Relativity (4 page)

“Don't be a dickhead, Stephen Hawking,” Daniel said.

“I'm not.”

“Leave him alone.” Will picked
A Brief History of Time
off the ground and handed it back to Ethan. The real Stephen Hawking smiled his lopsided smile on the cover. “He's just reading.”

“Sorry, Wilhelmina, I forgot Stephen Hawking is your boyfriend,” Daniel said. “When are you two homos getting married and having babies? Don't you sleep in the same bed when you have sleepovers?”

Ethan nodded but Will shot him a look. They hadn't had a sleepover since the school holidays now. Earlier that year, the two boys tried to find Ethan's father together, staying up late and using Will's computer. There were thousands of Mark Halls on the Internet: one lived in Chicago, one in Beijing, another in Brisbane, one was an actor in a soap opera. As Ethan clicked through picture after picture of unfamiliar faces—hoping to see that nose, that chin, those hands—he felt defeated. None were the man in that creased photograph. None of them were the right Mark Hall.

Will pulled at the sleeves of his uniform. “Ethan's not allowed to stay at my place anymore. Because I might catch some freak disease from him.”

“As if,” Daniel said. “You probably already have that freak disease from kissing each other good night, Wilhelmina. You're a freak too.”

“Ethan's the freak,” Will insisted. “He used to wet the bed. And he's scared of the dark.”

Daniel shrugged and started to walk away.

“Ethan's such a freak, even his dad left him right after he was born.” Will looked over at Daniel for approval. “He didn't want a freak for a son.”

That was a secret—a secret Will had sworn never to share. Ethan knew it was his fault his father had left. That he'd been a difficult baby. That he'd cried too much. That his father didn't want him.

Ethan stood up. “You knew, you knew not to tell.” He dropped his book. All the frustration he'd stored inside his body now barreled through his veins. He clenched his hand into a fist. “You knew.”

Will's face was difficult to read. He didn't seem to notice Ethan's elbow move back and his torso twist, or the hand that moved steadily toward his face. When Ethan's fist slammed into his nose, Will was looking the other way.

The first punch stung Ethan's knuckle, the snap of impact burning his joints.

“You knew,” Ethan repeated. He raised his hand and hit Will again. This time Will scrunched his eyes, expecting the blow. He shielded himself, but Ethan struck him one more time. It was a strange feeling: cartilage against cartilage, sinew on sinew, bones colliding with flesh. Ethan punched him again.

“Stop,” Will cried, falling to the floor.

The rest of the children looked on in silence. Even Daniel took a step back as Will recoiled and curled into a ball. Ethan sat over Will's body and struck his jaw.

Will let out a moan. “Stop,” he said again, choking on the word.

Ω

AND IN THAT WORD
was a flicker of a memory: Will and Ethan lying head to toe in bed when they were nine years old. Bedtime, lights just switched off, Will pushing his feet into Ethan's face. Even with a smelly foot in his nose, Ethan was smiling. He tickled Will's toes.

“Stop,” said Will, trying not to laugh. He tangled the sheets as he flipped over onto his stomach. “Stop.”

Ethan pulled the blanket back. “Do you think we'll always be best friends?”

“Yeah. Always. Even when we're grown-ups. Even when we're really old and living in a retirement home and have no teeth and can only eat pumpkin soup.”

Ethan pulled a face. “Yuck. I hate pumpkin soup.”

“I know,” Will said. “I know everything about you. We're best friends.”

They fell asleep with their dirty feet resting on each other's bodies.

Ω

THAT SEEMED LIKE
a very long time ago as Ethan slammed his fist into Will's face again. But it didn't look like Will's face. To Ethan, it looked like the cosmos. Filled with ultraviolet flares, yellow gamma-ray bursts, and red interstellar clouds.

Ethan saw the sun explode; each planet in the solar system disappeared one by one. Good-bye Mercury, au revoir Venus, adios Earth, so long Mars, farewell Saturn, see you later Jupiter, cheerio Uranus, sayonara Neptune.

He saw radar pulses and radio waves, spirals and loops unfurling into time and space. He saw fistfuls of planets and satellites, monuments of ice and dust. He saw past light cones and future light cones radiating out from the present. He saw Galileo and Newton and Einstein.

He saw the hydrogen and helium that make up incandescent stars, whirling distant pinwheel galaxies. He could see everything, all the ripples of the universe, spinning in a galactic soup around him.

But when a dribble of blood appeared at the corner of Will's mouth, and he spat out a tooth, Ethan froze. A crowd of kids stood in a circle around the two boys, fearful but unable to look away. Will was crying. Teachers on playground duty ran over. Nathan Nguyen pulled Ethan off Will's hunched body.

Ethan trembled and stepped back. The backs of his hands tingled; his knuckles were red and swollen. Will was curled up on the ground. As he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, Ethan tasted the stale tang of blood mixed with sweat. His sweat, but not his blood. What was going on? Ethan went cold. He remembered every detail of the sun dying—the solar system swallowed whole, the stellar explosion of a supernova—but he couldn't remember what he'd just done with his own hands.

Ω

CLAIRE WAITED FOR HER COFFEE
at the café below her office. A group of dancers ordered their drinks at the till. She noticed the way the barista looked at them with wonder, like they were mythical creatures from another planet, some breed of rare bird. It made Claire smile, before she went unnaturally stiff.

When nobody could see her, Claire liked to dance. She danced along vacant streets, in empty rooms; she danced whenever she was alone. The nightly preparation of dinner was a performance—the kitchen her stage, eighty-watt globes her spotlight, ingredients her audience, the sound of boiling water her applause. But these were dances for no one. Those strange days of stages and spotlights, audiences and applause, were over. But the desire to move her body was chiseled into her muscle memory.

It felt like a lifetime ago, when she was that nervous sixteen-year-old girl rushing to her ballet classes, her blond hair slipping out of her bun and pointe shoes dangling from her bag. People used to stare, especially during her peak as a soloist in the Sydney Ballet Company. Now Claire was twice as old and nobody looked at her anymore. Her face was rounder, her legs softer, but the residue of ballet still saturated every fiber of her body. Grace in the fingertips, pointing toes. Bending over became an
arabesque penchée
; instead of turning she'd pirouette; music moved her body until she broke into a
demi-plié
.

More than anything, Claire loved the way dancing made her feel. There was boldness to it; that boldness was a drug. She wasn't as flexible or coordinated these days but to lose herself—in the rhythm, music, moment—was a bliss she couldn't begin to describe.

Claire watched the ballerinas disappear into one of the studios. She took her coffee back to her desk and sat in front of her computer, tapping her feet.

The phone number flashed across the screen of Claire's mobile. Ethan's school. It triggered her fight-or-flight response, filling her body with adrenaline. She let it ring a few times before answering. It probably wasn't an emergency; he was probably fine. Chances were he'd forgotten his lunch again. She held the phone to her ear.

“It's Duncan Thompson. From school. Are you free to talk? It's urgent.”

Claire looked around the office and stood up. “Mr. Thompson. Yes, of course,” she said quietly. She walked over to the elevator. “What's happened? What's wrong?”

There was a brief silence down the other end of the phone line. Claire heard children yelling in the background.

“Ethan was involved in an incident on the playground. He's not hurt,” Mr. Thompson said quickly. “But I think you'd better come and pick him up. He's in sick bay.”

“Is he not feeling well?”

“He's not sick. He's in shock, I think. Ethan hit one of the other boys.”

“He did what?”

“I'll explain everything when you get here. The principal would like to speak with you too,” Mr. Thompson added.

“I'll be there right away.” Claire hung up the phone. “Shit,” she said to herself. She rested her forehead against the cool hallway wall to steady herself. Calm down. Don't be emotional at work.

Claire worked in philanthropy and corporate relations at the Sydney Ballet Company. Still in the company, just behind the scenes. Although Claire liked staying in the world of ballet, sometimes she felt pangs of regret watching the serene faces of the principals dissolve into their choreography. It was hard to look at them. She missed the sprawling mirrored studios, the stampede of rehearsals, the thrill and anxiety of waiting to leap onto the stage.

Claire walked straight into her boss's office.

Natalie raised an eyebrow. “Lice again?”

“Not lice.” Claire looked down at her phone. “Ethan's in sick bay. I've got to pick him up from school right now. Is it okay if I leave early today?”

“Of course.”

Claire felt her boss's eyes on her as she returned to her desk. She ignored the new black and bold emails accumulating in her inbox. Even though the official office policy was meant to be flexible for families, sometimes it felt like it meant a certain flavor of family. Claire suspected her boss judged her for struggling with the chaos of single parenting. When she'd interviewed for the job, Claire hadn't mentioned Ethan but cooed over the silver-plated frames with studio portraits of Natalie's little girl. Her daughter never forgot her lunch or went to the sick bay.

Out on the street, Claire hailed a taxi. The driver tapped on the steering wheel as they stopped at a red light. She fished for the lipstick at the bottom of her bag and reapplied it, before quickly wiping it off again. She didn't know why she'd bought this color; she was too old to wear this bright coral shade. A pink smear stayed on the back of her hand. The taxi changed lanes, found a gap in the George Street traffic, and accelerated out of the city. Claire opened the window and closed her eyes.

Ω

THE SCHOOL PRINCIPAL
offered a chocolate biscuit. Claire's fingers hovered over the jar. It seemed impolite not to take one but it also felt like something the principal offered to children. She felt twelve years old again, called into the office because she'd done something naughty too. She gingerly picked up a Tim Tam and took a tiny bite.

“We're concerned about Ethan,” Mrs. Doyle began.

Mr. Thompson interrupted. “Ethan is a bright boy; he's won every math and science award since kindergarten. I've been ability-tracking him all year and he's in my high-expectations group. But he's been visibly emotional at school lately. I know that's normal at his age, but I'm worried about him. We need to develop some behavioral strategies to help Ethan control his temper.”

Claire sat up straight in her chair. “What happened?”

“Some other boys were teasing him. Kids in the gifted stream tend to be easy targets. Usually Ethan's pretty good-humored about it, but today something struck a nerve. We've spoken to all of the boys involved and nobody is talking. You see, Ethan repeatedly punched one of the boys in the face.”

“We take a tough stance on bullying at this school,” said Mrs. Doyle. “But we take an even tougher stance on violent behavior. This other boy lost a tooth.”

Claire felt light-headed. She tried to imagine the tiny hands of her little boy inflicting a bruise, let alone knocking out a tooth. He was only twelve. “Which boy was it?”

The teachers exchanged a look.

“Will Fraser,” Mr. Thompson said.

“But they've been best friends since they were five.” Claire felt the chocolate biscuit melt between her fingers. She could see Helen Fraser now, fuming as she took Will to their general practitioner—or to the ER. “Will must've said something to upset Ethan.”

“We're not sure. Ethan won't tell us,” Mrs. Doyle said. “But we need to take disciplinary action. Not only with Ethan, but with the other children involved too.”

“I understand,” Claire said. The sticky Tim Tam slipped from her grip. She wished she could say Ethan losing his temper was out of character. She wished she didn't believe it. “Can I please see my son now?”

Ethan was asleep in the sick-bay cot. His cheeks were red and Claire brushed the side of his face with her hand. His hair was damp with sweat. As he stirred, he looked fragile and harmless, but Claire could see scratches covering his puffy hands.

“Mum, I didn't mean it. I don't remember what happened.”

“We can talk about it later. Let's get out of here.”

They walked home together in silence. The streets were empty before the end-of-school rush. Ethan reached for her hand. Their arms swinging in unison, Claire felt a knot inside. In the fractured beams of afternoon light, there was something about the way the sun hit Ethan's face that reminded her exactly of Mark.