And time isn’t constant. At least not our human concept of time. Einstein theorized that the faster we move, the slower we perceive time to move. The clocks will still tick away at the same rate regardless—but it’s all about the perception of the observer.
I guess pretty much everything in life is about the perception of the observer.
Mr. Scott says, “And you know Einstein has a pretty famous quote about relativity. Does anyone know what it is?”
The class is completely silent.
Mr. Scott picks up the dry-erase marker and starts writing on the board. Once he’s finished, he reads aloud what he scribbled down. “Put your hand on a hot stove for a minute, and it seems like an hour. Sit with a pretty girl for an hour, and it seems like a minute. That’s relativity.”
I press my pencil into the notebook paper, making little graphite smudges all over the page. I wonder if there really is something to Einstein’s theory. Ever since I met Roman and made the Crestville Pointe jump plan, time has flown by. I want to believe that the change has nothing to do with Roman. That maybe time just moves the quickest at the end. I guess that would make sense. I know everything is close to being gone forever, so my desire to rush it is a little less.
I do everything slower recently, like chewing my granola bars so I can really savor the chocolate chips. And I slosh the orange juice around in the back of my throat a couple of times before swallowing to make sure I really taste the sour-and-sweet citrus. Maybe Einstein was right. Maybe because I’m moving slower now, time is moving faster. Maybe that’s just the way the universe works and it has nothing, nothing at all, to do with Roman and how getting to know him has shifted my perspective.
But honestly I don’t know. I just don’t know.
The bell rings as Mr. Scott is saying he isn’t assigning any homework over the weekend. The class erupts with applause and I try to mask my disappointment. I enjoy doing the practice problems. They give me something to do when it’s 2:00 a.m. and the house is silent and dark and Georgia is conked out, snoring slightly. The practice problems make me feel less alone. It’s funny how figuring out the gravitational pull of a random object can make you feel more grounded.
I get up from my desk and shove my physics notebook into my backpack. I’m about to dart out of the classroom when I see Mr. Scott walking toward me. “Aysel,” he says. “Wait up.”
I sit back down in my seat and look up at him.
He places a glossy brochure in front of me. “The University of Kentucky sponsors a two-week summer program for students interested in the sciences.” He grabs a chair from the desk in front of mine and pulls it up so he can sit across from me. He opens the brochure and points at the text on the third page. “There’s even a special physics program. I think you’d really enjoy it.”
I take a deep breath. I can’t exactly tell Mr. Scott that I won’t be able to attend that summer program because I won’t be alive. “I have to work during the summer.”
His lips twist into a sympathetic smile. I’ve never noticed how dark and soft his eyes are; they remind me of a horse. Maybe I was wrong about Mr. Scott. Maybe he did always want to be a teacher. Maybe he’s one of those people who were built for caring. “You don’t have to worry about the money if you get in. They give you a scholarship for the tuition and room and board for the two weeks.” He pushes the brochure closer to me. “I think it’d be a really great experience for you, Aysel.”
I take the brochure and slide it down into the depths of my backpack. I tell him I’ll consider applying and thank him for thinking of me. Later, in math class, I pull the brochure back out and run my fingers over the shiny photographs. I wonder about all the so-called great experiences I’m going to miss; I wonder about the relativity of greatness.
SATURDAY, MARCH 30
8 days left
I arrive at Roman’s house a little after 7:30 a.m. I’m about to text him to come out when the door opens. Mrs. Franklin steps onto the front porch in her cream-colored bathrobe and fuzzy pink slippers. She waves at me and I make myself wave back.
She walks toward me and I step out of the car. “Good morning.”
“Good morning, Aysel!” She reaches out to hug me and I jump—I’m not used to people actually wanting to touch me; most people try to stay as far away as possible, as if by touching me, they could somehow catch my dad’s madness.
But Mrs. Franklin doesn’t know about my dad and so she pulls me as close as humanly possible. I can smell her mint toothpaste and hear her rapid heartbeat. She releases me from her tight embrace but keeps her hands on my shoulders. “So are you excited to go camping?”
Camping? I guess Roman must’ve told her we were taking a camping trip to explain why we’re going to be away for so long. I forgot his mom actually cares where he goes and what he does with his time. I’d told my mom I was working late this weekend so she shouldn’t wait up for me, and Georgia usually spends Saturday nights at a friend’s house. Though I’m pretty sure I could take a weeklong trip to Antarctica before anyone in my household would be at all concerned about my absence.
“Oh, yeah. I haven’t been camping in forever,” I say to Mrs. Franklin, and she lets go of my shoulders and circles my car, peering into the backseat. In this case, forever is a code word for never.
She must pick up on my lack of camping knowledge because she asks, “Did you bring a sleeping bag?”
“Yup, it’s in the trunk,” I lie. Roman and I had planned on spending the night somewhere up near McGreavy Correctional Facility so that I wouldn’t have to make the drive twice in one day. Plus, who knows how long I’ll have to wait to see my dad. The original plan had been to crash in some dingy motel room; he could sleep in the bed and I could sleep on the floor. But I guess he’s arranged a camping trip. Or at least made his mom go through the motions of planning one.
“Good, good. You’ll want a sleeping bag for this weather,” she says. “Anyhow, Roman is running a bit late. He’s not so good at waking up early. I practically had to drag him out of bed. He’s in the shower right now, but he should be out soon. Want to come in and have some breakfast?”
“I already ate,” I lie again, and curse Roman in my head for not being ready. This is exactly what I was trying to avoid. I don’t want to get to know his mom any better than I already do.
“Oh, well, at least come in and have a coffee.” I make a face and it must be obvious that I’m not a fan of coffee. “Or hot chocolate? Don’t wait out here.” She heads back toward the house and waves at me, commanding me to follow her.
I let out a slight groan and follow behind her, keeping my eyes on the manicured stone path. Once we’re inside, she has me take a seat at the kitchen table. She fills the teakettle up with water and puts it on the front burner. “The water will be ready in a minute.”
I nod at her like there’s nothing I want more in the world than a cup of hot chocolate. I glance around the Franklins’ kitchen. The walls are painted a canary yellow and the cabinets are made of cherrywood. On the ivory-colored countertop, there’s a framed picture of Roman and Madison. Madison has her arms around Roman’s neck, and Roman’s eyes are crinkled like he was midlaugh. I drop my eyes to the tiled floor; I can’t look at that picture.
I don’t know how Mr. and Mrs. Franklin can stand to look at it every day.
Mrs. Franklin sets a mug in front of me and takes a seat at the table. “So tell me where you guys are going. I love camping. We used to go camping a lot as a family. I keep trying to get Jim and Roman to agree to plan a trip for this summer. You know, Roman used to be quite the outdoorsman. Loved any kind of adventure.”
I take a sip of the hot chocolate. It burns the tip of my tongue and I wince.
“Oh! Be careful. It’s hot.”
“I don’t know where we’re going,” I say. “Roman’s the one who suggested camping.”
Mrs. Franklin’s face clouds over. “Ah, yes. Like I said, he always loved the outdoors. It’ll be good for him.” She looks me
in the eye. “I’m so glad he met you, Aysel.” She looks over her shoulder in the direction of the stairs and then scoots toward me. In a quiet voice, she adds, “This is new for me. Letting him go off alone, unsupervised. But I couldn’t say no to him. He just seems so happy when he talks about you. This will be good for him, right?”
Her eyes glaze over like she’s sorting through past memories. “You’ll make sure he’s okay, right? That he stays safe?”
I can’t ignore the pinching feeling in the base of my stomach, and I imagine my guilt as a noose, slowly tightening around my neck. My palms feel clammy and I press them against the sides of the mug. The steam from the hot chocolate rises up and tickles my face.
“Hey,” I hear Roman say, and he walks into the kitchen. His brown hair is damp and he has a backpack slung over his shoulder. “Sorry. I didn’t hear my alarm.”
I shrug at him even though I’m planning on tearing into him the second we’re alone in the car. I’m pretty sure there isn’t an etiquette book for Suicide Partners, but there should be. If I weren’t going to be gone in eight days, I’d write one. Rule number one would be: Never wake up late on the day you have plans with your partner. Rule number two: Never make your partner have breakfast with your mom, because they will end up eating a gigantic plate of guilt and regret.
“I’m going to get the tent from the garage,” he says. “Can you give me your keys? I’ll put it in the trunk.”
“Oh, Roman?” Mrs. Franklin says.
“Yeah, Mom?”
“I put some drinks in the cooler and took it out to the garage for you. I was thinking you could take that. I also tossed some hot dogs in there. They should be easy to grill. And I packed a basket with snacks and put it next to the cooler. Though, you might want to stop at the grocery store on your way there so you can pick up some buns for the hot dogs. I’m afraid I don’t have any here.” She flips her palms up and flashes me an apologetic smile. “I didn’t have any in the cupboard. Roman didn’t let me know until last night that you guys were planning on going camping. Or I would’ve been more prepared.” She brushes her hands against the soft surface of her robe.
“Sounds good, Mom. No worries. We’ll stop at the grocery store and get whatever else we need.”
“You should definitely get some stuff to make s’mores.” She places her hands over her heart and sighs. “S’mores are the best part of camping.”
“Right, Mom. I’ll handle it. Don’t worry.”
“Yeah,” I chime in. “Thanks for everything, though.” I toss Roman my keys and he heads outside to the detached garage.
Mrs. Franklin stands up from the table and opens the pantry. “I’m going to make him a peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich to have on the road so he doesn’t delay you guys any longer.”
“Oh,” I say. “He can eat breakfast here, if he wants.”
She spins around to face me, a wide grin on her face. This is the first time I’ve seen Mrs. Franklin without makeup. Even though she’s smiling, the large dark circles under her eyes give her away. Maybe what FrozenRobot said was true. Maybe she does spend every night sobbing. That must be strange for her—silent crier in the night and cheery homemaker in the day. I don’t think I’d ever be able to do it. Chop my life in two. But maybe that’s what you do for people you love.
I frown as I think about how much she must love Roman. She notices me frowning and says, “Oh, sweetie. I won’t delay you guys any longer.”
“No, no . . .” I stumble over my words. “I’m not worried about that.”
She swings a dish towel in the air and slaps it against the kitchen counter. “Well, don’t look so unhappy. You guys are going to have such a fun trip.”
If only she knew this trip isn’t about having fun or camping. It isn’t about s’mores and hot dogs and sleeping bags. It’s about facing my past so I can validate what I almost know for certain about my (nonexistent) future. And there’s nothing fun about that.
“Anyway, y’all need to get a move on. Roman can eat on the road.” She goes back to fixing his sandwich and I stare at my hot chocolate. I can’t see my reflection in it, but I pretend I do. I don’t like the girl I see. The girl who would do this to Mrs. Franklin, who wouldn’t warn her.
I wonder if there is more than one way to kill someone. Maybe my father didn’t only kill Timothy Jackson—he also killed Timothy’s mom because he broke her heart. Wrecked his whole family. I guess that’s why Brian Jackson is so motivated to make it to the Olympics—he needs to repair the damage my dad did.
Regardless, I don’t want to do that to Mrs. Franklin, wreck her like that. I spin the mug around in my hands. It makes my palms sweaty. Finally, I take a sip. Then a gulp. I drink my chocolaty reflection away. I make that girl disappear.
Once Roman comes back, she hands him the sandwich and gives him a tight hug. “Did you find everything?”
“Yeah, Mom. I packed it all. Thanks again.”
She beams at him and pulls him even closer to her. “Oh, and Mom?”
“Yeah?”
“Can you make sure to feed Captain Nemo?”
Mrs. Franklin puts her hands on Roman’s shoulders and leans in to his face so she can look him in the eye. “Of course, sweetie. I’ll check on him all the time. And call you with updates.”
Roman rolls away from her grasp, shrugging her off. His face reddens, and the patch of freckles on his nose glows with his embarrassment. “Just make sure you feed him, okay?”
Mrs. Franklin doesn’t seem put off by his attitude. She reaches out to hug him one last time. “Whatever you say, darling.” She looks over his shoulder, making eye contact with me. “But you kids should definitely get on the road. Be safe, and call me once you’ve reached your campsite.”
My skin itches and I know that I can’t watch them hug anymore. I can’t listen to her go on and on about him staying safe. I give her a little wave and run out the door. “It was nice to see you, Mrs. Franklin.”
“Have fun!” she calls after me. “And Roman, make sure you call!”
I climb into the front seat of my car and bang my hands against the steering wheel, waiting for Roman. I gaze out the windshield. It looks like the frost hit Mrs. Franklin’s flower bed pretty hard. The soil is watery from where the snow melted. One of the bushes is brown, its limbs still bare. I don’t know if the late frost means it will take longer for the flowers to bloom. I hope the flowers bloom soon for her. She’ll need them.
Finally, Roman comes out and ambles down the pathway. His hair is still wet, making it look darker, which in turn makes him look paler. More frozen. He’s standing straighter, though. And there’s a lightness to his step, instead of the usual reluctance. Maybe Mrs. Franklin was right—he really does love camping.
He comes around to the driver’s side and knocks on my window. I roll it down. “What?”
“I forgot my cell phone in the garage. I’ll be back in a second.”
“Hurry up,” I groan, and watch him jog toward the garage that sits behind his house. It looks more like a shed than a garage with its rusted shingle roof and peeling blueberry-colored paint. He returns quickly, waving his cell phone in the air so I can see he retrieved it.
“What the hell,” I say once he gets into the car. The whole car fills with the smell of his pine-scented body spray. I clasp my hand over my mouth and almost cough.
“What?”
“You’ve committed two crimes.” I pull out of the driveway.
“Huh?” He rubs his eyes. FrozenRobot, apparently, doesn’t function very well in the early morning. I’m not sure what time we’re planning on going to Crestville Pointe on the seventh, but it better not be early.
“Crime one, you’re wearing way too much body spray.”
He sinks down into his seat, knocking his head against the headrest. He puts his backpack down at his feet and rests them on it. “I don’t wear body spray.”
“Okay, well, whatever it is, you smell like a Christmas tree.”
H
e sniffs his shoulder, pulling on the fabric of his black T-shirt. “And so what’s the second crime?”
I tighten my grip on the steering wheel. “The second one. That’s the big offense.”
“Is that why we’re on our way to the prison? How many years are on my sentence? I hate to break it to you, but I’m not sure I’m going to be around to serve the entirety of it.”
I ignore his jab. “You made me have an intimate meeting with your mother. Scratch that. Another intimate meeting. You most definitely should serve time for that.”
“Intimate?” Roman pivots so he can face me. I’m not used to having passengers in my car. I forget how small it is, how small it can feel when someone leans over toward the driver’s side. If I tilted my head, my cheek would be against his. I scoot away from him and crane my neck to the opposite side.
“Yeah, intimate.” I resist the urge to point out the similarities between the words “intimate” and “inmate.” I move my posture back to neutral. It’s not like I can drive all the way to McGreavy quirking my head to the left. “And don’t pretend like you don’t know what I mean. It breaks my heart to be around her. She’s so nice.”
He snorts and shakes his head. “You don’t really know my mom.”
“Oh, really?”
“Yes, really.” He pulls his sandwich out of the plastic bag. He tears off the crusts and then takes a bite of it. “But can we please stop talking about my mom? What goes on with her isn’t any of your business.”
“Fine. Then don’t make it any of my business.” I steer the car away from his neighborhood and head down the winding hill toward the highway. The hills begin to give way to the flat, muddy river basin. I avoid looking at the Ohio River. It’s uncomfortable to stare at it now; it’s like it knows secrets about me. Sometimes it feels as if the river’s judging me, that it’s disappointed in me. I know it’s all in my head, but some feelings are harder to shake than others.
I turn my attention back to Roman. I’ve let the issue of his mom drop for all of five seconds. “I still can’t believe she let us take this trip alone. That doesn’t seem like her.”