Relativity
Authors: Cristin Bishara
In memory of my father,
John Bishara
The truth may be puzzling. It may take some work to grapple with. It may be counterintuitive. It may contradict deeply held prejudices. It may not be consonant with what we desperately want to be true. But our preferences do not determine what’s true.
—Carl Sagan, American astronomer (1934–1996)
Resources for Learning More About String Theory and Parallel Universes
I hold up my phone and snap a photo of the windowless cafeteria, then close-ups of the gory details: paper wedged underneath uneven table legs, yellowed ceiling panels sagging with water damage, deep gouges scarring the linoleum floor.
I thumb the words Rescue me and hit send.
Mr. Burton, the guidance counselor, emerges from the men’s room, wiping his damp hands on his pants, leaving dark streaks across the khaki fabric. I tuck my phone into my back pocket and manage a smile.
“Okay,” he says. “Where were we?”
“You were just explaining the themed lunches,” I offer, since I’m the only one here, the only new student enduring orientation. And why would that be? Perhaps because you’d need an IQ of 40 to move to this total nowhere, to think Ennis, Ohio, is a great place to call
home. Seriously. There’s a McDonald’s, a library that screams 1970, a bunch of half-vacant strip malls.
Hiking trails? Nope.
Movie theater? Two towns north.
Rapid transit system to a thriving metropolis? Yeah, right.
Look, I’m not saying Dad’s IQ is deficient. He’s not stupid. But he is stupid-in-love, and that’s what fueled the moving vans.
“Right. Themed lunches.” Mr. Burton seems to have this habit of rubbing the top of his bald head. It’s like he keeps checking for hair. “On Mexican Day they set up a taco bar. Italian Day is spaghetti and meatballs.”
Authentic ethnic cuisine, right? I swallow the sarcasm and try to sound sincere. Really, I do, because it’s not Mr. Burton’s fault I’m here, and he seems genuinely excited about the food. “I like tacos,” I say.
He nods and motions for me to follow him. “We have a variety of extracurriculars,” he says as we walk, counting them off on his stubby fingers. “Soccer, drama, cheerleading.”
He glances at me when he says “cheerleading,” like he’s embarrassed he mentioned it. Yeah, I don’t exactly fit the bill, with my super-short hair and black-rimmed glasses.
“Crafts?” Mr. Burton points to a fluorescent-yellow poster pinned to a bulletin board.
LEARN TO QUILT AND SEW
. He’s already shaking his head; he knows my answer is a serious negative.
“No thank you,” I manage.
Mr. Burton continues to tick off extracurriculars, and he’s running out of fingers. “Fast-pitch softball is a big deal here. Some kids
are trying to start an organic gardening club. I don’t know what you were accustomed to doing in California.”
“What about a science club, or math?”
“Sorry, Ruby.” Mr. Burton rubs his head. “You could try to start one.”
“Try?”
“Yes, try. If you can find enough interest.” He opens a thick metal door, and we walk outside, across the parking lot, stepping over disintegrating curbs.
“New goalposts, and a fresh coat of paint on the stadium.” Mr. Burton spreads his arms, introducing the Home of the Bears. The football field reminds me of Hyperion.
“What?” he asks.
I didn’t realize I was talking out loud. “Hyperion. One of Saturn’s moons. It’s totally pockmarked by craters, kind of like the football field.”
“I see.”
“Never mind,” I say. “It’s nice. I mean, it’s … you know.”
My phone vibrates in my back pocket, and I fight the urge to check it. It’s probably George, his response to the cafeteria photos and my plea to be rescued.
“Well,” Mr. Burton says, forcing a smile. “That about does it.” He looks at his watch, then me.
“I’m sorry.” I know he’s picked up on my sour mood. “It’s just that it’s pretty different here. For me, anyway. I’ll get used to it.”
Mr. Burton nods. “You’ll adjust.”
“There’s my dad now.” I point to our black Jeep pulling into the parking lot, going too fast. Dad dodges a pothole and swerves around a pile of broken glass before stopping.
“How’d it go? Fine?” Dad leans out the window, his two-day beard uneven, his eyes rimmed with red. I climb in the passenger side and pull my door closed.
“Ruby will find her place,” Mr. Burton says, shaking Dad’s hand.
I slide my phone out of my pocket and unlock the screen. Yep. It’s a text from George. Rescuer at your service. Attached is a picture of a kid, front teeth missing, flexing his little biceps in a Superman costume.
I quickly type, Is that u? and hit send.
Mr. Burton is still talking to Dad. “I’m available if there are questions or problems.”
“There won’t be any problems,” Dad says, smiling. “She’s got Kandinsky to show her the ropes. Kandy.”
Right. My stepsister. Who, according to Dad, will soon be my new best friend. So far, she’s been outstanding at ignoring me. If she bothers to make eye contact, it’s only for the sake of driving home an insult. Such as: Ruby, those glasses make you look so … smart? Anytime you want to borrow my clothes … um, don’t?
Mr. Burton shifts nervously. He rubs the top of his head. Nope, still no hair. “Mr. Wright,” he says. “I don’t want you to take this the wrong way, since Kandy is now family and all. But she’s made a few visits to the principal’s office for fighting.”
“Arguing?” Dad asks.
“Fist fighting.”
“Oh.”
Mr. Burton lets that hang in the air for a minute. “Getting back to Ruby here,” he says. “I need to mention that tattoos are against the dress code. She’ll have to cover hers.”
My hand goes to the nape of my neck.
“I didn’t get a good look,” Mr. Burton says, squinting into the Jeep. “What does it say?”
“It’s an equation. The Einstein tensor.” I turn my head to show him.
“It’s not gang related?”
Dad lets out an exaggerated laugh, then adds a horselike snort. “Of course not. It’s just a math equation. Ruby likes that kind of stuff.”
“The Einstein tensor is used to calculate the curvature of a Riemannian manifold,” I say before I can stop myself.
Mr. Burton’s face is blank.
“Sorry,” I say. “I mean, it’s not just a math equation. It’s used for describing space-time.”
Dad tries to help. “It’s geometry.”
“You could tutor other kids.” Mr. Burton smiles, seeming relieved he finally thought of something I could do outside of class. He pats the roof of the Jeep. “Okay, then. See you Monday, Ruby.” He waves goodbye and heads for a dented pickup truck.
My phone vibrates, and George’s response appears. Yep. That’s me. 6 yrs old.
Luv it, I write back.
What I want to write is Luv *u* and send myself as an attachment. I’d whiz across the continent bit by bit, byte by byte. Ruby particles flying through the atmosphere, a jumble of my deconstructed
self. He’d open his messages, and I’d buzz out of his phone, reassembling, downloading 60 percent … 70 percent … Within seconds—with George—I’d be perfectly whole again.
I cross my arms over my chest, which feels heavy, full of loss. I’ve left so much behind, thirty-five highway hours away. “Honestly, Dad. How do you expect me to like this place?”
He puts the Jeep in drive, navigating around the shards of glass, the pothole. “Give it a chance.”
That’s Dad’s new line. Give Willow a chance, give Kandy a chance, give Ohio a chance. We just moved last week. He just got married last month. Give it a chance.
“The library is the size of a bathroom stall,” I say. “The chem lab is totally outdated.”
“What can I do to cheer you up?”
“Move us back to California?” I give him a winning smile, and he laughs.
“How about ice cream?”
“No thanks. I’m not five years old.”
“With all this pouting, you sound like it.” Dad stops at a red light, one of the few traffic signals in Ennis. He rubs his temples. “I did some hunting around on the Internet. The Cleveland Museum of Natural History looks promising. Want to go tomorrow?”
“Yeah, sure.”
“Although,” Dad says. There’s always an
although
, some caveat. “I’ve got to finalize a copywriting project first.”
“Of course.”
The copywriting is numero uno. That’s just the way it is. Oh well,
who wants to go to a museum with Dad anyway, after what happened the last time? We were at the de Young in San Francisco, on a Saturday night in April. Behold the disastrous chain of events that ensued: (1) Dad spilled his wine on Willow’s Birkenstocks, (2) she laughed, (3) she wrote her phone number on the program, (4) after a couple of months of long-distance dating, Dad tried to convince her to move to California, and (5) Willow refused, making us move here.
“Did you know about Kandy?” I ask, putting my fists in front of my face and jabbing into the air. A one-two punch.
“No,” Dad says, watching the traffic light, still red. “But I’m not going to judge until I know the whole story. She might have been fending off the school bully.”
“I’m kinda thinking she
is
the school bully.”
Dad looks at me sideways. “Give her a chance,” he says. “It’s only been seven days.”
It’s just not possible. Seven days ago—that’s all?—I was drinking coffee shakes with George, in the back of the East Bay Café, in our usual spot on the leather couch. When I got there, he was hunched over his sketch pad, his colored pencils scattered across the coffee table. And when he saw me, he patted the couch, like always.
He’d been pissed. About Dad’s sudden marriage, the impulsive move. About me being told rather than asked that we were packing up and heading out.
And he couldn’t understand why Dad and I weren’t driving cross-country together. Why I was taking a flight by myself to Cleveland, while Dad was driving alone. A twenty-five-hundred-mile drive. Nine states.
“Holy crap. The photographs you could take!” George had thrown his hands in the air, exasperated. “To have a sketch pad in Nebraska. Are you kidding?”
“Utah’s got a couple of dinosaur quarries,” I’d said. “And we’d go right around Chicago and the Adler Planetarium.”
I knew I sounded nerdy, as usual, but George didn’t give me a hard time about it that day—or ever. Which is why I love him.
“Your dad’s clinical,” George decided.
“Bonkers.”
“Daffy.”
George pulled his iPhone from his pocket. “Thesaurus app,” he’d said. “He’s a lunatic, demented, cracked, brainsick,
non compos mentis
.”
“He’s got deadlines, so he can’t take a week off. He’s driving fourteen-hour days so he can get to Ohio by Monday.”
“No fun.”
“None of it.”
The traffic light turns green, and Ennis High recedes in my side-view mirror. Mr. Burton’s pickup bounces out of the parking lot and heads in the opposite direction. I stare at the photo of George in his Superman costume, while Dad yawns and strums his fingers on the Jeep’s steering wheel.
We drive in silence the rest of the way home. Home? It’s Willow’s home and Kandy’s home, but not mine, not Dad’s. Our home is across the bay from San Francisco, a little apartment in Walnut Creek with blue carpet, an always-cold swimming pool, and a Thai grocery store across the street.
