Relativity Page 4

  It’s a tree, Ruby, a tree. That’s all.

  But it’s a tree with a doorknob, probably copper or bronze, with a green patina. Why put a doorknob on a door? To make it possible to open and close said door. Am I wrong? It would only make sense to try it. Give it a little wiggle, twist it, you know. Just to see what happens.

  My fingertips meet the metal knob, triggering a sudden snap of static electricity; a spark leaps from the charge exchange. “Whoa,” I say under my breath, shaking the sting from my hand. That’s all I have to do—just touch the knob—and the door creaks open a few inches.

  Gasping, I lurch backward, trip over a root, and sit down hard. A cold sweat overtakes me; my entire body quivers. It’s a functional door.

  “Anyone in there?” My mouth is dry, my voice weak. I clear my throat and try again. “Hello?”

  My pounding heart counts off the seconds, or, more likely, quarter seconds. Ten, twenty, thirty. No answer.

  I try again. “Anyone?” Finally, I pull myself to my feet, nerves jangling, hardly able to walk. Deep breath, Ruby. I press my hands against the door and push. A rush of stale air escapes the inside of the tree, giving the impression that it’s exhaling. I exhale too, standing at the threshold, ready to step inside the hollowed-out tree.

  Should I? I linger in the doorway, wishing for a flashlight. The engine-like hum is louder now that the door is open, and I can feel the vibrations penetrating my entire body.

  A sharp pain shoots through my leg. Damn. My shin. My blood-soaked jeans. I need antibiotic ointment and a bandage. I need something that numbs. I should go home.

  I look over my shoulder, surveying the cornfields, thinking of Dad trying to meet his latest deadline, of Willow absorbed in a canvas, of Kandy at the bathroom mirror with a flatiron and hairspray. I think of Ennis High’s pitted football field, the fluorescent-yellow poster: LEARN TO QUILT AND SEW.

  “What’s to lose?” I ask, then steel myself and take a step forward. And then another, deeper into the trunk of the tree. The smell of decaying wood—damp and decomposing organic matter—gags me. I press my nose to my shoulder, breathing in the smell of my T-shirt. The perfumed residue of a Downy dryer sheet. Another step forward and my shoes sink into a shallow puddle, completely soaking my feet, socks and all.

  “Perfect,” I grumble.

  Behind me, the light diminishes—the door is closing!

  “No! Wait!”

  I do a quick one-eighty and thrust my arm into the receding space. But the door keeps closing and I pull my arm back inside before it gets crushed. The inside knob—where is it? There’s nothing but a smooth surface on the backside of the door. The last ray of sunlight filters around the door, and then with an air-tight finality, it’s closed.

  I’m locked inside.

  Fear bubbles through me until I’m dizzy, panicked. It’s impossibly dark in here. How could the door have sealed shut so perfectly? There should be a seam of light along the top or bottom.

  “You’re okay,” I tell myself aloud, but I don’t sound okay. I sound terrified. The tree’s internal engine pulsates, and in this complete darkness, the idea of locusts takes shape again. There was that behemoth insect stalking me in the cornfield yesterday; now I imagine swarms of them covering my clothes, burrowing into my hair.

  I press my trembling hands along the wet tree walls, patting the damp circumference, finding nothing. No knob, no lever, no buttons.

  “Seriously? Come on!”

  Is there no way out of this thing? I start to crisscross the center of the hollowed-out trunk, making lines back and forth, groping into the blackness, tentatively tapping a foot forward, and then another. I stretch my arms in both directions, and my fingertips meet with nothing but air. The sound of my breathing fills the void.

  Then I run into something. It’s waist level, and it feels like metal. A disk, about the size of a steering wheel. I run my hands along its cold surface. It’s solid with intermittent little grooves. Along the edge my finger catches on something sharp, triangular. In the center, there’s a thick pole that extends upward.

  There is no knob, or lever, but there’s this.

  Please work. Please be a way out.

  I grab it with both hands and turn. It gives, a little. But it’s damp and slippery and I can’t get a firm grip.

  “Come on, come on, come on,” I chant, wiping my hands on my jeans. With every beat of my heart, my leg throbs in time, and I wonder if I could bleed to death in here. Ironic, because the inside of a tree is, well, coffin-like. That thought is enough to energize me, and I give the wheel a firm twist. It advances, and seems to click into a preset position. There’s a single clank that sounds like an out-of-tune bell. And miraculously—finally!—the door slowly swings open, and I’m blinded by sunlight.

  Blinking back tears, squinting, I stumble away from the tree. When my pupils finally adjust, I take a good look around. “What the …?” I whisper.

  I’m not in the midst of cornfields. I’m standing on a hill, on the outskirts of what looks like a college campus. There’s a four-story building made of quarried stone, with a slate roof and central spire. Just ahead, there are tennis courts, and beyond I can see towering lights, probably for a football field. Dark clouds are convening in the distance.

  For a long time, I stand in the shade of the tree, trying to get my bearings. The door is closed, though I have no recollection of shutting it behind myself. There’s got to be a reasonable explanation—for all of this. Maybe applying the scientific method will help.

  First, define the question. That’s easy. Where the hell am I?

  Second, gather information and resources. Third, form a hypothesis. Here’s a theory: I’m dead, and this is the afterlife. I mean, maybe Kandy actually strangled me to death when she caught up with me. I look down at my shin, which is still oozing. Blood-soaked jeans somehow don’t compute with the Great Beyond. Aren’t you supposed to be wearing white and sporting wings?

  Logic, Ruby, logic. You can figure this out.

  A bell rings. Suddenly, a metal door on the back of the stone building bangs open, and dozens of students rush out. They’re wearing backpacks, carrying books. I hear school bus engines, and I catch a glimpse of one rounding the side of the building. This must be a high school, not a college.

  Though it’s certainly not dingy, dinky Ennis High, Home of the Bears.

  I have two choices: go back into the oak or explore the school grounds. But if I try the tree again, what if I won’t be able to turn the slippery steering wheel? I’ll be trapped, doomed to starve to death inside a rotting tree trunk. Really.

  Decision made.

  I head toward the four-story building. I’m not sure what I’m looking for. A street address, a phone book, any geographic clue. A glass of water would be nice. I’ll have to avoid coaches and teachers. I don’t want anyone asking me, “Who are you, and what are you doing here?” Uh, yeah, I’d love to know.

  A pebble sidewalk traces the side of the building. I pass a courtyard with a fountain and orange mums blooming, my wet shoes making a squishing sound as I walk. About a dozen kids are sitting on the ground, rehearsing something. Sounds like Shakespeare.

  A group of cheerleaders walk past, giggling conspiratorially. They pay no attention to me, even as I stand in my bare feet, wringing my socks out and picking a corn leaf out of my back pocket.

  Finally, I round a corner and find the front of the main building. Near the road, a sign says: Ó DIREÁIN HIGH SCHOOL. WELCOME BACK! YEARBOOK PHOTOS SEPTEMBER 10.

  Distant thunder rumbles; the cloud bank has grown and advanced. Across the street are cornfields. I never thought I’d be happy to see Ohio crops. So here’s another hypothesis: I just wandered too far from home. My leg is bleeding worse than I think, and I blacked out. Did I hit my head when Kandy was chasing me, when I tripped and fell? My chin is sore, and my tongue is cut where I bit into it. I press my fingers along every inch of my scalp. No tender spots. No headache.

  “Ru
by?”

  I spin around to face a guy who’s standing way too close. He looks a year or two older than I am, and strangely familiar. Dark eyes, slightly pointed nose, dimple in his chin.

  He points at my bloody shin. “What happened?”

  I take a step backward.

  “Your hair, Ruby,” he says with dismay. “And why are you wearing those glasses?”

  I turn my back on him and start walking—fast. This guy has screwball written all over him.

  He follows. “Where are you going? You’re late for French Club. Why are your clothes wet and muddy?” His voice hits a hysterical pitch when he asks, “Is that a tattoo?”

  I hold my breath and break into a run. How does he know my name? I can hear him directly behind me. God, I’m sick of getting chased. “Leave me alone!” I scream over my shoulder.

  Within seconds, his hands are around my waist. He lifts me off the ground, my legs still moving in midair.

  “Do I know you?” I shriek, wriggling out of his grasp.

  “Ruby!” he says, planting his hands on my shoulders, looking me squarely in the eye. “Did someone hurt you?”

  I stare back. “Could I borrow your cell phone?”

  “Why?”

  “I’d like to call my father,” I say, swatting his hands off my shoulders. “So he can come pick me up.”

  He cringes, jerks his head back. “Your father?”

  “Yeah. Is there a phone inside the school I could use?” I gesture toward the stone building.

  “What are you talking about?” The crazed look on his face intensifies. He motions to the street that runs in front of the school. “You’re five minutes from home.”

  I narrow my eyes at him. “You know where I live?”

  “Since you were born! What happened to you?” He reaches out to touch my head, but I duck away. “You seriously don’t know who I am,” he says, and a look of angst sweeps across his face. “Forget French Club.” He suddenly has my wrist and starts dragging me along.

  I twist my arm out of his grasp and take off. He chases me again. The jerk must be a football player, because he easily grabs my legs and pulls me to the ground. I slap at his arms and try to kick him off.

  “Patrick? What’s going on?” It’s a girl’s voice, above us. I look up and see Kandy. She’s pointing at my leg. “She’s bleeding.”

  “No shit,” I snap at her, pulling myself to my feet. “Where are we, Kandy? How do we get back to your house?”

  Kandy gives Patrick this perplexed look, like I’m speaking another language. “What’s with the hacked-off hair?”

  I thrust a thumb toward Patrick. “Who is this guy? Your boyfriend?”

  “Boyfriend?” Kandy says with total disgust. “Are you kidding me? Your brother?”

  My face burns with anger and confusion. “I don’t have a brother!”

  “Something’s wrong with her,” Patrick says. “Amnesia or something.”

  “Whatever,” Kandy says. She glances at her watch. “I’m starving. I need to go pick up the wings.”

  “Kandy!” I’m ready to punch her. “Where the hell are we? Quit joking around!”

  Patrick talks to me like I’m a two-year-old. “Can you walk?”

  “Duh,” I say. Then I turn to Kandy. She’s the only person, place, or thing I recognize. I have no choice but to ask her for help. “Get me to a phone. That’s all I ask. And a glass of water.”

  “Shut up and hurry up.” Kandy looks at the looming black clouds. “It’s about to rain.”

  “And don’t touch me,” I add as we walk off together, me about twenty feet behind them. Patrick keeps turning around to ask if I’m okay. “I’m super,” I say. “Fabulous.”

  Once I got lost walking home from a birthday party. I was eight years old. After about two hours of wandering through backyards, I sat down on a bus stop bench. Dad screeched up to the curb in his car, jumped out, and scooped me into his arms. He’d kissed my face a hundred times. “I love you,” he’d said, sobbing. “Thank God.”

  I keep scanning the road, hoping, half-expecting Dad to show up here too.

  Finally, Kandy, Patrick, and I turn onto a residential street named Corrán Tuathail Avenue. Is that English? Seriously, where are we? Soon we’re walking up Patrick’s driveway, toward a squat brick house. In the center of the lawn, a red wheelbarrow is tipped on its side. White impatiens spill from the wheelbarrow, winding their flowery way down the mulch bed. Something about it bugs me, other than its cloying cuteness. It’s giving me déjà vu.

  In the driveway are two cars. One is a Toyota hybrid, same as Willow’s, but blue instead of cream. The other is a black Jeep, like Dad’s, only a newer model. It’s disturbing. Like a familiar song, only one key off.

  Patrick enters the garage door code, and we weave our way through a maze of stacked moving boxes. In the corner of the garage is a single bed, which looks like it’s just been slept in. Patrick leads the way through a narrow laundry room, pausing to kick a linoleum square back into place. Kandy edges next to me, and I step aside to let her go past.

  “Personal space, if you don’t mind.” She’s close enough to sink a knife between my ribs.

  “Relax,” she says, giving me an annoyed look.

  The laundry room opens into the kitchen, and I head straight for the phone. I dial Dad’s number.

  “The number you have dialed is not in service. Please hang up and try again.”

  I try Dad’s cell phone again. And again.

  I can’t quite remember our home number. It’s too new. “Kandy, what’s your home phone number?”

  “You mean this number? Here?”

  I growl with frustration and notice a cell phone plugged into the wall to charge. Without asking permission, I grab it and scroll through the apps. I hit the GPS button. “137 Buck Pass Road,” I say into the phone.

  The screen blinks and a voice asks, “Which city and state?”

  “Ennis, Ohio.”

  “Did you say Eaton?”

  “No.” I type in the address and submit the information.

  The phone responds with an exclamation point and No Matches Found. I scroll through the apps again. “Don’t you have Google Earth on this thing?”

  “Tell me it’s fake.” Patrick is behind me, breathing on me. “That’s not a real tattoo, is it?”

  I slap my hand over the nape of my neck. “Do you have a phone book?” I ask Patrick.

  “Seriously, Ruby. What’s wrong with you?” His voice is a whispering plea. “You know you can tell your big brother anything.”

  “Look, you’re creeping me out.” I step away from him, but he matches my move. “If anyone’s got amnesia around here, it’s you.”

  “Come on,” he says. “You know me. Think!” He thrusts his face toward me, and I’m forced to concede that he might resemble someone I may have met. Somewhere, briefly. He could be the waiter who served us a few days ago at Ennis’s burger joint, or the talkative cashier at the grocery store, or that guy I saw jogging. But wasn’t our waiter blond, and the cashier older, and the jogger super-skinny? The dots won’t connect.

  I run my hands across my head again, checking for a lump or sore spot, and still don’t find anything. “Just back off, okay?”

  “No, it’s not okay,” he barks, but he hands me a thin yellow directory and a glass of cold water anyway. The directory’s cover says Ó Direáin and Surrounding Areas. There’s a small list of other towns, but Ennis isn’t one of them. Patrick must see the panic on my face, the color vanishing from my cheeks.

  “Sit down,” he says, pushing a chair underneath me.

  Kandy twirls a set of car keys. “What kind of dressing do you want for your salad?”

  Dressing? How can she act so nonchalant, like this afternoon’s near-homicide never happened? Like this is all normal? I glare at her. “Did you follow me through that tree?”

  “Tree?” she asks, twisting her face.

  Patrick sighs and rubs his temples, just like
Dad does when he’s worried. “If you don’t start making sense, I’m taking you to the ER. I think you’ve got a concussion.”

  “Brain tumor,” Kandy adds with a laugh. Outside, thunder cracks.

  “Could I use the bathroom?”

  “Why are you asking permission?” Patrick sounds angry. “You’re in your own house!”

  “Right,” I say. I down the glass of water, set it on the counter, then wander through the one-story house until I find a bathroom. Whoever decorated this place sure likes ducks. And plaid.

  I peel my jeans down, slowly. Talk about a bloody, sticky mess. After some wincing and swearing, I get my jeans off and take a good look. Yeah, I need stitches. Without them, I’m going to scar, big time. Oh, well. I mean, it’s not like I aspire to be a lingerie model.

  Under the sink I find a washcloth, antibiotic ointment, and three big Band-Aids. A butterfly bandage would be better, but no such luck.

  There’s a knock.

  “What?”

  Patrick’s voice. “I’m just setting these inside for you.” The door opens a crack. “Your favorite jeans and a polo.”

  In tumbles a fresh pair of jeans and a pink top. “No thanks,” I say.

  “What’s wrong?” Patrick asks through the door.

  “Pink.”

  Patrick is silent for a beat, then, “You love that shirt.”

  “Really, I don’t,” I say. “But thanks for the jeans.”

  I hear him sigh heavily, then retreat down the hall. After I clean and bandage my leg, I wiggle into the jeans, even though they’re tight. Much worse, they’ve got these fake diamonds along the tops of the pockets. I run my finger across the jewels, wondering if I can pop them off. Maybe they say something in Braille: I’m mentally vacant. That’s why I’m dressed like a poodle.

  I wad up my bloodstained jeans and shove them to the bottom of the trash can, splash cold water on my face, use the toilet, then just sit on the pot. What am I going to do next? Crawl out the bathroom window and make a run for it? I can’t. It’s storming like mad. I mean, thunder and lightning and a torrential downpour that would make it impossible to see four feet ahead.

  I rock back and forth, my stomach twisting with worry. A high-pitched sound fills the room, like a kitten mewing, and with a start I realize that it’s me. Whimpering. I put my hand over my mouth and start to pace, from the bathroom door to the toilet.