Read Online Parallel by Lauren Miller - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Lauren Miller
Tags: english eBooks
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different sets of memories. It’s as if my mind recorded two different versions of what happened that morning. I run through both versions again, struggling to make sense of the inconsistency. When I can’t, I rack my brain for other duplicate days, but there aren’t any. Just the one. Exactly a year ago yesterday. I remember, because it was the day before my birthday.
On impulse, I Google the words “Atlanta earthquake September 2008.” The search returns over a million hits. The top one is a link to an article on CNN.com, dated September 9, 2008.
A rare earthquake measuring magnitude 5.9 shook the Southeast early yesterday morning. Scientists are baffled, as it appears there may have been more than seventy similar quakes at various sites across the globe. Theories about the cause of the quakes abound, but so far seismologists have been unable to isolate their origin.
I close my eyes, again trying to summon more of these alternate memories. Other astronomy lectures, other conversations with the friendly new kid. Nada. Nothing beyond that first day. I’ve got one day of earthquake memories and a full year’s worth of non-earthquake ones.
DING! My eyes fly open. It’s another text from Tyler.
TELL C TO LET ME COME VISIT
I think for a sec, then quickly reply.
WHAT AIRPORT WOULD U FLY FROM?
He’ll think it’s super weird that I’m asking, but at least I’ll know from his answer whether he’s still at Michigan. My phone dings with his reply.
U GONNA BOOK MY FLIGHT FOR ME?
Damn. So much for that.
I’m crafting a response when my phone dings again.
DTW
Detroit. So Tyler’s still at Michigan, Caitlin’s still at Yale, and I’m three thousand miles from where I should be. And no closer to figuring out why.
I sigh, slumping down in my seat, wishing I could go back to sleep and forget this whole experience. But I’m supposed to meet Caitlin in six minutes, and according to my map, McNeil Lecture Hall is in the art gallery on the other side of campus. I leave my laptop on the desk, lock the door to my study carrel, and hurry back downstairs.
The blue sign outside 1111 Chapel Street welcomes me to the Yale University Art Gallery. I pull open the door and step inside the lobby. I’m so preoccupied with the fact that I’m late that I almost don’t notice the banner hanging on the lobby’s far wall.
THE ART OF HARMONY:
SEURAT’S CHROMOLUMINARISM.
SEPTEMBER 1–NOVEMBER 30 AT THE YUAG.
COURTESY OF THE HIGH MUSEUM.
My mom’s pointillism exhibit. I knew the collection was touring after its nine-month stint at the High, but it catches me off guard to find it here. A professor’s voice, loud and crisp, reverberates through the thin walls of the lecture hall, reminding me that the class I came for started five minutes ago. Eyes still on the banner, I reach to pull open the auditorium door.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” a male voice says. I look around. The only other person in the lobby is a guy in a gray Yale Lacrosse T-shirt, sitting on the wooden bench that runs the length of the auditorium wall. He’s leaning back against the wall, his long legs stretched out in front of him. He has a notebook in his lap and a pen in his hand. I quickly take him in: dark, floppy hair, bright green eyes, skin that’s been tanned in the sun, not in a booth. He’s good-looking. Like, really good-looking. His T-shirt is snug on his biceps, which appear to get quite a bit of use.
“Why not?” I ask, pulling my hand off the door handle.
“Prof has a thing about punctuality,” he says. “Every year, he makes an example out of the kids who show up late during shopping period. Berates them, mocks them—it’s not pretty. Good news is, he doesn’t take attendance, so it’s no big deal if you’re not there. Especially if you have the notes.” He holds up his notebook and nods toward the wall. “From here you can hear every word. I’m Michael, by the way,” he adds, leaning forward to shake my hand. His
On impulse, I Google the words “Atlanta earthquake September 2008.” The search returns over a million hits. The top one is a link to an article on CNN.com, dated September 9, 2008.
A rare earthquake measuring magnitude 5.9 shook the Southeast early yesterday morning. Scientists are baffled, as it appears there may have been more than seventy similar quakes at various sites across the globe. Theories about the cause of the quakes abound, but so far seismologists have been unable to isolate their origin.
I close my eyes, again trying to summon more of these alternate memories. Other astronomy lectures, other conversations with the friendly new kid. Nada. Nothing beyond that first day. I’ve got one day of earthquake memories and a full year’s worth of non-earthquake ones.
DING! My eyes fly open. It’s another text from Tyler.
TELL C TO LET ME COME VISIT
I think for a sec, then quickly reply.
WHAT AIRPORT WOULD U FLY FROM?
He’ll think it’s super weird that I’m asking, but at least I’ll know from his answer whether he’s still at Michigan. My phone dings with his reply.
U GONNA BOOK MY FLIGHT FOR ME?
Damn. So much for that.
I’m crafting a response when my phone dings again.
DTW
Detroit. So Tyler’s still at Michigan, Caitlin’s still at Yale, and I’m three thousand miles from where I should be. And no closer to figuring out why.
I sigh, slumping down in my seat, wishing I could go back to sleep and forget this whole experience. But I’m supposed to meet Caitlin in six minutes, and according to my map, McNeil Lecture Hall is in the art gallery on the other side of campus. I leave my laptop on the desk, lock the door to my study carrel, and hurry back downstairs.
The blue sign outside 1111 Chapel Street welcomes me to the Yale University Art Gallery. I pull open the door and step inside the lobby. I’m so preoccupied with the fact that I’m late that I almost don’t notice the banner hanging on the lobby’s far wall.
THE ART OF HARMONY:
SEURAT’S CHROMOLUMINARISM.
SEPTEMBER 1–NOVEMBER 30 AT THE YUAG.
COURTESY OF THE HIGH MUSEUM.
My mom’s pointillism exhibit. I knew the collection was touring after its nine-month stint at the High, but it catches me off guard to find it here. A professor’s voice, loud and crisp, reverberates through the thin walls of the lecture hall, reminding me that the class I came for started five minutes ago. Eyes still on the banner, I reach to pull open the auditorium door.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” a male voice says. I look around. The only other person in the lobby is a guy in a gray Yale Lacrosse T-shirt, sitting on the wooden bench that runs the length of the auditorium wall. He’s leaning back against the wall, his long legs stretched out in front of him. He has a notebook in his lap and a pen in his hand. I quickly take him in: dark, floppy hair, bright green eyes, skin that’s been tanned in the sun, not in a booth. He’s good-looking. Like, really good-looking. His T-shirt is snug on his biceps, which appear to get quite a bit of use.
“Why not?” I ask, pulling my hand off the door handle.
“Prof has a thing about punctuality,” he says. “Every year, he makes an example out of the kids who show up late during shopping period. Berates them, mocks them—it’s not pretty. Good news is, he doesn’t take attendance, so it’s no big deal if you’re not there. Especially if you have the notes.” He holds up his notebook and nods toward the wall. “From here you can hear every word. I’m Michael, by the way,” he adds, leaning forward to shake my hand. His
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