An Infinite Number of Parallel Universes Read Online Free PDF Page B

manicured nails.
    “So . . .” Mari says.
    “So . . . what?” her mom says.
    “Is there a reason you brought up my birthday which is, like, a year away still?”
    “Not really. Just making conversation.”
    “That’s not conversation,” Mari says. “That’s just a statement. A conversation requires a back-and-forth interaction. Like this. This is a conversation. About conversation. Don’t you agree?”
    “Sorry,” her mom says, still looking at her nails.
    “Green,” Mari says, tilting her chin in the direction of the light.
    Her mom looks up and steps on the gas. The car jolts forward.
    “Actually . . .” her mom says. “Oh, never mind.”
    Mari leans her head back and closes her eyes. “Geez, Mom. What?”
    She glances at Mari, turns her eyes back to the road, and exhales. “I had an ulterior motive for taking you along with me today. There’s something I want to tell you . . . but we’re supposed to wait until you’re eighteen.”
    “So now you have to tell me,” Mari says. “You can’t say something like that and then not.”
    “But now I’m thinking maybe I should wait . . .”
    “What is it?”
    “Promise me you won’t tell your father I told you.”
    “. . . Okay.”
    “So we adopted you when you were a baby,” she says.
    Mari covers her mouth with her hand in mock surprise. “Oh my!”
    “You didn’t let me finish,” her mom says, playfully slapping Mari’s arm.
    “Okay, finish.”
    “Okay. So.” Her mom takes a deep breath and then restarts. “We adopted you when you were a baby. We’ve always told you that if you ever had any questions about it, you could ask us. But you haven’t ever.”
    “Because I don’t care,” Mari says, gazing out the window at the passing buildings.
    “I know, and we’ve respected that. But as part of our adoption agreement, we’re required to give you your biological mother’s name and contact information when you turn eighteen if you haven’t requested it by then.”
    “You have to? Like legally?”
    “Yes.”
    “So then why tell me now?”
    “In case you wanted it now.”
    “I don’t.”
    “You sure?”
    “Yes. And I won’t want it in eight months, either.”
    “Well, if you change your mind—”
    “I won’t.”
    They pull into the driveway, and Mari’s mom kills the engine. They sit in silence, staring at the closed garage door. Eventually, Mari reaches up and hits the button to open it. She jumps out of the car and disappears into the house.

Her Hidden Multiverse
Saturday
    On second thought, Mari decides to destroy the world.
    She crosses out the final paragraphs and brainstorms how she will do it.
    It is late. A light in her room is the only one on in the entire house. Her door is closed, and an instrumental track set on repeat plays through her headphones. She lies on her stomach across the floor.
    She pauses, pressing the tip of the pen to her lips, and searches the walls for inspiration.
    A storm of pictures and pages surround her. Faded colors, curling corners, and thumbtack holes mark the age of each. There are postcards from cities she’s visited and cities she wants to visit. There are pictures of people and animals and buildings and clouds and trees and lakes and campfires and statues and streets and cemeteries. There are posters of famous paintings enhanced with handwritten verses taken from some of her favorite lines of poems and songs. There are drawings of fantasy creatures and landscapes. There are yellowing pages removed from forgotten books bought from garage sales, the passages of which contain no particular significance to her.
    There is a photo of her younger brothers at the beach. They crouch in smooth white sand while forming a castle. Their pale skin stings with sunburn. The photographer’s shadow reaches for the water next to them.
    On the same wall, high above her mirrorless dresser, there is a photo of her parents on their wedding day. Her dad stands behind her mom with his arms around her