Free The Theory of Everything by Kari Luna

her my ice cream and sank deeper into the bed, pulling the covers up to my chin.
    â€œMost of the time I hate him,” I said, thinking about Dad. But I couldn’t help thinking about other things, like Sunday mornings and the crossword puzzle, the way I hung on to their banter like air, words flying back and forth, kisses in between. I ate cereal until I popped, just so I could stay in the room with them.
    â€œBut sometimes you miss him.” Mom smoothed the hair off my face. “That’s okay,” she said, voice shaking. “Sometimes I miss him, too.”
    She leaned in, kissed my forehead, and a tear dropped onto my face. I told myself it wasn’t my fault she was sad, that she got there on her own, but I knew it wasn’t true. Dad put both of us there, whether he meant to or not.

NINE

    My family never did the church thing, but Dad said saints were an exception. He had this massive book about them, and I devoured it, repeating names over and over like the lyrics to a good song while sitting in his green leather chair, feet dangling. Saint Francis of Assisi, bird preacher. Saint Lydwina, protector of ice skaters. And my favorite, Saint Christina the Astonishing, patron saint of mental illness. She proved you could be flashy and holy at the same time. She also hated being around people because she could smell sin on them. So instead of wearing perfume, she climbed buildings and trees. Hid in cabinets and cupboards. And when there was nowhere else to go, she levitated.
    I used to want a saint who would bring me an endless supply of striped socks, but lately I’d been thinking about Christina. I found her card stuck in one of my books this morning and put it in my pocket. Christina probably couldn’t stop my episodes completely, but maybe she could at least teach me how to levitate out of them. It was number one on my list.
    How to Survive Going Back to School After an Episode
by Sophie Sophia
Levitate out of any uncomfortable situation.
Since you can’t actually levitate, ignore people.
Tell them you weren’t sent home early, you went to Paris.
Why Paris? Why
not
Paris?
Redirect attention to your outfit. Wasn’t it inventive?
Repeat the following: I am more than my episodes. (It’s true.)
    Mom barged into the bathroom as I was getting ready. Normally I would have demanded my private time, but after a weekend spent in communication lockdown, I was happy to see her.
    â€œPardon
moi,
I’m working on my visage,” I said in my best French accent, a mix of Peter Sellers and Pepé Le Pew.
    â€œThat’s right, you have French this morning,” Mom said.
    I wasn’t even taking French, but my face was covered in an oatmeal-citrus mask, so I couldn’t exactly correct her.
    â€œDid you know that your great-grandfather was from Lyon? You practically have French in your blood.”
    I laughed and cracked my mask. “That’s gross,” I said. “It’s like ooh! Get them out! The French are in my blood, invading me with their poodles and café au laits!”
    Mom sighed and grabbed my brush off the counter. She moved behind me and ran it through my hair. It was one of the few rituals we still kept, so I let her do it.
    â€œYou must be a hit at school,” she said.
    â€œNot yet,” I said. “I try to lay low the first semester. And then—when they least expect it—my wit and I attack.”
    I saw one of her eyebrows raise in the mirror.
    â€œThat’s no way to make friends, Soph,” she said. “And you might want more than one.”
    I scowled and my mask crumbled and fell into the sink.
    â€œFor your information, I have two friends,” I said.
    â€œReally?” Mom took the brush away from my hair and then looked at me like she’d just discovered a new species.
    â€œAha,” she said. “What’s his name?”
    â€œHow do you know it’s not a girl?”
    â€œPlease,”