Cristin Bishara - Relativity

“Anyone in there?” My mouth is dry, my voice weak. I clear my throat and try again. “Hello?”

My pounding heart counts off the seconds, or, more likely, quarter seconds. Ten, twenty, thirty. No answer.

I try again. “Anyone?” Finally, I pull myself to my feet, nerves jangling, hardly able to walk. Deep breath, Ruby. I press my hands against the door and push. A rush of stale air escapes the inside of the tree, giving the impression that it’s exhaling. I exhale too, standing at the threshold, ready to step inside the hollowed-out tree.

Should I? I linger in the doorway, wishing for a flashlight. The engine-like hum is louder now that the door is open, and I can feel the vibrations penetrating my entire body.

A sharp pain shoots through my leg. Damn. My shin. My blood-soaked jeans. I need antibiotic ointment and a bandage. I need something that numbs. I should go home.

I look over my shoulder, surveying the cornfields, thinking of Dad trying to meet his latest deadline, of Willow absorbed in a canvas, of Kandy at the bathroom mirror with a flatiron and hairspray. I think of Ennis High’s pitted football field, the fluorescent-yellow poster: LEARN TO QUILT AND SEW.

“What’s to lose?” I ask, then steel myself and take a step forward. And then another, deeper into the trunk of the tree. The smell of decaying wood—damp and decomposing organic matter—gags me. I press my nose to my shoulder, breathing in the smell of my T-shirt. The perfumed residue of a Downy dryer sheet. Another step forward and my shoes sink into a shallow puddle, completely soaking my feet, socks and all.

“Perfect,” I grumble.

Behind me, the light diminishes—the door is closing!

“No! Wait!”

I do a quick one-eighty and thrust my arm into the receding space. But the door keeps closing and I pull my arm back inside before it gets crushed. The inside knob—where is it? There’s nothing but a smooth surface on the backside of the door. The last ray of sunlight filters around the door, and then with an air-tight finality, it’s closed.

I’m locked inside.

Fear bubbles through me until I’m dizzy, panicked. It’s impossibly dark in here. How could the door have sealed shut so perfectly? There should be a seam of light along the top or bottom.

“You’re okay,” I tell myself aloud, but I don’t sound okay. I sound terrified. The tree’s internal engine pulsates, and in this complete darkness, the idea of locusts takes shape again. There was that behemoth insect stalking me in the cornfield yesterday; now I imagine swarms of them covering my clothes, burrowing into my hair.

I press my trembling hands along the wet tree walls, patting the damp circumference, finding nothing. No knob, no lever, no buttons.

“Seriously? Come on!”

Is there no way out of this thing? I start to crisscross the center of the hollowed-out trunk, making lines back and forth, groping into the blackness, tentatively tapping a foot forward, and then another. I stretch my arms in both directions, and my fingertips meet with nothing but air. The sound of my breathing fills the void.

Then I run into something. It’s waist level, and it feels like metal. A disk, about the size of a steering wheel. I run my hands along its cold surface. It’s solid with intermittent little grooves. Along the edge my finger catches on something sharp, triangular. In the center, there’s a thick pole that extends upward.

There is no knob, or lever, but there’s this.

Please work. Please be a way out.

I grab it with both hands and turn. It gives, a little. But it’s damp and slippery and I can’t get a firm grip.

“Come on, come on, come on,” I chant, wiping my hands on my jeans. With every beat of my heart, my leg throbs in time, and I wonder if I could bleed to death in here. Ironic, because the inside of a tree is, well, coffin-like. That thought is enough to energize me, and I give the wheel a firm twist. It advances, and seems to click into a preset position. There’s a single clank that sounds like an out-of-tune bell. And miraculously—finally!—the door slowly swings open, and I’m blinded by sunlight.

Blinking back tears, squinting, I stumble away from the tree. When my pupils finally adjust, I take a good look around. “What the …?” I whisper.

I’m not in the midst of cornfields. I’m standing on a hill, on the outskirts of what looks like a college campus. There’s a four-story building made of quarried stone, with a slate roof and central spire. Just ahead, there are tennis courts, and beyond I can see towering lights, probably for a football field. Dark clouds are convening in the distance.

For a long time, I stand in the shade of the tree, trying to get my bearings. The door is closed, though I have no recollection of shutting it behind myself. There’s got to be a reasonable explanation—for all of this. Maybe applying the scientific method will help.

First, define the question. That’s easy. Where the hell am I?

Second, gather information and resources. Third, form a hypothesis. Here’s a theory: I’m dead, and this is the afterlife. I mean, maybe Kandy actually strangled me to death when she caught up with me. I look down at my shin, which is still oozing. Blood-soaked jeans somehow don’t compute with the Great Beyond. Aren’t you supposed to be wearing white and sporting wings?

Logic, Ruby, logic. You can figure this out.

A bell rings. Suddenly, a metal door on the back of the stone building bangs open, and dozens of students rush out. They’re wearing backpacks, carrying books. I hear school bus engines, and I catch a glimpse of one rounding the side of the building. This must be a high school, not a college.

Though it’s certainly not dingy, dinky Ennis High, Home of the Bears.

I have two choices: go back into the oak or explore the school grounds. But if I try the tree again, what if I won’t be able to turn the slippery steering wheel? I’ll be trapped, doomed to starve to death inside a rotting tree trunk. Really.

Decision made.

I head toward the four-story building. I’m not sure what I’m looking for. A street address, a phone book, any geographic clue. A glass of water would be nice. I’ll have to avoid coaches and teachers. I don’t want anyone asking me, “Who are you, and what are you doing here?” Uh, yeah, I’d love to know.

A pebble sidewalk traces the side of the building. I pass a courtyard with a fountain and orange mums blooming, my wet shoes making a squishing sound as I walk. About a dozen kids are sitting on the ground, rehearsing something. Sounds like Shakespeare.

A group of cheerleaders walk past, giggling conspiratorially. They pay no attention to me, even as I stand in my bare feet, wringing my socks out and picking a corn leaf out of my back pocket.

Finally, I round a corner and find the front of the main building. Near the road, a sign says: Ó DIREÁIN HIGH SCHOOL. WELCOME BACK! YEARBOOK PHOTOS SEPTEMBER 10.

Distant thunder rumbles; the cloud bank has grown and advanced. Across the street are cornfields. I never thought I’d be happy to see Ohio crops. So here’s another hypothesis: I just wandered too far from home. My leg is bleeding worse than I think, and I blacked out. Did I hit my head when Kandy was chasing me, when I tripped and fell? My chin is sore, and my tongue is cut where I bit into it. I press my fingers along every inch of my scalp. No tender spots. No headache.

“Ruby?”

I spin around to face a guy who’s standing way too close. He looks a year or two older than I am, and strangely familiar. Dark eyes, slightly pointed nose, dimple in his chin.

He points at my bloody shin. “What happened?”

I take a step backward.

“Your hair, Ruby,” he says with dismay. “And why are you wearing those glasses?”