Parallel

looking for my name. There’s Kirby. There’s the guy who plays Bret’s other sidekick. My name should be next.
    Please let it be there, please let it be there.
    It isn’t.
    I think back, remembering my audition. That tiny studio office. The loud hum of the window AC unit. The casting director’s encouraging smile. Then I go back further, remembering the night of the school play . . . then even further, to the day I found out I’d been cast as Thomasina . . . then further still, to the first day of senior year, when Ms. Ziffren handed out copies of Arcadia and told us auditions would be held the following week.
    I squeeze my eyes shut, replaying my conversation with Ms. DeWitt that morning. I remember her telling me that Mr. Simmons had canceled History of Music, and that my options for a replacement were Drama Methods and astronomy. But I also remember—just as vividly—Ms. DeWitt telling me that astronomy was my only option . . . that there had been other classes available, but they’d been filled already . . . that because I was late, I was the last of Simmons’s students to be rescheduled.
    But I wasn’t late. I’m never late.
    The earthquake.
    A stream of new memories floods my mind: sitting in traffic on my way to school, getting stopped by Ms. DeWitt as I was coming out of the auditorium, complaining to Caitlin at lunch, pretending to listen to my astronomy teacher while staring at the new guy next to me.
    Same day, two completely different sets of memories. It’s as if my mind recorded two different versions of what happened that morning. I run through both versions again, struggling to make sense of the inconsistency. When I can’t, I rack my brain for other duplicate days, but there aren’t any. Just the one. Exactly a year ago yesterday. I remember, because it was the day before my birthday.
    On impulse, I Google the words “Atlanta earthquake September 2008.” The search returns over a million hits. The top one is a link to an article on CNN.com, dated September 9, 2008.
A rare earthquake measuring magnitude 5.9 shook the Southeast early yesterday morning. Scientists are baffled, as it appears there may have been more than seventy similar quakes at various sites across the globe. Theories about the cause of the quakes abound, but so far seismologists have been unable to isolate their origin.
    I close my eyes, again trying to summon more of these alternate memories. Other astronomy lectures, other conversations with the friendly new kid. Nada. Nothing beyond that first day. I’ve got one day of earthquake memories and a full year’s worth of non-earthquake ones.
    DING! My eyes fly open. It’s another text from Tyler.
TELL C TO LET ME COME VISIT
    I think for a sec, then quickly reply.
WHAT AIRPORT WOULD U FLY FROM?
    He’ll think it’s super weird that I’m asking, but at least I’ll know from his answer whether he’s still at Michigan. My phone dings with his reply.
U GONNA BOOK MY FLIGHT FOR ME?
    Damn. So much for that.
    I’m crafting a response when my phone dings again.
DTW
    Detroit. So Tyler’s still at Michigan, Caitlin’s still at Yale, and I’m three thousand miles from where I should be. And no closer to figuring out why.
    I sigh, slumping down in my seat, wishing I could go back to sleep and forget this whole experience. But I’m supposed to meet Caitlin in six minutes, and according to my map, McNeil Lecture Hall is in the art gallery on the other side of campus. I leave my laptop on the desk, lock the door to my study carrel, and hurry back downstairs.
    The blue sign outside 1111 Chapel Street welcomes me to the Yale University Art Gallery. I pull open the door and step inside the lobby. I’m so preoccupied with the fact that I’m late that I almost don’t notice the banner hanging on the lobby’s far wall.
THE ART OF HARMONY:
SEURAT’S CHROMOLUMINARISM.
SEPTEMBER 1–NOVEMBER 30 AT THE YUAG.
COURTESY OF THE HIGH MUSEUM.
    My mom’s pointillism exhibit. I knew the collection was touring after its nine-month stint at the High, but it catches me off guard to find it here. A professor’s voice, loud and crisp, reverberates through the thin walls of the lecture hall, reminding me that the class I came for started five minutes ago. Eyes still on the banner, I reach to pull open the auditorium door.
    “I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” a male voice says. I look around. The only other person in the lobby is a guy in a gray Yale Lacrosse T-shirt, sitting on the