Cristin Bishara - Relativity

Remember what I said about Newton’s first law of motion? Well here’s where the external and unbalanced force comes in. Unbalanced, as in mentally. Kandy lunges on top of me, and we both crash to the floor. She pounds my sides, smacks my face. Her long finger-nails bite into my skin. I curl into the fetal position, thinking she’ll be done any second. But she’s not letting up, and it dawns on me that she doesn’t want to get one good punch in; she wants to beat the living crap out of me. I try to roll away, but she easily pins my arms to the floor and sits across my abdomen. Trapped.

“Are you kidding?” I sputter, trying to breathe under her weight. “Get off!”

“What did you read?” She leans into my face, her burgundy lip liner and overwhitened teeth an inch from my nose.

“Nothing!” I flip and crawl for the door, but Kandy grabs my legs and pulls me back into the room. “Dad!” I sound like a pathetic little kid.

“He’s outside,” Kandy says. “They went for a walk.”

Then she smiles this really evil, creepy smile.

“What?” I say, watching her eyes.

“Run,” she whispers.

So I do. I jump to my feet, bolt down the stairs, and crash into the glass-top coffee table, knocking Dad’s laptop onto the floor.

“Ouch!” I scream. Did I just break my shin? I guess not, because I’m still running. You can’t run with a broken leg, right?

I’m out the back door. Within seconds, my lungs tighten and I feel nauseated. I haven’t sprinted since phys ed in June, and on top of that, I hold my breath when I run. Brilliant.

Kandy, on the other hand, is graceful, and she’s gaining ground. I abruptly change direction and look back again. She hasn’t missed a beat, but I do notice something—her bare feet.

I need gravel. Broken glass. Anything nasty to run across. That would stop her cold.

Fill your lungs with fresh air, Ruby. N 2and O 2in, carbon dioxide out. Breathe. Breathe before you pass out.

Kandy is ten feet away, then five. Now I can hear her breathing—her easy, steady, in-great-shape breathing. My shin burns like hell, and my right pant leg is wet. Is that sweat or blood soaking through the denim? It might be rain, because the grass is wet from last night’s storm. Soaked and slippery.

That’s when I trip, spectacularly. Hands forward, I try to break my fall, but my chin smacks the ground. The iron taste of blood fills my mouth.

Kandy stands over me. I push my glasses back up my nose, gulping air like a suffocating fish.

“Leave me alone,” I manage between breaths. “You’ve made your point.”

“Aw,” she says. “Your leg is bleeding. I bet you need stitches.”

I scan the rows of corn at the edge of the yard, then make a sudden break for the opening I found yesterday.

“Get back here!” Kandy shouts, diving at me. She has my shirt sleeve, but I yank away, ripping the seam.

The broad leaves are coated with rainwater, and soon I am too. The ground is a muddy mess; the water has unearthed rocks, worms, dried-out corncobs. Tough going for someone without shoes. I press through the towering corn, as fast as I can manage. Barefooted Kandy doesn’t follow.

She calls calmly after me, “You’ve gotta come home sometime.” When I don’t respond, she goes berserk. “You snooping bitch!”

I yell over my shoulder, “You’re one planet short of a solar system!”

Kandy gives the F-word a serious workout. Her voice fades as I keep walking. Once I feel like I’m at a safe distance, I collapse to the ground, a shaking mess. Did she mean to kill me? She’s crazy, but she can’t be homicidal, can she? No. I mean, it’s possible, but probably not. She just meant to scare me. Badly. Same as Willa Mason, in fifth grade. A kid full of hate. For everyone. Instead of packed lunches, she brought other things from home: bruises under her shirt, a knife in her backpack. She got caught before she could use it.

I lie in the mud, waiting for my heart to stop banging, for the veins in my forehead to quit throbbing. Mr. Burton said that Kandy had been in fistfights at school. So it’s not just me. It’s anyone. For some reason, she’s angry. Really, insanely angry.

I swat at a persistent fly and wipe the sweat from my forehead. I’m not used to this kind of humidity. The air is thick with moisture, and the sun makes it boil. If I lie here much longer, I’ll be UV-fried and peppered with insect bites. I take a deep breath and stand, telling myself I’m fine, just fine.

Same as yesterday, I walk in a straight line until I’m worried that I’m lost. The rainwater slides off the leaves as I pass, wetting my head, sending muddy trickles down my arms. I push forward, always looking skyward, until I see the upper branches of the oak—the leafy crown of the tree.

Minutes later, I’m out of the cornfield and in fresh air, under the tree’s canopy of cool shade. It seems taller, more splendid than yesterday. Ancient, alive. I take my glasses off and wipe the water from the lenses.

Now, in daylight, the purple glow is hardly detectable. But the humming is louder. And the trunk has changed. Significantly.

A layer of bark has been shed, in the shape of a large, perfect rectangle. Jabs of fear, quick and strong like voltage spikes, tell me I’m in danger, that I should go back. At the same time, I’m pulled forward by a force that feels inescapable, gravitational. Push and pull. Goose bumps spring up along my arms.

“Hello again,” I whisper. The ground beneath me feels charged, a steady thrum of power.

I take a few steps closer and see that it’s not just a rectangle of smooth trunk. There are etchings all over it, and in the middle, near the right edge, there’s a metal knob.

It’s a door.

I stand in front of the door, frozen with excitement and disbelief.

Calm down, Ruby. There’s no way it’s a functional door. It’s just a tree carving, more elaborate than John-n-Jane 4-ever , but the same idea.

Tentatively, I run my fingers over the etched surface, a complex work of fine chiseling. This was all hidden underneath a layer of bark. The twisted lines remind me of illustrations from my physics books—grid patterns depicting the fabric of space. At the top of the door, about eight feet above my head, there’s a carved sign. Only I can’t read it.

Gry kbo iye coousxq?

Like Kandy said, I’m a geek. But this isn’t in my repertoire. I can read Latin and three words in Sanskrit—the result of an eighth-grade project. This? Nope. What kind of language has consonants pushed together into unpronounceable combinations? Maybe Russian, or maybe letters have been dropped, like in a text message.

It feels absurd to knock on the door, but I do. “Anybody home?”

I wait a minute, honestly wondering if someone—or something—will answer. A talking white rabbit, right? A three-headed alien? I look up at the oak’s vast network of thick branches, the canopy of leaves.

It’s a tree, Ruby, a tree. That’s all.

But it’s a tree with a doorknob, probably copper or bronze, with a green patina. Why put a doorknob on a door? To make it possible to open and close said door. Am I wrong? It would only make sense to try it. Give it a little wiggle, twist it, you know. Just to see what happens.

My fingertips meet the metal knob, triggering a sudden snap of static electricity; a spark leaps from the charge exchange. “Whoa,” I say under my breath, shaking the sting from my hand. That’s all I have to do—just touch the knob—and the door creaks open a few inches.

Gasping, I lurch backward, trip over a root, and sit down hard. A cold sweat overtakes me; my entire body quivers. It’s a functional door.