“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.
He takes the coffee from my hand and sets it on the edge of the bench. “Coffee’s not very filling. Come on. I want to hear more about Mount Diablo.”
Suddenly I worry about the butterfly effect. The seemingly insignificant flapping of a butterfly’s wings can effect an atmospheric change, which eventually can alter the path of a tornado. Little alterations, big repercussions.
I don’t belong here. I need to click my way through the universes and get back.
“Is that a yes or no?” George asks. His lips are parted, half-curled into a smirk, and he’s daring me. To say yes. I slide closer and this time he doesn’t inch away.
So I lean in and kiss him. It’s what I should have done last week on that leather couch at the East Bay Café. It’s not the kiss of my dreams, but it’s George, and he’s not pulling away. In fact, he laces his hands behind my neck and pulls me in closer. I feel dizzy, totally off-center. But in the best possible way.
“Is that a yes or a no?” he asks again, raising one eyebrow. “Girl-I-hardly-know-from-French-class-who’s-suddenly-kissing-me?”
“You’re buying.” I nudge his side with my elbow. “And I’m warning you, I’m hungry.”
He laughs, and I feel weightless.
Chapter Seven
Location: Universe Four, Cloud Nine. Shanghai Restaurant.
George pushes the soy sauce out of the way and hands me a menu across the table. “The steamed pork buns are really good,” he says. “Have you had them?”
I realize that he expects that I’ve eaten here before. It’s a small downtown, and this is probably the only Chinese place. No doubt everyone who lives in Ó Direáin has been to every one of the businesses on this street, time and again. I dodge his question by saying, “I love pork buns.”
“The Peking duck is awesome, so is the barbeque assortment platter.” George studies the lunch specials, and I study him. So far he seems a lot like my George from Universe One. The way he smells, the way he raises one eyebrow when he’s teasing, the way he holds his neck in the palm of his hand when he leans on the table.