The Theory of Everything by Kari Luna Page B

we going to redo
my
room?”
    I called my bedroom New York Meets Everywhere Else because it was full of found things like a sad-eyed dog painting, a floppy red felt hat and a collection of vintage sunglasses hanging on a ribbon on the wall. Anything that inspired me, basically. My favorite was a sculpture Dad made out of tin cans, bicycle gears and broken bits of an old Supremes 45 record. It sat next to his beanbag, which was now occupied by Finny, who flipped through a stack of cassettes on the floor.
    â€œWant to listen to
Black Holes vs. Sunday Afternoons
?”
    â€œSure,” I said as he put it in my boom box. If we were going to discuss my mental state, we might as well have music to go along with it.
    â€œSo what are hallucinations like?” Finny asked, pressing Play and then sinking into the beanbag chair. “Do you see a bright light? Step through an opening?”
    â€œIt’s not Narnia,” I said, throwing a pillow at him.
    â€œI don’t know,” he said, ducking. “That’s why I asked.”
    I lay on my back and hung my head off the side of the bed, letting all the blood rush to it. Making my face turn red.
    â€œSometimes I get a headache,” I said. “Or hear things. My body reacts more post-hallucination than pre-hallucination.”
    â€œSo there are no warning signs,” he said.
    â€œNope,” I said. “Welcome to Randomland.”
    â€œDoes stress make them worse? Can you leave whenever you want? Can you control them at all?” Finny asked.
    I remembered the time Dad tied cans of chili to his ankles with rope. When I asked him what he was doing, he said he was trying to weigh himself down so he could stay with me. At the time, I didn’t understand—I just knew that no matter what he did, he’d disappear anyway. I thought about that instead of the words that were coming out of my mouth.
    â€œI can’t control them, but I’m not alone,” I said. “Dad couldn’t control his hallucinations, either.”
    |||||||||||
    I was jumping on my mini trampoline when it happened.
    Bounce. Bounce. Up in the air, face to the sky, then face-to-face with Daddy holding a red paper parasol, floating in the air. He popped out of nowhere, like in cartoons, and then he landed on the grass.
    â€œHi, sweet pea,” he said. “Having fun?”
    â€œHi, Daddy,” I said, still bouncing. “Where did you come from?”
    â€œSomewhere too far for little girls to go,” he said.
    â€œLike Chinatown?”
    â€œSomething like that,” he said, twirling his parasol. “I brought this for you.”
    I hopped off the trampoline and took the parasol, spinning it above my head.
    â€œIt’s magical,” he said. “They call it a Dream Director.”
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œBecause, according to legend, it directs your dreams.”
    â€œHow does it work?” I wanted to know how everything worked.
    Dreams have a system, Daddy said. They started in the sky and moved toward our heads, but direction determined whether the dreams were good ones or bad ones. Good dreams were creative and happy and traveled like a triangle, sliding down the side of our heads and going into the ears. But bad dreams were angrier; they shot down out of the sky like rain and headed straight for the middle of the forehead.
    My hands flew up to my own forehead. “Does it hurt?”
    â€œOf course not, silly,” he said. “You’re asleep. But that’s why we have the Dream Director. We’ll hang it upside down over your bed so it can catch the bad dreams before they go in.”
    â€œSo I’ll only have good dreams?”
    â€œI hope so,” he said, ruffling the top of my head. “Just because I travel a lot doesn’t mean you shouldn’t have the best dreams possible.”
    â€œWhy can’t I go with you?” I said, tracing my finger along the edge of the parasol. It was