The Backward Season Page 3

  Ava wondered if DeLoreans existed in real life—sleek, sporty cars with doors that opened up instead of out. She’d never seen one. She’d remember if she had.

  “Gull wings,” Stanley said.

  “Huh?” said Ava.

  “The doors. They’re called that because they resemble the wings of a gull.”

  “Huh,” said Ava.

  “It makes the car more streamlined. Better for time travel.”

  “Ah. Well, of course,” Ava said. She and Natasha shared an amused glance. Still, Ava made a mental note: Streamlined. Okay.

  “Do you know why else Doc built his time machine using a DeLorean?” Stanley asked.

  “Please tell us,” Natasha teased.

  “For a couple of reasons. First, the DeLorean is constructed from stainless steel. That was crucial in terms of creating the flux capacitor.”

  Ava perked up. She knew that the flux capacitor was the Important Thing that allowed Doc Brown and Marty McFly to go back in time, but that was all she knew. Stanley kept talking, using terms like “rear-mounted two-point-eight-five-liter blah-blah-PRV engine,” “fiberglass body structure,” and, bewilderingly, “a steel backbone.”

  “Do you know why Doc was so particular about every detail?” Stanley asked.

  “Because he wanted to get it right?” Ava guessed.

  “To increase his chances of having a smooth passage through the space-time continuum,” said Stanley.

  Ava sat up straighter. After her epiphany beneath the willow tree, she’d stopped by the public library and pored over scientific articles exploring the possibility of time travel. Gravitational field equations, something called Tensor Calculus, Einstein’s theory of general relativity . . .

  The reading had been dense and had made her brain hurt. She’d decided to watch Back to the Future in the hopes of finding an easier way to unravel the mysteries of time travel. She knew it was just a movie, but still.

  On the television screen, Marty McFly was having a soda with George McFly, who would one day be Marty’s father—unless Marty screwed things up.

  “Do physicists really believe in that thing you just said?” Ava concentrated on getting the term right. “Space-time continuums?”

  Stanley grinned. “Sure they do. So do I, and I’m not even a physicist.”

  “And the concept of a space-time continuum means thinking of the world not as three-dimensional, but as four-dimensional,” Ava said, furrowing her brow. “Is that right?”

  Natasha gave her a funny look.

  “That’s a simplified way of describing it, but yeah,” Stanley said. “We exist in space. Space is three-dimensional, with height, width, and depth.”

  “Unlike a painting, which is two-dimensional,” Ava said.

  “Actually, a painting is still three-dimensional. You can hold a painting, right? Like if you were hanging it on the wall?”

  “Well, yeah.”

  “But the image represented in the painting is two-dimensional. If it’s a painting of a bridge, for example—”

  “The bridge in the painting is two-dimensional,” Ava said. “Got it. And since I’m three-dimensional, I couldn’t walk over the bridge, even if it were life-size.”

  “Guys? The movie?” said Natasha.

  Ava scooted forward on the sofa, leaning past Natasha to better see Stanley. “But time is different. It’s not height or width or depth. That’s why it’s called the fourth dimension?”

  “It’s more complicated than that, but that’s a decent starting point,” Stanley said. “You, Ava, are three-dimensional, like you said. Same for me, same for Natasha, same for the sofa. But for us to exist, we have to exist somewhere, although ‘where’ isn’t the right word. It’s more that we have to exist somewhen.”

  Somewhen. Ava’s skin tingled.

  “Without time, there couldn’t be space. There couldn’t be us.” Stanley held Ava’s gaze. “Time is the fabric that makes space possible.”

  Ava silently repeated his words, memorizing them.

  “Ava, you look like you’re studying for an exam,” Natasha said with a laugh.

  “What about wormholes?” Ava asked. “Physicists say that a person could travel through a wormhole to go forward or backward in time. Is that right?”

  “Okay, whoa,” said Natasha.

  “In theory,” Stanley answered. “The problem is that wormholes collapse once matter enters them.”

  “What’s a wormhole?” Natasha asked. “And Ava? Why are you suddenly interested in this stuff?”

  Prickles at the back of Ava’s neck cautioned her to be careful. At the same time, talking about all this was exciting. Unlike Natasha and Darya, Stanley was giving her real answers to her real questions. He was taking her seriously.

  To Natasha, she said, “Pretend you have Aunt Vera’s tape measure, the soft one she uses for sewing, and you’re holding it tight.” She demonstrated, pinching an invisible tape measure between her thumbs and index fingers and stretching it taut. “If you wanted to go from point A”—she indicated the left end of the pretend tape measure—“to point B”—she wiggled her right hand—“you’d walk across it. Easy-peasy.”

  “If you were an ant,” said Natasha.

  “If the tape measure was twelve inches long, you’d have to walk the entire twelve inches. But there’s a faster way.” Ava brought her hands together so that the invisible tape measure hung in a loop. “Now you, or the ant, can go from point A to point B in one step. See?”

  “Not bad,” Stanley said. “Ava just might turn out to be a scientist, Natasha.”

  “But wormholes collapse,” Natasha said. “You said so, Stanley.”

  “They do, like how caves sometimes collapse on coal miners,” Stanley said. “That’s the problem: figuring out how to make wormholes stable enough to travel through.”

  “And?” demanded Natasha.

  Stanley shrugged. “It’s impossible. Well, so far.”

  Natasha looked pointedly at Ava, who turned her attention to the TV, where Marty McFly winced as a bully humiliated his future dad.

  “So time travel is impossible,” Natasha clarified. “Right, Stanley?”

  “You would die,” Stanley replied. “Yes.”

  “Do you hear that, Ava?” Natasha said. She raised her voice. “Ava.”

  Ava startled, pretending she’d gotten so absorbed in the movie that she’d lost track of the conversation. Then she adopted a solicitous expression, as if humoring an elderly relative. “Right,” she said. “Time travel is impossible. Traveling through a wormhole would kill me.”

  “Good,” Natasha said.

  Ava sank back into the sofa. Flux capacitors, wormholes, the space-time continuum—it was helpful information, even though Ava was sure any traveling she did wouldn’t involve a DeLorean.

  As for the “it’s impossible” bit? She silently recited her new mantra: Impossible situations require impossible solutions.

  I wish people would quit thinking that saying “It’s complicated” makes things any better.

  —AVA BLOK, AGE THIRTEEN, THREE MONTHS, AND TWO DAYS

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Ava

  The next morning, Natasha and Darya cornered Ava in her room.

  “Tomorrow is your Wishing Day,” Natasha informed her.

  “It is?” Ava exclaimed. “Wow. How time flies!”

  “Ha, ha,” Darya said. “Speaking of, that’s why we’re here. You are expressly forbidden from trying anything stupid like that yourself.”

  “Like what?” Ava asked innocently. She allowed the you’re forbidden part to slide. Although what in the world made Natasha and Darya think they could forbid her from anything?

  “Like flying through time, dum-dum,” Darya said, flicking Ava’s head.

  “Like wishing to go to the past,” Natasha said. “I told Darya about your sudden fascination with science, and no.”

  “I can’t be fascinated by science?”

  Darya put her hands on her h
ips. “You can be fascinated with science all you want. What you can’t do is wish for a blowhole or whatever to open up and suck you through time.”

  “Oh, please, I would never,” Ava said. A blowhole, after all, was the hole whales used to blow air out of water. Although . . . hmm. The image of ocean spray spouting from a whale made bubbles fizz and pop in her brain. Water. Air. Diving deep into water and leaping into the air. And babies, human babies, breathed water before they were born, didn’t they? Then, when it was time, out they popped into the air, born into a new and different world?

  “We’re not trying to be bossy,” Natasha said.

  You’re not? Ava thought.

  “Just, we love you, and we want you to stay safe.”

  “I love you, too,” Ava said, and she meant it. Her intentions were as love-based as theirs. “Of course I’ll be safe.”

  “Also, I’ve said it already, but I’m going to say it again,” Darya said. “Leave Tally out of it.”

  Like you did last night at dinner? Ava was tempted to say. How you went on and on about Tally’s amazing artistic ability, the ability that made it possible for Tally to draw such striking likenesses of real, live people?

  Instead, she saluted Darya and said, “Heard and understood, Sergeant.” Darya could interpret her remark however she chose.

  It was a Saturday, which meant no school. After scarfing down a toasted bagel slathered with cream cheese, she snuck Aunt Vera’s iPad into her backpack and escaped to do more research. Tomorrow was indeed her Wishing Day, as her sisters had so helpfully pointed out.

  At Rocky’s, an old-fashioned diner with swivel chairs and booths with red benches, Ava ordered a chocolate milkshake and took it to a high, round table, where she hiked herself onto a tall stool. She took a long sip of her shake and pulled out her aunt’s iPad. She considered, for a moment, the unexpectedness of stodgy Aunt Vera even owning an iPad.

  Aunt Elena, Mama and Aunt Vera’s youngest sister, had given the iPad to Aunt Vera on Aunt Vera’s most recent birthday. Aunt Vera had pooh-poohed it until Natasha walked her through the basics and showed her how to connect to the internet. Now Aunt Vera adored it.

  She wouldn’t miss it for a few hours, though. Aunt Vera went to the farmers’ market every Saturday. She spent eons there.

  A quick glance at Aunt Vera’s browser history told Ava that Aunt Vera was mainly interested in recipes. That came as no surprise. With Mama gone, Aunt Vera continued to do most of the cooking for Nate and the girls.

  Ava discovered that Aunt Vera also appeared to be addicted to an old TV show called Charmed. That was a surprise. Aunt Vera hardly ever watched TV, unless it was a PBS special or a live broadcast of the Boston Philharmonic Orchestra. Some quick googling revealed that Charmed was about three sisters, a missing mother, and magic. Magic?!

  Never, ever would Ava have guessed that Aunt Vera might watch a show—choose to watch a show—about magic. And not only that, but on the sly! After recovering from the shock, Ava felt a wave of fondness for Aunt Vera. It was cool how people always had more layers than it first appeared. Did Natasha and Darya know that, or would Ava always be their dreamy baby sister?

  More googling revealed that the sisters in Charmed were witches—“good” witches—who had an ancient spell book called The Book of Shadows, which taught them how to fight off demons, warlocks, and other baddies. They also had witchy, paranormal powers, which added another layer of intrigue to Aunt Vera’s fondness for the show.

  Might Grandma Rose, who seemed as practical as Aunt Vera, harbor a secret fascination for such “nonsense” as well? What if people sometimes claimed to detest the very things they were obsessed with, for fear of how others might perceive them? Or, what if people claimed to detest the things they feared, for superstitious reasons of their own?

  Ava learned that the youngest sister on Charmed, Phoebe, could see both the past and the future. “Premonition” was the name for Phoebe’s type of magic. Ava also learned that all three sisters could communicate through telepathy, which meant they could read one another’s thoughts.

  Ava did a Google search on telepathy. Some people said it was real; others insisted it was a sham. Ava dug deeper. She found a wealth of scholarly articles on telepathy, articles as dense as the ones about time travel that she’d struggled with yesterday at the public library.

  Contrary to Ava’s expectations, plenty of research supported the claim that rare individuals could read the thoughts of others. For example, a neuroscientist with an unpronounceable name set up an experiment in which people in India used electroencephalographs to send thoughts to people in France—and it worked! Electroencephalographs was the long name for EEGs. EEGs, Ava learned, were skullcaps made from dozens of small electrodes.

  The neuroscientist hooked up matching EEGs to pairs of subjects: one skullcap was placed on a person who lived in India, and the other was placed on someone in France. The subject in India was asked to visualize something specific, like an apple, and the subject in France was asked to draw what he or she saw.

  The article spewed out elaborate graphs, statistics, and more long, unpronounceable words. Ava didn’t understand much of it, but the takeaway was clear.

  “With a relative standard deviation of 2.96, our study provides compelling evidence that no less than one percent of humans demonstrates an accurate and replicable ability to read the thoughts of others,” the article concluded. “This phenomenon, termed ‘telepathy’ in common parlance, is indeed real.”

  One percent of humans had telepathy, Ava marveled. Scientists said so!

  An article in Yale Scientific also stated that telepathy couldn’t be discounted, and a paper in a journal called Behavior and Brain Science suggested that even claims of communication between humans and ghosts shouldn’t be rejected out of hand. Ghosts! It was mind-blowing!

  “Assume, in the name of philosophical consideration, that a ‘ghost’ is the non-material energy of a person deceased,” the author of the paper argued. “If the thoughts of a living human exist without material form, why, then, shouldn’t the thoughts of a ghost exist in the same way? The extension of this claim is self-evident: If humans can communicate telepathically when alive, then it is reasonable to assume that humans can communicate telepathically with beings no longer extant.”

  Ava looked up extant. It meant “still alive.” So, okay. The author of the paper was using fancy words to say that humans could communicate with ghosts.

  Wow.

  Ava hopped from link to link, falling deeper into the rabbit hole that was the internet.

  She learned that in the olden days, people accused of having telepathy were burned at the stake. She learned that even now, some people considered telepathy to be the devil’s work. She read about kids with telepathy who were cast out of their families because the kids’ abilities freaked out their parents. She read about adults with telepathy who were diagnosed with mental illness and put on so many medications that they no longer knew their own thoughts, much less the thoughts of others.

  Much of what Ava discovered gave her a shuddery feeling at the base of her spine. It also gave her a new perspective about the “magic” said to exist in Willow Hill. Plenty of Willow Hill’s residents dismissed the possibility of magic completely: Grandma Rose and Aunt Vera, for example. Others held a friendly “why not?” sort of attitude. Others, like Mama, were true believers.

  If Mama’s account of what happened after her Wishing Day was true—that Emily was there one day and gone the next—then Ava couldn’t blame her.

  Ava thought again about Grandma Rose, and from Grandma Rose to Grandpa Dave, who was Papa’s father and Grandma Rose’s ex-husband. Did Grandpa Dave remember a once-upon-a-time daughter named Emily? Or, if he didn’t, did he slip every so often, the way Grandma Rose did when she’d called Ava “Emily” during their last visit to the nursing home?

  Ava blinked, recalling an incident that she must have buried in her subconscious. As the memory rose to the surface,
Ava experienced the same burning whiteness she’d felt beneath the willow tree, when she discovered her sisters had kept secrets from her on purpose.

  She, Ava, was guilty of the same thing. She’d kept a secret from herself. A big one.

  Last September, a couple of months before Darya’s Wishing Day, Ava had gone with Papa to an art fair. Darya had gotten up early to help load Papa’s lutes into his truck. Nothing strange so far, just a normal morning. But before Papa and Ava set off, Darya asked Ava to bring her back a caramel apple. Again, no big deal. Just one sister asking the other for a favor. But, because Darya was Darya, and Darya was picky, her request for a caramel apple had grown comically specific.

  First, she’d said she wanted chocolate and peanuts on top, but not walnuts. Then she clarified that if there weren’t any with peanuts, to get one with just caramel and chocolate.

  “But not white chocolate, because white chocolate is a scam,” Darya had said.

  “I’ll try,” Ava replied, and Darya had said something like, “Um, no, you will. If you don’t, Papa will leave you behind. Right, Papa?”

  Papa, hearing his name, had blinked and said, “What’s that?”

  Then came the bad part. The not-normal part. Darya said, “Ava has to bring me a caramel apple or you’ll disown her. Right?”

  Papa had frowned. “Disown her? Why would I disown her?”

  “You wouldn’t,” Darya said. “I was teasing.”

  “I don’t understand,” Papa said, and whoosh, the mood changed.

  “Papa, it was a joke,” Darya had said.

  “How is it a joke, when I’ve lost so much already?” Papa had said. He’d turned to Ava with glassy eyes, his expression blank. “I would never disown you, Emily. Never.”

  Ava had lost her words.

  Darya had stammered, “Papa, I know. I was just . . . I didn’t mean . . .”

  Papa had remained not-Papa for several stomach-lurching moments. And at Rocky’s Diner, eons after that dreadful moment, Ava felt as if she were on a Tilt-A-Whirl. She remembered how the world had listed sideways as Papa stared at her. Finally, he came back to himself. When he came back, the world came back.