Sal and Gabi Fix the Universe

by Carlos Hernandez

  Gabi unbelted herself from her car seat, and Dad: The Final Frontier reached up, grabbed her with her left hand, and helped her down, carefully avoiding the frosted globe as she did. Once Gabi’s feet were on the ground, the tiny zipping bird that was really a camera drone shot into her hair and disappeared. (I guess that’s where she stored it until she needed it?) I could finally read her shirt. It said: “WHY, SOMETIMES I’VE BELIEVED AS MANY AS SIX IMPOSSIBLE THINGS BEFORE BREAKFAST.”—LEWIS CARROLL.

  The barrettes, the shirt: Now it made sense. Our whole school was reading Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland and Through the Looking-Glass right now. Next week would be the first parent-teacher conference night of the year, and at Culeco, they put on a performance featuring basically the whole school for the parents to enjoy. Gabi, as student council president, probably thought it was her duty to dress to match school assignments.

  “Good morning, Salvador Alberto Dorado Vidón Bruce Lee!” she said, stopping right in front of me and taking a sarcastic kung fu stance. Oh, Gabi loved to use my full name. And she loved making fun of my sleepwear even more.

  (And I know what you’re thinking, How many times has Gabi seen you in your sleepwear, you old dog? To which I’d answer: 1. Shut up; 2. If you had accidentally turned Gabi’s baby brother into a wormhole between universes, even if it was to save his life, you’d probably have secret nightly meetings with Gabi and little Iggy, too, to make sure you weren’t, oh, I don’t know, destroying the multiverse or something; 3. Shut up.)

  “Good morning, Gabi,” I replied. “Oh, by the way, NASA called about your hair. They want their terraforming project back.”

  One of the nice things about Gabi is that not only can she take a joke, but she actually gets weird astrobiology jokes like the one I’d just cracked. “Ha!” she ha-ed. Then, wagging a finger at me, she added, “Ah, don’t be mad at me, Sal! I was just joshing.” And, taking a step forward, she opened her arms like she was going to embrace me.

  Before she wrapped her arms around me, though, she remembered herself. She froze midstep, arms still wide, and asked, “Do you hug, Sal? I’m a hugger. But I don’t think we’ve ever hugged, and I don’t think I’ve ever asked you, and I don’t want to hug you if you don’t want to be hugged. Are you a hugger?”

  I mean, I hug the padres all the time, and Mami Muerta, too, whenever she’s—ahem—“visiting,” and as long as she isn’t trying to kill anyone. Also, I have to be in physical contact with people sometimes when I’m performing magic. But that’s different—that’s my job. When I’m off the clock, I’m not really a touchy-feely person. Touchy-feely people kinda creep me out. Go hug someone else, huggy person. Or better yet, hug off.

  But that was way more than Gabi needed to hear right now. So I just answered her by saying, “Only when I’m picking someone’s pocket.”

  Worked like a charm. Gabi took a step back and protectively stuffed her hands into her jeans pockets. “Don’t you dare take anything off my person, Sal. Like, ever.”

  The key to every successful trick is timing. “What,” I said, looking dog-in-the-cat-litter guilty, “if I already did?”

  Gabi was a magician’s dream come true: She was so good at looking horrified and offended. “No way, no way, no way!” she repeated as she patted herself down—her hair, her neck, her shirt, her pants, her socks, her shoes, and then all the way back up again in reverse order—trying to figure out what I’d yoinked from her.

  Of course, I hadn’t yoinked anything.

  While Gabi turned herself into a bongo drum, I walked over to Dad: The Final Frontier, who had been politely waiting her turn to speak to me.

  It was hard to tell Bonita wasn’t human until you knew what to look for. But once you noticed, you couldn’t not notice. Like, the way she never shifted her weight. Now, for instance, she stood straight as a rocket ready to launch, even though she had just run a million miles through the gooey Miami morning and had a giant hamster ball on her chest with a baby inside.

  But her biggest tell was the way she didn’t change her facial expression unless she remembered to. My friends, that’s not how humans work at all. *Puts on professor hat* Ahem: Quite often, the species Homo sapiens communicates with body language before they speak with their mouths. That’s why it’s so vital for magicians to get good at what the books call “understanding nonverbal communication.” People will tell you how to fool them if you just read the signs.

  Not robots, though. They only use body language because humans get creeped out if they’re talking to eyes that don’t blink or a nose that doesn’t crinkle when you fart. But the same way you know a good actor from a bad one, you can tell an AI’s body language isn’t real. Their eyes don’t require blinking to keep them moist, and they’ll smell your farts all day long and smile at you the whole time.

  When I met Dad: The Final Frontier and everyone told me she was a robot, I didn’t believe it. At first glance, she seemed too much like people. Looking at her now, though, I wonder how I ever could have been fooled. She’s so consistent: consistently straight-backed, consistently polite, consistently patient, consistently decent. Her default expression, the one her face was programmed to express when she didn’t expressly want to express anything, was a small, good-natured smile. It was always there, and it was always sincere. No Homo sapiens could keep up with her. She didn’t judge. She was tirelessly kind.

  “Good morning, Dr. Reál,” I said. “How are you this morning?”

  “All systems go!” she said, pumping a fist like an extra in a musical. “I am especially excited to discuss the breakthrough Dr. Vidón had this morning. This could be the revolution in calamity physics we’ve been waiting for.”

  “I hope it is,” I said, though my body language might have been saying the exact opposite.

  Before she noticed anything, I changed the subject. I tapped on the opaque ball hanging from her chest. Yep, it was definitely glass, but like the kind a smartphone’s screen is made of, and maybe even stronger. “I’m guessing this is one of your inventions?” I asked.

  She beamed. “It is! Iggy’s security sphere is the safest and most comfortable way to transport an infant since the invention of the womb!”

  “We’re very proud of it,” added Gabi, her helmet tucked under an arm. “We think she should patent it and sell it. We’ll be rich!”

  Dad: The Final Frontier patted Gabi’s head. “All profits will go straight into Iggy’s college fund. Is that not right, Iggy?”

  She held up her phone, which already had an app open on it. The app wasn’t much—just a row of three buttons. When she pressed the one on the left, the ball went completely transparent, and I could see Iggy. The outfit he had on was hilarious: It was a photo-realistic half-moon empanada onesie.

  I suddenly, unwillingly remembered that I used to love empanadas, back when Mami Viva made them. Haven’t had any nearly as good since. Basically, they’re never worth eating anymore, especially considering their carb count.

  Iggy was sleeping like a treasure chest at the bottom of the ocean. He lay on a darling, floofy baby bed in the center of the ball while the hoops that composed the gyroscope—the gizmo that kept him floating and stable—spun hypnotically all around him.

  And thanks be to pants, Iggy filled his empanada onesie to stretching. He’d been getting healthier and healthier ever since Gabi and I had connected him to an Iggy from another universe (with a little help from the Reál and Vidón families in that universe). Ever since, the two Iggys, who had two different conditions, had enabled each other not just to survive, but to thrive.

  But neither Gabi nor I understood how. No one did—not anyone we knew, at least. We had used meditation techniques to visualize the two Iggys being forever united, and—poof!—the power of positive thinking had worked. The two Iggys were connected across universes. And because of that, almost instantly, both were cured.

  For now, at least. Would the connection last? What if it didn’t? Would both babies get sick again? We
just didn’t know. So every time I saw that he was not only okay but flourishing—chacho was as plump as an uncooked turducken—waves of electric relief washed over my shoulders.

  “Hey, Iggster!” I whispered. I wanted to talk to him, but at the same time I didn’t want to wake him. Babies bring out all sorts of contradictory feelings in the people who love them, don’t they? Example: I’ve seen Gabi, Ms. Reál, every one of Gabi’s dads, and American Stepmom bite, pretend to eat, or otherwise insert one of Iggy’s feet in their mouths. Not kidding. Grown-ups are always munching on baby tootsies. What in the name of athlete’s foot sandwiches is that about? Blech.

  “I doubt he will wake up,” said Dad: The Final Frontier. “He is an excellent sleeper.”

  “Can he even hear me in the ball?”

  “If we let him,” Gabi answered. Reading her mind, Dad: The Final Frontier handed Gabi her phone. “This button”—Gabi showcased for me, pointing to the one on the right—“seals off the outside world. It makes the ball practically soundproof and lets in only filtered air. But it’s not on right now. Iggy Smalls can hear you just fine.”

  A few weeks ago, Gabi had wanted Biggie Iggy to be her hermanito’s rapper name, but apparently now she was trying on Iggy Smalls for size. Meh. I preferred Notorious I.G.G.

  Gabi turned to Iggy and launched into some dog-whistle-high baby talk. “Can’t you hear me, Iggy Smalls? Can’t you hear me just fine?”

  If he could hear her, he didn’t care a single slider. His mouth sucked an invisible binky as he kept right on snoozing.

  “As you can see,” Gabi deadpanned, “the Iggster is a heavy sleeper. I could flush him down a toilet and he wouldn’t wake up.”

  “That,” I said, “is the second time you’ve mentioned flushing Iggy down a toilet since I’ve known you.” I put up a hand to shield my mouth as I whispered to Dad: The Final Frontier, “Better keep an extra eye on Gabi. The sibling rivalry is strong in this one.”

  “Hey!” said Papi, popping out of the front door with his arms wide. He wore a guayabera that looked like cake frosting and pants that looked like pants. “Good morning, Bonita! Good morning, Gabi!”

  “Good morning, Gabi! Good morning, Bonita!” said American Stepmom, sneaking under Papi’s armpit and hugging him. She had on a pastel-colored skirt suit, light green and salmon and zombie-skin blue, that made the top of my mouth feel funny. Her work-clothes philosophy was If they’re gonna make me wear a suit, I’m gonna make them pay.

  “Good morning!” sang both of the Reáls who could speak.

  As my padres approached us, I glanced at little Iggy again. All my hair fell out, my arms disconnected themselves from their sockets, and then I collapsed into a heap of body parts. I mean on the inside.

  Now, sleeping right on top of him, was the fattest cat I’ve ever seen.

  I mean, since the last time I’d seen him. Meow-Dad and I had met before.

  A FEW WEEKS AGO, Gabi had come over to my house at creepy o’clock. She’d had Baby Iggy in a baby carrier, and a giant orange-and-white tabby in a cat carrier. She didn’t own a cat at the time, so I asked her where she’d gotten it.

  The answer, like the answer to every stupid question I asked these days, was The multiverse did it.

  Remember the Reál family from the other universe that I mentioned? The family that had helped us solve Iggy’s health issues? They owned a cat. And ever since Gabi and I had connected them, the Iggys from both universes had been engaged in a transdimensional tug-o’-war to hug him and squeeze him and call him George. Apparently, the Iggy from my universe had won the latest battle, because now all of planet-size Meow-Dad lay fast asleep on top of him.

  I had to hide that fat cat, stat.

  I didn’t think. I lunged for the phone, my index finger extended, aiming for the app’s left button, the one that would frost the globe over. If I was fast enough, no one would see that a weird space cat had magically appeared, and I wouldn’t have to explain how I had created a connection between babies from two different universes.

  (In case you need reminding, the padres are trying to get me to break the universe a little less often.)

  (Also, I’d prefer to break the universe less often, all things being equal.)

  If I had actually touched the left button, I’d be telling you a different story, one of how awesome my aim is, how great I am under pressure. But I missed.

  The security sphere Dad: The Final Frontier was wearing did not frost over, like it would have if I had hit the leftmost button. Nor did it make itself soundproof and start pumping filtered air into itself, like it would have if I had touched the rightmost button. I, you see, had touched the middle button, which did something totally different.

  The middle button turned the security sphere into a disco ball.

  A flashing, blindingly bright disco ball. It even came with its own disco music. Loud as a house party, the security sphere started blaring out a song called “Funkytown.”

  I mean, I think it was called “Funkytown.” I’d never heard it before, but half the lyrics were either the word “funky” or “town.” Seemed like a pretty good guess.

  But what mattered at that moment wasn’t the name of a song they used to dance to in Meso-freaking-potamia. What mattered is that Gabi and I and American Stepmom and Papi were so startled that, faster than a tennis serve, all of us jumped our meatbags backward.

  Papi and American Stepmom did a clumsy, involuntary two-person cartwheel and fell inside the Coral Castle. Gabi Catwomaned backward, dropped Dad: The Final Frontier’s phone on the road, and landed crouched, claws out, ready for combat. Her hair poofed itself to maximum poofiness, to make her seem bigger to predators.

  And of course, Salvador Vidón buttplanted in the most undignified way possible.

  Why am I always buttplanting? I hate how easily startled I am. Seriously, I end up on my can four to fifteen times a week, depending on how pranky American Stepmom is feeling. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad if I had a heinie to speak of. But, chacho, I got buttcheeks like beef jerky. The skeleton hanging at the doctor’s office has more meat on its seat than I do.

  Looking up from my buttplanted perspective, I saw that Dad: The Final Frontier seemed rather amused by all our jumping and Catwomaning and pratfalling. Of course, that could just be her resting sweet face. It didn’t always project how she felt inside, I reminded myself.

  But you know what? She could’ve chosen to change it to any other kind of face—like, say, an Are you humans okay? face, or maybe a Let me help you up! face. Some of us had just added a new crack to our butts.

  Instead, she smiled at me with all the warmth and concern of a mannequin and said, surprisingly loudly, “Congratulations, Sal! You have discovered my favorite feature of the security sphere! Disco Fever Mode!”

  Nothing seemed to hurt too much. I got up carefully. “Can you shut off that racket?!”

  She nodded excitedly. “Yes! I can!” And she stared and smiled-not-smiled at me.

  Sometimes you must be direct with class-nine AIs, I reasoned. So I said, very clearly, and very loudly, “Please, shut it off!”

  “I can’t, Sal!”

  Oh, that smile of hers was looking not so neutral anymore. Now it was looking absolutely trollish.

  “But you just said you could!”

  She looked at the sun, which you can do without risk of harming your eyes if you have artificial eyes like hers. “I can turn off the music in theory!”

  Have you ever, while getting whupped by someone in a board game, had the urge to flip the whole table, send the pieces scattering, and destroy everything before you lose? Yeah, that was me right then. “What do you mean, ‘in theory’?!”

  “In theory, because an off button exists, and it can be activated to stop the music. But in practice, that isn’t possible at the moment. The off switch is on my phone, and Gabi has my phone. So, in practice, I can’t.”

  But before I said anything I might regret, the music stopped.

  The sud
den silence was as startling as pressing the middle button had been. For a second, I was weirdly sorry the music was gone. Now I would never know if the singer ever made it to Funkytown.

  I looked over to Gabi, who, yes, had picked up Dad: The Final Frontier’s phone and turned off the music. “It’s early in the morning, Sal,” she chastised. “Some of your neighbors are probably still trying to sleep. Why in the world would you activate Disco Fever Mode?”

  “Um, hello,” I answered, pointing accusingly at the security sphere (which still looked like a disco ball, even without disco music, effectively camouflaging Iggy). “I didn’t know what that button did, Gabi.”

  “Then why did you press it?” said Dad: The Final Frontier. Now her expression changed to one of parental concern. “Pressing unfamiliar buttons can be very dangerous.”

  “I wasn’t aiming for the middle button,” I answered her, as calmly as a goat chews. “I was aiming for the left button. To make the ball frosty again.”

  “O-kay,” said Gabi, looking sideways. “But why?”

  “Yeah, Sal,” said Papi, walking up to us, his arm around American Stepmom’s waist. I noticed a few lipstick prints on his cheek. Also, now his guayabera was misbuttoned. “You’re around highly advanced scientific equipment all the time. You know better than to push unknown buttons.”

  American Stepmom’s lipstick was smeared. Half her hair had escaped out of her scrunchie, and curls flopped and flailed in every direction, like a terrified octopus. “It really doesn’t sound like you, Sal.”

  I couldn’t let anyone deactivate the Disco Fever Mode, or they’d see Meow-Dad and the jig would be up (whatever the heck a “jig” is). So I turned to the padres accusingly. “What took you so long to come out of the house?”

  “We fell,” said Papi.

  “And we had to get up,” said American Stepmom.

  “And check to see if we were okay,” Papi added.

  American Stepmom walked two fingers up Papi’s arm. “I liked that part.”