Parallel

tells him.
    “I am not freaking out.”
    Caitlin looks at me, eyebrows raised.
    “Ugh, I’d be freaking out, too,” says Tyler. Caitlin elbows him.
    “Ignore him,” Caitlin instructs. “You’ll be fine. Mr. Kang is a great teacher.”
    “He isn’t teaching it,” I tell her.
    “What are you talking about? It’s Kang’s class.”
    “Not this semester,” I reply, handing her the printout of my new schedule. Caitlin glances down at it and immediately reacts.
    “No way!”
    “What?” I demand.
    “Unless this is a different Gustav P. Mann, the guy teaching your astronomy class is a Nobel Prize winner.”
    Memories of tenth-grade Botany Basics come barreling back. “Please tell me you’re kidding,” I moan.
    “There’s still room in all my classes,” Tyler says sympathetically. “History of the Southern Narrative, Prop Design, Intro to Tempo and Beats, Practical Physics, Senior Math, and Conversational Spanish.” Listening to him rattle off this laughable lineup, I am envious of Tyler and his utter lack of scholastic ambition. It’s not that he’s not smart, but when you’re a golf star, the college application process goes a little differently.
    “Are those even real classes?” I ask him.
    “Barely,” Tyler replies, polishing off the last of his sandwiches.
    “What is he doing teaching here?” Caitlin is still staring at my schedule. “I know there was pressure for him to resign, but how did he end up down here?”
    “Resign from where?” I ask.
    “Yale,” Caitlin replies. “He has tenure there.” She frowns. “ Had tenure.”
    “What, did he molest a student or something?” Tyler jokes. Caitlin glares at him.
    “No, he did not molest a student. He published a book the scientific establishment couldn’t stomach, mostly because it read like the plot of a sci-fi novel. When they weren’t able to dismantle his theory, they laughed at it. And him.”
    “What’s the theory?” I ask.
    “It has to do with parallel universes,” Caitlin replies. “Dr. Mann claims it’s possible for them to—”
    “Hiii, Tyler!” Caitlin’s expression instantly turns sour. Neither of us has to look to know who the voice belongs to. Ilana Cassidy, quite possibly the least likable and most genuinely mean-spirited person on the planet. Apparently, the fact that Ilana is the devil incarnate was not enough to keep Tyler from hooking up with her at Max Levine’s annual end-of-summer party, giving Ilana the mistaken impression that she and Tyler are a couple now. Ilana is standing at the foot of the hill, hands on her bony hips, posing like she’s on the red carpet.
    “Is she expecting paparazzi?” Caitlin mutters under her breath. The only person who likes Ilana less than I do is Caitlin.
    Ilana’s eyes dart to Caitlin. In an odd twist of fate, the only person whose approval Ilana craves is Caitlin, which has everything to do with Caitlin’s runway-worthy wardrobe. Ilana sees me watching her and glowers. “What are you looking at?” I know better than to respond.
    “I’ll catch up with you later, okay?” Tyler calls to Ilana. “We’re sort of in the middle of something.”
    A look of annoyance flashes across Ilana’s face, but she covers it with a plastic smile. “Yeah, okay!” she chirps. “Text me!”
    Tyler gives her a noncommittal wave, then turns back to his lunch.
    “I still can’t believe you hooked up with her,” Caitlin says to Tyler when Ilana is out of earshot, her tone harsh.
    “I don’t know why you hate her so much,” Tyler replies. “She’s not that bad.”
    “Oh, yes. She is.”
    “You know, you guys kinda look alike,” Tyler says casually, pulling the top off his yogurt. He licks blue yogurt off the little aluminum lid, then wads it up into a little ball and tosses it into the nearest trash can, pretending not to notice that Caitlin is glaring at him.
    “We do not.”
    “The blond hair, the blue eyes . . .” Tyler grins. “You two could be sisters.”
    I can’t help but laugh. It’s true that Caitlin and Ilana are both blond haired and blue eyed, but they look nothing alike. Caitlin is a replica of her mother—tall, lanky, beautiful in an I-just-rolled-out-of-bed-and-threw-this-on way. Ilana, on the other hand, always looks like she just spent two hours in the bathroom (and about four hours at the gym) trying to achieve Barbie-doll beauty. Her five-foot-two-inch frame has been spun and kickboxed down to kids’ department size, and her frizzy