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“It’s like fishing in fake snow, checking your line.”
“Right.” I nod. I have no idea what they mean.
Against the advice of everyone at YA! TV, the Copenhagen Interpretation agrees to play one last song in the hopes it will send the fire giants and the wizard back through the Higgs Field to wherever they came from and close the wormhole so they can’t come back. A roadie ushers me out onstage. People cheer until they realize I’m not anybody. Down in the pit, Gonzo, Drew, and Balder shout my name anyway.
“Cameron! Save the universe, pendejo!”
Soon, the crowd’s chanting, “Save the universe, pendejo!” and they have no idea.
The blaze has gotten even closer. In the distance, I hear fire-truck sirens. I take the Calabi Yau toy from my backpack and rig it to one of the amplifiers as best I can. It sags like a half-emptied piñata. “Please,” I whisper. “Just … please.”
That sky’s looking really ominous. The clouds start to pull in. Lightning shoots out like loose electrical lines. Now people are getting nervous. They turn to leave. Any minute we’ll have a stampede on our hands. I can’t see Dulcie and I hope wherever she is, she’s okay. I run into the wings just as the Copenhagen Interpretation takes the stage again, and for one second, the crowd explodes with manic happiness. But it’s quickly replaced by fear. They don’t know if they should stay or go. On the one hand, it’s the Copenhagen Interpretation. On the other, there’s the fire and the sky.
The interpreter steps to the microphone.
Murmurmrumumurmurmurmurmuuuurmrrrrmmrurr. Long stop.
“In our travels, we have come across many equations—math for understanding the universe, for making music, for mapping stars, and also for tipping, which is important. Here is our favorite equation: Us plus Them equals All of Us. It is very simple math. Try it sometime. You probably won’t even need a pencil.”
“Hey. Hey! What is that?” a girl screams.
The fire giants have reached us. We’re completely sealed off by a circle of them, an angry army looking to be satisfied, except they can never be satisfied, and so they just keep burning. Those bottomless black eyes make my throat dry. The crowd screams and cowers together, holding each other up. But the Copenhagen Interpretation doesn’t flinch. They stand firm; they have more to say, and the interpreter relays every word.
Murmur. Murmurmurrmrurururmmmurururururmmm-mmrururururu. Stop.
“Please. We know. These are hard times. The world hurts. We live in fear and forget to walk with hope. But hope has not forgotten you. So ask it to dinner. It’s probably hungry and would appreciate the invitation.”
The fire giants throw their heads back and howl for all they’re worth—the horrible screech makes my skin crawl. In the crowd, people scream in fear. The interpreter has to shout into the microphone. “This is a song. It is called ‘Small World.’”
The drummer clicks the sticks together—two, three, four—and knocks the Calabi Yau off the speaker. Fuck. They’re playing, but without the amplification, it’s not enough.
I rush the stage. Security comes after me, but the guitar player blocks me with his body. “Here goes everything,” I shout, and hold the Calabi Yau to the speaker with both hands, shifting it into place. The sound that comes out nearly knocks me flat, and for a minute, I feel like I’m back in the Infinity Collider. It’s more than music; it’s a living thing, a portal into dimensions I’ve never even thought about. The music actually drifts high above our heads; I can see it swirling there—an aurora borealis of light and notes and vibrating strings. It drifts into the black hole, and the hole narrows bit by bit. The fire giants howl as the sonic waves push them back. Soon, people begin loosening their death grips on one another. They join hands and sing along. The fire giants grow smaller. With each note, they shrink down to pissant little flickers and then to smoke, which is pulled up into the swirling clouds. The hole is only a dot.
Onstage, the Copenhagen Interpretation has stopped playing. The singer looks up, says five words in English. “Shit. Here we go again.”
That hole in the sky sucks them and the Calabi Yau toy right up and closes over. The clouds disperse. It’s an unearthly quiet. The concertgoers are dazed. Slowly, as people realize they’re okay, that we’re all still here, they whoop and hug each other in relief. Then they notice the empty stage.
I drop down into the crowd and help Gonzo up, and he helps Balder.
“What was that?” Gonzo asks when he finds his voice again.
I peer up at the hint of rainbow. “I think we might have just saved the universe.”
I look around for Dulcie, but she’s gone. I start to panic. What if she’s been sucked up, too? But then I see her in the crowd, pink and white.
I run to her.
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
Of What Happens When Balder Has His Day at the Beach
After a fuel-up of convenience-store corn dogs and soda, we’re packed and ready to head out. Drew’s managed to fix the Caddy, but it looks tired. It’s coated in sand and road dust. Somebody has finger-written WASH ME across the back window. I wish it were coated in more dust. Every cop in Florida’s probably looking for that car now, and I just hope we can stay one step ahead of them.
Gonzo’s wearing Drew’s I GOT CRABS AT JOE’S SURF & TURF T-shirt.
“Mohawk’s cool,” I say.
Gonzo runs his hand over his head, watching Drew who’s letting Balder take his picture with the Party House in the background.
