Relativity Read Online Free

years old, and one in California that’s two thousand. Most sites say they live closer to four hundred years. So this tree could predate the American Revolution, or even the Pilgrims.
    I wish George could see this. I pull out my phone and try to frame the tree for a photo, but of course it doesn’t fit in the viewfinder. I step back, but it’s no use. There’s no way to capture its size and grandeur. If he were here, he’d pull out his sketchbook, and we’d sit quietly for hours while he worked his pencil magic.
    I step closer to the trunk, reaching out to press my hands against the bark, layered and gray like stone. But I pull back, suddenly remembering Willow’s stories of electrocution, death by fire.
    I put my hands on my hips. “You’re not going to fry me up for dinner, right?” I ask.
    You’re an idiot, Ruby. It’s a tree. A bunch of xylem cells and phloem tissue. Plant matter. Not a serial killer.
    It doesn’t answer my question. “Didn’t think so,” I say. At the base of the trunk there’s an even nook, almost like a small front porch. With some lingering apprehension, I sit cross-legged there, leaning lightly, hesitantly, against the trunk. Nothing bad happens. The methane in my intestines doesn’t erupt into flames. I don’t spontaneously combust.
    In the distance, I hear the hum of a lawnmower. A soothing buzz. I close my eyes and relax, daydreaming. My mind skips through memories and settles on one of George singing happy birthday to me in the school parking lot, the way he jumped onto the hood of his car and ended with an operatic flourish: “And many more!” I feel happy in this moment, and sleepy. I’m just nodding off—destined for sweet dreams, for sure—when something hits the top of my head and bounces into my lap.
    “Hey!” I say, startled and annoyed. It’s a piece of bark. I twist around to look up and behind me. Maybe a squirrel knocked it loose. I pick it up and chuck it toward the cornfield.
    I lean against the tree again, trying to pick up where I left off. George singing happy birthday. I’m dozing off when another piece hits. This time I stand up and accuse the tree. “A break, please? That’s all I want!”
    I shake my head. What am I doing here? Stranded in the middle of nowhere, at the bottom of Dad’s priorities. I’m not going to cry. But if I do, at least no one will see me here. I look up at the tree, its branchesoutstretched like it would give me a reassuring pat on the back, if only it could. That’s when I notice, about ten feet up, a bare spot.
    A lot of bark has fallen off, and now I see that the ground is littered with chunks. Odd. I wonder if a tree disease, a parasite, is at work. And then I hear the buzz again. The hum I thought was a distant lawnmower is neither: it’s not distant, not a lawnmower.
    It’s the tree. Tentatively, I press my hands flat against the trunk. It’s vibrating. From within.
    I pull away, my hands tingling slightly. Are the stories true? The only thing I can hear is my heart, and the voice in my head:
They’re just stories to scare kids
. There must be a reasonable explanation for the vibrating. Something’s going on here that makes sense.
    Insects. Yes, that’s it. The entire oak is full of them, infested. See? It took a whopping thirty seconds to come up with a logical hypothesis. There’s no reason to panic. But then I think about how many insects there must be. Are they boring holes into the outer bark, and at any moment they’ll break through, and I’ll be surrounded by swarms, angry and with stingers?
    Come on, Ruby. Don’t go jumping to conclusions.
    I put both hands on the trunk again, then lean in and press my ear against the rough bark. It sounds like an engine.
    I step back, stumbling away from the tree. I grab my empty soda can from the ground and hurry back into the cornfield. What was blue sky half an hour ago is now half-covered in inky clouds. And more are rolling in.
    Trees don’t rumble. It’s