When she squeezed a nurse’s hand on day four, the crowd gathered in the waiting room cheered. I overheard her mom telling Ms. Ziffren that she never knew Ilana had so many friends. I went to the bathroom and threw up. We aren’t her friends. The four girls huddled in the corner wearing pink rubber “Awaken Ilana” bracelets are her friends. The rest of us are spectators to a disaster we can’t comprehend.
Thank God she woke up. Exactly a week ago, on day twelve. She couldn’t have any visitors for a few more days after that, but as of yesterday, non-family members are allowed between four and six o’clock. I was the first person in. Ilana took one look at the flowers I’d brought and pronounced them “grocery-store ghetto.” I was elated.
But then she started asking me how long I’d been there. Every ten minutes, as if she hadn’t already asked. Her doctor told me that was normal for someone with hemorrhagic damage to her medial temporal lobe. I just looked at him. Nothing about this was normal.
The Toyota in front of me starts moving again, and I finally get through the first traffic light, which, as I suspected, is dark. After that, the pace picks up.
So does the intensity of the storm. By the time I reach the annex lot, the rain is coming down in sheets. As I’m slowing for the turn, another bolt of lightning rips across the sky, this time with a crack of accompanying thunder. The sky is the color of a bruise.
I flick off my turn signal and speed up again. There’s no way I’m walking all the way from the annex in this. I make a left into the senior lot, gunning it for the front row. Right by the side door there’s a spot with a RESERVED—HANDICAPPED sign, where I parked for a few days after I hurt my foot. I used to think that you’d get towed if you parked there, but now I know that it’s not an official handicapped space. Those are in the visitor’s lot on the other side of the building. The one in the senior lot isn’t blue and doesn’t have a wheelchair painted on the asphalt, which is good, because no one who parks there is actually handicapped. Any athlete with an injury is eligible for a permit to park there. But handicapped privileges are not a first-come-first-serve situation—mine were revoked when Gregg Nash tore his ACL in the Homecoming game last weekend. Star kicker trumps former cross-country runner. The fact that Gregg’s regular parking spot is four spaces away from the handicapped spot appears not to have factored into the analysis.
“Thank you, Gregg,” I say as I pull into his regularly assigned space. The lot is only about a quarter full, which isn’t surprising, since school doesn’t start for another forty-five minutes. Caitlin’s here, of course (she comes early every day to get ahead on her lab assignments), and Josh’s Jeep is in its regular spot. I don’t know whether it should be encouraging or terrifying that he came early for the review. If he needs help with the material, then I’m a lost cause.
When the semester started, I fantasized about the two of us studying for this test together, laughing as we quizzed each other with homemade flash cards. But that scenario would require us to be dating, or at the very least, to be friends. Josh and I are neither. We’re still cordial, but I’m pretty sure he’s dating Megan now, and apparently that means our permitted interactions are limited to polite smiles and the occasional wave. Not that I’ve had time for lengthy conversations. The last two weeks have been a series of identical days: home to school to crew practice to the waiting room at Piedmont Hospital, then back home again. Sleep. Then repeat. I still catch myself thinking about Josh—every time I see him or my astronomy textbook or the stars on my ceiling—but I’ve stopped pining over him.
Okay, I’m pining less.
Lightning flashes, followed by another crack of thunder. I see a girl from my class battling with her umbrella as she darts across the front yard toward the main entrance, splashing mud with each soggy step. If I’m going to this study session, I should go now.
Backpack over my head, I make a mad dash for the side door. Thankfully, it’s unlocked. I take a moment to collect myself before continuing down the hall to our classroom, peeling off my raincoat and fluffing my damp hair. The hallway is still semi-dark, and most of the classrooms along it are completely black behind their closed doors. Only our room and the chem lab look inhabited. Dr. Mann’s door is swung open, light streaming out from inside along with the distinct sound of our teacher’s voice.
I’m not sure why I do it. Maybe because there’s a light on inside. Maybe because the door is slightly ajar. But as I’m passing the chem lab, I glance in through the vertical window and see them. Caitlin is talking. Josh is smiling. Alone in a half-lit room.
My breath catches in my throat, even though I know instinctively that it’s not what it looks like. There’s nothing going on between them. Nothing scandalous, anyway. They’re bent over a piece of paper, intently discussing its contents. My mind calmly considers the possible reasons for this early morning meeting. They’re doing homework. (For what class? They’re not in any together.) Caitlin is helping Josh study for our midterm. (Why didn’t she offer to help me?) They’re partners on some extracurricular science project. (Like what? And why hasn’t either of them mentioned it?)
None of these explanations makes sense. And none of them makes me feel better about the fact that if I hadn’t come in through that side door, I never would’ve discovered what Caitlin obviously doesn’t want me to know: She’s been hanging out with Josh.
Even if it’s totally innocuous, why hasn’t she told me?
And why is Josh smiling at her the same way he smiled at Albireo, the breath-catching blue and gold double star at the tip of Cygnus’s beak? (Annoyingly, my test-prepped brain now proceeds to rattle off the facts I’ve learned about Albireo in the weeks since Josh pointed it out to me, like an idiot savant on amphetamines: 380 light-years away from the Earth. Thought to be a gravitationally bound binary system with an orbital period of seventy-five thousand years. Loved by astronomers for its striking beauty, which is easily seen at low telescopic power.)
Move. Away. From the door.
Part of me wants them to see me, because it’ll force them to explain what they’re doing. But do they owe me an explanation? Josh has made it clear that he’s not interested in me, and even if he were her type (which he isn’t), Caitlin would never go after a guy I liked.
Then again, we’ve barely spoken to each other since the accident. We talk at lunch, of course, but not at all after school. I’ve been blaming crew practice, college applications, and a fictitious new cell phone plan with fewer minutes, but the truth is I’m hiding from her. If Caitlin knew how much time I’ve been spending at the hospital, she’d want to know why, and I can’t tell her why. Mostly because I know how she’d react if she ever found out what I did, but also because I can’t bear to say the words aloud. The refrain in my head is excruciating enough; speaking it would put me over the edge. If I hadn’t, Ilana wouldn’t. If I hadn’t, Ilana wouldn’t.
I pull myself away from the door and hurry down the hall to G103, where a dozen kids from class are gathered, listening to Dr. Mann describe the phases of stellar evolution. Most of them look as panicked about our test as I feel. Megan is sitting by the window that overlooks the parking lot, her yellow backpack propped up in the vacant seat beside her. Saving it for someone. She keeps glancing outside at Josh’s Jeep, no doubt wondering where its owner is. She obviously doesn’t know he’s with Caitlin, either. So they’re hiding it from both of us.
I slide into an empty seat and pull out my notebook, resolving to focus on nothing but astronomy for the next twenty minutes.
“We have time for one more question,” I hear Dr. Mann say.
My head snaps up. Already? I’ve absorbed about ten percent of what’s been said since I arrived and written all of three sentences in my notebook. The rest of the page is covered with doodled stars and lines connecting them.
My hand shoots up. “Hubble’s law,” I call out, before he can call on someone else. Dr. Mann meets my gaze and nods for me to continue. “I understand that the universe is receding from us,�
�� I say, “and that we’re receding from the rest of the universe at the same rate . . . right?” While I said I understood this, the truth is I’m only half-sure of what I just said. But Dr. Mann nods. “But how is that possible? Everything can’t be receding from everything, can it?”
“Ah,” Dr. Mann replies. “Excellent question. And one I came prepared for.” He roots around in his pocket, coins clanging against one another, and pulls out a red balloon. “Imagine that this is our universe,” he says, holding up the balloon. It’s covered in black marker dots. “And that each of these dots is a cluster of galaxies within our universe.” I hear Megan giggle. There’s a half-eaten piece of butterscotch candy stuck to the old man’s sleeve. “Hubble’s law says that the distances between these clusters are continuously increasing and, most significantly, that our universe is itself expanding.” Dr. Mann puts the balloon to his lips and begins to inflate it. As the balloon fills with air, the dots get farther and farther from each other. The butterscotch candy dangles from a strand of tweed.
“You said our universe.” Josh’s voice catches me by surprise. I turn to see him standing in the doorway, holding his notebook, a folded piece of paper on top.
Dr. Mann stops blowing and smiles.
“Ah. An observant listener.” The old man’s smile is enigmatic. “Ms. Barnes asked about Hubble’s law, which refers to the behavior of galaxies within our universe.”
“Wait, there’s more than one universe?” I ask, confused again.
“Of course,” Dr. Mann says, as though this is the most obvious thing in the world. “Haven’t you seen Star Trek?” There’s a smattering of laughter from the class. Dr. Mann ties off the balloon and volleys it to me. It lands in the center of my desk. “But let’s focus on this one for today,” he says, just before the bell rings. “Our universe has enough troubles of its own.” He says something else after that, but the shrill sound of the morning bell drowns it out.
I catch up with Tyler on D Hall. Except for a short bout of hysteria the night of the accident, Tyler has been his steady, pragmatic self since Ilana got hurt. Shaken, but not completely derailed by what happened to her. And why should he? He didn’t orchestrate the chain of events that put Ilana in that truck’s path. It was what I said to him that lit the fuse.
“You look like crap,” Tyler says when he sees me. “When was the last time you washed your hair?”
“Shut it. I’ve been in study mode.” Tyler doesn’t know how much time I’ve been spending at the hospital, either, or how little sleep I’ve been getting since the accident. “Hey, has Caitlin said anything to you about Josh?”
“Your Josh?”
“He’s not my Josh anymore,” I tell him. Because he’s Caitlin’s? It’s just a tiny kernel of doubt, but it’s there, lodged in my brain. Does she like him? Does he like her?
“What happened?” Tyler asks.
I shrug. “He wasn’t interested.”
He rolls his eyes. “Are you an idiot? Wait, don’t answer that. Of course you are. Barnes, the guy got all googly-eyed every time he looked at you.”
“He did not.”
“Yeah, because I would make that up.”
“If he was so interested, why didn’t he ever do anything about it?” I challenge.
Tyler stops walking and looks at me. “Why are girls so ridiculous?”
“What’s so ridiculous about wanting a guy to make the first move? And not some subtle, maybe-you-like-me-maybe-you’re-just-being-nice crap, either. What happened to the grand romantic gesture?”
Tyler considers this. “How grand are we talking here?”
“It’s too late,” I tell him. “He’s with Megan now.” That’s not what it looked like this morning. The kernel becomes an acorn of envy and fear.
“Hot Megan?”
I glare at him.
“I meant, ‘Megan who looks like a troll’?”
“Nice try,” I say, punching him in the arm. “I’ll see you later. Gorin hates when I’m late.” I pick up the pace to get to class. “Oh,” I say, stopping again. “Don’t tell Caitlin I asked about Josh,” I tell him.
“I’ll add it to the list,” he says.
I’m so preoccupied with the Caitlin/Josh mystery that I forget about my looming midterm until the lunch bell rings. My plan to sneak my lunch bag into the library for a last-minute cram session is thwarted by the throngs of kids with the same idea. All those wild-eyed people frantically turning pages threaten to throw me off my game, so I opt to study in the cafeteria instead. Caitlin and Tyler are at our regular table, with a couple of guys from the golf team. I slide in next to Caitlin and open my textbook. WHAT WERE YOU AND JOSH DOING THIS MORNING? my brain screams.
“I saw your car here early,” I say casually, keeping my eyes on the page. Beside me, Caitlin bristles.
“Could you move your book, please?” she snaps. “It’s digging into my arm.”
“Sorry. Jeez.” I scoot my book over and try again. “So, were you—?”
“I thought you were going to study in the library,” Caitlin says, not looking at me.
“I tried. But everyone else from my class was in there. Their stress was stressing me out.”
“Your stress is stressing me out,” Tyler says, not looking up. “I’m in the middle of a very important word battle here.” He and Efrain are sitting side by side, playing Words with Friends on their phones.
“Fine,” I reply, shutting my book. “I’ll go back to the library.”
“And . . . BAM. Toenail. Seven letters and a triple word.” Tyler waves his phone in Caitlin’s face. “Tell me I’m not a Scrabble genius.”
“You’re not a Scrabble genius,” Caitlin parrots. Something across the room catches my eye. A cheerleader, doing some sort of signal with her hands. She’s looking right at our table. I see Tyler see it, too.
“Oh, yeah?” Tyler’s voice is grander than it was a second ago. More dramatic. I see him glance in my direction, hesitating for a moment before continuing. “Let’s take a poll,” he says then, and stands up. When he does, his voice gets even louder. “Listen up, y’all!” he shouts as he mounts his chair. “I only have a few seconds before some nice, hardworking faculty member will force me to get down.” There’s a ripple of laughter as the cafeteria gets quiet. Tyler steps from his chair onto the blue-and-white-checked table, crunching a half-eaten chocolate chip cookie with his heel. What is he doing?
“Raise your hand if you’ve played Words with Friends with me,” Tyler calls to the crowd. At least thirty people raise their hands. “Keep your hand up if you’ve ever beaten me!” The hands go down. “I think that qualifies me as a Scrabble genius, don’t you?” There’s some cheering and scattered applause. “Well, my friend Caitlin here disagrees,” Tyler shouts. Jovial boos fill the room. Caitlin leans back in her chair, smiling serenely, waiting for the punch line. Through the walls, I hear a rumble of thunder from outside.
My eyes search Tyler’s face. Where is he going with this? Ms. Kirkland, our ornery assistant principal, hurries toward our table. I scoot my chair forward and make room for her, willing the old broad to hurry.
“How am I gonna prove her wrong, you ask? With a fifteen-letter word.” Tyler has the crowd captivated, expecting the joke. He looks over at a table of cheerleaders outfitted in blue and orange for today’s pep rally. “Can I get an I!” he calls to them.
“I!” they shout, clearly prepared for this.
“L!”
“L!” comes the echo. Pom-poms materialize. A couple of the girls are standing on their chairs, making Ls with their arms.
“O!”
“O!” Arms go overhead. More of them are standing on their chairs. Ms. Kirkland yells for them to get down, but everyone ignores her.
On the “V,” Tyler’s voice breaks just a little.
There’s no way he’d—
He plows through the next eleven letters, not waiting for his echo.
“E-Y-O-U-C-A-I-T-L-I-N!”
Oh, ye
s. He would.
Caitlin’s eyes widen. Her smile disappears.
This is a disaster.
“What’s that spell?” Tyler shouts. The crowd has reached fever pitch, hooting and hollering and banging their fists on the tables. Tyler raises his hands above his head, ready for the grand finale.
“I! LOVE! YOU! C—”
Before he can finish, I grab his leg and dig my fingernails into his calf.
“Ouch!” he yelps. “What was that for?”
“What are you doing?” I hiss, sharply aware of the fact that everyone in the cafeteria is staring at us.
“What?” Tyler replies. “You said she wanted a grand gesture.” His eyes go from me to Caitlin. He sees immediately that this has not gone how he hoped.
“What did he mean?” Caitlin’s eyes are boring into the side of my face, while mine are pinned on Tyler, willing him to jump in and help me out. I’m not sure how exactly he could fix things at this juncture, but some effort would be nice. “Abby,” Caitlin repeats, her voice like ice. “What did Tyler mean?”
The cafeteria is completely silent. Ms. Kirkland just stands there, clearly at a loss for her next move.
“Can I talk to you in the hall?” I ask meekly.
“No. Answer the question. Why did Tyler say, ‘You said she wanted a grand gesture’?”
“I was talking about Josh,” I tell her, keeping my voice down. “What he would’ve done if he’d been interested in me. Tyler must’ve taken it the wrong way.” I shoot a how-could-you-be-so-stupid look at Tyler, who’s still standing on the table.
“That’s all you said?” Caitlin asks. In the fluorescent lights, the skin under her eyes looks greenish gray, the way it looked at the Young Leaders brunch the morning after prom last year, after we stayed up all night watching Sex and the City reruns and eating Twizzlers while our dates were passed out in lawn chairs by her neighbor’s pool. She’s wearing concealer now, just like she did that morning, which she must’ve borrowed from her mom because Caitlin doesn’t own any. There’s a dot of skin-colored goo stuck to the inside corner of her left eye. “Abby.”
Parallel Page 19
