The Theory of Everything by Kari Luna Page B

Gordon, and I’ll show you a girl who doesn’t know her,” I said.
    â€œIt’s pretty obvious we have the same taste,” he said. “Stage-diving music, right?” He grinned in a way that gave it all away.
    â€œYou heard about that?” I leaned my head back against the seat.
    â€œI saw you in the office,” he said.
    â€œOh, yeah,” I said, trying to be nonchalant. “Why were you there?”
    â€œI was trying to start a literature club,” he said. “But mostly I heard about you from other people. I don’t do gossip, but the whole school was talking about it.”
    â€œRight,” I said. “And what did they say, exactly?”
    â€œThat you stage dove into the cheerleaders’ table trying to kill some girl named Heather.”
    I laughed. It sounded ridiculous when you said it out loud.
    â€œAnd you believed them?” I asked.
    â€œYou don’t seem like a killer,” he said. “Besides, I like a girl who shakes things up.”
    Goose bumps covered my arms. The same thing happened when we were texting.
    â€œI get that from my mom,” I said. It used to be the other way around—Mom holding things down while Dad shook things up—but after he left, they switched roles. He was consistent—gone—and Mom did everything she could not to stay in one place.
    â€œSo what do you get from your dad?” he asked.
    â€œYou don’t want to know.” My throat tightened.
    â€œWhat, an awesome pancake recipe? The ability to change a tire in a single bound?”
    â€œGood tries,” I said.
    But you really should stop guessing now, I thought. Because you don’t know a darn thing about it.
    â€œWhatever it is, he did a good job,” Drew said, grinning.
    I was so panicked I missed my mouth, sending coffee flowing down the front of my shirt.
    â€œI inherited his clumsiness,” I said, leaving coffee-soaked napkins on the table. “I’ll be right back.”
    I closed the door to the bathroom, put my hands on the sink and breathed. The Cure’s “A Night Like This” blared from the speakers while I counted backwards from ten. Anything to stop my hands from shaking. Robert Smith sang about love and loss, about wanting things to be the same, like they were before. Like before Dad left. Drew was a good guy—even better than I’d imagined—so I knew I had to pull it together. I blotted my shirt with paper towels. I had a cardigan I could wear to hide the stain. I also had free will. I could choose to think about Dad, freak out and ruin my maybe-date or I could focus on other things. Like the cute boy waiting with a grilled cheese sandwich.
    â€œYou can do this,” I said to myself in the mirror. I smoothed my bangs, took another deep breath and opened the door. I heard people cheering, smelled sweat and cigarettes and saw that the room was dark, like a club. And then someone handed me a guitar.
    â€œOkay, Sophie,” said a guy wearing all black and sporting an English accent. “This is your moment. Are you ready?”
    I didn’t know why I was supposed to be ready, but I knew I wasn’t on a date with Drew anymore. The steps in front of me led to a stage packed with guitar stands and amps, drums and a keyboard. Excited girls lined the front, girls who looked like me but with more eyeliner. And guys like Finny, only with bigger hair. Some of them even wore lipstick.
    â€œI think there’s been a mistake,” I said, holding the neck of the guitar. “I don’t even play this.”
    â€œNerves.” The guy chuckled. Even his laugh had an accent. “You’ll be fine. Follow me.”
    The lights went off, and I followed him onto the stage with the others by flashlight. I threw the guitar strap over my shoulder while he plugged me in, handed me a guitar pick and nodded to the row of pedals in front of me.
    â€œWatch your vibrato,” he