by Kari Luna
“Nice job on the dishes,” Mom said, appearing in the doorway.
I turned off the faucet.
“You are definitely grounded,” she said. “Phone, please.”
“Mom! You just gave it to me. Plus it’s the weekend. I have plans.”
“Not anymore,” she said. “I need to keep tabs on you until we figure this thing out.”
As if “this thing” was something to be figured out, especially by someone who thought the only problem I had was an overactive imagination. At least, that’s what Mom told herself and, by association, me.
“But this is my first offense,” I said, handing her the phone. “Don’t I at least get a warning?”
“What about me?” Mom said. “Where’s my warning? I never know what’s going on with you, and you won’t tell me, so I have to hear it from your principal. From now on, I want the truth. And I want to hear it from you.”
Mom thought she wanted the truth, but she didn’t. No one did, because once it was out there, you couldn’t take it back. I wanted nothing more than to tell her that, without warning, I played poker with a panda marching band. I saw the lunch ladies cover the Ramones. And I had a shaman panda who thought that all of this meant something, that I was on a path. I wanted to tell her how hard it was to have a reality you couldn’t count on, especially in another new town. But more than that, I wanted to make her promise not to leave like Dad did. I wanted her to tell me I’d never be alone.
“That thing in the cafeteria wasn’t my fault,” I said.
“Oh, no?” she said, shaking her head. “That’s what your father used to say. You can do better than that.”
Balzac meowed and hopped in my lap.
“What if I don’t want to?” I said, stroking his fur.
“Then you’ll sit in your room and think about it until you do,” she said.
“Fine,” I said, hopping up, sending Balzac flying.
“No going out, no phone, no Internet until I say so.”
“How am I supposed to do my homework?” I said, already missing the chats I was planning with Finny in my mind. I couldn’t wait to tell him about Drew.
“Use that old typewriter you love so much.”
“This is so unfair,” I said. Especially now that I had a boy who liked me, a potential date and gossip to convey. This was the first time in my life I’d actually needed technology, which meant her penalty was even more punishing than she realized. I was hoping she’d cave in, but instead she used the same line as every other parent in America.
“Life is unfair,” she said. “Go to your room.”
I marched upstairs, slammed my door and played Bauhaus at full volume. In seconds, my room filled with the droning sound of bass, Peter Murphy and the energy of my own anger. So instead of fighting it, I gave in to it, taking off my shoes, flopping on my bed and bemoaning my fate. Just like a normal teenager.
EIGHT
“Can I come in?”
Mom knocked on my door and then opened it.
“You’re already in,” I said, yawning. At some point, I had fallen asleep, record sleeves and books all around me.
“In bed already?”
“Incarceration is exhausting,” I said, popping my arms out of the covers. “What did you bring me?”
“Chocolate chocolate chip or toffee swirl?” she said, taking ice cream out of a bag. Anytime she punished me, which wasn’t often, she always showed up a few hours later with ice cream. Two pints, one conscience, cleared.
“Chocolate,” I said. “I think I’m supposed to be giving you the silent treatment, though.”
“And you will,” she said, handing me a pint. “It’s hard to talk with ice cream in your mouth. Scoot over.”
Mom climbed into bed with me like she had for the first few weeks after Dad left. I’m sure it was supposed to be the other way around—me coming to her—but she always beat me to it, curling up behind me. Jeans brushing pajama legs. Her sobs never as soft as she thought they were.
“You told the principal you were a sleepwalker?”
We sat side by side, legs out, backs propped on pillows.
“It seemed brilliant at the time,” I said. “I didn’t think about having to get a doctor’s note. Or the fact they would eventually figure out your work number.”
Mom scooted closer so that her leg touched mine.
“Quite the elaborate plan,” she said. “You must really like it here.”
“I do,” I said. And then I looked at her, really looked at her, for the first time all night. “Don’t you?”
She licked ice cream off her spoon. “I like that you have a friend.”
“So we’ll figure it out?”
“For now,” she said, her words like storm clouds, gathering. “There’s one condition, though,” she said. “Lie for your safety, if you have to, but don’t lie to me.”
She had no idea those were one and the same. One mention of my shaman panda and the car would have been packed by morning, the three of us hundreds of miles away by noon.
“Okay,” I said. “But I have a condition, too. I need you to tell me what was wrong with Dad.”
“Nothing was wrong,” she said. “He had an overactive imagination, just like you do. The facts haven’t changed.”
“But I’ve changed,” I said. “I’m older. Maybe I’ll hear things differently.”
“Not tonight,” Mom said. “I can’t take any more pain right now.”
Neither could I, I thought. Pain was having a crush that would never happen. Pain was being broken and not knowing how to fix it.
“So tell me something else,” I said. And even though I knew the story, I asked for it, anyway. “Tell me how you and Dad met.”
Mom put the lid on her ice cream and set it, along with the spoon, on my nightstand. I was eating mine slowly, letting the chocolate chips melt on my tongue before spooning more in.
“We met at NYU,” Mom said. She was using her dreamy voice. “Your dad was studying physics, I was studying modern dance, and he showed up at my class every day for a month, trying to join the troupe. Just to be close to me.”
“But he didn’t dance,” I said, which I knew. He had like a hundred left feet.
“But he kept showing up,” Mom said. “After a while, the teacher was so enamored with him, she made him an understudy. He never performed, not once, but he didn’t care.”
“Because you were there,” I said, thinking about Drew. Wondering if he’d text before Monday, even if I couldn’t read it.
“Yes, but I ignored him,” Mom said. “The difference was, your father never gave up. And after a few months of strawberry-ginseng-banana smoothies, I fell in love.”
“That smoothie sounds like the opposite of love to me.”
“It was the eighties,” Mom said, laughing. “We all drank that stuff. Besides, things like that don’t matter when you’re in love. You’ll see.”
I wondered if I was going to be seeing anytime soon. I handed her my ice cream and sank deeper into the bed, pulling the covers up to my chin.
“Most of the time I hate him,” I said, thinking about Dad. But I couldn’t help thinking about other things, like Sunday mornings and the crossword puzzle, the way I hung on to their banter like air, words flying back and forth, kisses in between. I ate cereal until I popped, just so I could stay in the room with them.
“But sometimes you miss him.” Mom smoothed the hair off my face. “That’s okay,” she said, voice shaking. “Sometimes I miss him, too.”
She leaned in, kissed my forehead, and a tear dropped onto my face. I told myself it wasn’t my fault she was sad, that she got there on her own, but I knew it wasn’t true. Dad put both of us there, whether he meant to or not.
NINE
My family never did the church thing, but Dad said saints were an except
ion. He had this massive book about them, and I devoured it, repeating names over and over like the lyrics to a good song while sitting in his green leather chair, feet dangling. Saint Francis of Assisi, bird preacher. Saint Lydwina, protector of ice skaters. And my favorite, Saint Christina the Astonishing, patron saint of mental illness. She proved you could be flashy and holy at the same time. She also hated being around people because she could smell sin on them. So instead of wearing perfume, she climbed buildings and trees. Hid in cabinets and cupboards. And when there was nowhere else to go, she levitated.
I used to want a saint who would bring me an endless supply of striped socks, but lately I’d been thinking about Christina. I found her card stuck in one of my books this morning and put it in my pocket. Christina probably couldn’t stop my episodes completely, but maybe she could at least teach me how to levitate out of them. It was number one on my list.
How to Survive Going Back to School After an Episode
by Sophie Sophia
Levitate out of any uncomfortable situation.
Since you can’t actually levitate, ignore people.
Tell them you weren’t sent home early, you went to Paris.
Why Paris? Why not Paris?
Redirect attention to your outfit. Wasn’t it inventive?
Repeat the following: I am more than my episodes. (It’s true.)
Mom barged into the bathroom as I was getting ready. Normally I would have demanded my private time, but after a weekend spent in communication lockdown, I was happy to see her.
“Pardon moi, I’m working on my visage,” I said in my best French accent, a mix of Peter Sellers and Pepé Le Pew.
“That’s right, you have French this morning,” Mom said.
I wasn’t even taking French, but my face was covered in an oatmeal-citrus mask, so I couldn’t exactly correct her.
“Did you know that your great-grandfather was from Lyon? You practically have French in your blood.”
I laughed and cracked my mask. “That’s gross,” I said. “It’s like ooh! Get them out! The French are in my blood, invading me with their poodles and café au laits!”
Mom sighed and grabbed my brush off the counter. She moved behind me and ran it through my hair. It was one of the few rituals we still kept, so I let her do it.
“You must be a hit at school,” she said.
“Not yet,” I said. “I try to lay low the first semester. And then—when they least expect it—my wit and I attack.”
I saw one of her eyebrows raise in the mirror.
“That’s no way to make friends, Soph,” she said. “And you might want more than one.”
I scowled and my mask crumbled and fell into the sink.
“For your information, I have two friends,” I said.
“Really?” Mom took the brush away from my hair and then looked at me like she’d just discovered a new species.
“Aha,” she said. “What’s his name?”
“How do you know it’s not a girl?”
“Please,” she said, brushing her own hair. “Look at what you’re wearing.”
The theme was wisdom, and I had on my red, orange and blue owl pocket skirt, a pair of plaid tights and little owl earrings. Adorable? Check. All I had to do now was talk about love and Mom would let me go anywhere.
“His name is Drew,” I said. “And I know I’m grounded, but he asked me to study with him after school.” I wanted to be prepared with an irresistible outfit and freedom. “Can we make an exception?”
She sighed and looked at me in the mirror.
“Mom, please?” I said. “He wears vintage clothes like I do, his hair smells like oranges, and he’s practically a Kerouac scholar . . . plus he’s perfect and cute and seems to genuinely like me.”
I took a breath in, puffed up my cheeks and held it until she answered. It was one of my favorite tactics. Sometimes I turned bluish and had to let the air out before she responded, but most of the time it worked. Like curing hiccups, only I was trying to cure my social life.
“Okay,” Mom said. “But just for an hour.”
I let my breath out and then inhaled deeply, the oxygen of victory.
“If something happens, you call me,” she said, handing me back my phone. “Promise?”
“I promise,” I said, but I wouldn’t need to call. I had a good feeling about it, like that part in the movies when the heroine is dressed up and looks amazing and her date is on time. There are no awkward silences or, in my case, hallucinations, and everyone lives happily ever after. For a moment, I actually believed I could be that girl.
|||||||||||
I made it through a weekend of grounding, which meant no Finny, which also meant he accosted me as soon as I sat down next to him in physics.
“Did he call? Did he call?”
“He texted,” I said. “Friday night.”
“Eeeeh!!!!” Finny said. “Did he ask you out?”
“Of course,” I said. “We’re meeting this afternoon.”
“So you’re not grounded anymore?”
“Oh, I am,” I said. “But Mom gave me an hour pass. I think she’s sick of seeing me.”
“This is so exciting,” he said, waving his hand in front of his face like he was fanning himself. “You know this makes me Cupid, right?”
“Calm down, Cupid,” I said. “He might not even like me once he gets to know me.”
“Oh, he’ll like you. But whichever way it goes, you have to call me when you get home. I want to hear everything!” Finny said, forgetting to use his inside voice.
“I want to hear everything, too,” Mr. Maxim said. “Everything sounds right up my alley. Would you care to elaborate?”
Red crept up Finny’s neck, threatening to take over his face.
“We were talking about parallel universes,” I said. It was the first thing that came to mind, since it was actually on my mind.
“In relation to string theory, of course,” Finny said, glancing at me.
“Someone read ahead,” Mr. Maxim said, straightening his tie. He’d gone from bow ties to polka-dotted real ties, which I didn’t think was an improvement.
“It’s only a theory, of course,” he said, going to the board and writing as he spoke. “But string theory posits that there are ten dimensions of space and one dimension of time, even though we can’t see them all.”
“That’s because they’re curled up inside of themselves,” Finny said, practically jumping out of his chair. I loved it when he got into a physics frenzy.
“Precisely,” Mr. Maxim said. “And some scientists speculate that this theory also makes the idea of parallel universes possible. There’s no way to prove this yet; that’s why they’re theories. But Einstein was all about theories, and look how well that worked for him!”
He laughed, and Finny followed. They might as well have just had a class for themselves.
“Come on, people, how exciting is the idea of parallel universes?” Mr. Maxim said. “Like a universe that’s just like here, except everything is half the size. Or monkeys walk around with jobs and houses, just like people.”
“That’s not exciting, that’s disgusting,” the hair-spray girl said. “Monkeys are gross.”
“It doesn’t have to be monkeys—it can be anything,” Mr. Maxim said. “Caterpillars or cats. Porcupines or pandas. Like a panda-verse.”
My bag fell out of my hands and crashed to the floor.
“We’ll cover this later in the semester. But since we can’t see the extra dimensions or prove that parallel universes exist, the floor is still wide open for discussion.”
Mr. Maxim walked over and looked out the window. “Anything is possible, people. Just use your imagination.”
|||||||||||
I walked in the bathroom, and Walt was sitting on the counter, sw
inging his legs.
“Hello, gorgeous.”
“Hi!” I said, giving him a hug. I was so excited to see him I didn’t even check under the stalls like I usually did, but the room was empty anyway.
“You’re an enthusiastic little elf. What gives?”
“I’m happy,” I said, reapplying my lip gloss. “Plus, we were just talking about you.”
“You and Finny?”
“No, Mr. Maxim in physics class.”
“If I’d known I was making an appearance, I would have called my stylist,” Walt said, smoothing the fur above his eyes with his paw.
“Not you, specifically,” I said, smacking my lips together. “He was talking about parallel universes. Specifically, a potential panda universe. He called it a panda-verse.”
“Cute,” Walt said. “Did he say where it was? I’d love to visit.”
“I think you’re from there,” I said.
Walt laughed and turned his back toward the mirrors.
“Well played,” he said. “You’re pretty crafty for a girl who wears lip gloss.”
I poked his arm. “You’re going to have to tell me about it sometime. Along with why you’re here and what it has to do with me. Or maybe, since I’m so crafty, I’ll just find out myself,” I said.
Walt grinned. “That’s kind of what the whole path thing is all about.”
“Hey, if the path includes extra dimensions, parallel universes and infinite possibilities, I’m in.”
“You might want to think about bringing someone with you,” Walt said. “What about Finny?”
“I can’t tell him yet,” I said. “He likes me the way he thinks I am.”
“He also likes physics,” he said. “He could help you.”
“Help me figure out that my episodes are more than episodes? I already knew that,” I said. “Especially after you showed up.”
“You know what they’re not, but you don’t know what they are. Don’t you want to find out?”
I did. More than anything.