I stare at redheaded Ruby, then Mom. “You’ve got the same eyes,” I say vacantly. “Blue with flecks of amber.”
An awkward silence hangs over us.
“Do you mind if I take your photo?” I ask, digging for my digital camera. Why didn’t I take some photos of Mom in Universe Four? I can picture her at the kitchen table, eating her Hawaiian pizza. I can see her in her pajamas, covering me for the night.
When I look up, I see that Ruby’s face is twisted into a wince.
“You’d better hurry home before the storm hits.” Her voice is loud and authoritative; she’s taking charge of a situation gone awry. “You’ll be fine if you leave now.” She returns to the couch and picks up a book, glancing at me sideways.
Alternate Ruby. In a sense, she’s my half sister. Mom’s DNA, but not Dad’s.
“At least you can take this.” Mom hands me an umbrella. “You don’t want to get that nice sweater wet. You know, I have one just like it. Isn’t that a coincidence?”
“Who would believe it?” My voice quivers.
Mom holds the door open for me, and I can’t take my eyes off her. What if she’s not in any of the other worlds? What if this is the layout of the remaining universes—Mom with the redheaded husband—and the parallel worlds that include Dad and me are few and far between?
“You look so familiar to me,” she says. “I can’t put my finger on it, but you remind me of someone.”
Oh, Mom. My eyes are blue with flecks of amber too.
“I’ve got that kind of face.” I turn and hobble down the porch steps, eager to get away before the tears spill down my cheeks.
The sky is a sickly shade of green. A bruised color. I look over my shoulder and see Mom standing in the window, her fingertips pressed against the glass. She raises a hand and waves.
Bye, Mom. Again.
I press my nose into the crook of my elbow and inhale, trying to find the smell of hope. Mom’s sweater is her apartment, her perfume, her laundry detergent, her sweat, her grape shampoo. But it’s not her.
When I look back at the window again to blow her a kiss, she’s gone. The curtain’s still swaying.
Above, clouds promise to unleash gallons of rain. It’s time to motor. I watch my feet, dodging the tree roots and upended chunks of sidewalk. That’s all I need. Another injury.
“Watch it!” A girl pushing a stroller nearly flattens me.
“Sorry.” I barely glance up, but from the corner of my eye, I catch a glimpse of the manicured nails, the shiny purse shoved into the stroller basket, the lip liner, the impractical heels. It’s Kandy. Kandinsky.
“I go by Jennifer now. Do I know you?”
Great. I didn’t realize I said her name out loud.
The little girl in the stroller pops a strawberry into her mouth, pink juice sliding down her chin. She points a finger at me. “Who that?”
“I don’t know, bug,” Kandy says.
“Excuse me,” I say, trying to maneuver around them.
“But you know my name,” Kandy says.
“Just from school,” I say. “You’re a senior, I’m a sophomore.” It’s the only true statement that comes to mind. You’re my psycho stepsister in alternate realities doesn’t seem to be the appropriate response here.
Kandy shakes her head. She ruffles the toddler’s hair. “I dropped out of school three years ago. You’ve probably seen me waiting tables at Shanghai.”
“She’s … yours?”
As soon as I ask, I realize the absurdity of the question. The little girl’s got the same almond-shaped eyes, the same fine hair.
“Mommy! Go!” The girl leans forward and rocks.
“Stop it, Maddy,” Kandy says. “You’re splashing my soda everywhere, bug.”
Maddy. Maddy. Maddy from the journal? Wait. So what happened back in Universe One, in Ennis? Why is there a Maddy here but not there? Was Maddy a miscarriage, an abortion, a stillbirth? Is that why Kandy’s so bitter?
“Hurry up, you two!” A man’s voice comes from a nearby porch. “I don’t want to lose my wife and kid to a lightning strike. Get inside!”
Kandy presses her eyebrows together with concern. “You’d better get going too. Are you close to home?”
“Not exactly.”
The man on the purple porch is a good ten years older than Kandy, maybe more. He’s holding a sippy cup.
“Do you need a ride somewhere?” Kandy asks. “You’re limping, and you’ve got that huge backpack.”
“Nah.”
“I didn’t catch your name,” she says.
“Ruby Wright.”
Not a single flicker of recognition crosses her face. She pushes the stroller toward the house but seems reluctant to leave me out in the weather. She eyes the sky, the black clouds that flicker, backlit by pulses of lightning.
I hold up my umbrella and smile. “I’m fine.”
Chapter Sixteen
Orientation at Ennis High with Mr. Burton—the tour of the antiseptic-smelling cafeteria, the pockmarked football field that reminded me of Hyperion—was Thursday afternoon. Now it’s Sunday, which means it’s been three days since I first walked through the cornfield to the tree, and found it humming, motor on.
That’s all? It seems like a year has passed! Einstein was right. Time is relative. And I’m supposed to be starting school tomorrow, at 7:15 a.m. at Ennis High. Yeah, don’t think so.
My stomach makes a gurgling, eruptive noise. It’s in knots—with worry, with emptiness. Where will I sleep tonight? Is my leg hopelessly infected? When will I eat again? The bacon and toast I downed at Mom’s apartment this morning, back in Universe Four, are long digested. But I can’t seem to digest the dynamics of Universe Six. Mom and Dad never met? Does Dad exist here at all? Is he a chef in California? Or maybe he was the one who died? I stop walking and watch the trees move in the wind. Their branches bouncing up and down, leafy hands waving. Good-bye, good-bye.
I don’t exist here.
I need to get back to the tree.
Redheaded Ruby’s take-charge voice echoes through me: You’d better hurry home. Home? I don’t even know what that word means anymore.
I limp along the sidewalk. The gingerbread houses look less colorful by the minute. The roiling sky casts a muddy, greenish film across everything, making the houses seem menacing, haunted. Inside, lights flicker, then go off. A buzzing noise permeates the air, and the air sizzles with electrical energy.
A blinding lightning flash. Instinctively I duck, throwing my arms over my head. Bam! Thunder, packing powerful acoustic waves. Yeah, it’s too close, which means I need to get somewhere safe. This universe has me disoriented, with the cemetery and these Victorian houses that seem to go on and on. Did I walk in a circle? Why didn’t I draw myself a map?
The rain comes. In buckets.
The sidewalk curves around the roots of an enormous oak, and I find myself looking for a door in it, even though I know it’s not my tree. Where is the high school?
Suddenly I remember Mom’s GPS device, and I fish it out of my backpack. Did I mark my coordinates for this universe? I can’t remember. I was so paranoid about getting attacked by a Native American when I first arrived, I wasn’t thinking straight. Then I took two pain pills. Or did I take three?
Low battery. I shake the GPS. “Come on,” I tell it, but the screen goes dark. I take the batteries out, then put them back in. Nothing.
Rain streams off the tip of my nose. Mom’s sweater clings to me, soaked. My core body temp seems to have suddenly plummeted, and I’m shivering, teeth chattering. Dark sky and driving rain make it impossible to see. Zero visibility.
I should find a garage and huddle under the awning until this blows over. A porch would be better. Kandy wouldn’t mind. I turn back. Her house was purple, right? I wipe rain from my glasses, but it’s like someone’s holding a garden hose over my head. I take my glasses off and squint. A brick driveway. It must lead to a house, though I can’t make it out through the haze of my myopic vision.