Parallel

horns.” My mom shoots him a look. “What? I think it’s romantic.”
    “Our eighteen-year-old daughter wants to fly across the country to tell a boy she likes him.” Mom looks back at me. “Can’t you just call him? Or send an email?”
    “I told you, he won’t take my calls. He’s upset about what happened with Michael.”
    “Do you blame him?” she asks. “You broke up with him for his brother and then kept it a secret.”
    “I made a mistake,” I say simply. I can’t explain or make an excuse for the choice, because it wasn’t me who made it. But I can’t resent it, either, because without it, I wouldn’t have what I have right now: clarity. If Josh is my soulmate, then I found him not in spite of Parallel Abby’s influence, but because of it. She is no longer my adversary, but part of who I am now. “Need some money?” Dad asks, scanning the kitchen for his wallet. “Let me give you some money.”
    “We’re letting her go?” my mom asks him.
    “I don’t think she was asking for permission, Anna.”
    “I’ll be fine, Mom,” I tell her. “Really.”
    “What about school? Don’t you have class on Monday?”
    “I’ll be back for that. I’m coming back tomorrow morning. My flight back to New Haven isn’t until six.”
    “Anna, this is Abby, remember? Our responsible, levelheaded daughter.” My dad hands me five twenties and his Amex.
    “So responsible and levelheaded that she deserves a mini shopping spree while she’s out there?” I ask with a grin as I pocket the money.
    “Ha. Don’t press your luck.”
    “Have you told Michael?” my mom asks.
    I nod. “I called him about an hour ago. He was pretty upset,” I tell her, remembering the sound of his voice. A wave of panic washes over me. Did I make a mistake?
    “I never liked that guy,” Dad remarks. “He had an attitude.”
    “You met him one time!”
    “I have good instincts,” he replies, buttering a piece of burnt toast. For a moment, I feel sorry for the parallel me. She’s in for a challenge trying to sell Mom and Dad on Michael.
    “Well, I should probably get going,” I tell them. “My flight leaves in two hours.” I pick up my duffel bag, suddenly nervous. “Wish me luck.”
    “Break a leg, champ,” Dad says, and puts his hand on my shoulder. It’s exactly what he said to me the night the fall play opened last year, standing backstage before the show. Same words, same gesture, same mix of confidence and fatherly concern. I remember being so nervous in the weeks leading up to the show, convinced I would forget my lines and embarrass myself in front of an auditorium full of people. All my energy and anxiety were focused on getting through those five performances so I could get on with my life. I never saw it coming.
    I wasn’t paying attention.
    “Earth to Abby.” My mom waves her hand in front of my face. I blink and her face comes into focus. And somehow, so does my entire life.
    “I am now,” I say simply.
    She shakes her head, not comprehending. “You are now what?”
    “Paying attention.”
    By the time my plane touches down in L.A., I’m freaking out. Yes, this is what I want, but WHAT AM I DOING? He blocked my calls. What if he refuses to talk to me? Or worse, what if I embarrass him in front of his college friends? I debate waiting until the game is over, but decide that’s too risky: Odds are Josh will go out with people after. As long as he’s at the game, I know where to find him.
    The freeways are predictably crowded, and as we approach the USC exit, traffic slows to a stop. Around us, fans display their affiliation with window decals and streamers. My driver is listening to game coverage on the radio. “Would you mind turning it up?” I ask him. He nods and cranks the volume just as UCLA kicks off to USC. Josh should be in his seat by now.
    My stomach turns over. I barely know this guy, and I’m about to profess my love to him in a stadium full of people. It’s crazy, but I’ve never been more certain of anything in my life.
    Fifty-eight dollars later, the taxi drops me off at the coliseum. The noise from inside is deafening. As I’m approaching the entrance, I glance up at the sky, which, despite the fact that it’s the middle of the afternoon on a spectacularly clear day, is streaked with scarlet and amber. I haven’t missed the smog, but I have missed its effect on the L.A. sky. These colors are particularly arresting, which is odd, because usually when it’s