The Theory of Everything by Kari Luna Page B

paperwork when you return on Monday.”
    â€œThanks,” I said. “I’m sorry for any problems I might have caused.”
    â€œYou smart kids are a hoot!” she said. “So polite, even when you’re in trouble. Now, go home and read
War and Peace
or something.”
    I loved how Tolstoy was the go-to reference for nerd. But I hated that I couldn’t get that painting out of my mind, which meant there was a reason for it. Maybe Principal Pattison had a portrait of a horse on her wall for the same reason I wore the tree skirt. It was calming because plants and animals were just that—not human. And even though we could be pretty great, it was nice to take a break from people, once in a while.
    |||||||||||
    â€œSophie, wait up!”
    Finny ran toward me, his black courier bag lagging behind, hitting him in the butt.
    â€œI’m late,” I said, opening my locker and filling my backpack with books.
    â€œI wanted to apologize,” he said, panting. His face was red as the pepperoni he’d missed at lunch. “I never meant to stand you up.”
    â€œIt was fine,” I said. “No big deal.”
    â€œThat’s not what I heard,” he said. “Are you okay?”
    I wanted to tell him. In reality, he’d probably think it was cool and want to study me, like an experiment. But I couldn’t risk losing him. Not yet.
    â€œNever been better,” I said. “Knowing Heather, the story that’s going around is way worse than what actually happened.”
    â€œSo what
did
happen?”
    I couldn’t lie. Not one more time, and not to Finny. So I did the next best thing.
    â€œWe’ll talk later,” I said, slamming my locker. “I have to go.”
    â€œThen I’ll go with you,” he said, walking beside me. “Look, I got caught up in this chemistry experiment and totally lost track of time.”
    â€œCan we just forget about it?”
    â€œNope,” he said. “But maybe this will make up for my extreme ineptitude. Close your eyes and open your hand.”
    I felt something small and circular pressing into my palm. I opened my eyes and saw The Smiths
Meat Is Murder
button.
    â€œFinny!” I said. “This one’s your favorite.”
    â€œYou’re my favorite,” he said. “There’s more. Look under it.”
    Underneath the button was a piece of paper the size of a fortune. It had numbers written on it. Lucky numbers separated by dashes.
    â€œI gave Kerouac your phone number, too. His name is Drew. Whoever calls who is up to you guys,” Finny said, grinning.
    â€œI should be so mad at you right now,” I said. My shoulders relaxed. Heart lifted.
    â€œYes, but isn’t it more fun to be excited?”
    I don’t know how he knew, but he did. Nothing cures the aftermath of an episode like a crush.
    |||||||||||
    I slammed the front door, and Balzac came running.
    â€œSophie? Is that you?”
    Mom was home. Early. And since it wasn’t a holiday and she couldn’t have gotten fired yet, that meant one thing. The school realized the cell number was a fake, did a little digging and called her at work.
    â€œHey,” I said, walking into the kitchen like nothing was wrong.
    She was standing over the stove stirring the contents of a pot with a wooden spoon. It smelled like onions.
    â€œSurprise!” she said. “I took the afternoon off. I thought it was time we had a home-cooked meal like the rest of Middle America.”
    â€œStrange, but acceptable,” I said, relieved. “Is that spaghetti?”
    â€œSauce for the meat loaf,” Mom said.
    â€œBetter meat loaf than pot roast,” I said.
    Mom turned her back to me and hummed. Pot roast was a reminder of one of the bad nights, one of the nights Dad went crazy, and we didn’t talk about those. That night, Mom had just made my favorite meal—pot roast with baby carrots and