The Theory of Everything Read Online Free PDF Page A

“You’re charming and all, but I’d like to quit seeing things now.”
    Walt stopped drumming, and Mom started snoring, softly, like someone running her hands up and down a set of mini blinds.
    â€œThat’s not how it works,” Walt said, speaking quietly.
    â€œSo enlighten me, enlightened one,” I said. “Are you a healer or what?”
    â€œI am, but sometimes the healing is internal. I’m here to guide you, not make things happen or prevent things from happening,” he said. “I’m more like a guardian angel without wings. Unless they’re chicken wings, of course.”
    He picked up a carton of fried rice and emptied it into his mouth.
    â€œI didn’t ask for a guardian panda or shaman or whatever you are,” I said, standing up and pacing back and forth in front of the television. “I didn’t ask to see things or to move away from New York, but those things happened anyway. So here’s some guidance for you. Leave. I don’t want you here.”
    But as soon as I said it, I knew it wasn’t true. Maybe having a giant, invisible shaman panda as my first friend here wasn’t the best choice, but maybe it was. Walt was in on the joke. I’d never have to lie to him, to tell him I had a headache when really I was just reeling from returning from an episode. I didn’t have to explain how scary it was to try to live on shifting ground, never knowing if I was safe in my own head, much less a math class. And if he wanted to guide me, as he said, or watch over me like some black and white furry angel, I was in no position to pass
that
up.
    â€œI’m a jerk,” I said. “Also known as a brat, prima donna or pariah. I’m sorry. Peace offering?”
    I handed Walt the small white bag from the middle of the table. It was the same bag that came with Chinese takeout in every city and contained the usual suspects: soy sauce, duck sauce that no one ever ate and two fortune cookies. Maybe that’s why Dad made Chinese food a part of our ritual. If you wanted to commemorate something, you couldn’t do much better than food that came with fate at the end.
    Walt shook a fortune cookie into his paw and presented it to me.
    â€œI know you didn’t ask for me,” he said. “But look at it this way: there is nothing you can tell me that will freak me out. No one else can see me. And the best part? You never have to come to me. I’ll come to you.”
    â€œPlus, you have a killer smile and impeccable wit,” I said, giggling and taking the cookie out of his hand. I broke it in two and stuck a piece in my mouth. Stale mixed with vanilla.
    â€œDepart not from the path that fate has assigned,” I read from the slip of paper. “You have
got
to be kidding.”
    â€œWhat? I didn’t write it,” Walt said. “And I never used the word
path,
thank you very much.”
    â€œBut you’re going to,” I said. “If I let you be my shaman panda, Zen words are going to start popping out of your mouth like a slot machine.”
    â€œZen is in!” Walt said. He smashed his cookie on the table, sending pieces—and Balzac—flying around the room. I grabbed his fortune off the table and there, in tiny black letters, was his destiny. Even though it sounded a lot more like mine.
    â€œA friend is a gift you give yourself,” I said. “That’s corny.”
    â€œBut true,” he said, sticking his paw in the plum sauce and then in his mouth. “Admit it. You know you like talking to me.”
    I didn’t hate it. And even though he ate all the takeout, showed up without warning and was a panda, he didn’t stare or ask questions; he just accepted. Like I used to do with Dad.
    â€œI’ll do a trial basis,” I said.
    â€œYes!” Walt said, throwing his arms in the air and shaking his butt around.
    â€œBut no more of that,” I said. “We only