The Theory of Everything

by Kari Luna

“There’s one text,” I said. “From Drew.”

  “Bam!” Finny said. “Twenty dollars, please. And text him back.”

  “What do I say?” I said. “Hi, I know I don’t really know you, but I’m in New York trying to find my dad, who abandoned me, so he can help me stop hallucinating?”

  “First? That’s way too long,” Finny said. “And second? Give me your phone.”

  He held it up to his face, reading.

  DREW: Missed you at lunch. You okay?

  “So he did show up at lunch,” Finny said. “How long did you wait for him?”

  “Ten minutes,” I said. “Was that not enough?”

  “Not even. Try this,” Finny said, typing something.

  SOPHIE: Sorry I missed you. Called out of town, family thing. All well. Will call soon.

  “It’s short but responsive,” Finny said. “All you have to do is hit Send.”

  The text sat there on the screen like a lie.

  “It’s not a lie,” Finny said, reading my mind. “You are out of town, you are dealing with a family thing, and you will call him soon.”

  “What about the all-is-well part?”

  “You have a choice,” Finny said. “You can either stand here and worry about it, or you can make a move.”

  Finny spun around and stopped, jazz hands extended. “I’m sure Fourth Street is around here somewhere. Are you ready?”

  Thanks to a bagel, my best friend and a panda, I was as ready as I’d ever be, which wasn’t very ready at all.

  But I hit Send anyway.

  How to Prepare to Meet Your Dad when You’re Not Really Prepared at All

  by Sophie Sophia

  Brush your hair. You just rode on a train for twenty hours, and you’re a mess.

  Think about all the food you can eat if it doesn’t go well: shawarma, saag paneer, cannoli, mmmm.

  Let Finny do most of the talking, at least at first.

  Put your hands in your pockets or something! You’re way too excited.

  Take three deep breaths in, three deep breaths out. You’ve been fine without him for four years. And no matter what happens, you’ll continue to be fine. Period.

  We walked down Fourth Street, and everything looked like I remembered—lush maples, colorful brownstones and blue skies that went on for miles.

  “That’s the apartment,” I said, looking at the slip of paper I’d tucked into my pocket. “Number two sixty-two.”

  “Is this the house you grew up in?”

  “No, but our apartment wasn’t far from here.” I suddenly had an urge to go backward, back to a time when everything made sense.

  “Hey, is this your dad’s car?”

  Finny pointed at a Volkswagen Beetle that was parked in front of the house. It matched the gingko leaves that fell around us.

  “It’s probably a neighbor’s car,” I said. “It’s almost impossible to find parking in front of your own house.”

  Finny peeked in the back window.

  “If this is your dad’s car, cleanliness is definitely not next to genius.”

  I looked inside and saw physics books and Hershey wrappers, a picnic basket and empty wine bottles. It was definitely Dad’s car, even though there was a stuffed elephant in the passenger seat. He must have had amazing parking karma.

  “Maybe he has a dog,” Finny said.

  “He could have a completely new family,” I said, hands shaking. “I never thought of that.”

  “True, but you’re his original family,” Finny said. “Plus he wrote a book for you, which totally trumps a tacky old elephant.”

  I appreciated what he was doing, but my brain had already left the station, bound for What-if-ville.

  “What if he doesn’t recognize me?”

  “He will,” Finny said.

  “What if he has a beard or a mustache?” I said. “What if he lost his hair? What if he went corporate? Or gave up physics for the circus?”

  Spinning mind, out of control.

  “Finny, what if my dad is a professional clown?”

  “Wow,” he said, taking my hand and squeezing it hard. “In the history of forever, no world-class physicist has gone from string theory to wearing a flower that squirts water, okay?”

  A flock of blackbirds flew by, squawking and scattering in the sky like pepper.

  “Okay,” I said. I cleared my throat and straightened my skirt. “Let’s do this.”

  Finny led me up the stoop—around the purple flowerpots with ivy flowing out of them, around the pile of newspapers and straight to the buzzer, which we didn’t have to use since a woman rushed out and we rushed in.

  “That was easy,” I said. “Maybe we won’t even need our story.”

  In case Dad didn’t answer the door, we had a story ready: Finny and I were reporters from the Erudite Reader, a high school literary journal that celebrated science. We were there for a scheduled interview with Dr. Sophia. Was he in?

  Finny knocked on the door while I took a deep breath. Calm, Sophie, calm. A tall woman with long blond hair answered the door. She had a Calvin-Klein-meets-hippie vibe going on: faded jeans, white button-up man’s shirt, turquoise necklace and earrings. Sandals even though it was freezing outside. And she was standing there instead of my father.

  “Hello,” Finny said, staying with the plan. “We’re from the Erudite Reader and have an appointment with Dr. Sophia.”

  Her eyes were red and puffy.

  “Dr. Sophia only does phone interviews,” she said. “And he’s out of town at the moment. Are you sure you have the correct Dr. Sophia?”

  “Is he the same one who wrote The Heart of Physics: The Role of Love in the Theory of Everything?”

  She looked surprised. “Yes. How did you hear about it?”

  “We’re in AP physics,” Finny said. “Dr. Sophia’s thesis has been a great complement to our studies.”

  You go, Finny.

  “Oh,” she said. “That’s wonderful. I’m Peyton Greeley, Dr. Sophia’s assistant.”

  “And you live with him?” It flew out of my mouth before I could stop it.

  She smiled. “I’m also his girlfriend.”

  It took everything I had not to lunge at her way-too-young-for-Dad body.

  “Would you two like to come in for a minute?”

  “We’d love to,” Finny said, giving me a look. Begging me not to blow it.

  “Excuse the mess,” she said, opening the door wider and leading us through the house. “Every time there’s a new theory, housework goes by the wayside.”

  When I lived with Dad, housework always went by the wayside. Mom said she couldn’t work and clean up after two children, one of them being me, but the other one being Dad. I had no doubt that he lived here.

  Stacks of books, models of atoms and dead houseplants covered every possible surface. The fireplace was filled with foil balls in progress, one of them pretty big. And the mantel was covered in shells, photos and astronomy charts, more like stuff a girlfriend would have. Why did he have a girlfriend when he could have had me and Mom?

  “Can I get you two anything?” Peyton said, motioning toward the purple couch. She wanted us to sit down, but I wanted to spy on their lives.

  “I’d love something to drink,” Finny said. “If it’s not too much trouble.”

  “No trouble at all,” she said. “I’ll be right back.”

  I wished Peyton and her white floaty shirt would never come back.

  “Do you think something’s off?” I said, walking over to the mantel.

  “Kind of,” Finny said. “Maybe they had a fight or something.”

  “Maybe,” I said. I traced my finger along the wood.

  There was a photo of the two of them at the ocean. Dad looked older, but at least he didn’t have a bear
d or a clown nose. And then I saw it: me. Blowing out candles on my tenth birthday. The picture was sitting there in a gold frame like I was still a part of the family, like nothing had happened. Like that hadn’t been the last birthday of mine he’d seen.

  “Fresh ginger ale!” Peyton said, carrying in a tray. “I made it myself.”

  And I was ready to make her life miserable.

  “Where’s my dad?” I said, holding the photo.

  She set down the tray and walked toward me.

  “Wait,” she said. “I’m confused.”

  “I know it’s been four years, but I don’t look that different,” I said. “So where is he? Teaching a class? Out on an errand?”

  I recognized a feeling in my stomach. I felt it right when we walked in the house. I’d felt it a dozen times before.

  “Sophie?” She tried to touch my arm, but I pulled it away.

  “Where is my dad, and when is he coming back?”

  “Sophie,” she said, her eyes welling with tears, “I am so sorry.”

  Fire built in my belly and spewed out of my mouth. “Are you sorry that he left me or sorry that he’s shacking up with you?”

  She looked away, toward the door, like he was about to walk through it. And then she looked back at me. “I’m sorry that he’s gone,” she said, her hands shaking. “Sophie, your dad has been missing for two weeks.”

  How to Survive Finding Your Dad After Four Years Only to Discover That He’s Missing Again

  by Sophie Sophia

  Feel it. You kind of don’t have a choice on that one.

  Acknowledge that the feelings suck. A lot.

  Cry if you need to.

  Know you have a panda and a boy genius on your side.

  And then, when it’s out of your system, do what you have to do: find your dad.

  “Let’s get you some food,” Peyton said, heading toward the kitchen.

  Finny linked arms with me as we walked. He thought I was going to fall down from shock, but I wasn’t. As soon as we’d entered the house, I had known Dad wasn’t there, that he hadn’t been there for a while. I hadn’t said anything because sometimes I was wrong, but I also didn’t want it to be true.

  “Whoa,” I said, falling back. “That’s our table.”

  There, in the middle of the kitchen, was a big round table just like the one Dad and I had collaged one morning and regretted that evening when Mom yelled at us. That table had seen spilled milk and reheated lasagna, puddles of glue and piles of confetti, homemade birthday cards and roses tied together with a bow.

  “Your dad made that,” Peyton said, setting a plateful of banana bread in front of me. “He said he needed something that reminded him of you. If you look, there’s a picture of you in there somewhere.”

  I couldn’t believe he’d made a copy of our table. The original one—we gave it to our upstairs neighbor when we moved—had pictures of me everywhere, along with newspaper articles and construction paper hearts held down with glue. This one was more physics and less Sophie, probably because Mom had all the photos. All Dad had were memories, but it looked like he’d been busy making new ones. He could have been making one right now.

  “I feel like I know you,” Peyton said. “I’ve heard so much about you.”

  “And I’ve heard nothing about you,” I said.

  Peyton got up and stood over the sink. Finny shot me a look.

  “Try the banana bread,” she said, her voice all raspy.

  I ran my finger over a photo of Dad and me that was collaged onto the table. It was taken on Halloween, the time he was Captain Hook and I was Peter Pan. All I needed was for Tinker Bell to sprinkle some fairy dust and make Dad appear. Peyton would have wanted that, too.

  “This bread is really good,” I said, remembering my puffy eyes, the ones that wouldn’t go away because I cried too much. The same eyes Peyton had. “Does my dad like it?”

  Peyton turned and smiled, sniffling. Finny grabbed my hand under the table and squeezed. I could hate her all I wanted, but I should at least wait until Dad was back.

  “I like it,” Finny said, grabbing another piece and stuffing it in his mouth. “But we have bigger things to do. Who’s ready to get to work?”

  “To work?” Peyton said. “On what?”

  Finny and I looked at each other. We knew what we had to do, but we weren’t sure we wanted to bring her in on it.

  “Filling in the gaps,” Finny said. “We didn’t ride on a train for twenty-something hours to give up. Sophie hasn’t seen her dad in four years and then we get here and he’s gone? We’d like to know why. Or at least learn more about him.”

  “Of course,” Peyton said. “Right. Let me make some tea, and I’ll tell you everything you want to know.”

  I grinned and high-fived Finny across the table. We were a search party, a spy mission, a family tree who wanted its branches back. And together, we were going to find my dad.

  EIGHTEEN

  Dad and I used to play a game called Secret-Schmecret. The premise was simple: he thought of a secret, and I guessed what it was. The best part was the clues, which involved at least one of the five senses. Sometimes the clue was a mixture of nutmeg and cinnamon, and the secret would be that my oatmeal was ready. Another time he made stuffed animal pants and wore them around the house to indicate that we were going to the zoo. And once he had me close my eyes, open my mouth and chew whatever he put in there, which happened to be a carrot. This meant we were either going to build a snowman or make carrot soup. Both would have worked since it was snowing outside, but I never knew which one was happening until it happened. With Secret-Schmecret, it was always a surprise. And that was kind of the point.

  |||||||||||

  “It’s no secret your father and I were having problems,” Peyton said.

  “I didn’t even know about you, so it was a secret to me,” I said. “But go on.”

  Peyton brought the kettle over from the stove and filled three teacups with hot water. They didn’t have tea bags in them, but I didn’t want to say anything.

  “Maybe I should start at the beginning,” she said.

  “Fine,” I said, looking around the kitchen for clues as she spoke.

  Peyton and Dad had been together for two years. Photos of them on the refrigerator.

  They met at NYU, in the physics department. Chipped green sugar bowl on the counter with plastic babies in it.

  Dad started disappearing more often. Pink elephant planter filled with tongue depressors.

  He got demoted to part time. Broken radios everywhere.

  And then no time. Blue dog painting in the corner.

  He had tenure, so he did guest lectures, but not classes. Round gold mirror with dust on the surface.

  Peyton stayed on in the department in hopes of continuing his work, but it was hard with Dad disappearing all the time. Paper lanterns spilling out of a trunk on the floor.

  “What happened before he disappeared this time?”

  “We were fighting,” Peyton said, sipping hot water. “Silly domestic stuff.”

  I knew Dad, which meant he could have brought home ten rabbits and gotten angry when she didn’t want to care for them or encouraged her to make a five-course meal only to insist on eating ice cream sandwiches instead. There was nothing domestic about Dad.

  “But he didn’t take anything with him,” she said.

  “What do you mean?” I asked.

  “Your dad didn’t go anywhere without his books and journals,” she said. “But they’re here. Still. That bag.”

  You can tell how worried someone is by how they jumble their words or leave things out. Little words like and and the stay in, but more important ones like unstable or danger to himself and others fall away. The story comes to you in pieces because they, themselves, are in pieces.

 
“Did he ever tell you where he went?” I said.

  Finny leaned so far forward in his chair he was practically lying on the table.

  “Sometimes,” she said. “I want to believe he went where he said he did, but once the police called me to come pick him up from a hostel in Manhattan, so I’m not sure. But you know this. He disappeared on you all the time.”

  Including the time he disappeared forever.

  “Maybe the answer’s in his book,” Finny said, looking at Peyton. “Do you have a copy?”

  “Of course,” she said. She walked over to a desk right outside the kitchen. It was piled high with boxes, and there, on top of a real dictionary, was a book.

  “Here you go,” she said, handing it to me.

  |||||||||||

  The cover was plain—white with black letters like something academic, no new age graphics from the publisher’s website anywhere. I ran my fingers across the title, which was pressed into the cover: The Heart of Physics: The Role of Love in the Theory of Everything, by Angelino Sophia.

  “We read the intro online,” Finny said. “Did he write this book for Sophie?”

  I ran my hand up and down the spine, leafing through the pages, breathing it in, hoping the book would smell familiar. I held it tightly to my chest, as if I could absorb Dad through close contact.

  “In a way, yes,” Peyton said. “Angelino wanted to marry his unique view of the world with the basic tenets of physics to create something extraordinary, a legacy of sorts, that he could leave for his daughter.”

  “I know I’m just in high school physics, but I’m having a hard time seeing how love has a place in any of this,” Finny said.

  I hugged the book even tighter.

  “It’s theoretical physics,” she said. “When you’re theorizing, there’s room for everything.”

  “Even philosophy? Emotion? Psychology?”

  Peyton sighed and leaned back in her chair. I liked how much she was challenged by Finny. How much she sounded like Dad. “Do you want to be a scientist?”

  “More than anything,” Finny said.

  “Then you’ll learn, very quickly, that the universe is massive, full of things we can’t see, including other universes. It hasn’t been proven, but we know they’re out there. And then there’s quantum and string theory and all of these branches of physics that are so much more than science. To work on these equations—some of them for a lifetime, never getting an answer—you have to take a leap of faith.”