My Diary from the Edge of the World (20 page)

“I can't wait to meet ours!” Sam said. I couldn't agree more.

My thighs felt like they were on fire by the time we reached the top of the mountain and the building we'd seen from the air. We knew we'd arrived when we reached a rusted metal fence with a sign hanging from one of the fence posts that said
WELCOME TO GRIFFITH PARK OBSERVATORY!

The sight of it knocked the wind right out of our sails. The gate had a lock, but it was rusted and flapping open in the breeze, and the sign was rotting away.

“It's deserted,” Millie groaned.

Dad was clearly troubled. His bright look disappeared and his whole body deflated. He held the gate open for us and we walked up to the building itself—which was made of yellowing white stone, with a large, rusting metal door under a big central dome. Mom knocked loudly, and we waited. She knocked again.

We must have stood there for five minutes or more.
Mom tried the handle, but it didn't budge. We all just looked at each other.

Where would we eat? Would it be safe to sleep in one of the abandoned mansions? How far was it to the docks? All of that was running through my mind when there was a subtle shift in sound beyond the door, and then a moving of levers and locks and a twisting of gears, and suddenly the door was open.

At first glance Prospero looked to be a bit insane, his graying hair sticking up in all directions and his clothes mismatched and disheveled. Like I remembered from
60 Minutes
, he had dark skin the color of hazelnuts, and dark, intensely curious eyes, as if he was sizing us all up. Dad seemed starstruck. It was as if Britney Spears and the president and that guy from
Wheel of Fortune
were all rolled up into one person.

Prospero squinted at us, clearly trying to place my dad, teetering on the edge of recognition.

“Well,” he said a moment later, “if it isn't Doofy Lockwood!” He reached out and pulled my dad in for a tight hug. Tears gathered at the corners of his eyes. “Doofy, as I live and breathe!”

Millie mouthed,
Doofy?
to me, and we let Prospero usher us inside.

*  *  *

“It's the best place to watch the sky,” Prospero explained, after we'd all officially met, and all sorts of greetings and explanations of our arrival had been exchanged. Apparently elated by our presence, he led us into the dim, empty interior of the observatory, which smelled mildewy and gave us all chills. But I have to admit that it made me proud to see someone famous so happy to see my dad.

“You'll have to stay for a while,” he went on. “It's so lonely here. No visitors for years, actually. No one has the stomach to make the trip west anymore. But I need to be here because”—he waved his hands skyward—“I need the darkness and the clear air blowing in from the sea to let me see the stars better. It's perfect for my needs.”

It was obvious right off the bat that the observatory (an upper room of which I'm now bathing in) is a gloomy place. (I do wonder why someone with so much money, whose book is a gigantic best seller, wouldn't at least spring for some carpeting or some nice couches. If I had a best seller, I'd have all my furniture covered in silk, and I'd have a Jacuzzi in my room that I'd sometimes have the maid fill with Skittles.) But Prospero was proud as he led us on the tour, showing us to a large dwelling up above the laboratory, at the top of a wrought-iron spiral staircase.

That's where we're staying now, in a big spare loft with mattresses on the floor, full of old furniture with limp cushions, and photos on the walls of galaxies and supernovas. There are several bedrooms branching off to the sides, but they're all empty, so we're camped together. We have a view across the top of the park from which we can see some brick buildings covered in ivy (Prospero says they're old music studios) and the Cloud, which caught up to us yesterday and which is repeatedly being blown several yards east by the ocean breeze, only to drift back to its spot like a jellyfish floating on the ocean current. (I'm trying to use more similes in my writing. Mom says that's what Leo Tolstoy does, and supposedly he's really good.)

*  *  *

Anyway, back to first impressions. Prospero took us through the rest of the observatory—the parts he actually uses to observe the sky—muttering about measurements and angles as he and my dad nodded to each other knowledgeably. They had, I noticed immediately, the same way of tilting their heads when they were talking about math, and the same way of getting lost in their own heads.

Millie smirked at me. “Dad found his twin,” she whispered.

Eventually he led us upward along a winding staircase that clung to the walls of the dome. Climbing higher and higher, we eventually came to a small circular room with a giant telescope poking out of the roof. It was about twenty times the size of my dad's back home. Dad's mouth fell open, and Prospero smiled. “We'll have to take a look together later. All sorts of nebulas and clusters, easy to spot. I also have a cloud gallery with a glass ceiling, and an aviary where I keep all sorts of birds and ducks. I'm an astronomer first,” Prospero explained, turning his attention to the rest of us, “but really I study morphology. It's the science of forms. I'm interested in the connectedness of all natural patterns. I'll be glad to show you what I mean but”—he looked around at all of us—“I'm guessing you might need some rest first? We can continue our tour tomorrow.”

“Oh, Prospero,” my mom took his hands in hers. “Thank you, for everything. And yes, the kids and I are exhausted.”

“I'm looking forward to a long, long visit,” Prospero said. Mom sent an uncertain look to my dad, who kissed her good night on the cheek. He and Prospero immediately launched into a discussion of something called
apertures as the rest of us trailed quietly off to the loft.

I was just drifting off when Dad came into our shared room about an hour later. Mom was staring at the Cloud out the window.

“Don't worry,” he said, low so he wouldn't wake us. “We won't stay long. I'll explain things to Prospero. Tomorrow I'll go get our guardian angel. We'll be on our way in no time.” He didn't sound as elated as he had when we'd left him, though; he sounded more tired and worried. I wondered what had changed. He gave each of us a kiss good night before climbing onto the mattress with Mom. (The last time he gave me a kiss good night, I think I was seven.)

*  *  *

My wrist hurts from writing so much, and the bath has gone cold. I'll just finish by saying that it's still morning (as much as I was hoping to stretch this bath out into the afternoon), my dad has gone to get our angel (taking some of Grandma's sock money with him) and this diary is finally (!!!) caught up.

It's only been a day
, but everything has changed. Things are worse than I could have ever possibly imagined they would be! I don't know which terrible thing to start with. I wish I could go back to the last time I wrote, in my cold bath, when I still had so much faith in Dad and hope for the future!

Yesterday the waiting continued endlessly. Prospero had sent Dad, Grandma's sock of money in hand, to the Bright Market (where you can find angels for hire) clear across the city near Malibu, so we already knew it was going to take forever. . . . But it really, really took forever. I spent the morning trying to occupy myself and picturing who he was going to come back with.

Around ten, Mom, Millie, and Oliver went to the
aviary to pass the time, but Sam is allergic to feathers, so I stayed behind in the loft and entertained him. First I drew mustaches on our faces with one of Prospero's Sharpies, and we pretended to be the mayors of Los Angeles before the beasts chased them out. Then for about an hour we played office and I let him pretend to be my boss, saying “Yes, sir! Right away, sir!” and rushing out to get whatever he asked for. We measured ourselves with a tape measure and I realized I've gotten two inches taller, though Sam has stayed about the same. I pretended to be a magic carpet and kept piggybacking him to the window so we could look out at the overgrown park, the palm trees, and the blue, sunny LA sky.

When we heard a creaking on the stairs, we rushed to the doorway, sure it was Dad. But it was only Prospero calling us for lunch.

After tracking down the others, we all gathered to eat in his quarters—a disheveled and dusty set of rooms littered with star charts and binoculars, telescopes, mummified remains of butterflies and dragon claws, and anatomical diagrams of tigers, yetis, clouds. Oliver couldn't help touching things, studying them with his eyebrows furrowed in deep thought, but Prospero didn't seem to mind.

“I don't usually have lunch guests.” He smiled, and cleared off a table in the corner of a massive pile of books and old newspapers. (The top one was ancient, announcing that Ronald Reagan and “famous fur trader Paula ‘Plenty of Pelts' Ruskin” had just been elected president and vice president.)

“We're so grateful,” said my Mom, sitting next to Millie who was already perched on a wobbly chair. Prospero served us bowls of soup from a small oil stove. “It's just Progresso. An angel brings it for me from Ohio.”

We all nodded politely and dug in, and for a few minutes there was only the sound of scraping spoons and slurping.

“So how do you all plan to get back home, once your visit is over?” Prospero asked cheerfully. “Wagon? Horseback? I have some ideas. Though I want you to stay as long as possible.”

“Oh, we're not going back home,” Mom said, looking a little confused. “Didn't Teddy talk to you about that last night?”

Prospero laughed, his brown eyes twinkling, and shook his head. “Wow, you're an adventurous family! Where to next?”

We all blinked at each other, feeling suddenly awkward. “Well,” my mom ventured, “Teddy has some questions to ask you about that.”

Prospero laid his spoon down and folded his hands up under his chin, looking suddenly enlightened. “Oh! You mean about the Extraordinary World? He did ask me.”

We all stared, practically leaning forward on our chairs, wondering what advice he'd give us. After all, this was the guy who'd written
The Atlas of the Cosmos
.

“Are you familiar with the concept of entropy?” he asked instead, smiling and leaning his chin on his hands. We nodded.

“Dad talks about enter-fee sometimes,” Sam said. “I cover my ears, but I can still hear him.”

Prospero smiled. “Well, then you know that things move from order to disorder over time, and that's called entropy. Some people say there's a lot of disorder going on in our world.” He paused to let this sink in. “Our world is messy and wild and full of monsters (everywhere we go, it seems we find more of them) and some people say that means it's ‘high entropy.' Some scientists claimed to notice a sharp increase in entropy in the sixties, based on the weather and the number of beasts coming farther north.”

I was a little confused, but enough of what my dad's always saying had sunk in that it did make a little sense. Prospero leaned back from the table. “Now, as you know, I study physics. And in physics, there are two major theories—one of them that deals with the very big things, like planets and space, and one that deals with the very small things, like tiny little particles—that's quantum mechanics.”

Sam slapped his hand against his forehead with dread and whispered, “Count 'em mechanics, too,” despondently, while Millie gave me a significant look of boredom. But somehow I found it more interesting coming from Prospero.

“Quantum mechanics tells us particles can jump all over the place,” I offered.

“Yes,” Prospero said cheerfully, impressed. “And people think it's completely up to chance where those particles go and what they become. They jump and jitter, and it makes them unpredictable. Which is kind of exciting.”

“Dad says that's why in this world our Winnebago is a Winnebago, but in another world it could be an elephant.”

Prospero nodded. “Exactly. Now, there's a theory that
links the two things together—the study of the really big things and the study of the small, jittery ones. It involves something called superstrings, and—if the theory's right—it means there are other dimensions out there, and other worlds. And maybe some of these other worlds are ‘lower entropy' . . . more orderly . . . than ours.”

“And you think the Extraordinary World is one of those places?” Mom asked. “One of those places that's less messy? You think we could be safe there?”

Prospero shook his head. “No, I don't.” He picked up his spoon and then laid it down in the bowl again. “I don't, because it doesn't exist.”

*  *  *

Sorry, I had to put down my pen for a minute because I was clutching it so hard I thought I might break it in half. But I've calmed myself a little now, so I'll keep going.

Prospero looked up at us from under his bushy brows. “I told Teddy as much last night. The theory I'm talking about, which says it
could
exist, is just a theory, and lots of scientists disagree with it.
I
disagree with it. We never trust a theory that's messy, and the theory of other dimensions is a messy one—at least for now.” Prospero looked sympathetic. “Anyway, even if it turns out to be correct, you'd never be able to see another dimension
like that. And there's certainly no way you'd be able to reach it.”

Millie cleared her throat, and Oliver fidgeted in his seat. But I couldn't take being silent anymore, and blurted out, “We have proof!”

Prospero turned his eyes on me, surprised.

“We do! Back in our room. I'll get it!” I said.

I rushed up to the loft and came back with Mom's knapsack, carefully unloading the three items onto the table: the postcard, the encyclopedia page, the snack bag. I was so relieved Mom had rescued them from the Trinidad. (How stupid that relief seems now as I write this!)