Relativity (11 page)

“Yeah, but what about the fact that the crystalline structure of ice makes a stunning geometric pattern. It’s hexagonal. I’ll show you sometime. Remind me and I’ll bring some of my books the next time we get coffee at the café.”

From that point on, I was more than just Jamie’s friend who sometimes tagged along. And George became something to me other than Jamie’s cute boyfriend. We had our own connection, our spark.

Now I’m trying to make my own discovery as I browse the Ó Direáin library shelves.

String Theory Basics
looks good, as does
Parallel Places & Peculiar Physics
. I sit on a bench and lean back against a shelf. Extending my legs gives me a little relief. After scanning the index of
Parallel Places
, I turn the smooth, thin pages to read a passage about Hugh Everett III’s PhD dissertation, which was written in the mid-1950s. His many-worlds theory explained that an observer, simply by observing, can change
the outcome of an event. The observer then becomes correlated to the system, and is in turn affected.

I press my fingers to the bridge of my nose, as if this will help me understand.

Observation causes the collapse of wave functions. Wave functions map the possible states of a system. So, if wave functions branch in different directions, independent of each other, then there are countless alternate realities playing out.

Mom could be alive in more than one universe.

The math is completely beyond me, but it sure is pretty. Theorem 4’s equations are spectacular; they’d make a great tattoo.

I flip through the other books, scanning some more passages, grumbling with disagreement over this one:

Traversable wormholes would require the center of a black hole—a singularity—deep in outer space, at such a distance that it would take millions of lifetimes to get there. If you somehow survived the long journey, you would then learn that black holes are unapproachable. They emit enormous amounts of deadly radiation and are defined by crushing gravity
.

Black holes? The closest one to Earth is in the constellation Sagittarius, thousands of light-years from here. But obviously a wormhole can function without a black hole. The tree isn’t relying on one to work.

“Ouch,” I mumble. This time it’s my neck that hurts, not my leg, from craning over the book too long. My stomach is grumbling too.

I crack my neck and my knuckles and head for the phone books. Perhaps this will be easier than decoding Gry kbo iye coousxq? and noodling through string theory. I flip to the residential section and look for Wright.

My finger trails down the silky-thin pages until it reaches
WRIGHT, SALLY
… 1104
CIUNIÚINT STREET
.

It’s like a jolt of electricity. Mom? My Sally Wright? I flatten the phone book across the glass of a nearby copy machine. Sure, I could write down the address by hand, but this is proof. Like the eight-by-ten photo, this is evidence, data, a precious piece of documentation. It’s Mom’s name and address, for real. I want a photocopy, an ink-on-page, black-and-white artifact.

The copy machine keeps spitting out my dimes. I’ve only got three, and it doesn’t like any of them.

Behind me, a white-haired man sighs impatiently. He reaches around me and inserts a coin. “There you go.”

“Thanks,” I say. “I guess it wanted a quarter.” I flip to the Ó Direáin street map at the back of the phone book and copy that as well. “Sorry to hold you up.”

The papers are still warm as I fold them and tuck them into my backpack. 1104 Ciuniúint Street. That’s where I’m heading. Ten minutes, Ruby. Not a second more. And just watching.

“Ready to check these out?” Carol asks when I lay the books on the counter.

“Yes, please,” I say.

“Card?”

My face goes blank. “Oh, geez. I—uh.”

Carol laughs. “Oh, Ruby. Don’t worry. We’ve got all your info in here.” She pats the top of her computer. “I’ll just pull you up.”

“Thanks,” I say, tapping my foot nervously.

“I talked to your mom today,” Carol says, adjusting her glasses. “Seems like she’s doing okay. What a rough breakup. So sad.”

“Mm-hmm,” I say vaguely.

“Do you like her new apartment?” Carol scans the barcodes on each book and demagnetizes them.

I cough, choke. “Sure, I guess.” How old is that phone book? Carol said new apartment. Did Mom just move? Is the address in the phone book right?

“It must be hard on you,” Carol says. “My parents got divorced when I was ten. I remember how confused I was.”

What am I thinking anyway, trying to find my not-dead mom? It makes me lightheaded. What if she sees me? What if I can’t help myself and I run to her? What if I wrap my arms around her, kiss her warm cheek, smell her hair, hear her voice? Then what? How will I ever let go? Will I ever care about getting back to Ennis?

Carol gives me a warm, sympathetic smile. “Enjoy your reading, honey,” she says, handing me the physics books.

I should just ask Carol: So what
is
my mom’s new apartment address? I keep forgetting it. Can’t put my finger on it.

But I don’t want to deal with Carol’s perplexed and concerned reaction. She might call Mom, tell her I’m here. Then the whole thing is out of my control. I slide the string theory books into my backpack and take a step toward the door.

“Wait, honey,” Carol says. “Something’s off kilter here.”

My heart pounds. “Excuse me?”

“Strange, very strange,” she says, staring into the computer.

“What’s wrong?” My voice quivers. Did she just figure me out somehow? Does she realize I’m the wrong Ruby for this universe? “I really need to get going. I’m—uh—late for—”

“Looks like you overpaid on a late fee, honey.” Carol shakes her head in dismay, like this is the most mysterious thing to happen since the Big Bang. “We owe you two dollars.” She opens a desk drawer and hands me two bills. “Sorry about that.”

“No problem.” I manage a smile before quickly shoving the money into my pocket and heading for the exit sign.

Outside, I take a deep breath and force myself to laugh. It’s funny, right? I owe library late fees in a parallel universe. Hilarious.

As I walk down Arainn Street, the smell of fried food hangs in the air, a major temptation. Takeout at the Chinese restaurant. Maybe just a bowl of wonton soup, though I know it’s unwise to blow my limited cash supply.

Then I get a whiff of chocolate, and my olfactory receptors go berserk. I’m standing in front of Sweet Treats, and I can’t resist. The allure of refined sugar. Besides, I just scored an extra two bucks at the library. Door chimes jingle as I walk in the bakery. Glass display cases showcase scones, muffins, oatmeal raisin cookies, chocolate chip cookies, brownies, and carrot cake cupcakes. Rich, strong coffee adds to the aroma.

“The smallest, cheapest version of coffee you make, and one of those tiny cranberry-walnut mini-scones, please,” I tell the girl behind the counter.

“What? You don’t even say hello?” The girl gives me wry smile. She twists a blond pigtail around her finger.

“Hello,” I say, trying to sound convincing. Crap! Somebody else who knows me, and I have no clue.

“Cool haircut,” she says. “So where’s Patrick?”

“Huh? Oh—I’m not sure.” My poor heart. How many times in the past twenty-four hours have I subjected it to sudden stress? It’s pounding hard again.

“I swear this is the very first time I’ve seen you without him. It’s like you’re connected at the hip. I wish I were that close with my brother. It’s sweet. You know, I forgot you wore glasses.”

“Honestly, I’m in a huge hurry,” I say. “Could I just get a small coffee and one of those mini-scones?”

The girl laughs and I see that she’s wearing braces. She’s sixteen, maybe seventeen. Maybe she’s in Patrick’s year at Ó Direáin High. “I’m still in shock that you’re not getting a Diet Coke,” she says.

Yuck. Methanol.

“What?” she asks.

I didn’t realize I was talking out loud. “Nothing. It’s just that methanol is a breakdown product of aspartame. Aspartame’s the artificial sweetener.”

“I know what aspartame is.”

“Well, they use methanol in camping stove fuel and antifreeze and formaldehyde,” I say. She gives me a blank stare, and I add a weak, “Forget it.”

“Ruby?” the girl says with genuine concern. “Are you okay?”

“Never better,” I say.

She hands me my mini-scone wrapped in a thin napkin. “Coffee will be just a sec,” she says. “I’m brewing a fresh pot.”

I pop the entire scone in my mouth and use it as an excuse for my silence. I shrug and point to my mouth as if to say,
Sorry, can’t talk with my mouth full
.

“Five fifty,” the girl says.

I hand her the ones I got from Carol at the library. Then I dig through my wallet for more money.

“Here you go.”

“What’s this?” the girl asks, pressing her eyebrows together. “Who’s Washington? Are you trying to give me fake money?” She sounds both amused and offended.

“What do you mean?” I take the money back and examine the bills. The two from Carol have a guy named Henry Lee III framed in the portrait oval. They’re a darker shade of green too, but otherwise they look identical to my money from home. No wonder my dimes didn’t work in the Xerox machine at the library.

“I think that’s illegal, right? Trying to pass off counterfeits.”

“I’m sorry, I seriously didn’t notice …”

The girl’s face softens into a smile. “Knowing Patrick, he was probably playing a practical joke on you, putting Monopoly money in your wallet.”

“Oh, that Patrick,” I say, like I’m admonishing a bad puppy.

“Tell you what,” the girl says. “Tell him to come in. He owes me three fifty.”

“You sure?” I give her the two Henry Lee III bills and keep my Washingtons.

She nods and hands me my hot coffee.

“Thanks. Gotta go.”

Get me out of this coffee shop!

And out of this town? Yeah, I’m second-guessing my impulse to see Mom. It’s an impulse, that’s all. Totally devoid of logic. I should just get back to the tree. I hurry along the sidewalk, wishing I could run, trying not to slosh coffee all over myself. As people pass by, I’m careful not to make eye contact. What if someone else recognizes me?

What if I recognize … George?

It’s him. On a park bench, with a sketch pad and a packet of colored pencils. He looks up with those aquamarine eyes; his tank top shows biceps I never knew he had. What is he doing here, thousands of miles from San Francisco?

“Hi, George.” My voice fails me. I’m not sure any noise is coming out at all. And I realize that I’m standing like a statue, directly facing him, staring. Absurdly.

Does he know me? What am I to him here? A friend, a fling, a complete stranger? I want to hug him and tell him how happy I am to see him. Tears rush to my eyes. I miss you! I need you!

He cocks his head at me, amused. “You’re from French class, right?”

I nod, remembering the yearbook I found at Patrick’s house yesterday, in Universe Two. President of the French Club. C’est cheese! So George recognizes me but doesn’t know my name.

“I’m Ruby Wright,” I say, offering my hand. Touching him delivers a jolt more intense than the doorknob’s. Electric. I hold on an extra second.

“George Pierce,” he says, sizing me up. “But what’s different about you? The hair, the glasses?”

I nod. That’s about all I can seem to do. Nod.

“You wanna sit down a minute? You look pale.” He pats the bench next to him.

I sit too close and he inches away. “Sorry,” I say.

He smells like sandalwood soap, and I’m overcome by the urge to press my nose against his neck. “What are you working on?” I squeak. I clear my throat and try again. “The mountain?”

George taps a gray pencil against his sketch pad. “I don’t know. It’s weird. Something from a reoccurring dream.”

I smile. “It’s Mount Diablo. In California.”

“Really? You know that for sure?” His face lights up. “I’ve never been to California.”

“Never? I thought you must have moved here—” I stop myself. I shouldn’t assume anything. In this universe, maybe George was born here.

“Moved here from California? Yeah, I guess you’re right. I was something like two months old. But that hardly counts.”

A Ruby and a George, both living in this small Ohio town, both in the same French class. It makes my heart swell, my hands shake. What are the chances? What could it mean? Is my parallel Ruby destined to be with this parallel George, and they just haven’t clicked yet? Am I fated to be with my George, back in Universe One? Someday, somehow? The idea of fate and destiny have always made me cringe. If you can’t measure it or prove it, you might as well forget it. Coincidence
can be explained other ways. I mean, just because there’s this uncanny correlation between at least two coexisting states of—

“What did you say?” he asks.

“Huh?”

“You just mumbled something about quantum something or other. Planes?”

“Yikes,” I say, my cheeks flaring. “I’m sorry. I have this thing about talking out loud. And I kinda don’t realize it.” I shrug and smile, attempting to seem amused at my eccentric self.

He gives me a look, like he’s trying to decide if that’s funny or scary. Or maybe even a little cute?

I clear my throat and point to his sketch of Mount Diablo. “If you hike up to the Juniper Campground, which is at about three thousand two hundred feet, you can see the Golden Gate Bridge.”

We’ve actually been there together, not that long ago, in Universe One.

“So it’s in San Francisco,” he says.

“Across the bay.”

George studies his drawing. “Maybe I was there in a previous life.”

I grin. “Or in a parallel universe. If you believe in that sort of thing.”

His stomach growls, volume ten. He laughs, embarrassed. “Sorry. I was just about to get Chinese food for lunch. You wanna come?”

“I’d love to, but I’m broke,” I say. “And I should get going. I mean, I think I should leave now, though maybe there’s no compelling reason after all. To go or to stay. No, no. I take that back. I mean, I need
to get home. Plus I have this coffee here.” I raise my cup, as if that’s my closing argument.