Parallel Page 3

  “Hey, Jake, just hang for a minute,” Bret tells the driver as the limo pulls up in front of the Culver. “I’m gonna walk Abby up.”

  “Oh, that’s okay,” I say. “I’ll be fine. You should get Kirby home, anyway.” I give her limp arm a friendly pat and quickly slip out of the limo, closing the door behind me before Bret can argue. Two seconds later, I’m knocking on the window, feeling like an asshole.

  The sunroof slides open, and Bret’s head pops up. “I forgot to say thank you,” I say. “Tonight was awesome.”

  “You deserve awesome,” he replies, raising his empty champagne glass in the air. Behind him, the night sky is an arresting shade of indigo. My first thought is that it’s just light pollution. But then I notice the stars. They’re so bright. Like, oddly bright. I tilt my head back for a better look. The wind picks up, making me shiver, but I can’t stop staring at the stars, which are so brilliant they’re almost blinding. “It’s your night, Birthday Girl,” I hear Bret say. I drop my eyes, forgetting the stars and my goose bumps, but Bret has already ducked back into the limo, disappearing behind the tinted glass as the car pulls away.

  When I get up to my room, I don’t even bother with the lights. I kick off my boots, think to myself how convenient it is that I’m already wearing my pajamas, and fall into bed. And finally, effortlessly, I sleep.

  I dream of earthquakes that night. Shaking so violent that the door rattles and the windows crack and the mirror over the antique dresser shatters on the hardwood floor. It only lasts for a second, though. Then the world goes black.

  I’m jolted awake by a bright, searing light and a blast of cold air. Shivering, I open my eyes, then immediately close them, wincing at the brightness. It takes me a few seconds to realize that the blinding light is the sun.

  Shit, shit, shit.

  If the sun’s up, I either slept through my five o’clock a.m. wake-up call or the front desk never made it. I feel myself start to panic. How late is it? I was supposed to be in hair and makeup at 6:05. Alain will be livid if I’m late. Please don’t let it be past six, please don’t let it be past six, please don’t let it be past six. Eyes still adjusting to the light, I roll over toward the nightstand and force myself to look at the clock.

  But there’s no clock in sight. Where the nightstand should be is a wall. A poorly painted white one.

  Fear grips my body. The walls of my hotel room are covered in textured gold linen. And the bed isn’t this close to the wall. Heart pounding, I look down at the blanket I’m holding. A blanket that should match the pale ivory upholstery of the Victorian chair by the window.

  The blanket is blue.

  2

  THERE

  MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 8, 2008

  (the day before my seventeenth birthday)

  “Abby? Abby, honey, wake up.”

  My eyes fly open. My mom, still in her pajamas, is sitting on the edge of my bed, her face the picture of calm. I appreciate her effort, but I know instantly that something is wrong. There is much too much sunlight in my room.

  “What time is it?”

  “Five till eight.”

  I blink. For a moment I am still, calculating the exact number of minutes between now and the time the late bell rings. Thirteen.

  “Abby?” My mom is clearly confused by my stillness. We both know there’s no way I’m making it to school on time, which means I’ll miss the beginning of the senior parking lottery. They start at the parking spot closest to the building and work their way toward the street, drawing names from a box at lightning speed. In order to claim your space, you have to be present at the drawing when they call your name. If you’re not, game over. You’re automatically relegated to the annex lot across the street.

  I spring out of bed.

  “Why didn’t my alarm go off? And why is my alarm clock on the floor?” I point an accusing finger at the base of my nightstand, where my clock radio is lying facedown on the carpet. My mom bends to pick it up.

  “There was an earthquake last night,” she replies, setting the clock back on my nightstand. It’s blinking 12:00. “At least, they think it was an earthquake.”

  “There was an earthquake? In Atlanta?” I stare at her. “How is that possible?”

  “Apparently, it’s not the first time it’s happened. And it wasn’t just here, either.” She presses the radio button on my clock. The familiar sound of my favorite morning news program fills the room.

  “No significant damage or injuries have been reported, but people are reporting power outages in various parts of the city. This is the third earthquake to hit the Atlanta area since 1878. Seismologists are baffled by the quake, which, despite its relatively small size—only five point nine on the Richter scale—appears to have triggered seismic activity all over the globe.”

  I wonder briefly if I’m still asleep. An earthquake felt all over the world?

  “Can I make you breakfast?” Mom asks, standing up.

  I shake my head as I slide out of bed. “No time. But thanks.” I pull the elastic from my hair, wishing I’d had the foresight to wash it last night, and wince as my fingers hit a tangle.

  “Any chance school is canceled?” I call after my mom. She reappears in the doorway and shakes her head.

  “They’ve already announced that it isn’t.”

  “What about aftershocks?” I ask as I give myself a once-over in the mirror above my dresser, trying to decide whether it’s absolutely necessarily to bathe.

  “I guess they figure kids will be safer at school,” Mom replies. “Fewer windows.”

  I skip the shower and douse myself with lavender Febreze instead. I put my unwashed hair back into a ponytail, grab my bag, and head down the back stairs to the kitchen.

  “You excited about your big first day?” Dad asks when I appear.

  “‘Excited’ is a strong word.”

  “Well, try to enjoy it.” His voice is wistful. “You’re only a senior once.” I can tell by the look in his eye that he’s remembering his own senior year of high school, hanging out in Andy Warhol’s studio in midtown Manhattan after school (yes, that Andy Warhol), making silk screens and lithographs and probably doing massive amounts of drugs. He told me once that although his life got happier in the years that followed, he’s never felt quite as alive as he did then.

  “Don’t forget your lunch!” Mom says, coming up behind me, brown paper bag in hand. As always, there’s a colorful sticker holding it closed. I told her once, years ago, that the stickers were unnecessary because the bag just ended up in the trash. The next day, there was a note inside the bag, on exquisite handmade paper: Dearest Abby, The Beauty of Life is in the beauty of life. Treasure the details. Love, Mom. The stickers kept coming.

  “Don’t speed,” my dad warns.

  “I won’t,” I lie, and head for the door.

  My school is exactly four miles and five traffic lights from my house. Over the past three years, I’ve learned that the time it takes me to get there varies dramatically depending on the time of day and the weather. Before seven o’clock on a clear day, it takes me four minutes. On rainy days during rush hour, it takes at least twelve. Today is the first “morning after an earthquake” I’ve ever experienced, so I’m not sure what to expect, but I’m definitely not prepared for the standstill I encounter as soon as I pull out of my neighborhood. Nobody is moving. It’s as if everyone within a ten-mile radius decided to hop into their cars at the exact same time. I glance at the clock on my dash and groan. It’s 8:25 already, and I still have three and a half miles to go.

  “If I’m late, then it probably means a lot of people are late. I’m sure they’ll postpone the drawing.” I say this out loud, confidently, trying to trick myself into believing it. Yeah, right. Our principal—a large, unfortunate-looking man whose arsenal of painful clichés and acne scars has earned him the nickname “The Cheese”—will no doubt relish the opportunity to wield his favorite catchphrase: “It’s up to you to do what it takes.” In other words,
don’t blame the earthquake—if being at school on time is important to you, get a battery-operated alarm clock (this was his response after a tornado wiped out a local power grid two years ago, delivered to the entire student body, sans irony, with a completely straight face).

  At 8:54, I pull into the school parking lot. From the looks of it, the cars clogging the roads hadn’t belonged to my classmates. There’s not a single empty space. “A preview,” I mutter, crossing into the annex lot across the street. “Might as well get used to it.” I park in one of the few open spots and sprint toward the building. The second-period bell is ringing, loud and shrill, as I pull open the front door. I don’t see any seniors in the crowded hallway, which I take as a good sign: The lottery must not be over yet.

  As I approach the auditorium, I’m met with the muffled sound of the Cheese’s voice. I slip through the doors and take a seat in the back row. Our auditorium has stadium seating, so I have a bird’s-eye view of the stage. Behind the podium, there is a giant diagram of the parking lot propped up on an easel. Although I can’t read them from this distance, every space is filled with a name. Damn it.

  “This is your year,” Mr. Cheese is saying. “Make it count.” He pumps his fist for emphasis. From the sea of slumped bodies, it’s obvious he’s being wholeheartedly ignored.

  I scan the crowd for Caitlin and Tyler. Ty is easy to spot. He’s the only black head in a row of white ones (our golf team). I eventually spot Caitlin on the far left, one empty seat between her and the aisle, no doubt saved for me. My eyes are fixed on the top of her blond head, willing her to look at me, but she’s focused on something in her lap.

  Two seconds later, my phone buzzes with a text.

  Caitlin: WHERE R U???

  I quickly write back. BEHIND U. FAR BACK. Right after I hit send, she turns around. I wave and she smiles, looking relieved to see me, then turns back to her phone.

  U OK?

  YEAH. ALARM DIDNT GO OFF.

  YIKES. SORRY.

  TELL ME ABOUT IT. WHAT # DID U GET?

  #27

  Lucky her! Second row from the building.

  NICE! ME?

  Caitlin raises her eyes and gives me a sympathetic look. My phone vibrates in my hand.

  A7 :(

  A as in Annex. Lovely. “Sorry,” Caitlin mouths. I shrug. At this point, it’s not like I’m surprised.

  I’m not sure I want to know, but I ask anyway:

  WHEN DID THEY CALL MY NAME?

  Another sympathetic look.

  #19

  The very first row. Naturally.

  “We expect each and every one of you to take ownership of your future,” the Cheese drones on. “Our guidance counselors are a wonderful resource—use them—but the decisions are ultimately yours to make. Where you go from here is up to you. Don’t get on a Road to Nowhere.” There is a collective eye roll. His captives are reaching their Cheese threshold. Thankfully, he’s wrapping it up. “It’s nine-oh-five,” he announces, pointing at the wall clock. “We expect everyone to be in their second-period classrooms, in their seats by nine fifteen. You are dismissed.”

  I make my way to the left aisle to meet Caitlin. In skinny jeans, peep-toe heels, and a cropped silk blazer, she looks like she should be on the cover of Teen Vogue, not cruising the halls of a suburban high school.

  “Hey,” Caitlin says as she saunters up the aisle. “Forgot to replace the batteries in your alarm clock?”

  “How’d you know?” I fall into step beside her. “Did I miss anything important?”

  She shakes her head. “Just pearls of Cheese wisdom. I know you’re devastated to have missed those.” Her phone buzzes with a text.

  “Tyler?”

  She shakes her head. “My dad. He’s down at the USGS field office. I made him promise to send hourly updates.”

  “USGS?”

  “U.S. Geological Survey. They’re worried about structural damage from the tremor.”

  “Have they figured out what caused it yet?” I ask. “Since when do earthquakes shake the whole planet?”

  “Earthquakes don’t.”

  Before I can ask Caitlin what she means, someone taps me on my shoulder. “Abby?” It’s Ms. DeWitt, one of our guidance counselors. I’ve been to her office so few times I’m surprised she even knows who I am. “Do you have a minute?”

  “Uh, sure.” I glance at Caitlin. “See you later?” Caitlin nods, then heads toward the lobby doors. I turn back to Ms. DeWitt, who motions for me to follow her.

  “I sent a note to Mrs. Gorin this morning, asking that you stop by before the lottery,” she says as we set off down the hall. “But I gather you didn’t make it to homeroom today?”

  “Oh—no—I just got here. We lost power because of the earthquake,” I explain. She’s a few steps ahead of me, so I hurry to catch up. “Uh, is everything okay?”

  We arrive in front of her door, and she ushers me inside. “Everything is fine,” she says, gesturing for me to sit. “We just have to make a change to your class schedule.”

  I freeze. “What kind of change?”

  “Mr. Simmons has canceled History of Music,” she says, sitting down at her desk. There are photos of a mean-looking Siamese cat tacked to her bulletin board. “Which leaves you without a fifth-period class.” Her voice is brisk, like she’s in a rush. “This morning there were openings in a couple of electives, but since we’ve rescheduled twenty-two students since then, I’m afraid you don’t have many options.”

  Shit. History of Music was a key component of my perfect schedule. The title sounds legitimate enough, but it’s a total no-brainer. The final exam consists of listening to Mr. Simmons’s hand-selected “essentials” playlist while writing an essay on the importance of music to American pop culture.

  “So, where does that leave me?” I ask, hoping she’ll tell me that Mr. Simmons has created a new class, something that’ll make HOM look like rocket science.

  “Principles of Astronomy.” To her credit, she doesn’t even try to make this sound like good news.

  I will not freak out, I will not freak out. “That’s my only option?”

  “At this point, yes,” she says apologetically. “If you’d been here when we first sent for you, you could’ve taken Ms. Ziffren’s drama class instead . . . but I guess that’s neither here nor there at this point, isn’t it?” She smiles reassuringly as she hands me my new schedule. “The good news is, astronomy will really stand out on your transcript.” I glance down at the page, still warm from the printer.

  Yeah. Fs usually do.

  “Abby, stop freaking out.” Caitlin stabs a cucumber with her fork and pops it into her mouth. “I took it freshman year. It’s not a hard class.”

  “This coming from the girl who’s spent the past two summers interning at NASA.” We’re sitting on the hill behind the cafeteria, our lunches next to us. The lawn is packed with seniors enjoying the sunshine and one of the few perks of senior year: outdoor dining.

  Caitlin rolls her eyes. “Abby, it’s not even a real astronomy class. I promise you, if there are sci-track kids in there, they’ll all be freshmen.”

  “Great,” I say sarcastically. “So a bunch of fourteen-year-olds can make me feel stupid. I feel better already.”

  “It’s senior year, baby!” We look up. Tyler is grinning down at us, flanked by four guys from the golf team.

  “What are you so happy about?” I grumble as Tyler plops down on the grass next to Caitlin, lunch bag in hand. The other guys sit down at a picnic table a few feet away, no doubt worried about wrinkling their pressed khakis.

  Caitlin, Tyler, and I have been eating lunch together every day since sixth grade. My parents met Tyler’s parents—both classical musicians—at a fund-raiser for the National Endowment for the Arts two weeks after they moved here, so Ty and I have been spending cookouts and game nights together since we were babies. There was a period in elementary school when we professed to despise each other, but by fifth grade we were inseparabl
e. We didn’t meet Caitlin until sixth grade, when her family moved here from San Francisco. The three of us have been best friends ever since. These days, Caitlin and I are closer than either of us is to Tyler, mainly because he spends all his time playing golf and hooking up with volleyball players. And cheerleaders.

  Tyler shrugs out of his blazer and drapes it over the fence behind us. Yes, he’s sporting a seersucker suit at school. That’s Tyler. A walking contradiction. The choirboy who uses a fake ID to buy beer every weekend but refuses to jaywalk. The jock with an unyielding Carrie Underwood obsession. The city boy who wears seersucker and plays competitive croquet.

  “We’re seniors. What’s not to be happy about?” Tyler turns his lunch bag over and dumps its contents onto the lawn. Four sandwiches, two apples, an orange, two bags of potato chips, a carton of blueberry yogurt, and an entire sleeve of Chips Ahoy.

  “Abby’s freaking out because she has to take astronomy,” Caitlin tells him.

  “I am not freaking out.”

  Caitlin looks at me, eyebrows raised.

  “Ugh, I’d be freaking out, too,” says Tyler. Caitlin elbows him.

  “Ignore him,” Caitlin instructs. “You’ll be fine. Mr. Kang is a great teacher.”

  “He isn’t teaching it,” I tell her.

  “What are you talking about? It’s Kang’s class.”

  “Not this semester,” I reply, handing her the printout of my new schedule. Caitlin glances down at it and immediately reacts.

  “No way!”

  “What?” I demand.

  “Unless this is a different Gustav P. Mann, the guy teaching your astronomy class is a Nobel Prize winner.”

  Memories of tenth-grade Botany Basics come barreling back. “Please tell me you’re kidding,” I moan.

  “There’s still room in all my classes,” Tyler says sympathetically. “History of the Southern Narrative, Prop Design, Intro to Tempo and Beats, Practical Physics, Senior Math, and Conversational Spanish.” Listening to him rattle off this laughable lineup, I am envious of Tyler and his utter lack of scholastic ambition. It’s not that he’s not smart, but when you’re a golf star, the college application process goes a little differently.