by Wendy Mass
“It is simple,” she replies. “We are here to help others.”
Bobby looks up. “Then what are the others here for?”
“Hush, child,” she says, playfully tapping him on the head with the comb. “The things that come out of your mouth!”
Lizzy laughs, but I actually thought it was a valid question. Could it really be that simple? If everyone helped everyone, there would be world peace. Maybe it is that simple. Somehow though, I don’t think that’s quite right. I’m all for people helping each other, but that seems more like a good idea, rather than the reason we’re here in the first place.
Even though it’s not that hot out today, I’m feeling sweaty and sticky. When was the last time I showered?
I thank Mrs. Sanchez and follow Lizzy up to the twins’ apartment. Samantha opens the door, dressed in black from head to toe. “To get in the right mood,” she explains when she sees us checking out her outfit. Even her eyes are rimmed in black.
Suddenly a lightbulb goes off in my brain. “Hey, eyeliner! That’s what eyeliner is!”
Samantha gives me a strange look, and Lizzy kicks me in the shin. I’m trying to figure out the most important questions in all of humanity, and my biggest breakthrough is about girls’ makeup? I am truly pathetic.
“Come on,” Samantha says, leading us down the hall. have the Ouija board set up in the living room.” Without turning around, she says, “Why do I smell peanut butter?”
I do a quick underarm check. Yup, it’s me. I really ought to keep up with my showering schedule better.
Rick is waiting for us. He is not in black. He is, however, wearing a cape. “Don’t ask,” he says. “Samantha made me. She said if I didn’t wear it and we couldn’t contact your father, it would be all my fault. Too much pressure, so I’m wearing it. It’s from an old Halloween costume. It’s not like I just happened to have a cape handy.”
This is the longest speech Rick has ever said to me. And it didn’t even have anything obnoxious in it. Maybe Lizzy was right about him.
The curtains have all been pulled, and Samantha switches off the lights before sitting cross-legged on the rug. You’d never know it was daylight outside. Lizzy, Rick, and I join her on the floor. The Ouija board is set up in the middle. That little plastic pointer thing is resting in the corner of the board. I haven’t used a Ouija board since my sixth-grade lab partner’s birthday party. We were trying to contact the spirit of George Washington, because he was the only dead person we could agree on. Everyone accused everyone else of cheating and pushing the pointy thing. Two kids went home crying. I hope this ends better.
“We are ready to begin,” Samantha says in a hushed tone. “Everyone join hands.” Reluctantly, I take Rick’s hand on one side, and Samantha’s on the other. “We are going to call upon the spirit of—” Out of the corner of her mouth she whispers, “What’s your dad’s name?”
“Daniel Fink,” I whisper back.
“We are going to call on the spirit of Daniel Fink,” Samantha continues. “Mr. Fink, if you can hear the sound of my voice, please send us a sign.”
I can hear the sound of my own breathing, along with faint sounds of traffic. A horn honks outside, and Samantha says, “Thank you! We will take that as a sign of your presence and your willingness to speak with us.”
I open my mouth to argue, but Lizzy shoots me a look from across the Ouija board. Samantha lets go of my hand, so I let go of Rick’s. He and Lizzy keep holding hands until I clear my throat, and she hastily drops his.
“Okay, everyone,” Samantha says. “Now gently lay the first two fingers of your right hand on the pointer.”
We all lean a little closer to the board and do as she says. She closes her eyes and begins to sway slightly from side to side. “O great spirit of Daniel Fink, we call upon you to answer our plea. Please tell us where we can find the keys to the box you left for Jeremy.”
For a few minutes, nothing happens. It’s more difficult than one might think to keep your hand resting lightly on a piece of plastic. I begin to get a cramp in my left leg. I stretch very carefully, lest I move the pointer and be accused of cheating. If my father were truly here, I would feel his presence, wouldn’t I?
“Do you feel anything?” Lizzy whispers, reading my mind.
“Yeah,” I reply. “I feel like an idiot.”
Rick snickers. For the first time he’s laughing with me, not at me or Lizzy.
“Shh!” Samantha whispers loudly. “Now concentrate!”
“What if Jeremy’s dad was already reincarnated?” Rick asks. “He might even be a five-year-old by now. He could be little Bobby Sanchez!”
“Shut up!” Samantha says, glaring at him. “Jeremy’s father is not Bobby Sanchez!”
“How do you know?” Rick asks.
Lizzy pipes in with, “He and Jeremy do get along really well….”
“This is ridiculous,” I say, pulling my hand away from the pointer. “I knew I should have spent the day figuring out how to be invisible!” As soon as the words are out of my mouth I regret them. What is wrong with me? Why do I just hand people reasons to make fun of me?
But instead of laughing at me, Rick says, “You want to learn how to be invisible? I can show you, no problem.”
Samantha groans. “Not that again! I thought you wanted to start fresh here. You know, be normal.”
“Don’t listen to her,” Rick says, springing to his feet. “She’s just jealous she’s not able to do it.” He takes off down the hall, cape billowing behind him.
Having no other option, I look at Lizzy for guidance. She shrugs. “Couldn’t hurt.”
“That’s what you said about this!” I point to the board.
“It’s not her fault,” Samantha says. “Maybe I did something wrong.” She looks so disappointed that I instantly feel bad.
“No, you were great,” I say, trying to sound sincere. “I’m not sure I really believe it’s possible to contact my dad. But thank you for trying. I know you were only trying to help.” I hurry after Rick before she can answer.
As I turn the corner, I hear her say to Lizzy, “He’s so sweet! Are you sure you guys aren’t dating?”
“I’m positive!” Lizzy replies without hesitation.
I’d blush at being called “sweet” if I weren’t still under the dark cloud of my existential crisis. By the way, I looked up existentialism, and the definition is: an analysis of individual existence in an unfathomable universe and the plight of the individual who must assume ultimate responsibility for his acts of free will without any certain knowledge of what is right or wrong or good or bad. I had to read the definition twice before I could understand it. One word sure can cover a lot of ground!
Rick’s bedroom is easy to pick out by the big skull and crossbones sticker. I knock on the door, half-hoping he will have disappeared and won’t be in there. What am I doing? Why am I trusting him?
“Come in and take off your sneakers,” he calls out.
I tentatively push the door open and find him on the floor, surrounded by books. As I pull off my sneakers, I notice a colorful poster with all these lines and shapes hanging over his bed.
“That’s a Sri Yantra diagram,” Rick explains. “The interconnecting triangles are supposed to lead you into a hypnotic state. It will be part of our training.”
I join him on the floor and peek at the book titles. The Dummy’s Guide to Mysticism, The Holographic Universe, and New Physics: It’s Not Your Father’s Physics. My heart quickens. These are the types of books I would read! Well, maybe not the mysticism one. I’m more of a science guy.
“Did you read all these?” I ask.
“Twice! And in order to become invisible, you’ve gotta understand the nature of reality. Now, you know there’s no such thing as objective reality, right? Like an actual, tangible reality?” First Mr. Rudolph tells me the word meaning has no meaning, and now this? Doubtful, I ask, “How is reality not real?”
“Everything we think we know is r
eally only perceived by our senses,” he explains patiently. “The sounds we hear are just waves in the air; colors are electromagnetic radiation; your sense of taste comes from molecules that match a specific area on your tongue. Hey, if our eyes could access the infrared part of the light spectrum, the sky would be green and trees would be red. Some animals see in completely different ways, so who knows what colors look like to them. Nothing is really how we perceive it. Get it?”
I nod again, astounded by what he is telling me. If the sky isn’t reliably blue, what hope do I have of finding the meaning of life? How can I find the meaning of life in a world where the sky could actually be green? Or orange?
He continues. “Matter—the stuff that all of us are made of—is really a wave of energy, only in a different form. The electrons buzzing around inside of us are everywhere and nowhere at the same time. Look down at your hand.”
I turn over my right hand and stare at my palm.
“If you had an atomic microscope, you’d be able to see the atoms making up the skin on your hand. At the center of each atom is a nucleus with neutrons and protons and electrons, right?”
“I don’t really know,” I admit. “We don’t have chemistry until next year.”
“Trust me, that’s the way it is. But the really weird thing is that the rest of the atom, the other ninety-nine–point–nine-nine of it is empty. Between each atom is a void. There is truly nothing holding us—or anything else for that matter—together.”
I stare so hard at my hand that my eyes start to sting.
“When you realize you’re just a wave of energy,” he says, with the air of someone coming to the punchline, “you can disappear.”
My eyes widen. “When do I start?”
“Right now,” Rick says. “Stand about a foot in front of the poster. Stare directly at the center of the design, but relax your eyes so they cross a little. Nod when you’ve got it.”
I try to relax my eyes, but each time I do, they start to close. Finally, I just look at the poster like I’m looking at something much farther away, and it seems to work. I nod to Rick.
“Great,” he says. “Now visualize a white light, and imagine yourself inside that light. The white light is getting really bright. It’s starting to absorb the objects in my room.”
“It is?” I ask.
“Yes. No talking! Now, see yourself getting blurry from inside the light until you can’t see the light anymore.”
My head gets lighter as I imagine the white light around me. It’s like the whole world is within that poster, and the edges of the design start to fade.
“Is it working?” I ask excitedly. “Am I invisible?”
Rick shakes his head. “Nope. I can still see you. Keep trying.”
I stare for another few minutes until I fear I may go cross-eyed for good. Sighing deeply, I reluctantly turn away from the poster. “How long did it take you to be able to do it?”
“Me?” he asks, surprised. “I’ve never actually tried it.”
I stare at him suspiciously.
“Hey, I never said I could do it, I just said I could teach you how.”
“I bet you never even read those books!”
He shrugs. “Read, skimmed, browsed, same difference.”
I quickly tug on my sneakers, putting them on the wrong feet and not stopping to correct them. Afraid to hear the answer, I nevertheless ask, “Did you make up all that stuff you told me, about the nature of reality?”
“No,” he says sincerely. “I swear. That’s all true.”
I’m relieved to hear that. But I’m still angry that he made me believe, even for a minute, that he could make me invisible. Without saying good-bye, I leave his room and almost trip over my feet as I run down the hall. When I pass Samantha’s room, I can hear her and Lizzy listening to music and laughing.
Rick catches up with me as I’m halfway out their front door. “Why would I ever need to be invisible? That’s only for little kids!”
I’m only one year younger than him, but I don’t turn around to remind him of this. I have only myself to blame for trusting him.
And maybe Lizzy. Definitely Lizzy.
Chapter 13: The Telescope
Mary places a tall glass of lemonade in front of each of us, and a plate of chocolate-chip cookies in the middle of the white patio table. She has melted a mini Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup in the center of each cookie. When she sees my joyful expression, she winks at me. And I thought nothing could get me out of my funk.
We’re sitting in Mr. Oswald’s back garden, because his desk drawers are being packed up. I had no idea there were gardens in Manhattan other than in the parks. The sounds of the street are muffled from here, and there’s actually a bird or two chirping away in the small trees. It is very peaceful.
“May I see your notebooks?” Mr. Oswald asks, holding out his hand. I unzip my backpack and hand mine to him. Lizzy pulls hers out of her front pocket and apologizes for mangling it.
It had taken me the full H.O.J. last night to write down my observations from the experience at Mr. Rudolph’s. I kept confusing what he had told us with what Rick had said about how at the deepest layer, nothing is connected. All night I felt like if I closed my eyes, I would float away into a void of nothingness. I know I should have recorded the visit right after we got home from it, but I was too busy wallowing in my identity crisis. Which, as peaceful as it is to watch butterflies flutter by, I have not entirely come out of.
I watch Mr. Oswald’s face as he reads Lizzy’s notebook first. Every once in a while he smiles, or nods, or looks puzzled. I glance over at Lizzy, and she’s squirming a bit, sticking and unsticking her bare legs from the plastic chair.
“Very good, Ms. Muldoun,” he says, closing her notebook and passing it back to her. “You have quite an eye for observing the tiny details of people’s surroundings.” Lizzy beams as she takes the notebook from him. “Perhaps next time,” he adds, “you can address a bit more of what the people you meet have to say, and how it made you feel. All right?”
Lizzy nods uncertainly, still clearly pleased with the previous compliment.
“And I hope you are enjoying your new lamp,” he adds with a smile.
“Oh, yes,” Lizzy says happily. “My dad put a light bulb in it and attached a new cord, and it works great! It makes our living room much more colorful.” Then she hurriedly adds, “I told Mr. Rudolph not to give it to me, honestly.”
Mr. Oswald smiles warmly. “I know. He told me.”
“You spoke to Mr. Rudolph?” I ask, surprised.
He nods.
“Did he, er, say anything about us?”
“Only that he enjoyed your visit very much.”
“Oh, okay, good,” I reply, relieved. Maybe Mr. Oswald wouldn’t like it if he knew we had asked him about the meaning of life. It’s not like it’s part of our job description. It isn’t his fault we’re doing this instead of looking for the keys to my dad’s box and learning the meaning of life from it.
As he opens my notebook and begins to read from the beginning, I can’t help but apologize for it up front. “I’m sorry about the randomness of what I wrote, Mr. Oswald. There’s been a lot to absorb.”
Without looking up, he says, “Never apologize for writing your truth, Mr. Fink. There are no right or wrong answers.”
I think he must be wrong about that. If there were no right or wrong answers, everyone in school would get straight A’s.
Lizzy slurps her lemonade and says, “I was worried Jeremy wasn’t going to write anything at all. You see, he’s been having an existential crisis.”
I would kick her, but she is across the table from me.
Mr. Oswald raises his eyebrows. “Is that so?”
Lizzy nods. “And then he tried to become invisible.”
I am tempted to throw my lemonade at Lizzy, but violence never solved anything.
Mr. Oswald looks at me. “You have been busy indeed. Now lets see what we’ve got here.” As he r
eads, Mr. Oswald mumbles, “Very interesting point here. And this one, too. Not sure what you mean by that, but I see where you’re going. Hmm, yes, hadn’t thought of it quite that way. Very good. Very astute.”
I redden as he hands the book back to me. I hurry to stick it deep in my backpack. Mr. Oswald turns to Lizzy. “Ms. Muldoun, why are you here?”
Lizzy puts her hands on the arms of her plastic chair like she’s about to push herself up. “Er, do you want me to leave?”
Mr. Oswald laughs. “No, no, of course not, I mean, why are you here?”
Lizzy tries again. “Because of a little misunderstanding at an office building?”
“No, no, not that,” Mr. Oswald says. “I meant, why do you think you are here on earth at this point in our history?”
“Oh,” Lizzy says. “I don’t know. I haven’t thought about it.”
“Jeremy here has given it a lot of thought. As his best friend, do you mean to tell me you haven’t thought about it some yourself?”
Lizzy shifts around uncomfortably in her seat. She pulls at the straw in her now empty glass.
“I really don’t know,” she mumbles. Then she abruptly stops fidgeting and says, “If you know so much, why don’t you tell us why we’re here?”
I cringe at Lizzy’s forwardness, but Mr. Oswald laughs and says, “In my day, Lizzy, you’d be what’s known as a spitfire.”
“Thanks,” she says, puffing out her chest. “I think.”
“But I’m afraid I can’t answer that question for you. In fact, I am not so sure it is the correct question in the first place.”
That figures. When I asked Mr. Rudolph about the meaning of life, he said the same thing. That I had the question wrong. How am I supposed to learn the answers if I keep messing up the questions? It’s moments like this when I would sell my left foot for a bag of Sour Patch Kids.
Mr. Oswald waits patiently as a bumblebee swoops down, buzzes around his glass, and flies off. “If I were you,” he says, “I’d be more interested in how we are here. Why is there something, instead of nothing? Perhaps if we understood that, we’d know the why of it.”