Dimensia Read online

  Chapter: Two.

  This summer, if you hadn't guessed, turned out to be the worst summer ever recorded in the book of summers. What should have been the time of my life wasn't. I felt like a fish out of water. At times I wished I could have swapped places with Chance. What was more upsetting was the countless times hearing, 'I know how you feel.' Or, 'How are you doing?' And, 'Is everything okay?' I heard that so much, I wanted to scream every time.

  I just wanted to be left alone. I wanted to be anyone other than myself, and anywhere else but there. To occupy my time I tried to work as much, and as often as I could. I visited my grandparent's house when I needed to get away. Summer, having lost your best friend, doesn't exist. Summer, is but a word, ergo de facto: formed by a collection of symbols, irrelevant without an agreed upon definition.

  River parties, fishing trips, canoeing, rope swings, cliff jumping, rock climbing, dirt biking, paintball brigades, snipe hunting, frog gigging, four wheeling, or countless nights camping under the stars, or any combination of one or all of the above, doesn't exist anymore. Everything I did reminded me of Chance. After all, we did everything together. Basically, I had no life beyond Chance. Having lost my Papa in earlier years, losing Chance affected me much different for some reason.

  As summer dwindled into oblivion, whether I liked it or not, the new school year was approaching fast. I had lots of different scenarios running through my head. Senior year, the best time of your life they say. This wasn't the case for me. I was dreading it with a capital D. But sure as history is taught with glorification, my final high school year arrived. With one more year under my belt, I could officially be an adult and do what I pleased. Life slowly began to look up.

  Sure enough the first day of school came, and it wasn't as awkward as I had anticipated. It felt as if nothing had happened, or everyone had forgotten about the accident. Maybe it's the crack in the wall?

  At lunch the new soccer coach came to the table I was sitting at and took the vacant seat beside me, the seat Chance would have occupied, and introduced himself. Well, I wasn't planning on playing, but he managed to twist my arm. Besides, it meant less work for me outside of school, which was a plus. In between classes I ran into Jennifer.

  "Raquel was asking about you, wanting to know how you were doing." Jennifer expressed with seemingly genuine interest.

  "Tell her I'm sorry that we can't be together, but someday, someday." I said, as I turned and ambled off, hoping to avoid becoming tardy to class. Thinking what I had said sounded cool, but now as I'm writing it, sounds very . . .well . . . lame. Then again, I'm pretty confident I wasn't the poster child for sensitivity, not-to-mention heartthrob, or Don Juan.

  In every class, it seemed that the teachers were trying to promote college as if they received a bonus or promotion for getting us accepted. They shared their college experiences and expressed how it was vital for anyone that wanted to succeed in life. Personally, I had never really put a great deal of thought in the matter. Maybe because I didn't see how I used my high school education, much less accumulate all these student loans to go to this prestigious establishment, to become indoctrinated. However, I was keeping the option open, labeled in my mind, just in case.

  Trapped in a place without bars, but condemned the same. Before long, I was back into the routine, and before I knew it, the first quarter of my senior year had flown by on the wings of a mythical bird. I missed Chance and I'm sure that attributed to my lack of enthusiasm. School to me felt more like a job than a social learning environment. My Mom and Step-Dad constantly nagged me to the point of frustration, so I eventually filed with FAFSA, and filled out forms for Colleges, and applied for a few scholarships and grants. More-or-less, I saw it as my parent's way of getting me out of the house, with of course their spin of: 'A head start on life.'

  One class period into the second quarter, particularly in history class, I had a teacher by the name of Mr. Swinger. He was a rather odd character if you ask me. He always wore the same khaki, cargo pants, with a plaid button up shirt. Not the cool plaid either. He wore thick glasses and his hair was running away from his forehead, (a 10-90: ten percent on the top, ninety percent in the back. Suffering from HIV: hair is vanishing). He was light skinned and walked daintily, as if on tippy toes. He seemed to have overactive sweat glands, thus sweating more than the average person. Well, in his class I could pretty much get away with murder, if I flirted with him. Yes, I said it, flirt. An experience based around shock value, it was a little weird, but strangely entertaining. In his class, we had the typical student types. In a random pecking order: the scenesters, the hipsters, the preps, the hip-hop heads, the farm boys, the choir kids, the band kids, the Bible thumpers, the drama kids, the Goths, the MTV wanksters, the jocks, the emos, the computer geeks, the small town rich kid that got away with murder because of his last name, the local cheerleader that everyone on the football team had taken their turn with. Also, the kid that sat directly behind me that I imagined would someday bring a gun to school and start blazing the place. Not to omit, the adrenaline junkies: the skaters, the skiers, the pill poppers, the potheads, the candy kids, and future alcoholics. Lastly, the more normal, middle-class students like me that just couldn't wait to get out of town. Small town politics 101.

  In Mr. Swinger's class we would watch video segments on CNN pertaining to world news. Like clockwork, the first thing on the agenda was the video. It was a younger, more hip CNN, and was geared toward us teens. The segments would generally last anywhere from ten to fifteen minutes, and immediately following would be a class-quiz. The quiz, by design, was to expose your lack of paying attention. In theory it was a plausible formula. However, it seemed to provide ample opportunity for note passing, spit-wads, random fart or farm animal noises, to the couple in the back of the class that often made out. Most diversions were entertaining, as I myself often indulged. However, one day the hip CNN was more interesting to me at least.

  It was a segment on dimensions. Fundamentally, I didn't get excited for the hip CNN, with its useless mumbo-jumbo, himbo-bimbo, politics, and blah-bitty-blah-blah. It did however catch my eye. Intrigued, the segment showed a scientist being interviewed at a public press conference. The scientist stated that he and his team of scientists had explored the existence of eleven parallel dimensions. In the new wave of physics, he explained, we as humans function in a three dimensional universe. As to theories the team of scientists had concluded on what might or might not exist, if we could see, access, or function in these different dimensions.

  "We have no scientific proof what exactly exists in these parallel dimensions." The Dr. emphasized.

  Following the press conference, a clip portrayed a computer-enhanced presentation that depicted the structural make up of each dimension and what they may or may not look like if we could see them with our naked eye. More accurate, wrap our brain around. Mesmerized, witnessing the fireworks of the Gods, a talking raccoon, a newborn infants first breath, the depth of the ocean, blueprints to a spaceship, the encoding of our DNA, the Holy Grail. To me it was a prime example that we know less than nothing. Something I could identify with, in that we are pushing the boundaries at warp speed in our evolutionary chain. As the segment came to a close, CNN displayed the scientists name and the lab they worked out of. I rapidly ripped a piece of notebook paper and jotted the information down as well as their web address. As usual, after any potentially resourceful news, the media attempted to divert our attention to other, more unimportant issues. When we're at war for example, there always seems to be a major political scandal around the same time. That incidentally, every time the celeb or person of celebrity gets off unscathed, or, in rare cases a slap on the wrist. Coincidence? I think not. They, 'the powers that be' showed Britney Spears shaving her head. My SWAG (scientific-wild-ass-guess), to sidetrack the attention of the audience from emotions, thinking, questioning, having a voice; CHANGE. (
Quid pro quo.)

  When the CNN clips were over, Swinger hit the lights. Out of the corner of my eye, for a split second, I saw myself. Not like a projection, nor like a reflection in a mirror or a pool of standing water, more like there. Waving my hands back and forth over my head, expressing something? And in a microsecond, the cloned image of me had vanished! In reaction to the reaction, I stood and felt this intense rush of energy, chill bumps, and breath deprivation. With the entire classroom's attention, all eyes upon me, I was a tumor, the grim reaper derived from the black plague, an extra terrestrial.

  "Is everything alright Fisher?" asked Mr. Swinger with crazy eyes, as I quickly took my seat.

  "Sorry. I uh. . . thought I saw a spider," my vague attempt to rationalize as everyone laughed in unison.

  For the remainder of the class period I tried to convince myself that I saw nothing, that I was just imagining things. I couldn't disguise, delude, or displace what I had seen, however, it was no mirage, nor hallucination. I could deny the truth, but I saw something, me, but why? How? To think that someday, one day, not so far away, it would all make sense. Well, things would be much different to say the least.

  *

  Voice:

  "The light we see from the Sun is eight minutes old. The light we see from our closest star has traveled four and a half years."