heartfelt thanks go to:

My editor, Emily Easton; Laura Whitaker; and the entire team at Walker Books for Young Readers and Bloomsbury.

My agent, Minju Chang, who has been my guiding star throughout the publishing process.

Everyone who critiqued this story along the way, especially my Fort Myers, Florida, and online groups.

SCBWI Florida for the inspiration and networking they provide. Attending their conferences helped lead the way to this book’s publication.

Carrie Dunn, MD, for answering all my questions about Ruby’s injuries and visits to the emergency room.

My parents, for keeping a house full of books, and for not batting an eye when I skipped law school to get an MFA in poetry instead.

My husband, Terry, my true love in every imaginable universe.

My smart, funny, beautiful girls, Maeve and Rose. My love for you is so profound it could bend the fabric of space-time.