Kaleidoscope's Light

By Angela Hilario

A love story through dimensions

In universe 56, Emma DeNoire and James Scott make a promise to be together. But they just can't seem to get it right no matter how many parallel universes they're given.

Each choice that the seventeen year olds make opens up into another universe, another lifetime where they could get it right—all of which they can remember living through. A gingerbread cookie given at the Winter Dance determines whether or not Emma alienates her two childhood friends; a note that starts a rumor affects the sobriety of James's best friend Mike; and whether or not Emma's ex boyfriend chooses a black SUV or a silver convertible impacts whether James will hate Emma forever.

However, the two continue to carefully outline the choices they make, until a fatal one forces them to realize that there are just some things out of their control.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Hollis House
• Release date: Dec 30, 2017
• ISBN: 9781386006268

Angela Hilario

Angela Hilario was born and raised in Queens, New York. She sold her first book made of looseleaf paper and staples for fifty cents in the fourth grade. To this day, she is very proud of that sale. When she isn't writing, she works as a special education teacher. Visit her at www.angelahilario.com

Book preview

Universe 22

The Melody

If Emma DeNoire and James Scott had to agree on something, it was the belief that the universe had loved them. Deeply. So much so that for every choice, a coin tossed—flip: head/tails—the universe would split itself open to account for all the dying possibilities. The other choice. The one that was left behind. Heads for tails and vice versa. The only possible reason why the universe would do this for them was, according to them, out of love. There was nothing else in the world as powerful, the two of them would say.

When Emma would lie down on her bed looking up at her bedroom ceiling filled with plastic stars her father had stuck, or when James would sit in his desk hand poised for another sketch, they would silently say to themselves: there is a dimension right next to me; there is a James and an Emma who just might have gotten it right.

There is a James and an Emma that chose the right things: the choice that led to each other.

––––––––

On the day of Mike’s Christmas party, their mornings certainly started off completely different from each other.

For Emma, her morning started innocently enough: cheerful even. Like a perfect suburban commercial in the fifties where the mother makes pancakes, eggs, and bacon and the father reads the newspaper and the children have a wicked grand ol’ time eating their mother’s masterwork while their dog—in most cases a golden retriever—trails after all of them in case one of them decides to slip him some food. Only, Emma’s family didn’t have a dog (her father showed symptoms of allergies whenever he was told there was a dog around), dad finished the newspaper before breakfast began, and her mom was a terrible cook. But the ambiance was there.

Sort of.

Later, Emma will roll her eyes and curse herself for not suspecting something sooner for the mere facts alone:

1 – the three of them were sitting together

2 – at the same time

3 – at the same table

4 – over breakfast.

Her dad usually left the earliest and grabbed something from the deli near his work, and her mom would leave shortly afterwards with a piece of fruit or non-fat yogurt in hand.

But on that particular morning, the three of them were sitting around the obsolete dining table, none of them touching the instant oatmeal Mrs. DeNoire had popped in the microwave minutes before. The perfect 1950s commercial that Emma had been excited about shattered quickly as it came.

Emma, we... her dad cleared his throat as he folded his gigantic arms on the table and leaned forward a bit. Unlike most dads Emma knew, her father was the only one who cared enough about his physique to spend time going to the gym. He had said that being a lawyer meant he needed a demanding presence. But Emma never really took him seriously. Especially now, when he looked like he hadn’t slept or shaved in days. We have something we would like to tell you.

Mrs. DeNoire wouldn’t make eye contact with either of them. She seemed to be focused on something on the other end of the table, her brown almond shaped eyes glared into slits.

Your mother and I, he began again. He scratched his jaw and it made a rough sound. He took a while longer before he continued until he just blurted it out, the words jumbling together as it rushed off his tongue. YourmotherandIdecidedtogetadivorce.

Emma blinked. Pardon me?

Mom made a soft click of the tongue. We’re getting a divorce, she said, her voice steady.

Her hands dropped to her lap as she sat back in her chair. Divorce? Emma echoed. The syllables made it sound like she was slicing something—something inside of her that was the only thing that had kept her together.

Emma’s parents had been married for twenty-two years, and now they were telling her that love had an expiration date.

I haven’t been very honest with your mother, Mr. DeNoire said.

Mrs. DeNoire rolled her eyes. Now there’s an understatement.

He opened his mouth to let out a quiet sigh. Would you like to be the one to tell her?

She crossed her legs with such defiance. Mrs. DeNoire had a way of acting like a queen in medieval times, able to execute someone with just the glare of her eyes. No. You’re the one who did it, you should be the one to tell it.

So don’t interrupt me.

I’m not interrupting—just tell her!

It was happening again. Emma’s breathing became uncontrollable—as if breathing itself had awakened and come alive. She breathed hard and managed not to lift her hands to cover her ears as she did as a child.

She began scanning her brain for any signs that she could have missed—anything that could have told her to prepare for this moment. Her parents did fight—but what couple didn’t? They threw things at each other, especially things that shattered—but that was because they were passionate. They were in love. They were high school sweethearts who made it.

I was unfaithful to your mother—a long time ago, he quickly added, as if that helped. As if it got him off the hook by blaming time.

Mom sucked in her right cheek then let out a long breath. Finally, she looked at Emma. We’re sorry, sweetie. But know this doesn’t make us love you any less. Not much is going to change, really. Your dad’s never really been around the house anyways—

Again, her dad cut through. We’re going to start with that again?

And it went on. The modern-day 1950’s family-friendly commercial played on.

––––––––

James Scott had a rather monotonous day compared to Emma’s. For one thing, it was spent mostly at Delecti-Mart, the supermarket where he worked part-time. The most substantial thing to have happened that day for James was the outcome of a coin toss between him and his best friend Mike. The outcome of which determined who was going to spend the rest of the shift out in the freezing cold parking lot in order to gather stray shopping carts and push them past moving cars into the tiny passageway at the front of the store.

James chose tails—George Washington winked at him.

He didn’t mind too much. He liked to do this thing where he pushes the cart like a skateboard, one foot on the bar, the other peddling fast, then he would ride down the slight hill of the parking lot, the wind blowing wildly in his face and into his ears as he risked the possibility of being run down by a car backing up. He almost did crash into a black SUV, but he put his foot down as a brake just in time.

No one’s supposed to admit it: but James actually liked working at Delecti-Mart. He liked the solitude of it. Stocking things, and using the price gun, allowed him space to hum to himself—to enjoy whatever noise he had in his head. Doing the cash register just required him to scan things and the only interaction he had with the customers was announcing their grand total and Paper, plastic, or recyclable bag?...It’s a dollar fifty per bag.

And, of course, the cart wrangling made him feel alive.

James often wondered—maybe he’ll end up working at Delecti-Mart for the rest of his life. He could be like their current manager—why not. The manager’s scalp was like a cemetery for hair follicles, but he looked like he was happy with his life. For the most part. He walked around with a pen in his breast pocket, but James had never really seen him use it.

Besides, college was expensive, and the way the economy was going to shit, he was going to end up working at a place like this anyway. The only difference is that he wouldn’t be helplessly in debt.

James’s mom and his Aunt Rita want him to go to college, however. Sometimes they would stop him after he would get dressed for school, about to head out. Mom would take his wrist with a heavy, dramatic weight bearing between them, and ask, James, dear. What are you planning on doing?

And James would reply, in the same slow and over-emphasized tone, I’m planning on going to school.

I don’t mean right now. I mean, a little bit further from now. I know you haven’t applied to any colleges, so I was just wondering—what is it exactly that you plan on doing?

James blinked. Did she expect him to answer the question of how he was going to spend the rest of his life with only cereal running through his digestive system and being awake and aware for only forty-three minutes that day?

Whenever this would occur, he would just reach inside his bag for his notebook while he was on the bus and start doodling. The stress and high blood pressure would drain into his fingertips, into the pencil, and away into the sketch of The Girl in the Blue Dress.

Once his face and hands were red from the winter cold, James was finished gathering up all of the carts, just in time for the end of his shift.

Mike was done too. James found him by the lockers in the break room taking off his Delecti-Mart apron and shoving it into his book bag. You coming, right? Mike asked. You can ride with me.

Mike’s parents, despite being Hindu, were throwing a Christmas party at their house and allowed Mike to invite all of his friends. All of his friends meant just James, but word got around, and now it looked like the entire senior class was going to stop by.

On the car ride there, James switched on the car radio and a station playing 24/7 Christmas music was in the middle of Last Christmas by Wham!

Mike’s fingers started tapping mindlessly on the steering wheel as they took the fifteen-minute drive to his house—pardon, his mansion. His parents were agonizingly loaded. James often asked him why he bothered working at Delecti-Mart when his parents could give him an allowance twice as big as his salary, but Mike would just lamely answer, For pride.

I got into Harvard, Mike said.

James snapped out of his daze of silently singing along to turn to him. Oh. Wow. Congrats.

He shrugged. I don’t know if I want to go though.

James shrugged too, although he didn’t know why. I mean...it’s Harvard. If you go there, you can end every sentence with I went to Harvard and you’d pretty much win anything. Like, ‘Hi. My name is Mike. I went to Harvard. Why, no, I don’t mind being promoted to CEO.’

I know. Mike signaled to make a right turn. That’s why I don’t want to go. It’s so...elitist.

Then, where do you want to go?

He shrugged again, with a frown this time. Somewhere nearby.

You’re still going to live at home?

He got on the defensive. People underestimate the convenience of living at home during your college years. Free laundry. Free food. You don’t have to worry about any of that shit. Just study.

James raised his eyebrows and turned back to the window. You and the rest of the world have very different expectations of a college career. The radio station was now playing that Mariah Carey song.

They didn’t say anything else as Mike pulled into his driveway. His parents said they were going to be home, but a quick check of the voicemail informed them that they were still stuck at the hospital and hoped that Mike would, be a good boy and don’t make us regret throwing you and your friends a party.

James knew Mike wasn’t the type to jeopardize the trust of his two hard-working doctor parents. And knowing himself, James knew he wasn’t going to jeopardize his freedom of hanging around their mansion and perusing their fridge.

But there were about a hundred other people who started to show up in groups, and James couldn’t possibly know each and every one of their intentions. He also couldn’t know that one of these uninvited guests was Emma.

Emma couldn’t recall much of what happened after breakfast. She locked herself in her room, slept, watched some YouTube videos, slept some more, and stood on her bed to rip off each and every one of those plastic stars from her ceiling.

And before she knew it, Xavier texted her telling her he was outside to pick her up.

You’re quiet tonight, Xavier said, as he placed his hand on her knee.

I’m just not feeling well, she replied. The houses and their Christmas lights became one giant blur as they drove down over the speed limit.

You want to talk about it? he asked her, as he glanced into the rearview mirror.

She didn’t answer and eventually he forgot about asking.

––––––––

Around ten minutes into the party, James lost track of Mike who went off to find and execute the people who had brought the packs of beer. He didn’t know anybody. He saw them around school, and he could make a good guess at what their first names were, but he didn’t know any of them enough to say hi or start a conversation.

So, he poured himself a cup of punch and leaned against the wall in the living room and began to observe. He found it nice being in a loud, crowded room, because no one would notice him being a creeper.

Right behind the wall he was leaning on was Emma, who was scratching her head as Xavier said hi to a couple of his friends who Emma knew, but didn’t like enough to bother with small talk. She had her arms folded and her lips tightly shut as Xavier came up behind her, wrapping one arm around her, revealing the shiny red cup that he beheld before her. Ease up a little, he told her.

Normally, she wouldn’t. But despite being an idiot, Xavier was right, Emma thought. She needed to ease up a little. So, she gulped one beer down. And another. And one more until she stumbled across the living room and slumped onto the floor in front of the TV.

At this point, James had gotten his second cup of fruit punch and returned to his spot against the living room wall, his prime place of choice for senior class observation. He saw everything. He saw guys leaning in on girls without really touching them; he saw people rubbing up against each other but getting away with it because they were just dancing; he saw a guy pick his nose and wipe it on Mike’s fifth grade graduation portrait; and he even spotted someone digging up Mike’s karaoke machine in the cabinet underneath the TV stand and plug it in.

His eyes stayed on this particular person mostly because he was fascinated by their ability to navigate technology when clearly—based on their lack of balance by merely sitting, and their clumsy movements—they were drunk. The person’s face was obscured by the legs of people standing around, but he craned his neck and could make out the long brown hair of the culprit. Her back was to him as she flipped through the binder of songs and dialed in the three-digit code into the microphone. The first bars of the song she chose started to play.

James knew this song. He knew it before he even read the lyrics off of Mike’s 32’’ screen TV. No one else was paying attention—not until the girl got up onto the arms of the couch and was now standing three feet above everyone else.

She burped before she began her introduction. This song...my father sang this song when my mom and him were just dating. And now—their love story is over. Because today I found out that he cheated on her. She let out a chuckle. She could feel people listening now—listening to her testimony of love. Of broken love. Of shattered love. Shattered into a million pieces.

And so, to commemorate the end of their romance, I shall sing the song that started it all.

James concluded that she must have listened to this song as many times as he did, because despite being drunk and missing her cue, she was able to properly catch up to the lyrics without looking at the TV.

You’re home to me, my sweet baby jean

Let’s go somewhere, can you escape with me

We’ll hum to ourselves, that same melody

‘Cuz there’s nowhere I’d rather be

Nowhere I’d rather be

Nowhere I’d rather be

Than in this mess with you

Ok, if you want, we can just stay a while

Put your coat down, it’s been quite a mile

‘Cuz there’s nowhere I’d rather be

Nowhere, nowhere, nowhere

Than in this mess with you

My little honey blue

I’m in this mess with you

...This is the instrumental part. She started swaying her head and her hair got out of her face and that was when James realized who she was.

For Emma, she had always identified herself as Emma. But for James, he had always known her as The Girl in the Blue Dress.

She was now shouting the lyrics but James had stopped paying attention to the quality of her performance.

Because he couldn’t actually fathom, that hovering over the room with her voice and head-banging performance was actually her—The Girl in the Blue Dress (Wearing Black Sweatpants and A Gray Hoodie).

People around her began to laugh. The bastards even started to point.

James pushed off the wall and stood below her, waving his arms to get her attention. Hey...girl, he stopped himself from saying in the blue dress. Excuse me? Um, maybe you should come down now.

No! she shouted into the microphone which brought more cackling from the group standing in the corner. This is my moment, and no one’s gonna take this away from me!

She continued singing—even more badly this time—and people around them started taking out their phones and began to record a video of her. James raised his arms up as Emma began to do a small pirouette on the arm of the couch. But her turn was too big as she slipped and fell on the floor.

But even so, she refused to stop singing and terminate her performance. Nothing was going to keep her from singing this song, The Melody.

Are you okay? James shouted as Emma continued to gesticulate her arms like an opera singer. Everyone crowded around the two of them, sticking their cellphones in Emma’s face. Get off! He tried to push them away, but that just made them crowd even closer. He couldn’t let them have permanent evidence of The Girl’s not-so-proud moment—even if he had no clue what was going through her head. So he wrapped her arm around his neck and lifted her off the floor.

People began to applaud as James carried Emma out. He shoved them out of the way with his other hand and got out into the front lawn.

Her vision turned, and she stood upright, the music still in her head, with a cold breeze slapping her against the face. She wasn’t feeling good, not feeling good at all, but nothing was going to stop her. Nothing.

James beheld her. As he watched her sway from side to side, the words of the song becoming muffled sounds from her lips, he cleared his throat. Um...excuse me? He didn’t know what to say to her. He had imagined saying something witty whenever he thought of meeting her—but he always thought that it would only go so far as being a meeting in his head, considering he had thought Emma to be just a figment of his imagination. An inhabitant of his mind. Someone who took up space in his subconscious. Someone he dreamt about and drew.  

Emma continued to sway with her eyes closed, the song still playing clearly in her head. A gentle squeeze of her shoulders and she was being stopped, which she found perfectly rude. But when she opened her eyes she was met with the green eyes of The Motorcycle Man. Minus the motorcycle, and add a pair of black-rimmed eyeglasses.

Hi, he said. His voice was just how she had always remembered it—deep,