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The Theory of Everything The Theory of Everything J. J. JOHNSON All the characters in THE THEORY OF EVERYTHING are fictional with the exception of Ruby, who was very real and somewhat feral and brought home many possums. Published by PEACHTREE PUBLISHERS 1700 Chattahoochee Avenue Atlanta, Georgia 30318-2112 www.peachtree-online.com Text © 2012 by J. J. Johnson All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or any other—except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without the prior permission of the publisher. Book design by Maureen Withee Composition by Melanie McMahon Ives Manufactured in August 2012 by RR Donnelley & Sons in Harrisonburg, PA, in the United States of America 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1 (hardcover) Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Johnson, J. J., 1973- The theory of everything / by J.J. Johnson p. cm. Summary: Eight months after a freak accident took her best friend's life, Sarah Jones is having trouble at home, at school, and with her boyfriend, but she gains an understanding of interconnectedness while working for Roy, an eccentric Christmas tree-farm owner dealing with his own tragedy. ISBN 978-1-56145-623-9 / 1-56145-623-3 [1. Grief--Fiction. 2. Loss (Psychology)--Fiction. 3. Interpersonal relations--Fiction. 4. Family life--New York (State)--Fiction. 5. Best friends--Fiction. 6. Friendship--Fiction. 7. New York (State)--Fiction.] I. Title. PZ7.J63213Ran 2012 [Fic]--dc23 2011020973 For Juanita and Earl, my parentals. CHaptera 1 Eightyears ago, when we were seven, my best friend Jamie gave me a kaleidoscope. It sounds lame, but I loved that thing. So did Jamie. The girl kept stealing it back until I gave her one of her own. We would just lie there in my backyard, staring up at the sky through them. Prisms turning, colors changing. White cloud crystals, blue sky fractals. Trippy, in a wholesome, Hugs Not Drugs way. Well. My whole life is like that now—it’s trippy and turny and there are no drugs involved, unless Zoloft counts. Oh, and P.S.: Jamie’s not here. She died last March. Since then it’s like I’m living inside a giant kalei- doscope: some unseen outside force shifts the world; the floor wobbles; the jagged pieces of my days get jostled into new pictures, all glassy and triangular. The dismissal bell rings. I have to book it to the gym. The gym is the worst place on this crystalline, prismatic earth. Call it the Tenth Circle of Hell. I hate the place with the fiery passions of a million suns—not to put too fine a point on it—but I have to go there because I need my extra stash of ’pons and Advil. My period decided to bless me in the middle of chemistry, and sadly, I’ve failed to replen- ish the stockpile in my main locker. I Handle My Business fast and sprint out through the gym. I need to get to the parking lot before my brother Jeremy takes off without me. I run along the side wall, which is a long bank of windows, to the far exit on the parking lot side of the building. I push. The door doesn’t budge. I give it a few kicks. This place is truly a vortex of evil. Something outside the windows catches my eye. I turn toward it. Everything unspools—a film sliding out of a movie projector, coiling on the floor. Through the window, a blur. A train streak of momentum. The noise: a boom—thunder—then a crash—glass shattering. The sounds reverberate through the floor, through my feet, up my legs, into my spine. Huge, shining snowflakes burst into the air, a kaleidoscope pointed at blue sky and clouds. But it isn’t snowflakes or clouds. It’s shards of plate glass, smashed from the windows. Staggering in front of me is an enormous crea- ture. A deer with massive antlers. Bellowing. Snowflakes—glass shards—jut from its body. Holy hellmouth. My feet are stuck to the gym floor like they’re magnetized. I’m frozen: one hand raised (like I could ever stop shattering glass), the other pressing my locket as if that’s the thing that needs protection. The deer stumbles. Its head wobbles. It stares straight at me. And I swear it feels like it’s telling me something. Telling me that the kaleidoscope has 3 turned again, my life is shifting—again—and me and this deer are tumbling around inside prisms and light. As soon as my legs start working again, I’m gone. Arms pumping, backpack jostling, boobs bouncing. My feet are on autopilot; they take me to the main office. When I get there, I can hardly get the words out. “A deer in the gym…it’s hurt…” Ms. Franklin turns from her computer and sets down her Diet Coke. “Sarah, honey. You’re bleeding.” Ms. Franklin brings her hand to her forehead. Mirroring her, my fingertips slip on slick warm blood above my eyebrow. There’s something embed- ded in my skin. A little piece of glass. “Oh. Shit.” Dr. Folger pops out of his private office. “Is that our Ms. Jones? Indeed, there is no need for that sort of language.” He doesn’t really look at me. Instead, he stops to slide the nameplate on his door back to the center of its track. James Folger, EdD, Principal. He turns toward us. When he gets a load of my fore- head, his eyes bug out. “Oh my. Are you all right?” “Yeah. I’m awesome.” (I don’t mean for it to come out this way. At some point in the past eight months, my normal voice got replaced with a snark box. Somehow, approximately 92 percent of what I say comes out sarcastic, whether I intend it or not. It’s beyond my control.) “There’s a deer in the gym.” 4 “There’s a what?” As I explain about the deer, Ms. Franklin whisks tissues from their box and waves them at my fore- head. I take the Kleenex and dab above my eye. Dr. Folger takes two little steps, as if he’s woozy from the sight of blood. He clears his throat but doesn’t say anything. Clearly he missed his calling as a para- medic. Ms. Franklin is on the phone. “…stay a bit later. Yes, we’ll come to you. Thanks.” She gives Dr. Folger one of those pointed expressions that adults don’t think we Youth of Today notice. “Perhaps we should take a look at the gym?” “Yes. Yes, of course.” Ms. Franklin plucks a few more tissues and hands them over. I pocket the one I’ve been using and press a fresh one to my forehead. (Left pocket, garbage; right pocket, necessities like lip balm and hair ties.) She picks up her Diet Coke and we’re off. As we turn the last corner before the gym, I start hoping like crazy that the deer will have vanished. Honestly, I’d rather have hallucinated the whole thing. Sometimes being crazy seems like a better deal than dealing with reality. But the deer is still here and now it’s moaning. The sound puts Dr. Folger and Ms. Franklin into deep freeze, so I grab the door myself and pull it open. They follow. We stand there, not saying anything, for what feels like a long time. The deer is lying on its 5 side now, facing the shattered windows—looking out toward freedom. I set down my backpack and stare at my feet. Hear the buck struggling to stand. Ms. Franklin drops her soda can. Thunk. Fizz. Brown liquid spreads over the floor, over the painted court lines. “Oh dear,” she breathes. Dr. Folger says, “Holy…” I hear him rub his neck. “Call 911.” He’s thinking of Jamie. We all are. 6 CHapter 2 Before I can think too much about where she’s taking me, Ms. Franklin leads me out of the gym, back down the main hall, to the nurse’s office. The door swings open and I’m face to face with Jamie’s mom. Great. That’s more than half a year’s worth of Hypervigilant Avoidance of All Things Jamie’s Family down the drain. Because Mrs. Cleary is right here, right now, and man, she does not look good. Sadness oozes out of her like radioactive rainwa- ter. Her face is slack and there are bags under her eyes. I guess she looks like someone whose daugh- ter died. But then she smiles, and the smile floats up into her eyes like she’s genuinely glad to see me. I’m alive and her daughter’s dead. If I were her, I wouldn’t want to see me. But she’s smiling. “Sarah,” she says, grabbing me into a hug, and then pushing me back so she can look at my forehead. Does she know about the deer lying on the gym floor? No would be better than yes. She doesn’t need more freaky gym sadness in her life. “She has a little cut on her forehead,” Ms. Franklin says. “It’s pretty much stopped bleeding,” I say. Translation: Nothing to see here. These aren’t the droids you’re looking for. Move along. “Let’s take a look.” Mrs. Cleary pats the counter for me to sit, and snaps on some rubber gloves.

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