The Square Root of Summer(16)
As I watch, the steam pixelates. And even though it doesn’t tune in to anything yet, I know, when it does, where it will take me. It’s time to admit it.
Whatever I told Ms. Adewunmi—theoretical this, hypothetical that—the mirror, Jason’s kiss, yesterday’s galaxy in the sky, even Thomas and me in the Book Barn. They’re all wormholes. They’re all real tunnels to the past.
{2}
WORMHOLES
From a billion light-years away, a Schwarzschild black hole looks exactly like a wormhole. They’re the same thing.
Our universe could itself be inside a black hole, which exists inside another universe, inside another, like a set of nesting dolls.
Infinite worlds, infinite universes. Infinite possibilities.
Thursday 8 July
[Minus three hundred and ten]
When I emerge from my bath, Thomas is curled up in the sitting room, asleep. Umlaut too, tucked inside his cardigan. His glasses are folded on the sofa arm—without them, it’s even harder to connect this cheekboned troublemaker with the round-faced boy who left.
There’s a laptop on the table; I don’t suppose Papa warned him we’re the last house on Planet Earth not to have Wi-Fi. “Keep your swipe cards and hoverboards, dude,” Grey would tell me when I asked for a decent Internet connection. “Talk to me about the cosmos. What’s new in astrology?” “Astronomy,” I’d correct, and we’d be off, arguing over Pluto’s planetary status or Gaia versus Galileo.
A little part of me wants to wake Thomas up and ask him why he disappeared. Instead I limp-lurch past him to the kitchen, grab a box of cereal, and spend the rest of the day in my room.
But if I want to figure out the wormholes—and the screenwipe!—I can’t keep hermiting. The next morning, after covering my bruises in jeans and a long-sleeved flannel shirt, I ambush Papa early and ask him to drive me to school. On the way, I spring a plan on him: vacation shifts at the Book Barn.
“Good idea,” Papa says. “You’ll do the same days to Thomas?”
I nearly swallow my tongue. Thomas is going to help out at the bookshop? “Um, maybe we should work different shifts. That way, you get more help,” I suggest, then add, as an oh-so-casual-afterthought: “I’m sure Ned would want a shift too.”
Swaps. You put the photos of Mum all over the house; I make you work on Fridays.
To my delight, Papa agrees, and I generously offer to work out the schedule for everyone.
“Phone me when you need the lift home,” he says when he drops me off. It’s only as he’s driving away that I remember: my cell phone is broken.
After my math lesson, I collect the two books I reserved and spend lunch in the library, printing diagrams from the Internet and googling theorems to research. When my computer slot is up, I tuck the pages and myself away in a corner. Then I take Grey’s diary out of my book bag, and look up the entry for Midsummer’s Eve again.
I’m going to read about last summer. I’m going to blow my heart away. My sandwich leaves crumbs on the page—I wish I were eating Kartoffelsalat, not Cheddar on stale white sliced—and I brush them off, flipping ahead a day, a week, a fortnight later, to:
*R.
DRUNK ON PEONIES. CLOUDS OF THEM EXPLODING ALL OVER THE GARDEN.
GOTTIE IS IN LOVE.
I choke on my sandwich. Grey knew?
This time, I feel the wormhole before I see it, a tingling in the air. The sound of the universe expanding. Hauling myself up, I hold on to the shelves as I limp along the aisle, searching the spines. Latimer, Lee, L’Engle. When I pull A Wrinkle in Time from the shelf, I catch a glimpse of television fuzz and smell salt before I—
*
Jason is waiting when I come out of the sea.
It’s sunny, and his eyes are the same blue as the sky. This bit of the beach is empty. Only locals come this far down the sands, and anyway, it’s Monday.
“Yo, Margot,” he says when I sit down next to him. “You’re welcome, by the way.”
“Huh?” I put my head on one side and try to shake the water from my ears.
“I watched your stuff for you,” he clarifies with a sweeping gesture. “I mean, you might not worry about thieves, but…”
My “stuff” is a biography of Margaret Hamilton (the scientist, not the witch). A towel. A pile of clothes. The key to my bike lock. It’s sweet, though.
“It’s Holksea,” I point out. “I’m the most dangerous person here.”
He laughs and says, “You are dangerous. That bikini is criminal.”
I don’t know how to reply to that. It’s the same one I’ve always worn, but the boobs in it are brand-new, arriving by overnight express a couple of months ago. Sof’s been trying to educate me about the difference between a B cup and a balconette ever since.
The easiest response is to kiss him … The sun hot on my skin and the sea a distant sparkle as I close my eyes and we lean into each other. My lips are salty, my face wet and cold, our mouths warm. It makes me want to crawl all over him. But after a second, Jason pulls away.
“Listen,” he whispers, smoothing my wet hair back up into its topknot. “Maybe we shouldn’t do this here … Someone might see.”
“Like who? Holksea’s notorious criminal underworld?”