My face is warm, my eyes closed, but I see red through my eyelids. It feels like someone’s shining a flashlight at me. Po? I move to swat it away, but my hand sweeps above my head without hitting anything. The blanket feels smooth as silk. Home?
I open my eyes, squint at the brightness exploding through my skylight. I relax into a soft mattress that conforms to the shape of my body. My pinkie doesn’t hurt. I don’t smell. I feel clean. An overwhelming sense of gratitude fills me, bubbles over into the room. My room. Home. And it hasn’t even been eaten by strangelets.
As for that other life, I am never going back there again. Not if I can help it, no way, no how. I don’t even care that I’m wearing Prometheus overalls instead of pajamas. In fact, I figure that’s a good sign.
“Wade?” Dad calls from the stairs.
Dad! Does he know I was gone?
“Yeah?”
He bounds in, cup of tea in one hand, a newspaper in the other.
“Finally awake, huh? Thought you’d want to see this.”
He swats me in the head lightly with the paper, tosses it into my lap, and puts the cup of tea on my night table.
“Good guys ten points, bad guys nothing. A shutout.” He bows. “And once you’re up, oh prince of the realm, I’m making pancakes.”
“That a promise or a threat?” I say.
He never could cook. But I’m so happy to see him, I’m even looking forward to chewing on cardboard.
“Bit of both,” he says, pleased with himself. “New recipe. Loved your singing, by the way. I knew you never should have given it up.”
Singing?
He bows again and exits, obviously in a very good mood. Given what he said, I don’t expect the paper he was beating me with will have news of my impending arrest. I am surprised, though, to see my photo on the front page, beneath a headline reading:
TEEN UNCOVERS CRITICAL COLLIDER FLAW
DR. JOHN FINLEY RESIGNS
JUDITH WILSON APPOINTED NEW PUBLIC LIAISON
Son of a bitch. The crazy asshole did it!
It gets better. Prometheus was shut down this morning for two weeks, to alter the shielding. Near as I can tell, they don’t quite cop to the end-of-the-world scenario, referring only to a possible radiation leak. I guess a world-devouring negative strangelet counts as radiation, so technically it’s true.
Judith Wilson worries me, but, hell, she may have been right about the whole inter-dimensional rift thing. And if she was smart enough to use the data to land herself that job, more power to her. Maybe I’ll figure out the parallel life conundrum someday and win a Nobel. Meanwhile, though, much as I hate to admit it, I may, as Dad says, just have to let it go.
No mention of how HE managed all this, but I’m even feeling grateful for my alter ego. Maybe we are good for each other in a way. Maybe we each have pieces the other’s missing. I could learn a thing or two about chilling. I could teach HIM… to wash HIS face, for instance. Wait, there’s something about a car accident.
Car accident? I flip the paper open. Page two has a big photo of that beautiful atom sculpture smashed in half. And there, at the bottom of the pool is… my hybrid?
Forget it. Just forget it. Small price to pay…
My hybrid!
Damn. I throw the paper across the room. I am going back somehow, someday, just to find that idiot and kill HIM. My car!
I’m just wild about Harry!
Usually I’d answer immediately to avoid hearing the crappy song, but I’m so happy to hear it, I tap my toes through the first verse before I pick up.
“Wade? Anthony.”
So much for toe tapping. “What do you want?”
“Listen, I am so, so sorry about those letters, man. I never sent one, I was never going to, I was just, you know, venting my dark place, trying to work it out, get it out of my system. You were never supposed to see them. No one was. No one ever would have.”
I’m about to hang up, but he starts talking, fast and serious. Behind the flailing syntax and the wall of words, I hear genuine regret. “I’m sorry about everything else, too. I should have listened to you from the beginning. I shouldn’t have sided with Finley. I shouldn’t have told them you were in the building. I’m an asshole, a total, despicable tool and you should beat the crap out of me the next time you see me. But, man, you’ve got to understand one thing, just one thing: I’m not like you. I’m nowhere near like you. I’m not as sure about things as you are. I get that you were right to handle it the way you did, and Finley was being evil, but this was like just one thing for you. You’re going to do a lot of stuff in your life, probably just like this, or freakier, and Denby’s going to be by your side, I know it, but for me, I was thinking this was it, my only chance to ever really lead a different life. That’s all. It was stupid. It was pure evil, but can you try to forgive me? I admit, I totally suck, but can you? Ahab? I’ll give back the scholarship if you say so. I think Dr. Wilson said it was up to you. But… do I have to? She says she wants to meet with you, there’s like an honorary seat on the board if you want it—”
I hang up. I sip my tea. I lean back in bed. I think about it. Screw it. I don’t need to think about it right now. Right now, I just need to lie here and feel good about having a pinky and a decent haircut.
I’m just wild about Harry!
Crap. He’s not giving up.
I flip the cell open. “Look, you stupid son of a—”
“Wade?”
“Denby? Sorry! Thought you were… someone else.”
“I’m so proud of you, Wade. And who knew you could sing?”
There’s that singing thing again. What did HE do?
“Thank you.”
“Happy ending, huh?”
“Looks that way. Except my car.”
“Oh, I got you something better than a car.”
She sounds funny, like she’s not really happy. “What?”
“Seems like the guy who saved the world should get the girl, right?”
Now she sounds even more tense. I think I’m starting to understand.
“I’ve got something very important to tell you,” she says. “Can I come over?”
“Sure. Want me to come over there?”
“Oh, either. Actually… I’ll just tell you. I didn’t want to tell you over the phone.”
“Whatever you want.”
“Yes,” she says. Now she’s trying to sound happy. “I’ll marry you. You win.”
Win? Like a game?
“Uh… Denby, are you sure this is what you want right now? Totally sure?”
There’s a pause. “No. But you’re sure, and I’m sure I love you and I’m sure you love me and I want us to be together.”
“Me, too, but wouldn’t you rather wait?”
I hear her brow furrow. “Yes… but you don’t want to, right? This isn’t about Anthony, is it?”
“No, not at all. Maybe a little. Maybe it just made me realize how much I can trust you. I thought I didn’t want to wait, but I want you to be sure, too.”
“You’re not breaking up with me, are you?”
“No! No way.”
Long pause. “So I’ll give the ring back for now?”
“Yeah. It’s okay, really. I’ll save it.”
“For me, right? You’ll save it for me?”
“Wouldn’t ever give it to anyone else.”
“Now I really want to see you,” she says. “You stay put until I get there.”
I feel the tension flee her voice. And they say these things only carry sound.
“Great. But… Dad’s home. Won’t be very private. And, uh, he’s making pancakes. Not pretty.”
“Well, after breakfast send him out for some espresso or something.”
“I’ll see what I can arrange.”
“Ha!” she says. She says something else, too, but she’s so excited she hangs up on herself before she finishes.
“Ha!” I repeat, to myself, to the room. If I had a mirror handy, I’d stick my tongue out at myself.
Hey, my guitar’s leaning against the wall, face out. A good way to warp the neck. One guess who did that. I walk over, pick it up, strum. Hm. At least HE tuned it.
A weird thought strikes me. I ransack my closet, looking for an old notebook. I find it easy enough. Orange, spiral-bound, cover crinkled like tree bark, pages not yellowed but blurry. Mom bought it for me when I was thirteen, to keep my lyrics in.
A few flips through scattered notes and I find it, the song, the one I… we wrote before we even knew Mom was sick, the one I worked on last night. There were a few verses I forgot. Hitting the easy chords, skipping the D, I croak softly to myself, hoping Dad can’t hear:
Sometimes I’ll be lost in the forest
Where no one else can see
Won’t know whether to follow the map
Or to let it follow me
Do I flow with the momentum
Or swim against the stream
Argue with reality
Or dream another dream—of me and you?
Don’t know what to do—but I really hate to choose.
Sometimes I’m afraid for the children
Sometimes I couldn’t care less
Mostly I just never could tell
What to make of this ungodly mess
If the jury’s out or in my head
Then why do I feel so alone?
Am I waiting for the axe to fall
And leave a message at the tone?
Haven’t got a clue—but I really hate to choose.
Something like that, anyway. I lean the guitar against the wall, back out, the right way.
Maybe I should meet with Judith Wilson, sit on the board. It might be easier to keep an eye on things from the inside. Then again, once they get me inside, it might be easier for them to change me, make me paranoid like Judith Wilson or numb like Dr. John Finley.
No. I think I’ve run the gamut with the change thing for now. After all, I’m not particularly worried about the world ending. Then again, a comet could always come along and wipe us all out. Did I read something about that in the paper recently?
That was a joke. I’m trying to get better with the whole joke thing.