The Theory of Everything (8 page)

Come back, come back, don't walk away.
Come back, come back, come back today.

—The Cure, “In Between Days”

After physics class and Walt, I was so excited that I rushed to Café Haven, forgetting that I wanted to be fashionably late.

“Hi,” I said to the barista at the counter. She was wearing a black shirt, black skirt and a diner name tag that said “Callie.”

“Can I get a vanilla latte for here, please?”

“Sure,” she said. “And I like your tights.”

She nodded at my plaid ones, which is when I noticed her black and white argyle ones.

“Thanks,” I said. “I like yours, too. And your shoes.”

We compared Doc Martens and laughed.

“You kids,” an older waitress said, walking by and smiling. “You're so eclectic.”

“That's Judy,” Callie said. “She owns the place and is actually awesome. She lets me wear whatever I want, eat whatever I like and play whatever I'm feeling.”

“That's cool,” I said. “What kind of music do you like?”

“Everything,” she said. “That's why I go from Sinatra to The Clash to Tchaikovsky, even though he's a little repetitive. I'm a fan of musical open-mindedness.”

I was glad she didn't have x-ray vision, because if she had, she would have seen the stack of mixtapes in my bag and busted me for being stuck in a singular decade.

“You're a friend of Finny's, right?” she said, handing me my latte. It smelled like heaven in a cup.

“Yeah,” I said, walking toward the booths. “You've heard of me?”

“Are you kidding?” she said, walking beside me. “You're the best thing that's happened to him since forever. Sophie, right?”

“Right,” I said. I set down my cup and slid into the booth. “Sophie Sophia.”

“Great name. Should I put in Finny's order? Double chocolate milk shake with strawberries and bananas?” Callie said. “He's pretty predictable.”

“He is, but he's not coming,” I said. “I'm meeting someone else.”

Callie opened her mouth, so I put my earbuds in and let The Smiths serenade me with “Ask” before she could ask questions. It was part of Dad's
Questions and Quantum
mixtape, which also included “Destination Unknown” by Missing Persons and “Just Like Honey” by The Jesus and Mary Chain.

“I like your skirt,” Callie said, pointing to my owl pocket.

“Thanks,” I said, yelling through my headphones. I'd picked it out that morning because it made me feel smarter. I turned my music down.

“You know Finny and I are just friends, right?” I said. “We're not dating.”

“Of course,” Callie said. “I know how much he likes you, but it's good to have more than one friend.”

“Especially since Finny's so busy with science.”

“Havencrest's little Einstein,” she said, grinning. “He's going to surprise all of us one day.”

Truth was, Finny was already pretty amazing. He was president of the Young Einsteins Club, had a head start on his science fair project and was constantly scribbling some new theory down in his notebook. While I was busy being in survival mode, he was busy changing things, setting the stage for the next big discovery. I couldn't wait to have the brain space to think about something other than how to get through the day.

I had just turned my music back up when I felt a tap on my shoulder.

“Hi,” Drew said.

“Hi!” I shouted. He held his ears and sat down across from me.

“Oh!” I said, taking my earbuds out. “Sorry.”

“My fault. I think someone once said never interrupt a girl and her music. Is that a Walkman?”

“Yeah,” I said. “I'm a fan of the mixtape generation.”

“That's cool,” he said. “I like analog.”

“Me too!” My insides melted. I wanted to immediately ask him what else he loved besides Kerouac and vintage clothes, but I controlled myself.

“What's on the tape?” he asked.

“Mostly eighties music,” I said. “I was listening to The Smiths.”

“The Smiths are epic,” he said.

“I know, right?” I sat up taller in my seat. “There are all of these bands who can't write their own music, so they just steal riffs from Johnny Marr. It's embarrassing.”

For the next half hour, we bonded over Bauhaus and Beat Happening, The Psychedelic Furs and The Pixies. Drew and I clearly loved the same music. As it turned out, we liked a lot of the same books, too, like Salinger and Beat literature and the one he was named after: Nancy Drew. His mom was a librarian, which meant he was living with books while I was living with crazy. There was finally a pause in the conversation, and he asked the question I'd been dying to ask.

“Are you hungry?”

“Fiercely,” I said, leaning back and putting my arms up on the booth. “I'm a grilled-cheese-with-tomato kind of girl. You?”

“Grilled-cheese-without-the-tomato guy,” he said, flipping his hair out of the way. He had dark wavy bangs that hung down over one eye. “Want more coffee?”

“Yeah, but I better switch to decaf.”

I handed him my mug and he sauntered to the counter. It wasn't like he was arrogant or anything. I think he was just so relaxed he had no choice but to move that way. I couldn't imagine ever feeling that calm—not with shaman pandas lurking around every corner. He practically floated back to our table like a god, coffee in hand.

“You like Sonic Youth, too?” he said, setting down my mug and pointing to the speaker above us.

“Show me a girl who doesn't like Kim Gordon, and I'll show you a girl who doesn't know her,” I said.

“It's pretty obvious we have the same taste,” he said. “Stage-diving music, right?” He grinned in a way that gave it all away.

“You heard about that?” I leaned my head back against the seat.

“I saw you in the office,” he said.

“Oh, yeah,” I said, trying to be nonchalant. “Why were you there?”

“I was trying to start a literature club,” he said. “But mostly I heard about you from other people. I don't do gossip, but the whole school was talking about it.”

“Right,” I said. “And what did they say, exactly?”

“That you stage dove into the cheerleaders' table trying to kill some girl named Heather.”

I laughed. It sounded ridiculous when you said it out loud.

“And you believed them?” I asked.

“You don't seem like a killer,” he said. “Besides, I like a girl who shakes things up.”

Goose bumps covered my arms. The same thing happened when we were texting.

“I get that from my mom,” I said. It used to be the other way around—Mom holding things down while Dad shook things up—but after he left, they switched roles. He was consistent—gone—and Mom did everything she could not to stay in one place.

“So what do you get from your dad?” he asked.

“You don't want to know.” My throat tightened.

“What, an awesome pancake recipe? The ability to change a tire in a single bound?”

“Good tries,” I said.

But you really should stop guessing now, I thought. Because you don't know a darn thing about it.

“Whatever it is, he did a good job,” Drew said, grinning.

I was so panicked I missed my mouth, sending coffee flowing down the front of my shirt.

“I inherited his clumsiness,” I said, leaving coffee-soaked napkins on the table. “I'll be right back.”

I closed the door to the bathroom, put my hands on the sink and breathed. The Cure's “A Night Like This” blared from the speakers while I counted backwards from ten. Anything to stop my hands from shaking. Robert Smith sang about love and loss, about wanting things to be the same, like they were before. Like before Dad left. Drew was a good guy—even better than I'd imagined—so I knew I had to pull it together. I blotted my shirt with paper towels. I had a cardigan I could wear to hide the stain. I also had free will. I could choose to think about Dad, freak out and ruin my maybe-date or I could focus on other things. Like the cute boy waiting with a grilled cheese sandwich.

“You can do this,” I said to myself in the mirror. I smoothed my bangs, took another deep breath and opened the door. I heard people cheering, smelled sweat and cigarettes and saw that the room was dark, like a club. And then someone handed me a guitar.

“Okay, Sophie,” said a guy wearing all black and sporting an English accent. “This is your moment. Are you ready?”

I didn't know why I was supposed to be ready, but I knew I wasn't on a date with Drew anymore. The steps in front of me led to a stage packed with guitar stands and amps, drums and a keyboard. Excited girls lined the front, girls who looked like me but with more eyeliner. And guys like Finny, only with bigger hair. Some of them even wore lipstick.

“I think there's been a mistake,” I said, holding the neck of the guitar. “I don't even play this.”

“Nerves.” The guy chuckled. Even his laugh had an accent. “You'll be fine. Follow me.”

The lights went off, and I followed him onto the stage with the others by flashlight. I threw the guitar strap over my shoulder while he plugged me in, handed me a guitar pick and nodded to the row of pedals in front of me.

“Watch your vibrato,” he said. “And if you're unsure, look to Robert for cues.”

“Robert?”

As soon as I said it, the lights went up, the crowd screamed, and a figure rushed by me, a silhouette I'd know anywhere. I'd spent hours with his trademark teased hair and baggy clothes, swooning over the way he had with sadness. Wishing I could reach through my Walkman and shake the hand of the guy who knew my life better than I did—and had the guts to sing about it.

Blue lights went up, the crowd completely freaked and Robert Smith turned around and smiled—smudged red lipstick and all. I was onstage with The Cure.

The drums started and my hands were on the guitar, playing the first line of a song I knew all too well, a song that had gotten me out of bed some mornings when I wanted to stay in. I switched to chords, strumming while the keyboard came in and then, like in a dream, Robert started singing “In Between Days.”

I played wildly, dancing around like I saw them do on YouTube. In their music videos, The Cure seemed sullen but excited at the same time, as if hitting particular notes caused actual pain. He sang about love and loss, about wanting someone to disappear and then, as soon as he said it, wanting them back again. I could totally relate.

As soon as that song ended, another one started, the bass and piano taking over as they kicked into “The Lovecats.” I wondered if anyone had gotten lost inside an episode yet, because if not, I would volunteer to be the first. I bounced up and down like Dad and I did when the song came on the radio, only this time I was in it. Totally in sync with the audience for three minutes and forty seconds in a way that doesn't happen with anything else. My hands kept playing, and I felt connected, like I wasn't then—nor would ever be—alone.

I didn't recognize the next song on the set list, not that it mattered. My hands did things without my brain even knowing about them, fingers on the frets like I'd been playing my entire life. Instinct had gotten me this far, and since I wasn't sure how long I'd be there, I wanted to do something that mattered. Something to help Robert Smith remember the small dark-haired girl who'd shared his stage
and
his vision of the world.

He looked back and nodded, the handoff signal for a solo. Forget my mom's approval, I had the go-ahead from the lead singer of The Cure. So I stood wide, lifted my arm high and circled it around, doing a windmill. The keyboardist made a face, either because I was missing my notes or because I looked weird, but I kept circling anyway. The crowd cheered, the bass held down the song, and I swirled around once more, with great force, hand heading toward the strings.

But instead of the deafening, beautiful trio of notes, I heard the din of the diner. People chattering, not cheering. And the sound of bone making contact with concrete.

Concrete making contact with bone.

Crack. Snap.
Scraping the bathroom wall.

Bodies shouldn't be allowed to make sounds like that.

At least, that's what Dad said.

I held my knuckles, scraped and bloody.

In the mirror I saw his knuckles, scraped and bloody.

And then I moaned and crumpled, my body thudding, my heart breaking as it fell to the floor.

|||||||||||

“Daddy?”

A nurse held me back. “Honey, you can't go in there.”

“DADDY!” I screamed, hoping my voice would penetrate the space between us as they dragged him down the hall.

“They're helping him,” she said, holding on to me.

I knew what helping looked like, and it didn't look like that.

“It was an accident,” he said, flailing his arms. “Let me go!”