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  for will. for everything.

  contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Notice

  Dedication

  Before

  1. Matter

  2. Antimatter

  3. Matter

  4. Antimatter

  5. Matter

  6. Antimatter

  7. Matter

  8. Antimatter

  9. Matter

  10. Antimatter

  11. Matter

  12. Antimatter

  13. Matter

  14. Antimatter

  15. Matter

  16. Antimatter

  17. Matter

  18. Antimatter

  19. Matter

  20. Antimatter

  21. Matter

  22. Antimatter

  23. Matter

  24. Antimatter

  25. Matter

  26. Antimatter

  27. Matter

  28. Antimatter

  29. Matter

  30. Antimatter

  31. Matter

  32. Antimatter

  33. The Sea

  After

  34. Half-Life

  35. To the Stars

  36. Siobhan

  37. Admission

  38. The Wolf

  39. Relativity

  40. Bonding

  41. Spring

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Copyright

  before

  Three quarks for Muster Mark!

  Sure he hasn’t got much of a bark

  And sure any he has it’s all beside the mark.

  —James Joyce, Finnegans Wake

  chapter

  one

  matter

  I don’t feel the presence of God here.

  I pace along the far side of the river, my ears filled with the hum of cicadas and the roar of water flowing over the milldam. Vermont is postcard perfect. I could stand on my toes and peer over the current and the cattails and see the whole town spread before me. Green-shuttered houses. The cobblestone square. The church spire. The boarding school.

  But I don’t.

  I crave the illusion of solitude.

  The dark-haired girl, who looks like a boy, watches me from the woods. She’s hunkered down in a birch thicket with bare legs and discerning eyes. I know what she saw and I don’t want her to talk to me, but she’ll try. I’m sure of this. She mistakes my distance for mystery, and she wants to know why I do the things I do.

  My sister was the same way. She thought there was a reason for everything.

  Me? I don’t think there’s a reason for anything.

  Not anymore.

  *

  Seven years ago, I strode onto the local country club court beneath a punishing Charlottesville sun like a mini Roger Federer. I had the headband. The tennis whites. The killer instinct.

  I was nine.

  My opponent was Soren Nichols, a nobody compared to me, top seed in the U10 bracket. But I was off my game, got in trouble early. Soren, who had a decent serve and quick feet, easily took advantage of my unforced errors and double faults.

  It didn’t take long. I didn’t know how to come from behind. I lost in straight sets in front of the home crowd. Without so much as a glance in the direction of my parents or my coach, I stalked to the net and reached across to shake Soren’s hand.

  “Good game,” I said through clenched teeth.

  “Thanks, Drew. You too.” He had a sheepish grin and southern drawl.

  Something dark roiled in my gut. A subterranean shift.

  No, that was not a good game. Not for me.

  People got to their feet between matches, milling across the court, the club grounds. I trailed Soren as his mother hugged him and his father clapped his back. Then I slipped into the narrow alley that ran back toward the clubhouse and waited in the shadows beneath the grandstand.

  When he passed by, I stepped onto the walkway. No one could see us.

  “Hey,” I said softly.

  Soren turned. I took my racket, reached behind me, and cracked it full force across the side of his face. Then I jumped back and gave a little yell of surprise. Like I didn’t know what had happened.

  That’s exactly what I told everyone when I ran for help. I don’t know. I don’t know, I don’t know how he got hurt. I was running. Maybe I slipped. Maybe he fell. I don’t know.

  I shook with shame, not regret. Soren was out cold. When he first came to, he really didn’t know. All that swelling. The blood.

  An ambulance came. Then a cop car.

  When pressed harder about it, I cried. A lot.

  Howled, really.

  *

  “Why’d you let them do that?” the girl asks as she crawls from the bushes. She holds the headphones of her mp3 player carefully in one hand. Her hair’s so short, it’s practically a Caesar cut, but she still has to brush dirt and leaves out of it now that she’s standing in the open.

  I edge away from her. Play dumb. Yeah, I know she’s a transfer student, and sure, we have a class together and she just joined the cross-country team, but it’s not like any of that means I want to have an actual conversation with her. Why would I? No one around here ever talks to me without reason.

  None of them good.

  “Do what?” I ask cautiously.

  “Let them get away with pushing you while you were … you know.” She points to my leg. It’s soaked with piss—my own, courtesy of two classmates who decided to assault me on their way back to campus. And no, I didn’t fight back. I never do. That wouldn’t be fair.

  Besides, there’s not a lot you can do when somebody punches you midstream.

  The girl clears her throat. She’s waiting for my answer, but I step up my playing-dumb game by saying nothing.

  She frowns. “So you’re just cool with being treated like that?”

  Like what? I wonder, but give a careless shrug. “Kind of looks that way.”

  There’s silence and squinting. Her ears aren’t even pierced and she’s wearing oversized athletic shorts that look cheap, like something you’d find in the clearance aisle at CVS. They drape past her knees and bear the silver-and-black logo of some professional sports team. Her whole look is at odds with the rest of the girls around here, who like to show off as much skin as possible, every inch of them tanned, coltish, and prep school sleek. This girl is different. This girl is forgettable.

  She speaks again. “You really okay?”

  “Why wouldn’t I be?”

  “It’s just, you seem, I don’t know, sort of strange.”

  I nod and run a hand through my hair. I’m not wondering anything anymore. I don’t want to know what she’s thinking.

  “I’m fine,” I mutter.

  “So where’re you from? I don’t recognize your accent.”

  My chest tightens, making it hard for me to breathe. Why, oh, why isn’t she leaving? She should, because I can be cold. I can be a lot of things. But she’s new, lonely. Maybe she thinks she’s found a kindred spirit. “Virginia,” I say finally. “But I’ve been going to school in New England since I was twelve, so my formative years have been spent here.”

  Her jaw drops. “You’ve been in boarding school since you were twelve?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Don’t you miss your family?”

  “No,” I say evenly. “I don’t.”

  “Oh.”

&
nbsp; I stare at her. Hard. Her own accent rings strange to my ear, but you don’t see me asking where she’s from or what her family’s like. “So why were you spying on me?”

  “I wasn’t spying!”

  “You weren’t?”

  “No!” she says, and the red blossoming beneath her olive skin pleases me.

  I did that.

  But the girl keeps going. “I was—I’m supposed to be checking the snake traps and making sure there’re enough water chestnuts in the back pond for the ecology class. It’s part of my work-study hours. But it’s sort of scary out here after, you know, what happened.” She shudders. “Look, I heard a noise. It freaked me out, so I hid. Then I saw you and those guys.…”

  Her head tilts back. The hazy afternoon sun slides from behind a cloud and strikes her eyes so that I can no longer look directly at her. I glance at my filthy leg instead.

  “Aren’t you the guy who gets carsick?” she asks.

  My shoulders twitch. “Excuse me?”

  “On the bus, on the way to the Danby meet, last Wednesday. You had all sorts of patches and wristbands on. You looked like a mummy.”

  “Like a mummy? Really? That’s charming. Thank you.”

  More red blooms. A full bouquet. “I—I didn’t mean … well, couldn’t you just take medicine or something?”

  No, I think.

  “Why?” I ask.

  “I don’t know. It just looked kind of ridiculous and like a lot of trouble—”

  I cock an eyebrow at her. “I won, didn’t I?”

  She sighs. I doubt she likes how this is going any more than I do. “Well, now you know why I was hiding in the bushes. What are you doing all the way out here?”

  All the way. There’s a longing in her voice. Her brown-eyed gaze flicks across the snaking river. We’re a good mile from the covered bridge leading back to school grounds. Two miles from the row of white clapboard dorms.

  She doesn’t trust me.

  Good.

  It’s better that way.

  “I think you’ve got a handle on what I was doing,” I tell her. “Seeing as you were watching me and all.”

  This helps. She puts her hands on those narrow hips, trying to look tough, and I know she’s pissed, but come on. The laws of nature don’t work like that. I’m a foot taller than her.

  Among other things.

  “Don’t worry,” she says. “It won’t happen again. You’re not that interesting.”

  “Agreed.”

  She stomps onto the trail a few yards away, small legs so close to breaking into a run. The need to flee is held captive in every muscle. But she gives me one more glance.

  “Hey, Win?” she asks.

  Don’t. Please don’t say my name. You have no idea who I really am.

  “Yeah?”

  “What’re you going to do now?”

  “I was thinking about washing my leg off in the river.”

  She snorts.

  “What?” I ask.

  “It’s like you don’t even care someone was killed out here.”

  I do the shrug thing again because she’s right. It’s like I don’t care. But she’s also wrong, because I do.

  chapter

  two

  antimatter

  I don’t remember my sister’s birth, but I’ve studied the photographs long enough to know she came at midday, greeted by the winter sun streaming through the south-facing windows of my parents’ bedroom. My older brother, Keith, appeared with the sunrise, as a sliver of gray dawn began its quiet march across the vast Virginia sky. Me, on the other hand, I was born at night. Like a secret.

  As the story goes, I didn’t care for Siobhan. My parents introduced me to this pink rooting thing when she was just moments old. I watched her suckle from the place I’d recently been pushed away from, saw the doting eyes of my mother, and I hated her.

  My parents threw a christening party not long after. I’ve studied those photographs, too. More digital proof of my loss. There’s Keith and me squeezed into navy suits and forced to stand together at the front of the church. I was three then, still soft and wretched in the way most babyish things are. At seven, my brother stretched taller, stringier. My elongated twin. In the photos, our matching red-brown hair is parted neatly, like a crisp statement of accounts. I’m smiling at the camera. He is not.

  After the service, lots of family gathered back at our house. Years later, Keith liked to tell me how starved for attention I was that day, as if my neediness were something to joke about. According to him, I threw myself at relative after relative, hoping to be scooped up, loved, only to be knocked aside again and again. Eventually I hid inside a linen closet and waited for someone to notice my absence. Nobody did. Keith found me hours later when he went looking for extra hand towels to put in the powder room.

  Don’t worry, I came to love my sister. In fact, I may have loved her most of all, though I never said that out loud. But she knew. I thrilled her. I’d hide and she’d look everywhere for me, her hopeful voice echoing throughout the house as she ran and called out, “Drew! Drew!” Then I’d try to scare her. My heart beat very fast and cool prickles of delight ran up my spine every time I leapt from the shadows and made her scream.

  Keith was different, kind where I was brazen. Shortly after that incident at the club with Soren Nichols, we walked to school together. Charlottesville fall, the air still hung with humidity, but the light was changing, becoming more distant, more diffuse. The seasonal fade merged with the wave of darkness rippling in the wake of what I’d done. Everywhere I went, I heard the whispers. I saw the looks. I simply steeled my gaze and perfected an outer shell that promised I was more snob than outcast.

  The private school my brother and I attended sat about a mile from our large estate home, a winding tree-lined stroll through one of the city’s most prestigious neighborhoods. That morning, Keith’s friend Lee leaned out the window of a black Mercedes as his mom drove past and asked Keith if he needed a ride.

  “No, thanks!” shouted Keith as he kept his eyes on me, a small smile pulling on his lips. “I’m walking with Drew today.” I kept my head down, staring at my ugly black loafers and pressed khaki pants. Severe motion sickness meant I wasn’t allowed to ride the bus. Or get in anyone’s car. My father said I had an inner ear defect. My mother said I’d outgrow it.

  “I don’t want you following me,” I said loudly. Keith was thirteen. Walking into school with him was sure to bring a crowd of giggling females over toward us. Inevitably I would get teased or babied in some way that offended me. This would lead to throwing punches and an extra trip to the therapist Soren’s parents insisted I see in return for not pressing charges. Such a waste, I thought. I’d easily mastered the art of sand tray play and sullen silence.

  “I don’t want to follow you, either,” Keith said. “So you think we could just walk together? Side by side? We don’t even have to talk if you don’t want to.”

  “Well…”

  “Well, what?”

  “What if I say no?”

  “No what?”

  “No, you can’t walk beside me.”

  “Well, then I’d be following you. And, you know, you already asked me not to do that. So unless you’d prefer to follow me…”

  I glared.

  He tried changing the subject. “You looking forward to Christmas this year?”

  “Sure, I guess.”

  “What are you going to ask Santa for?”

  It was October. I scowled some more. “Santa’s not real, you jerk. Don’t treat me like some little kid.”

  “You’re nine, Drew. You are a little kid.”

  He was teasing, but I didn’t know he was testing me, too. Losing the belief in Santa Claus was an important developmental milestone. When one can no longer believe in such alluring magic, then rationality has beaten back one’s wide-eyed innocence. For most kids, this milestone means a lot.

  For my brother, it meant everything.

  chapter
<
br />   three

  matter

  I stand before the steaming vats of food with a book beneath one arm and do the math inside my head. It’s complicated and my feet shuffle, trying to get me to leave. Departure is tempting; I’m tired and not hungry and I’m like this close to my goal of 6 percent body fat. But I’m also in season. Coach Daniels is already on my case. I can’t just starve.

  When I’ve organized my dinner down to the gram, I leave the kitchen and step into the dining hall. It’s like hitting a land mine because the place is a war zone. Bright lights and human noise fray my nerves. Pieces of food lie strewn about like casualties. Waffle fries, cornbread, sheet cake, olive slices that resemble eyes, even a scattering of chicken bones have been ground into the thin carpet and tracked across the room. Disgusting. I’ve never figured out why a school that values tradition as much as ours can’t be bothered to teach its students basic manners. And God forbid anyone might clear their own tray every now and then. The only time it’s even halfway civilized around here is Sunday evenings, when the faculty eats with us. That’s when we knot our ties and wear good shoes and the girls are forbidden to bare arms.

  I clench my jaw and hold my head high as I walk to an empty table in the far corner by the windows overlooking the playing fields. If my arrogance doesn’t drive others away, the fact that I keep my nose buried in Faust certainly will. I could sit with the other runners, but I’m team captain this year. Distance is good. Separation of authority, it keeps the natural order of things.

  I sit. Eat. Read.

  “Hey.”

  I tense but don’t look up. I know that voice.

  “Hey, Teddy.”

  He slides across from me, a narrow reed. Something’s wrong. He’s twitchier than usual, blue eyes bouncing around behind wire-rimmed glasses and skinny fingers pattering across the tabletop.

  “I saw you,” he blurts out.

  “You saw me?”

  His nose quivers and the moles on his face look like Dalmatian spots. He’s that pale. He inches his body toward mine.

  “You know,” he says in a tone that’s supposed to sound serious. “This morning. You were by the bridge when the cops were down there. Doing their investigation thing.”

  “Was I?” In fact I was, but I make it a rule not to reveal any detail about myself without good cause.