Ricochet

Ricochet © 2019 by Kathryn Berla. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever, including internet usage, without written permission from Flux, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

First Edition

First Printing, 2019

Book design by Jake Nordby

Cover design by Jake Nordby

Cover images by Paradise studio/Shutterstock

Excerpt(s) from THE HIDDEN REALITY: PARALLEL UNIVERSES AND THE DEEP LAWS OF THE COSMOS by Brian Greene, copyright © 2011 by Brian Greene. Used by permission of Alfred A. Knopf, an imprint of the Knopf Doubleday Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Random House LLC. All rights reserved.

Flux, an imprint of North Star Editions, Inc.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Names: Berla, Kathryn, 1952- author.

Title: Ricochet : a novel / by Kathryn Berla.

Description: First edition. | Mendota Heights, MN : Flux, an imprint of North 

   Star Editions, Inc., [2019] | Summary: "When seventeen-year-old Tatiana 

   discovers that she is living four different but parallel lives in the 

   multiverse, she and her other selves must band together to stop a 

   megalomaniac scientist: their father"— Provided by publisher. | 

   Identifiers: LCCN 2019015456 (print) | LCCN 2019018168 (ebook) | ISBN 

   9781635830415 (ebook) | ISBN 9781635830408 (pbk.)

Subjects: | CYAC: Science fiction. | Fathers and daughters—Fiction. | 

   Lesbians—Fiction.

Classification: LCC PZ7.1.B4578 (ebook) | LCC PZ7.1.B4578 Ric 2019 (print) | 

   DDC [Fic]—dc23

LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019015456

Flux

North Star Editions, Inc.

2297 Waters Drive

Mendota Heights, MN 55120

www.fluxnow.com

Printed in the United States of America

To George, who holds my hand and my heart.

"If a quantum calculation predicts that a particle might be here, or it might be there, then in one universe it is here, and in another it is there. And in each such universe, there’s a copy of you witnessing one or the other outcome, thinking—incorrectly—that your reality is the only reality."

It’s at once humbling and stirring to imagine just how expansive reality may be.

—Brian Greene, The Hidden Reality: Parallel Universes and the Deep Laws of the Cosmos

Chapter 1

Tati

A story starts like this and ends like that. But sometimes we can only guess when a story really starts and wonder if it ever really ends.

My story starts when Priya and I spit into our matching tiny plastic vials. We spit until they’re full—mine, slightly yellow-tinged; Priya’s, clear and frothy.

You so have a sinus infection, she says. That’s gross.

It does make me wonder. I forgot to brush my teeth that morning, and I’m too embarrassed to admit it. I wonder if Priya is turned off by me now, repulsed enough to not want to kiss me later tonight. I blush.

Shut up, I cap my vial and slide it into the precoded envelope. "People have different-

colored saliva just like they have different shades of whiteness to their teeth."

I don’t know whether that’s true, but Priya usually believes me when it comes to science. Or math. Or anything related to school and academics, actually. We’re both academic achievers, as our teachers like to say. Perhaps unhealthily so, but we’re competitive and eager to excel so we’re not about to change. We also have to put up with the nicknames at school: Smart and Smarter (although it’s unclear who’s Smart and who’s Smarter), the A-Team, and the Einstein Twins, to name a few. We don’t mind; in fact, we welcome it. When it comes to the other stuff, like how to act around people; what not to say so I won’t come off as the biggest nerd on earth; an approximation of what to wear; what music to listen to; and generally, how to transform myself into a person who can successfully disappear in school by blending in—well, then I rely on Priya. My parents are old hippies, so I can’t count on them for suggestions on how to fit in. They normally only suggest things that make my situation worse, although that unconditional love thing is a decent enough trade-off.

Aww . . . you’re so cute when you blush. Priya comes up behind me and wraps her arms around my waist, one narrow brown hand still clasping her sealed vial. I feel the warmth of her cheek pressed against my shoulder. Her soft breasts pushing against my back. The touch of her hand on my belly stirring sleeping butterflies.

I’m not cute, I blurt out in my typically clumsy, self-effacing manner. It isn’t charming, and I know that, but can’t help myself and don’t feel I have to when I’m with Priya. She circles around to face me.

Miss Tatiana Woodland, you’re as cute as . . .

As?

As Hercules.

I scrunch my face in barely disguised disgust. Hercules is a Pekinese.

"But not just any Pekinese. Hercules is my Pekinese."

Well, since you put it that way.

Okay, here’s your spit. She pushes the vial into my hand.

No, actually that’s your spit. Mine’s already in the envelope ready to go.

"My spit, okay, but your idea. Remind me again why we’re wasting your parents’ money and our precious bodily fluids."

Remind me why we need to get an A in Ethnic Studies in a project that was originally your idea.

Was it? A dumb idea in retrospect.

Oh. Oh. Did I just hear an admission of weakness from Priya Gupta? Anyway, it’s too late. Like you said, wasting my parents’ money and all.

I’m just messing with you. It’s going to be a cool project. Although I’m pretty sure I already know what my results will be—one hundred percent Indian subcontinent. Zero percent everything else, although it would be fun to have a surprise. But you already know your birth parents were Ukrainian.

Russian.

Same difference.

Don’t tell them that.

Okay, the next time I never meet them I won’t. And don’t tell them I said so when you never meet them.

I give her the glare—my goofy glare, she calls it.

All right, let’s go mail these. The sooner we get rid of them, the sooner I can erase the image of your gross yellow spit from my mind.

I flush warm again and she sees it. Kidding! She stands on tippy-toes to offer a soft, plushy kiss, something I rarely receive from her in her own home. Even with Priya’s dad at work and her mom picking up her little brother, Nikky, from school, it’s a huge deal—forbidden, and therefore all the more delicious. I slide my hands up her sides until they rest on her shoulders, and gently pull her closer to me.

The kiss ends and Priya’s wet tongue darts across my face in one bold sweep. There’s a little more spit for good measure. She giggles.

When she lowers her heels to the ground, taking her kiss with her, I can still feel its ghost on my lips. I wipe the wetness away in an exaggerated motion of disgust with the back of my hand. Hercules watches us intently from the open doorway to her bedroom, his front paws splayed outward, his turquoise collar studded with rhinestones. Does Hercules know he’s witnessing something rare in this household? A moment of pure, unguarded bliss. He slow-wags and then pads away down the hall toward the den where he spends most of his day lounging on a pillow by the fireplace.

How come . . . My eyes slide to my feet and my shoulders slump as the rest of the sentence catches in my throat.

Tati, c’mon. Priya draws out the second word and her voice takes on that distant quality, the tone she uses when she’s leading a group discussion or solving an equation on the board in front of the class. Her serious, problem-solving voice. Her absolutely-uninterested-in-indulging-the-petty-

emotions-of-silly-children-like-me voice.

C’mon, what? You don’t even know what I was going to say.

The spark of fun that lit her eyes just seconds ago has extinguished. I know exactly what you were going to say, she says dolefully. Sometimes I think I know you better than you know yourself. And you already know the answer, so why keep belaboring the point?

Do you even love me? I ask in full self-pity mode. It’s a train wreck I can’t stop.

Of course I love you. She steps forward to press against me again and tilts her face toward mine. I can feel her warm breath against my throat, and the tiny hairs on my body stand up. Who loves you more?

My parents.

"Okay, maybe equal, but who loves you more? She raises her hand to cradle the side of my face so gently that my fingertips actually tingle. Her eyes grow round with concern. The humorless schoolteacher voice is gone just as suddenly as it arrived. My Priya is back. I love you, Tati. My parents are conservative, you know that. They wouldn’t understand . . . us."

"It’s getting harder and harder for me to understand us, I say stubbornly, apparently on a mission to sabotage our relationship. Sleepovers at my house are where happiness takes place—hugging, nuzzling, kissing. Sleepovers at Priya’s are relegated to the friend zone—simple schoolgirl stuff like homework, binge-watching our favorite Netflix shows, and stuffing popcorn in our mouths. When you sleep at my house everything’s real. When I stay at your house . . . I don’t even know what we are. I’m sorry but it’s not right. What are we? Are we a couple? Are we really even in love?"

Priya’s face darkens again, and she pulls away from me. Her eyes latch on to mine. "You’re sorry? You’re the one with the cool parents who let you do anything you want. Maybe a little sympathy for me? You think I like living all confined like this? And, by the way, how many kids do you know whose parents would be cool with them sleeping with their lover? In their own bed? Under their parents’ roof? Your parents are a little weird, Tati. Admit it."

I know she’s mad. I’ve pushed too hard, but I couldn’t help myself. It doesn’t take a whole lot to trigger feelings of insecurity in me despite the best efforts of loving and supportive parents. The doubting voice that speaks to my darkest fears late at night tells me Priya does like living within the confines of her parents’ narrow-minded social beliefs. It’s her excuse for keeping us a secret at school, among our friends. Priya wants it both ways—all hers when she wants me, free as a bird when she doesn’t. But then my rational self fights back—Priya loves me like no other. She’s my soulmate. Who am I to accuse her of duplicity when she’s suffering more than me? Do I really want to risk losing her over another confrontation? One day she’ll have enough, and will I be prepared to go on without Priya in my life? I don’t think so.

Hercules is back in the doorway, peering into Priya’s room, most likely alarmed by the uncharacteristically loud and unhappy voices disturbing his tranquility. His ears are perked, and he angles his head for a better listen. His collar is silver, glistening. A small bell jangles under his chin. My knees suddenly feel loose, as if they might buckle if I shift my weight even one centimeter in either direction. A thrum starts low and grows louder, like a tuning fork hit against the side of my head.

How did Hercules change his own collar? I ask before sit-crashing to the ground. I pull my legs up and bury my face between my knees, drawing in great heaving gulps of air.

Tati. Priya kneels and brings her lips close to my ear. You okay? she whispers.

Hercules’s collar was blue. Tears stream down my face. Just ten minutes ago.

No, it’s silver, she says. It’s always been silver. Tati, is it happening again? Are you having a seizure? Have you been taking your meds?

So many questions.

Priya unfastens the top button of my shirt, sits down, and pulls my head into her lap. She strokes my hair and coos to me, but what she’s saying, I can no longer hear. The tunnel appears where it’s always been before—just above me, gleaming with such intensity, a light so bright it seems white. Beckoning.

Chapter 2

Ana

They say I had another seizure although I don’t remember it at all. But here I am in the nurse’s office at school with Nurse Pat staring down at me, concern written all over his round face.

Have you been taking your meds? he asks. It’s perhaps the question I’ve heard most often in my life; one I can usually answer with a yes.

I may have skipped a bit lately, I reply guiltily. They make me so tired I can’t focus on anything.

I called your mother, he says. When she gets here we need to chat about getting with your doctor to prescribe something new with fewer side effects.

I stare at the faint wrinkles that splay from the outside corner of his eyes like a bird’s footprint in the sand. Crow’s feet, I remember the expression. Makes sense. It’s the only evidence in his otherwise smooth, brown skin that betrays any sign of age—that and a few flecks of steel-gray hair near the temples. I wonder for a second how old Nurse Pat is and how I ever could have survived without him for the past three years of high school. My guardian angel, my safe harbor in the storm whenever the storm arrives.

Are you listening to me, Tatiana? This is serious. This is your life. If you’re going to skip doses because you don’t like the side effects, you need to try something else. There are a lot of options, so it’s just a matter of playing around with them until you and your doctor find the perfect fit.

Nurse Pat is the only one who calls me by my full name. Everyone else calls me Ana.

I’ve spent so much of my life trying to enter the magic rabbit hole, which is what I call the tunnel that appears at the end of my seizures. It’s irresistible and yet always just out of reach. The way I would describe it, if there were anyone to describe it to, is I’m Alice chasing after the white rabbit—but when I get to the edge of the hole, there’s a trapdoor preventing me from entering Wonderland.

There was a time when I did try to explain this feeling. To Mom. To Dad. To Nurse Pat. Even to Dr. Masterson. But there’s a limited number of times you can explain magic rabbit holes to people before they seriously start to question your sanity. And my number was up a long time ago.

What if I never find a perfect fit with my medication? I ask. I’ve been trying for a long time already, you know?

Of course I know, sweetie. He pats me on the back of my hand. Nurse Pat can get away with calling me sweetie even though it’s probably not appropriate for a school official. All the kids would agree because we know how much Nurse Pat cares about us. Now you just rest here until Mom comes.

That’s another thing he does—he says Mom instead of "your mom." It’s endearing.

"I’m feeling fine now. I’d like to go back to class, if it’s okay. You and Mom can have the talk because I’ve had enough of it today."

He frowns and shakes his head slowly. You’re probably the only kid in school who begs to get back to class. You sure you’re all right?

Yep.

School is the only thing that loves me back as much as I love it, except my parents, of course.

Ana! My ethnic studies teacher looks up when I walk in mid-class. So glad you’re here.

The teachers never question me when I’m late or my homework is late, which rarely happens anyway. They know I’m the girl with seizures, and if I were the type to take advantage, I could skate through school with minimal effort. But where would be the fun in that?

We were just discussing our final projects. Have you given yours any thought? No worries if you haven’t. You can talk it over with me after class if you need ideas.

More of that teacher leniency.

Priya side-eyes me when I slide into my seat. She smiles and wraps her long, glossy hair into a neck-bun, which she fixes with a pencil. A lustrous black lock escapes to frame her light-brown face. Priya’s gorgeous, and the object of my mad desire ever since I first laid eyes on her in our freshman year. We share most classes, being the smart girls of our school (which is actually a pretty silly name for us since we’re the smart kids—smartest of the girls and boys), trading first and second place back and forth like a tennis set that’s gone on for three years. I know Priya respects me and she’s always been really nice. She just never looks at me the way I look at her, or the way I think I must be looking at her. She never seems breathless in my presence. She never stammers when she speaks to me. I hope she doesn’t notice what I try so hard to conceal.

You okay? she whispers, and I nod.

That’s okay, Mrs. Falco, I answer my teacher. I already know what I’m going to do for my project.

Care to share with the class? The others have already done so.

Well, you know I’m adopted, I start, and Mrs. Falco nods me on. And I know my birth parents were from Russia. So I talked it over with my parents and they’re going to let me do one of those DNA tests that breaks down your ethnicity by percentages. I thought I would research the most surprising discovery I make. I mean . . . not the obvious, like Russian, but something I would never have guessed. And then write a paper about the forces and events in history that would have brought my ancestor of that ethnicity into contact with my Russian ancestor. A macro view that merges geography, history, science and statistics.

The class murmurs and I can tell it’s from approval. Even Priya’s impressed.

Woah. Cool idea, she says, her mouth forming a small oval of approval.

I would expect no less from Ana, Mrs. Falco says. Wonderful idea, Ana. I’m looking forward to going on this adventure with you, as I’m sure your classmates are.

Priya nods her head in agreement. She’s the only one whose opinion I care about at that moment although I hear more murmurs of approval. I’ll miss Mrs. Falco when ethnic studies is over in December and we begin our next elective after the holidays. I already know (because I’ve already asked) that Priya and I will be in the next class together too—computer programming.

Hold up, Priya says after class as she quickens her step behind me.

I stop in my tracks and turn to face her.

You okay? she asks with a real look of real concern. I heard that you . . . that you . . .

I had a seizure in PE.

Yeah, that’s what I heard. You okay?

Yep, I’m fine. I can usually tell when it’s about to happen, so I was sitting down. Supposedly, I need to be more rigorous about taking my medication.

Why wouldn’t you? She seems surprised. I mean, if I had . . .

Seizures. I know from experience it’s uncomfortable for others to talk about it to my face because . . . well, I guess because it’s an alien concept to most people, and it’s not something people are accustomed to seeing. I think I must look strange when it’s actually going down—checking out and staring into space, trembling, rigid. The first indication I have is that something’s just plain off about the world. Then a weakness levels me like I’m suddenly transformed into a liquid state. After that, I disappear into my head and a tunnel appears, or at least its entrance. I have an overwhelming feeling that I need to climb into the tunnel and see where it leads, even though I never can. After that, I’m not sure, except eventually I open my eyes and see some worried face hovering over me. Once I peed my pants, but thankfully that was only once. The truth is, no one wants to lose control in public. I’m the girl who does, so my reality scares people, even people who know me.

"If I had seizures I would do anything I could to stop them. I’d take any medicine they told me to take. So why wouldn’t you?" This line of questioning is a little invasive and, honestly, none of Priya’s business, but I feel her sincerity and I know it’s not just morbid curiosity.

I do for the most part. The halls are crowded with kids rushing to their next class. A boy (probably a freshman) squeezes in between Priya and me in his hurry to pass us. You can always tell the freshmen by their anxiety about not being late to class. Priya and I, as seniors, saunter along at a much more leisurely pace. "But they mess with my head. The