My Heart and Other Black Holes (17 page)

“Me too,” I breathe, my voice barely audible.

He pushes on my shoulders with his right hand to make the space between us a little wider so he can look at me. “Can I ask you something?”

“Sure.”

“As a science nerd, do you believe in other universes? Do you think there’s another dimension where we’re happy? Where you still have your dad and I still have Maddie? Where we’re just a normal boy and a normal girl at the carnival?”

I drop his hand and shrug away from him. “I can’t think about that.”

He scrunches his face up and rubs the back of his neck. “How come?”

“It’s confusing.”

“And all your shit about potential energy isn’t?”

My face burns. “I don’t know. That feels different. Less hypothetical, I guess.”

I’m trying to come up with something smart to say. Something to make him understand why my jabbering about potential energy is more hard science and less science fiction, but before I can come up with anything, he says, “You know what’s confusing?”

I nod to let him know to go on.

“Watching you be so happy when you think about science. It makes me kind of . . . happy.” He slouches his shoulders and shuffles his feet. “And that’s confusing.”

I feel pressure build in the back of my throat and I know I should say something about what I saw when he was shooting hoops, but I don’t. I think of my black slug, slithering around, slurping up my potential energy for joy. I press my hand to my stomach and desperately wish that it didn’t exist, that there was a way to fix me, to fix him. I dig my nails into the flesh of my stomach and wince.

Roman reaches out and puts his hand on top of mine. “But the most confusing thing is that me being confused about seeing you happy doesn’t change anything.” He lowers his voice so only I can hear him. “I still want to die on April seventh. And I still need you to do it with me.”

All of a sudden, the carnival seems too loud. I hear the clunking of the metal Ferris wheel and the swirling of the teacups and the screams of delighted kids. I move to touch my hand to my head, but he grabs it, interlocking his fingers with mine and pulling it down to his side.

“I get it,” I say in a strained whisper. “I won’t flake on you.”

He squeezes my hand so tight, I can’t feel it anymore. I wish someone would do that to my heart.

FRIDAY, MARCH 29

9 days left

I
slide into my seat just as the bell rings and toss my backpack down under my desk. Tyler nods at me. He’s been doing that recently, like he thinks that ever since we went to the zoo we’re close friends or something. I imagine the whispers this will ignite among my classmates.

Mr. Scott has written “Einstein” in sloppy blue letters on the whiteboard. He’s tapping the cap of the dry-erase marker against the board, waiting for everyone to quiet down. “Good morning, good morning.”

Some people mumble a response back to him. I stay quiet.

“Today, I want to take a break from all the math and
equations and take some time to talk about theory. We’ll call it a fun Friday.” The class groans and Mr. Scott turns to the board and scribbles: “The Special Theory of Relativity.”

“Raise your hand if you’ve heard of this theory before.” He taps the board again as some people in the class raise their hands.

I’ve obviously heard of it before. Everyone knows Einstein. I bet even Mike could pick Einstein out of a lineup. And I’m sort of familiar with the theory, but it’s not like I’m going to volunteer; I hate speaking in class.

He points at Melanie Taylor. I don’t think she even raised her hand. “Want to explain it to everyone?”

Her round cheeks flush pink. “Um, I don’t know, like, that much about it.” She fiddles with one of the gaudy brass buttons on her cardigan. “But I’ve heard of Einstein. Hasn’t everyone? He’s that genius guy with crazy hair.”

See? Everyone knows Einstein. Even Melanie Taylor.

“Okay,” Mr. Scott says slowly. “Anyone else?” He surveys the room and then points at me. I’m not raising my hand. I don’t know what he’s trying to pull.

“Aysel,” he says. “Do you know anything about the theory?”

I shrug and shake my head. It’s a combination of moves that make me vaguely look like I’m doing some kind of dance—the dance of I-don’t-know and Please-please-please-don’t-force-me-to-answer.

“Come on now. I’m sure you know something. Given your last test score, physics seems to be an area of natural interest for you.”

Some people in the class whistle and make stupid howling noises.

I never understand why teachers think shouting out that someone got a good score on a test will help their social standing. Besides, my score on the last test only proves I was able to learn what Mr. Scott taught me, not that I know anything beyond that. “Come on, Aysel,” he prompts. “Take a stab at it.”

I want to take a stab at you
, I think bitterly, and tap my fingers on the top of my desk. It’s a good thing I didn’t say that aloud. Stacy Jenkins and her posse would have gone nuts. The thought even scares me a bit and I wish I could take it back, erase it.

“Aysel,” he urges, and there’s a desperation in his voice. I almost feel sorry for Mr. Scott. His life must be pretty terrible if I’m the student he’s depending on. I wish I could tell him he needs to place his bets elsewhere, that I’m a losing ticket. I wonder what the physics term for that is. Sure, there are dead stars. But at least before they died, they were stars.

And their death was a supernova—their death demanded attention. I’m pretty sure my death won’t qualify as a supernova. No one is going to be around to see my energy go
out. Except maybe Roman, but I doubt he’ll be paying much attention.

“Aysel,” he repeats. It’s as if he thinks it’s some magic word that is suddenly going to jump-start my brain and turn me into the type of girl who would know the answer.

Mr. Scott and I engage in a staring contest. He doesn’t blink.

Finally I give up and I say, “Doesn’t it have to do with how our perception of things can’t always be trusted? Like our human mind is too slow to be able to fully comprehend things that are fast.”

“Things that are fast?” He rolls his wrist in the air, urging me to go on.

“Like the speed of light. Doesn’t it have to do with the speed of light? I think the special theory of relativity has to do with light and then there’s the other theory he came up with.”

“The general theory of relativity,” Mr. Scott adds.

“Yeah. And that one mixes gravity in the equation.”

“Perfect.” Mr. Scott gives me the cheesiest thumbs-up and I want to fade into the ether. In these moments, it always feels like my skin is too thin, like everyone can see right inside me, can see my empty and dark insides.

“You’re exactly right, Aysel. Bravo.” He grins like he has no idea how uncomfortable this situation is.

I pull at the sleeve of my striped shirt and stare straight ahead at the board. Mr. Scott goes on to explain that Einstein
transformed the whole field of physics with this theory. He gives us the most basic explanation of the special theory of relativity. He explains that nothing travels faster than light and that light is always measured at the same speed, no matter how fast you move or in what direction you move. Basically, the speed of light is constant. We can’t ever travel faster than light and we have no way of slowing it down.

And time isn’t constant. At least not our human concept of time. Einstein theorized that the faster we move, the slower we perceive time to move. The clocks will still tick away at the same rate regardless—but it’s all about the perception of the observer.

I guess pretty much everything in life is about the perception of the observer.

Mr. Scott says, “And you know Einstein has a pretty famous quote about relativity. Does anyone know what it is?”

The class is completely silent.

Mr. Scott picks up the dry-erase marker and starts writing on the board. Once he’s finished, he reads aloud what he scribbled down. “Put your hand on a hot stove for a minute, and it seems like an hour. Sit with a pretty girl for an hour, and it seems like a minute. That’s relativity.”

I press my pencil into the notebook paper, making little graphite smudges all over the page. I wonder if there really is something to Einstein’s theory. Ever since I met Roman and made the Crestville Pointe jump plan, time has flown
by. I want to believe that the change has nothing to do with Roman. That maybe time just moves the quickest at the end. I guess that would make sense. I know everything is close to being gone forever, so my desire to rush it is a little less.

I do everything slower recently, like chewing my granola bars so I can really savor the chocolate chips. And I slosh the orange juice around in the back of my throat a couple of times before swallowing to make sure I really taste the sour-and-sweet citrus. Maybe Einstein was right. Maybe because I’m moving slower now, time is moving faster. Maybe that’s just the way the universe works and it has nothing, nothing at all, to do with Roman and how getting to know him has shifted my perspective.

But honestly I don’t know. I just don’t know.

The bell rings as Mr. Scott is saying he isn’t assigning any homework over the weekend. The class erupts with applause and I try to mask my disappointment. I enjoy doing the practice problems. They give me something to do when it’s 2:00 a.m. and the house is silent and dark and Georgia is conked out, snoring slightly. The practice problems make me feel less alone. It’s funny how figuring out the gravitational pull of a random object can make you feel more grounded.

I get up from my desk and shove my physics notebook into my backpack. I’m about to dart out of the classroom when I see Mr. Scott walking toward me. “Aysel,” he says. “Wait up.”

I sit back down in my seat and look up at him.

He places a glossy brochure in front of me. “The University of Kentucky sponsors a two-week summer program for students interested in the sciences.” He grabs a chair from the desk in front of mine and pulls it up so he can sit across from me. He opens the brochure and points at the text on the third page. “There’s even a special physics program. I think you’d really enjoy it.”

I take a deep breath. I can’t exactly tell Mr. Scott that I won’t be able to attend that summer program because I won’t be alive. “I have to work during the summer.”

His lips twist into a sympathetic smile. I’ve never noticed how dark and soft his eyes are; they remind me of a horse. Maybe I was wrong about Mr. Scott. Maybe he did always want to be a teacher. Maybe he’s one of those people who were built for caring. “You don’t have to worry about the money if you get in. They give you a scholarship for the tuition and room and board for the two weeks.” He pushes the brochure closer to me. “I think it’d be a really great experience for you, Aysel.”

I take the brochure and slide it down into the depths of my backpack. I tell him I’ll consider applying and thank him for thinking of me. Later, in math class, I pull the brochure back out and run my fingers over the shiny photographs. I wonder about all the so-called great experiences I’m going to miss; I wonder about the relativity of greatness.

SATURDAY, MARCH 30

8 days left

I
arrive at Roman’s house a little after 7:30 a.m. I’m about to text him to come out when the door opens. Mrs. Franklin steps onto the front porch in her cream-colored bathrobe and fuzzy pink slippers. She waves at me and I make myself wave back.

She walks toward me and I step out of the car. “Good morning.”

“Good morning, Aysel!” She reaches out to hug me and I jump—I’m not used to people actually wanting to touch me; most people try to stay as far away as possible, as if by touching me, they could somehow catch my dad’s madness.

But Mrs. Franklin doesn’t know about my dad and so she pulls me as close as humanly possible. I can smell her mint toothpaste and hear her rapid heartbeat. She releases me from her tight embrace but keeps her hands on my shoulders. “So are you excited to go camping?”

Camping?
I guess Roman must’ve told her we were taking a camping trip to explain why we’re going to be away for so long. I forgot his mom actually cares where he goes and what he does with his time. I’d told my mom I was working late this weekend so she shouldn’t wait up for me, and Georgia usually spends Saturday nights at a friend’s house. Though I’m pretty sure I could take a weeklong trip to Antarctica before anyone in my household would be at all concerned about my absence.

“Oh, yeah. I haven’t been camping in forever,” I say to Mrs. Franklin, and she lets go of my shoulders and circles my car, peering into the backseat. In this case, forever is a code word for never.

She must pick up on my lack of camping knowledge because she asks, “Did you bring a sleeping bag?”

“Yup, it’s in the trunk,” I lie. Roman and I had planned on spending the night somewhere up near McGreavy Correctional Facility so that I wouldn’t have to make the drive twice in one day. Plus, who knows how long I’ll have to wait to see my dad. The original plan had been to crash in some dingy motel room; he could sleep in the bed and I could sleep
on the floor. But I guess he’s arranged a camping trip. Or at least made his mom go through the motions of planning one.

“Good, good. You’ll want a sleeping bag for this weather,” she says. “Anyhow, Roman is running a bit late. He’s not so good at waking up early. I practically had to drag him out of bed. He’s in the shower right now, but he should be out soon. Want to come in and have some breakfast?”

“I already ate,” I lie again, and curse Roman in my head for not being ready. This is exactly what I was trying to avoid. I don’t want to get to know his mom any better than I already do.

“Oh, well, at least come in and have a coffee.” I make a face and it must be obvious that I’m not a fan of coffee. “Or hot chocolate? Don’t wait out here.” She heads back toward the house and waves at me, commanding me to follow her.

I let out a slight groan and follow behind her, keeping my eyes on the manicured stone path. Once we’re inside, she has me take a seat at the kitchen table. She fills the teakettle up with water and puts it on the front burner. “The water will be ready in a minute.”