Parallel

average to adorable. Or maybe it’s the smattering of pale freckles on his nose. Or the perfect shape of his bottom lip.
    The mole does a little dance as his eyebrows shoot up. “Fate, huh? This must be a pretty important class for you, then.” I can’t tell whether he’s teasing.
    “What about you?” I ask. “Are you here by fate or choice?”
    “Hmm. I guess I’d have to say choice. This was the first class I signed up for.”
    “Oh, so you’re into self-torture, then.”
    Josh laughs out loud. His laugh, deeper than his voice, reminds me of the rich sweetness of my mom’s gingerbread. I angle my knees toward him, wishing his were close enough to touch. “I mean, c’mon—what’s cooler than the universe?” he says. “It’s this great, big, never-ending mystery that astronomers and cosmologists spend their whole lives trying to solve. And after all that discovery and revelation, there’s always more to figure out.” His mouth widens into a boyish grin. “I love that.”
    I match his grin. “I take it you were one of those kids with a telescope in your bedroom,” I tease. “And let me guess . . . glow-in-the-dark star stickers on your ceiling?”
    “Guilty,” he says, as the lights dim.
    “Velcome to Prinzeeples of Astronomy!” a voice booms, the words flecked with German. “Let zee fun begin!” Dr. Mann claps his hands together with glee, earning some muffled laughter from the back of the room.
    Our teacher is shorter than I expected but otherwise looks like every photograph I’ve ever seen of Albert Einstein: wild gray hair, huge round eyes, unruly eyebrows. In his brown tweed suit with suede patches on the elbows, he’s the perfect incarnation of a nutty professor. Would his colleagues at Yale have laughed at him if he’d looked a little less like one?
    Dr. Mann holds up a stack of papers. “This is the syllabus for this course,” he says as he hands the stack to a girl in the front row. “Our task is not to master the topics on this list, although that is certainly a worthy pursuit and one well worth the discipline it requires.” He pauses, surveying the room. He has our attention. “Rather, our work will be focused on the larger picture. The big questions. I just ask this: No matter what the concept, you commit yourselves to this principle.” He turns on his heels and strides to the overhead projector, where he begins to write with sharp, definitive motions. When he’s finished, he flicks on the light. Two words, all caps, appear on the white screen:
    LOOK DEEPER
    “No cross-country practice?” My mom is at the kitchen table paying bills when I come through the back door.
    “Coach canceled it,” I tell her, setting my bag and keys on the counter. “I think he was spooked by the earthquake. What are you doing home so early?”
    “The museum was closed today,” Mom replies. “We had a water main break.” She takes off her reading glasses and rubs her eyes.
    “Uh-oh. How bad was the damage?”
    “Not nearly as bad as it could’ve been, thankfully. An entire wing flooded, but there was only an inch or so of water, so the collection wasn’t affected. We’re in a lot better shape than MoMA,” she says. “They had an electrical fire and lost four pieces.”
    “Oh, wow. That’s terrible.”
    “I know. But listen to this: the four pieces they lost were the two hanging on each side of Dali’s Persistence of Memory —you know, the painting your dad and I were looking at when we met. The fire started behind that wall.”
    “But the Dali survived?” I can tell by her tone that it must have.
    She nods. “More than survived,” she says. “No damage at all. Not even from the smoke.” She smiles. “Your dad, of course, thinks it means something. He just hasn’t decided what yet.” She stands up from the table and stretches her back. On the TV mounted beneath our kitchen cabinets, a news reporter is talking about the earthquakes. The banner at the bottom of the screen reads EARTHQUAKE ROCKS THE GLOBE .
    “Do they know what caused it?” I ask, nodding at the TV.
    “They’re calling it a ‘fluke,’ if you can believe it. Which I’d say means they don’t have a clue.” She pulls open the fridge and examines its contents. “Want a snack?”
    “Sure,” I say, suddenly ravenous. I hop up on the counter, then reach down to pull off my boots.
    “So?” Mom asks, scooping hummus into the clay bowl my dad painted in Mexico last summer. We have a dozen dip