Cure for the Common Universe

by Christian McKay Heidicker

  “Oh.”

  “In another version he tries to win over this girl, but her dad blinds him.”

  “Ugh.”

  I hadn’t even thought about Gravity’s parents. Having one terrifying dad was enough.

  “The story I like,” Aurora said, “is the one where he’s trying to catch these seven sisters, the Pleiades.” She pointed to a cluster of stars to the right of Orion’s belt. Then she traced a few inches left to a triangle of stars between the two constellations. “But the sisters are protected by the bull, Taurus. Orion believes he’s a hero, going after these girls.”

  “Isn’t he?” I asked.

  Aurora shrugged. “He probably could have defeated the bull, but then there was the catasterism.”

  I winced and crossed my legs. “He gets castrated?”

  “No. ‘Catasterism’ means the girls transformed into stars.”

  Why was everyone transforming into stars and expanding away from me?

  “Orion will be chasing those sisters for the rest of eternity,” Aurora said with a sigh, as if the idea brought her peace.

  We fell silent. The star chart bent in the wind.

  I don’t know what made me say what I said next—Orion chasing something he could never catch, Aurora’s trying to connect to a boyfriend who didn’t care about her, the ever-expanding universe . . .

  “My mom’s an addict,” I said.

  Aurora looked at me, attentive as the moon. I stared at my shoes.

  “She used to wake me up in the middle of the night and we’d play Dr. Mario until four, five in the morning. I didn’t know why she couldn’t sleep. I was just excited because I got to stay up all night playing games.”

  I scuffed my feet and remembered those late nights snuggling up by her side, flipping multicolored pills onto dancing viruses.

  “My parents got divorced when I was eight, and I stayed with my dad,” I said. “When I was nine, he flew me out to see her, but . . . she didn’t show up to the airport. I waited with the flight attendant for ten hours, staring at strangers’ faces, hoping each face would be hers. She never came.” I got that burning sensation in my eyes and blinked it away. “When I got home, my dad told me why my mom acted the way she did. He told me horror stories about drugs and alcohol so that I would lead a more disciplined life like he had. And for a while it worked. I always studied, always read, always cleaned up my room. I never drank or smoked pot. I was afraid that whatever addiction had gotten my mom would get me too. So I played video games instead. Ha.” I kicked at the gravel on the roof. “I think that’s why he sent me here. He doesn’t want me to become like her.”

  “Do you want to become like her?” Aurora said.

  I kept my eyes on my shoes. I was afraid if I looked up, I’d start crying. “My mom’s the nicest person I know. In, like, a she’s-my-best-buddy sort of way.” I cleared my throat. “There was this feeling . . . when I was eight. I loved my mom so much, it hurt. And that’s the feeling she left me with. It’s never gone away. I’ve only seen her three times since. My dad is the one who decides when that happens. And even then, yeah, sometimes she’s too messed up to show.”

  The stars wavered in unspilled tears. I felt like my insides were unspooling.

  Aurora suddenly stomped on the roof between my legs. “Got it!”

  I jumped. “Augh! What?”

  She grew bashful. “I was pretending to step on a scorpion for you. Never mind. It was just pretend.”

  “You’re weird,” I said. I pinched my eyes and tried to lose that vulnerable feeling. “So.” I cleared my throat again. “What does Orion mean for my future?”

  Aurora stared at the roof for a beat. Then she threw her head back with a sniff and examined the night sky again, her eyes shining.

  “You’re going to be here for a very long time, Miles Prower.”

  I scratched my arm, annoyed. I had poured my heart out to this girl; the least she could have done was give me a good fortune.

  I tossed the empty dandelion stem off the roof. “I preferred the science where stars were being crushed to death.”

  I walked over to the Silver Lady.

  “Do constellations count for points?” I asked.

  The Silver Lady gave me a teacherly look. “Constellations aren’t science.”

  “Yeah, I know.” I looked at the sky. “Sucks that space is trying to extinguish all those beautiful stars.”

  “Actually,” she said, following my gaze, “it isn’t space that does it. Stars are crushed by their own gravity. They’re fighting against themselves. Sorry if I wasn’t clear.”

  Huh. Maybe I didn’t sympathize with stars then.

  I handed the Silver Lady my empty star chart. “We found zero.”

  I got my scroll stamped and was on my way downstairs when Fezzik “casually” ambled up to the Silver Lady and set his giant frame on the end of a lawn chair. The whole thing tipped forward, and he instinctively grabbed her arm, practically ripping it out of its socket.

  Smooth move, Emperor.

  Still, I wished him luck. Someone had to get something out of star class.

  3 . . . 2 . . . 1 . . .

  The next morning I was on fucking fire: 3,000 points for running laps; 1,000 for unsarcastically high-fiving G-man; 2,000 for helping Cooking Mama make a kick-ass parfait; 1,000 for squeegeeing the Feed tables; and 3,000 for complimenting everyone’s shitty art pieces while I cleaned their paintbrushes.

  If my dad wanted me to be nice and do chores at home, all he had to do was establish a point system that awarded a date with a beautiful girl at the end—not in a prostitution way.

  In the Feed, Meeki and Aurora discussed something in low voices. Aurora wiped tears from her cheeks. I ignored them and ate my tuna salad while Soup drove a green bean around his lunch tray, pulling tight turns around “mashed potato mountain” and making jumps off “drumstick ramp.”

  “You gonna come in last place for me today, buddy?” I asked.

  “So hard!” he said.

  • • •

  I stood on a dune overlooking Dry Dry Desert Track. It was shaped like a clamshell (or a kitten’s paw print, according to Soup). Despite its adorable shape, racing on it seemed diabolical. From the starting line racers could gun it for a couple hundred feet, until they hit a sharp right turn, four wide wiggles, and finally another straight shot to the finish line.

  My heart thumped in my throat. So much rode on this race. I had to walk away with the gold.

  The sun beat down, making invisible snakes wave off the sand and cooking me in my black shirt. I waved my collar, getting some air onto my chest. At least in Mario Kart I never had to worry about sweat dripping into my eyeballs.

  Something soft dabbed my forehead. Soup, topless, held out his shirt.

  “You can use it as a bandana,” he said.

  “Yeah, no thanks.”

  We descended the dune and joined the other Fury Burds by the lumpy blue tarp. “The big Chocobo race!” Fezzik called, spraying Windex on the visors of our crash helmets. Soup grabbed a rag to help. Meeki cracked her knuckles. Aurora had one eye shut and was tracing the track with her finger.

  The coach whistled, and the players gathered around the big blue lumpy tarp. He explained that each racer was to complete three laps around the track with minimal corner cutting. Then he yanked the tarp off six go-karts.

  “Now this is kart racing!” Soup said. “Get it?” He poked his finger into my side. “Miles? Did you get the Star Wars joke I just made?”

  “I need you to stop talking immediately.”

  “Okay.”

  The karts’ paint jobs had been sanded away, leaving the slight silhouette of the Happy Sun Summer Camp logo on the gray metal. That reminded me. The facility was still in beta. I would do whatever it took to win—switch tires, trade karts, even try to convince Soup to ride on the hood of my kart and spit gasoline into my carburetor.

  Navi swirled to life around my shoulders. There had to be some way to t
ake advantage of this.

  “Players?” G-man clapped his hands. “Before you get out there and shred some rubber, I need to make a quick safety announcement.” He placed his hands together as if pleading with us. “This is not Gran Turismo, okay? This is not Mario Kart. So no bumping into each other, and no throwing banana peels. Ha-ha.”

  No one laughed.

  Behind his back, Scarecrow and I stared each other down. G-man had not said anything about Twisted Metal.

  “I’ve put a bit of red tape on each of your speedometers,” G-man said. “You are not to go above twenty-five miles per hour, or else you’ll be disqualified. Is that understood?”

  “Yes!” Soup said.

  “I need to hear everyone say it,” G-man said.

  “Yes,” we all said.

  Ugh. Why didn’t he just have us race sloths instead? Navi wilted and vanished. Maybe there wouldn’t be a way to cheat.

  “Don’t look glum, guys,” G-man said. “You get to ride in real go-karts! Not just steer one with a control paddle. This’ll be a rush!” He gave us two thumbs-up. “I need to go do expense reports, but have fun!” He clapped again and then jogged back toward Video Horizons.

  The coach cleared his throat. “Master Cheefs will get five seconds added to their final time, the Sefiroths will get minus five.”

  Great. The blue shell of Video Horizons. Now I had to worry about the Sefiroths, too.

  “Thirteen racers will compete in three separate races,” the coach said. “The gold, silver, and bronze medal winners will be determined by the fastest finish times. Here are your brackets.”

  He tossed his clipboard onto the ground, and the players crowded around it.

  I was in the third bracket:

  Dryad

  Soup

  Sir Arturius

  Me

  Lion

  Thank God Soup was there. At least I wouldn’t come in last.

  “Dude,” Lion said to Tin Man nearby. “I’m gonna be like that kid that ran over his dad after he took his copy of Halo away.” He snarled out an engine sound as he drove an invisible car over an imaginary body. “B-dump, b-dump. Ha-ha . . . What are you lookin’ at?”

  I quickly looked away.

  “Yay! Miles, we’re racing together!” Soup said, tugging on my sleeve. “I’m going to name my kart Dr. Vroom. What are you gonna name yours?”

  “I don’t name karts.”

  The Gravitator, I thought.

  The first kart engine grumbled to life. The low, dirty sound awakened something in me. At first I thought it was the cold metal of fear. But as it spread from my chest and became a tap in my feet, a clench in my fists, mercury sloshing through my head, I realized that it was slightly more than fear. It was determination.

  I watched the first race from the sidelines as the karts buzzed around the curves like bees and growled down the straights like . . . jaguars, I guess. I mentally sized myself up against the racers. I wasn’t as heavy as Tin Man, who hulked out of his kart and roared down the straight sections, but I definitely wasn’t as lightweight as Aurora, who delicately buzzed around the heavier racers during the wiggling turns.

  I was a middleweight: Just enough speed. Just enough dexterity. The Mario of Mario Kart . . . I hoped.

  “You look nervous,” Soup said, patting my shoulder. “Want me to bump into other people with my kart to slow them down for you?”

  “Yes,” I said. “Yes, I do want you to do that.”

  He hesitated. “If I do . . . can we hang out when we get back home?”

  “Uh.”

  His eyes were so needy and desperate. Then again, so was I.

  “Deal,” I said. “If you help me win, we can hang out.”

  Soup almost exploded with glee and squealed. “Really? I live at 2165 West Chesterton in Salt Lake City!”

  I tried to hide my shock. That was literally six blocks away from my house.

  “Oof, that’s really far,” I said, not wanting him to have any idea where I lived. “I’ll, uh, come to you.”

  In the second race Aurora, Soup, and Fezzik cheered for Meeki as she cruised around the track. My eyes stayed fixed on Scarecrow, who remained in the lead, until Meeki caught up in the third lap, and at the last moment blindsided him so that they both spun out and came to a dead stop before the finish line. When they walked off the track, Meeki took off her helmet and asked him, “What happened? You crash into the Great Wall of China?”

  Scarecrow spit onto the track. “Guess it’s true what they say about Asian drivers.”

  “Go, Meeki!” Fezzik bellowed. “Whirlwind attack!”

  The Silver Lady snorted and elbowed him in the side.

  Fezzik blushed. “I mean, play nice!” he shouted.

  I watched him set his giant hand on the Silver Lady’s shoulder. She didn’t move it.

  Go, Emperor.

  The coach whistled and then did some quick math on his clipboard. “After two races the current leaders are Parappa in third with a finish time of six minutes and two seconds and Tin Man in second with five minutes forty-six seconds. And finally, in first place is . . . Devastator with five minutes and forty-two seconds.”

  “I’m sorry!” Devastator said to Tin Man, who looked ready to crumple the kid with his bare hands.

  “Bracket three!” the coach called. “You’re up.”

  I clenched my teeth and headed toward the finish line. Five minutes and forty-two seconds. I could beat that. Probably. I walked past Lion, who was tying back his mane; past Soup, who gave me a pat on the butt; past Dryad, who pulled a helmet over her willowy hair; and I sank into the hot plastic bucket seat of my kart.

  The Gravitator felt less like a car and more like the skeleton of a car. Scratch that. The carapace of a beetle. I rocked the steering wheel, loosely swiveling the front tires. The hood was pointed east, toward home. If I didn’t make that first right turn, if I left the track and cruised across the desert, I might actually make it back to Salt Lake. That is, if I didn’t run out of gas or get overtaken by Command’s Oldsmobile.

  I started the engine, and the kart vibrated to life, making my man boobs jiggle worse than the boobs in Dead or Alive: Xtreme Beach Volleyball. I breathed in the intoxicating smell of gasoline and channeled my jiggling kinetic energy into the engine of my heart.

  I put my lips up to the Gravitator’s steering wheel. “This track is your bitch,” I said. “Use it and then leave it behind.”

  “You’re disgusting.”

  I turned and saw Dryad in the next kart over. I hadn’t realized anyone could hear me.

  “Really?” I said. “This from the girl who’s dating the greasiest douche bag ever?”

  She narrowed her eyes and pulled on her helmet.

  The coach stepped to the starting line and raised the starter’s pistol into the air.

  “Three . . . two . . . one . . .”

  He fired.

  I stomped on the gas pedal.

  The Gravitator’s engine roared.

  I puttered forward.

  Dryad shot ahead. Lion’s mane followed close behind. Even Sir Arturius sped past me like I was a rolling stone in a rushing river. Only Soup stayed behind the pack, reaching his hand back so he could drag me forward.

  I ignored him and punched my kart’s steering wheel. “C’mon!”

  I lagged behind on the straight shot, the speedometer making a slow crawl toward twenty-five. I had to admit it was because I was fat. I was fat, and this proved it. I hadn’t asked to be born like this. To have my mom’s genes and to be one of the few who understood that Hot Pockets are the perfect food.

  We hit the first turn, and I let off the acceleration. The needle bobbed around twenty-five. The other racers were two wiggles ahead. I had to beat Sir Arturius and Dryad by at least five seconds. Screw this. The coach was on the opposite side of the track. He was far enough away that he probably wouldn’t be able to tell how fast we were going.

  I pushed the pedal to the floor. I wiggled aroun
d the clamshell, tires shrieking left then right then left again, and gained enough momentum to sail past Soup, who cheered me on, then Sir Arturius, whose antiquated insults were drowned out by my muffler.

  As I approached Lion on the final wiggle, he heard my roaring engine and stomped his own gas pedal. Dryad heard his engine and did the same. We hit the final tight turn, and while Dryad’s and Lion’s karts skidded to the outside of the track on a thin layer of sand, my weight made the Gravitator’s tires grip the asphalt, keeping me tight on the inside. I picked up speed, lunged past Lion, and thanked every Hot Pocket I’d ever eaten as I sped toward the front. The track straightened out again, and I watched myself speed past in the dark reflection of Dryad’s visor.

  YES.

  I flew into the lead for the final stretch of the first lap, then put on the brakes. I passed the finish line at exactly twenty-five miles per hour, the coach’s mirrored glasses unnervingly fixed on me. Fifty feet later, I hit the gas again.

  The Gravitator hummed. The Halo soundtrack boomed through the air. I realized I was singing. “Bumbumbum BUUUUUM! Bumbumbum BUUUUUUM!”

  I was Captain Falcon. I was Sonic the Hedgehog. I was . . . really fucking fast.

  On the second round of wiggles, Dryad motored up into my blind spot. But beyond my extra weight and gripping, I had another advantage. I was pulled by Gravity. Dryad grew cautious around the turns. I ate them up. She put the pedal to the metal for the straight-stretch sections. I practically put my foot through the floor. I was more afraid of missing my date and being stuck in V-hab than I was of becoming roadkill.

  I stayed in first for most of the second lap. But on the last stretch my engine coughed like it had been dropped down a disposal.

  KKKKRRRRUUUKKK-KK-KK-KK-K.

  My speedometer dipped to fifteen.

  “NO!” I screamed above the horrific grinding. “GRAVITATOR, YOU WILL NOT DIE NOW! THE SECOND WE CROSS THAT FINISH LINE, YOU HAVE MY PERMISSION TO DIE! NOT ONE SECOND BEFORE!”

  It listened. The Gravitator actually listened. She swallowed whatever was caught in her engine and bucked forward like a frisky mare.