Parallel

by Lauren Miller

  “She?”

  “We’re at some lady’s house in Hamden,” Marissa replies. “Ben found her on Craigslist.” When he heard we didn’t have costumes yet, Ben appointed himself costume master for tonight’s activities, which consist of a pre-party at Michael’s house, a few hours at Inferno (the infamous banned-for-five-years-but-now-it’s-back Halloween party in the courtyard of Pierson College), then on to the midnight symphony at Woolsey Hall.

  “Which Power Ranger do you want to be?” I ask Michael.

  “Green!” he shouts, flinging off the covers and leaping to his feet. “Go, go, Power Rangers!” With his hair all messed up, he looks like a little kid. With underwear-model abs. “I’m gonna get some water,” he tells me, then pads out of the room in his jeans and bare feet.

  I hear the beep of an incoming call. “What about you?” Marissa wants to know. “Which color?” The line beeps again. I pull the phone away from my ear to check the number. It’s an L.A. area code, but I don’t recognize the number. Who could possibly be calling? It’s six in the morning on the West Coast, and none of the people I know in California remember knowing me.

  “Abby?” I hear Marissa say. “Did I lose you?”

  “No, no, I’m here,” I say. “Sorry. I was getting another call. Did you ask me something?”

  “Just what color you wanted.”

  “Oh! Yellow, I guess?”

  “Yay! Okay, we’re buying them. See you guys tonight!”

  As soon as we disconnect, it dawns on me that Caitlin probably doesn’t have a costume yet, either. She’s been spending so much time at Dr. Mann’s lab (and on the train getting to Dr. Mann’s lab) that I doubt she even knows it’s Halloween. I text Marissa to tell her to get all five suits, just in case. As I’m putting my phone back in my bag, it vibrates with a new voicemail.

  “So what’re you up to today?”

  Michael has reappeared, holding two glasses of water and sucking on an Atomic Fireball. His face is damp, like he just washed it. I, meanwhile, can feel dried drool on my cheek. I grab a stick of gum from my bag, eager to mitigate the effects of last night’s beer pong. My tongue feels like it’s coated in cotton.

  “Library,” I say. “I have a YDN article to write and two hundred pages of reading to finish before my Philosophy of Theology midterm on Monday.”

  “Let’s study together,” he suggests, handing me one of the glasses. “I loved that class.”

  “You took Hare’s class?” I ask between gulps.

  He nods. “Freshman year. After twelve years at a Christian school, I figured it’d be an easy A.”

  “You went to Christian school?” I’d pictured a prestigious East Coast prep school, somewhere with a Latin motto and its own coat of arms.

  “Yup. K through eleven.” Michael turns away and starts digging through the pile of clothes on his desk chair.

  “But not senior year?”

  “Nope. Senior year was public school.” He pulls out a Red Sox T-shirt, smells it, then puts it on. “Clean,” he declares, and grins. “You want some breakfast?”

  There is so much I want to know about this guy whose bed I’ve just slept in. Despite the amount of time we’ve spent together over the past seven weeks, I can still count the things I know about him on one hand: He’s from Massachusetts. His middle name is Evan. His parents are divorced, and he’s never mentioned any siblings. And now, this latest tidbit: twelve years of parochial school. It’s not that he’s evasive about personal stuff—he just doesn’t offer it up. And I, not wanting to pry, don’t ask.

  “So?” Michael says as he walks me to the door. Knowing the contents of the Beta pantry, I passed on the breakfast offer. “You up for a study date tomorrow?”

  “Sure,” I tell him. “Sounds great.” Actually, the idea kind of terrifies me. Maybe if I spend today studying but act like I didn’t, I’ll know enough to seem believably but not embarrassingly unprepared. Just as I’m turning to go, he pulls me into a kiss. Grateful for the gum in my mouth, I kiss him back, tasting the cinnamon heat of the Fireball on his lips. I close my eyes and inhale, breathing in the scent of him, sugary cinnamon and soap. There’s something so familiar about the combination. I inhale again, deeper this time. And all of a sudden it’s not Michael I’m kissing but Josh.

  I snap my head back, caught off guard by the memory. Michael gives me a quizzical look. “Everything okay?” he asks.

  “Yeah, uh, everything’s fine,” I say. “I should get going, that’s all. See you later!” I peck him on the cheek and hurry down the steps.

  The crowd at Starbucks is pretty small for a Saturday morning, which is incentive enough for me to stop. It takes all my willpower not to think about Josh and that kiss as I’m waiting to order. The memory just keeps popping up, taunting me with its movie-moment perfection. The blanket of stars, the cool night breeze. Don’t be silly, Abby. I want to date you. Are you free tomorrow night?

  An impatient homeless man in tattered army fatigues stands uncomfortably close to me in line, jingling coins in his hand. “It’s your turn!” he yells gruffly, inches from my ear. I step up to the counter and quickly order my latte.

  “That’ll be five eighty-five.” The cashier looks bored.

  As I dig through my bag for my wallet, the guy behind me taps his foot loudly and impatiently, still jingling his coins. Frazzled, I start taking stuff out and putting it on the counter. Mascara . . . keys . . . cell phone . . . a travel pack of Band-Aids . . . a package of highlighters . . . yesterday’s YDN. Where is my wallet? The coin jingling intensifies. When I was in L.A., I bought this great vintage messenger bag with five compartments—my consolation prize for having to put college on hold. Now I’m back to using my old slouchy black satchel, a bag with a mind of its own. Invariably, whatever item I need has disappeared to the very bottom. Like my wallet has done at this particular moment. By the time I find it, my latte is already ready and the guy behind me is about to lose it. “I’ll pay for his, too,” I whisper to the cashier, handing him an extra five-dollar bill. Feeling like I’ve broken the social code by taking too long in the Starbucks line, I keep my head down as I grab my coffee and bolt out the door.

  Marissa and Ben are still gone when I get back to our room, which is good, because I want to be at the library by ten, and there is no such thing as a five-minute conversation with Ben Blaustien. He’s so well-read and well-watched and well-listened that he’s always just read/seen/heard some super-fascinating story on CNN.com or NPR that he assumes you’ll find equally fascinating and want to hear all about and then discuss at length. Great if you’re stuck in an elevator or standing in line for pizza at Yorkside. Not so great when you’re in a time crunch because you need to cram for a study session with the guy you’re pretty sure is your boyfriend even though neither of you have called him that yet.

  I drop my bag on my bed and step out of my boots. As I’m unbuttoning my jeans, my eyes wander to the wall above my desk, to the spot where I hung my birthday present from Marissa. The photograph of Caitlin and me at the Freshman Picnic.

  Only . . . it’s gone.

  There’s a framed photograph there, but it’s of me by myself, sitting cross-legged under an oak tree on Cross Campus. It’s a cool, arty shot—obviously Marissa’s handiwork. But it’s not the picture she gave me.

  Beads of sweat prickle on my upper lip. Where’s the other photo?

  The memory of my fight with Caitlin comes barreling back.

  “Oh, God,” I breathe. There’s no picture of us because Caitlin and I aren’t friends anymore.

  No. That can’t be right. That fight was last October. Sure, it was awful, but there’s no way Caitlin and I stayed mad at each other for an entire year.

  Frantic for answers, I dump the contents of my bag on my bed, but my phone’s not there. Crap. I must’ve left it at Michael’s.

  With shaking hands, I reach for my laptop. If Caitlin and I stopped being friends last October, then my screensaver picture of Caitlin, Ty, and me at g
raduation doesn’t exist anymore. My screen lights up. The graduation photo is gone.

  I click on the camera icon and quickly scroll through the rest of last year’s photos.

  After October, Caitlin’s not in any of them. Not a single one.

  I have to talk to her. Now.

  I sprint from Vanderbilt to Silliman in my socks, colliding with four different sets of passersby and nearly taking out a man on a bike. When I get to Caitlin’s door, I bang on it. Her roommate, Muriel, opens it, still half-asleep.

  “Abby?”

  “You know who I am!”

  “Of course I know who you are,” Muriel replies, looking at me like I have three heads. “But Caitlin’s not here. She’s at the lab.”

  “Whose lab? Dr. Mann’s?”

  Muriel nods, rubbing her eyes sleepily.

  Grinning like a madwoman, I throw my arms around her. “Thank you!” Out of the corner of my eye I see the keys to Muriel’s Civic, hanging on a hook by the door. The next train doesn’t leave for an hour. “Can I borrow your car?”

  Muriel shrugs. “Sure. It’s in the lot on Sachem.”

  “Thank you!” I throw my arms around her again.

  “Wait, you’re not high, are you?” Muriel eyes me suspiciously.

  “No!” I grab the keys from the hook before she can change her mind. “I’ll bring it back this afternoon!” I call as I sprint down the stairs.

  I make excellent time. Since it’s a Saturday, I ignore the PERMIT HOLDERS ONLY signs in the parking lot at Olin Observatory and park next to the only other car in the lot, a bright-yellow Smart car with Connecticut plates and an EXPECT THE UNEXPECTED window sticker. At least I know I’m in the right place.

  According to the directory by the main entrance, Dr. Mann’s office is on the sixth floor. Once I’m up there, it’s not hard to find. His door is the only one covered in newspaper headlines about last year’s earthquake. Next to this door there’s another one, marked LAB. The knob turns easily in my hand.

  I push open the heavy metal door and step inside. On the far wall, an oversized digital clock declares the time down to the millisecond. Beside it, there is a giant magnetic calendar with a movable red X on today’s date. Dr. Mann is standing in front of a floor-to-ceiling chalkboard that runs the length of the eastern wall, studying a string of equations, his shirtsleeves rolled up to the elbow. Caitlin is nowhere around.

  Quietly I turn to go, hoping to slip out without being noticed. But the door clangs shut before I can catch it.

  “Good morning, Ms. Barnes!” Dr. Mann calls.

  “Hello,” I reply, suddenly feeling very awkward. “I’m so sorry to disturb you.”

  “Nonsense! It’s not a disturbance at all. Come in!”

  I find a smile and step farther inside. “Is Caitlin around?”

  “She’s at the library, trying to track down an old manuscript for me,” he replies. “Friedrich Schiller’s Vom Erhabenen. Are you familiar with it?”

  “Uh, I don’t think so, no.” I glance back at the door, wishing I could will my way back out of it.

  Dr. Mann motions for me to sit, then turns back to the long string of variables, symbols, and numbers on the board, tapping his nose thoughtfully as he examines his handiwork.

  “What is it?” I ask.

  “I’ve been calling it the destiny force,” he says.

  I wait for him to elaborate, but he doesn’t. “The destiny force,” I repeat.

  Dr. Mann nods. “I am attempting to calculate the force—the pull, if you will—of a person’s predestined future.”

  “So you believe in fate,” I say.

  Dr. Mann pauses thoughtfully before answering. “I believe each of us was uniquely created for a specific purpose designed by the Creator, and that, because of that, there are certain things in our lives that we are destined by Him to do. The rest, I think, is soft clay: left entirely to the defining influences of choice, chance, and circumstance. And luck! Don’t forget luck.” He touches the capital L in his equation with his fingertip, leaving an imprint in its base. “The trick,” he says then, “is how to determine which is which.” He smiles. “But I’m afraid there’s no equation for that.”

  Staring at the blackboard, I let my gaze blur. Every life, an equation. Who’s writing mine?

  I look at Dr. Mann. “Chance and luck and all that aside . . .” The old man’s eyebrows shoot up at my wholesale dismissal of his variables, but I forge on. “Can a person avoid her destiny? Or refuse it?”

  The professor’s blue eyes sparkle. “That’s what I’m trying to figure out,” he tells me, turning back to his equation. “The force of one’s destiny, in mathematical terms. And, most particularly, whether that value varies from person to person.”

  “So if my parallel and I are sharing a reality, then is our equation the same?” Dr. Mann gives me a curious look. “Theoretically, I mean,” I say quickly, feigning breeziness with an awkward wave of my hand. “If we were to become entangled with a parallel world, you know, like your theories suggest.”

  “You ask exactly the right question,” he says, his eyes alight with understanding. “What is your sense of the answer?”

  I falter. “I don’t know,” I admit. “I’d like to believe I have my own destiny, but I guess if my life weren’t entirely my own anymore . . .”

  “Your life is always your own,” Dr. Mann says sharply. “You are a uniquely created being with a transcendent soul. A new set of memories or an altered sense of reality cannot change what is fundamentally true.” He’s watching me closely now, measuring my reaction. “Your path will change,” he says then. “Your destiny never will.”

  “But what if I’m on the wrong path?”

  “There is no wrong path,” he explains. “Not when it comes to destiny. There are only detours, you see.” He studies me for a moment longer, then adds, “You said something curious when you came to see me back in September. I’ve been puzzling over its meaning ever since.”

  I try my best to keep my expression neutral. “Oh?”

  “I believe your words were, ‘Why does no one but me . . .’” He trails off, his gaze unblinking and pinned on mine. “You stopped abruptly, as if you’d said too much.”

  It takes everything I have not to look away. My palms are damp with sweat.

  “A few moments later, Ms. Moss asked about anomalies.” Dr. Mann cocks his head to one side, like a bird. “It was a very specific question, if I recall, about the possibility that someone might keep their knowledge of the way things were before the collision.” He pauses as if waiting for my reaction.

  “Oh,” is all I say.

  He smiles sympathetically, as if we’re discussing a bout of indigestion, or a tooth that needs repair. “Is that ‘someone’ you?”

  I expect to feel panic, but instead I’m washed in relief. Still, I can’t bring myself to nod.

  Dr. Mann doesn’t press it. “When you’re ready,” he says kindly. “I’d be happy to help, if I could.” Then he looks past me and beams, the way a proud father might. “But I’d say you’re in good hands already.”

  “Abby?” I turn to see Caitlin standing at the door, holding a stack of photocopied pages. She takes in my socked feet and the rim of slept-in mascara around my eyes. “Everything okay?”

  “Everything’s great!” I say brightly. “I just stopped by to say hi.” Caitlin doesn’t buy this, and clearly, neither does Dr. Mann. But he just bows politely and reaches for his jacket. “I could use a cup of tea,” he announces, moving toward the door. “Would you girls like one?”

  “No, thanks,” we say in unison.

  As soon as the door clangs shut, Caitlin beelines over to where I’m standing. “What are you really doing here?”

  “Dr. Mann just asked if I kept my real memories,” I whisper, even though we’re alone in the room. “I didn’t say no.” Caitlin’s face lights up.

  “So we’re telling him?” she asks excitedly.

  “I don’t know. Maybe. But that
’s not why I came.”

  “Abby, if he knows anyway, why not just—”

  “I remember the fight.”

  Caitlin gets quiet. “Oh.” She fiddles with her grandmother’s bracelet. “It was awful,” she says softly.

  “It wasn’t really us,” I remind her, as though it’ll make a difference now. “It was them.”

  “Those bitches.” It’s a joke, but her voice is sad.

  “How did it end?” I ask. “Please, fast-forward to the happy ending. How did we make up?”

  “We didn’t,” she says. “Not officially, anyway. You called me on your birthday and acted like it never happened. That was the first time we’d spoken since the day of the fight. Unless you count the encounter our parents orchestrated on move-in day, which was so awkward and awful that my mom burst into tears two minutes in.”

  But October 30 to September 9 is nearly eleven months. The longest Caitlin and I have ever gone without talking is three days. Memorial Day weekend 2003, after she didn’t save a seat for me on the bus to the aquarium for the sixth-grade field trip (I found out later that Ms. Dobson told her she couldn’t).

  “We stopped being friends over a guy?” I say. “Over Tyler?”

  Caitlin hesitates for a second, then says, “The fight wasn’t about what you told Ty. Not really. I was upset about that—and embarrassed about what he did in the lunchroom, and horrified about what you said about Craig—” Her voice breaks a little at his name.

  “Oh God, Caitlin. I can’t believe I—I’m so sorry.”

  “It’s okay,” she says. “I said some awful things, too. I was just so angry at you already.”

  “Angry at me for what?”

  She looks away, but not before I see the hurt in her eyes. “You promised to edit my essay for Yale.”

  Her personal statement. The one thing Caitlin asked me to do for her last year. The one thing. How many times did I promise to edit it? Half a dozen, at least. I remember being annoyed that she felt like she had to keep asking me after I’d already said I’d do it. As if I needed to be reminded how important it was to her. I knew how self-conscious she was about her dyslexia. How much she was relying on my help. And I never even read it. The worst part is, I didn’t even realize I’d forgotten until now.