When our waitress places the bill on the table, I sigh. “I should get going.”
“See you in school tomorrow,” George says.
“Right,” I say, but I know we won’t. Maybe he’ll see Other Ruby in school tomorrow. Once I leave, maybe she’ll be back. I’ve got six more universes to click through. If I’m back in my own bed, in Universe One, before nightfall, maybe all will be set to right. No harm done. No one will be permanently displaced from where they belong.
So I need to keep moving, regardless of how tempting it might be to stay here. Besides, I realize now that the “real” George back in Universe One can be mine. All I have to do is make a move like I did here. I mean, if I can spontaneously kiss him on a park bench in a parallel universe, I can do the same in my own universe, where we already have a spark. It’s not too late. We’re not too far apart.
I replay what Chef Dad said to me yesterday: Call it what you like. Fate, destiny, effort, coincidence. True friendship defies distance.
Then I remember telling Dad he could use that as an ad headline. For an airline.
The plan forms itself instantaneously in my mind: I’ll get a part-time job, working after school and on the weekends. It won’t take long to save enough money for an airline ticket back to California. I can tell Dad I’m going to tour Stanford, which I want to do anyway. I’ll make a trip every six months until we graduate, until we can make plans to live in the same city.
George pushes the restaurant’s front door open for me, and I brush past him to walk outside. We barely touch. My shoulder connects with his wrist, but it feels electric again. Suddenly, he grabs my hand and pulls me toward him for another kiss. His lips are soft and taste faintly of soy sauce. His tongue brushes across mine, and I’m light-headed, delirious.
I want to remember how this feels.
“Bye,” he says, ruffling the hair on the back of my neck.
“Until we meet again,” I say, walking away, trying not to limp. My leg is suddenly throbbing mercilessly. I wish I hadn’t spent my only useful money on coffee and a mini-scone when what I need is extra-strength ibuprofen and fresh bandages.
“Au revoir!” George yells.
I look over my shoulder and wave. I hate saying good-bye to him—again—but this time feels much better than last week’s farewell in Walnut Creek. I’m beginning to understand the expression “head over heels,” because after kissing George I feel like I’m in zero gravity. Like I’m upside down, floating.
I’m trying to focus enough to cross the street without getting flattened by a truck, when a familiar—and frantic—voice jolts me from behind.
“Ruby!” Before I can react, Patrick has my forearm in a viselike grip.
“Oh, it’s you.” Not on my agenda.
“Where the hell have you been?”
“Would you let go of my arm? You’re kinda hurting me.” I try to get around him, but he blocks my way, left then right.
“One minute you’re behind me on your bike, the next your bike is lying on its side.” Patrick’s voice escalates. “You’re no longer on it. You’re nowhere to be found.”
People are stopped on the street, watching us. Patrick’s on a roll. “Vanished! Gone!”
I turn around and head back the way I came, toward the downtown shopping district. He follows, screaming, “What’s that on the back of your neck?”
Oh boy. Here we go again. “I got a tattoo.”
“You did what?” His voice is straining with worry. He puts his hands on my shoulders, forcing me to stop. His breath is fast on my neck as he looks at the tattoo. “What does it mean, and what did you do to your hair?” he demands. “Is that where you’ve been?”
“Yep, that’s what I’ve been doing these past few hours. I cut my hair and got inked.”
“Oh my God.” The veins in his neck are popping. I pull away and hurry on, thinking about the Ruby who normally resides here. She disappeared. She was riding her bike one minute and was gone the next. What happened to her? Where did she go? I’m guessing the second I set foot in this universe, she was displaced. I shudder, hoping she’s okay. I’m definitely causing ripples, distortions in space-time.
Patrick’s suddenly in front of me, walking backward.
“Hey, so what time would you say your Ruby—I mean, what time did I disappear?” I ask, trying to remember when I left Chef Dad’s house and entered this universe. “Around ten a.m.?”
He ignores my question. He’s got too many of his own. “Where did you get these clothes?” He points to my pant leg. “Is that blood? Are you bleeding?”
I look at the stain on my jeans. A trickle of red has made its way onto my white shoelaces. “It’s nothing.”
Patrick stops me by the shoulders again. Smoke practically comes out of his ears. He’s beyond furious. “Where are you going?”
“None of your business.” I adjust my backpack. “I’ve got data to gather, people to see, things to set straight. Now move.”
“No.” He forces me to face him. That slightly pointed nose, that dimple in his chin. So much like Dad. Patrick points to the Jeep parked across the street. “Get your ass in the car.”
“Why should I?”
“Because I’m your big brother, and I’m in charge, and you’ve been missing for hours.” He’s trembling. Tears are welling up in his eyes. “Because the divorce is making us both crazy, and it’s my job to take care of you, to get us through all this.”
“Oh,” I say. “Okay.” I feel the urge to wipe the tears from his eyelashes, but he brushes them away first. I guess I shouldn’t be so hard on Patrick, considering how things look to him. I’d be pulling my hair out with worry too. “I’m sorry about the way she … the way I disappeared on you.” I’m just not used to this kind of intense attention. I mean, it’s tough getting Dad to detach himself from his computer for ten minutes, let alone ask me how I’m doing.
For a moment Patrick looks exhausted and defeated, but he suddenly gathers his strength and is mad again. “Ass. In. Car.”
There’s no point in arguing. If I try to run, he’ll easily catch up; I’ve got a leg injury and a ten-pound backpack slowing me down. If I walk, he’ll just continue to follow me like an annoying insect, like a moon in orbit, bound to me.
Besides, maybe I can get him to drive past Mom’s place, just so I can see where it is. Just to look. And then it’s urgent for me to get home.
“Fine,” I say. We cross the street. I toss my backpack in the Jeep’s backseat and strap myself in. “Take me to Mom’s. Or take me near Mom’s. Please.”
“We’re going to the ER,” Patrick says, shifting into drive.
“For what?”
“For what? You’re bleeding. You obviously fell off your bike and you probably hit your head. That’s why you’re acting insane! You have a concussion. Your brain could be swollen. You need an MRI.” Patrick stops at a red light and presses his fingers to his temples. “My head is killing me. I need some Tylenol.”
“Maybe you’re the one with the swollen brain,” I say, staring out the window, watching the town go by. Watching the world move. Thinking that the Earth is rotating and orbiting the sun, and the universe is expanding. The universe is expanding 74.2 kilometers per second per megaparsec. Just because we can’t feel it doesn’t mean it’s not happening.
“Doubtful,” Patrick says.
“But anything’s possible,” I say. “You could have encephalitis.”
Patrick lets out a colossal sigh. “You’re the one who’s acting weird. Not me. I’m just stressed.”
Remind me—why did I get in the car with this guy? If I’d only stayed in the library another half hour, Patrick probably wouldn’t have found me. If I’d skipped Sweet Treats, he’d have missed me, or if I’d had one more cup of tea with George. But then again, I could get something worthwhile out of this ER detour. It wouldn’t hurt to have a medical professional take a look at my leg. At this point, I know I need something at the prescription level.