Yes, she was in the air. Unmoored. At this moment, nothing bound her to this Earth.
“You hear the rockets jettison from the spacecraft.”
Yes, Bird could hear them. Go, go. All she needed was the shuttle.
“And just like that—you’re in space. All that force you felt before, when you thought your face might melt right into the seat? It’s gone. There’s nothing holding you down but your harness. Everything is floating, including you.”
The Earth becomes so small, like the head of a pin or a grain of sand. The Earth is round and blue and beautiful and everything is far away. Out here, no one is pretty. Everyone is pretty. No one is smart. Everyone is smart.
Out here, there is only you.
Copy. Copy.
Dani Logan’s voice drifted in from the periphery.
“Hey, Bird?” she said. “I was wondering if you wanted to come over after school tomorrow. You can walk home with me. You know, if you want.”
Bird opened her eyes. She was the only one still sitting in her chair. Everyone—including Dani—had already put their desks back where they belonged. People were leaving for the next class. When had the bell rung? Bird hadn’t even heard it.
Jessica’s words still floated in the air, but Bird was floating, too. She was Mission Specialist Thomas, and she’d just arrived home from the space shuttle Challenger. Who could think about anything else at a time like this?
Everyone, apparently.
The classroom was just as it always was, and so were its inhabitants. They moved around her as if she hadn’t just spent the past few minutes with her eyes sealed shut, lost in another world.
Bird got up. Pushed her desk back where it belonged. The sound of the chair legs scraping against linoleum brought her back to the cold, hard floor of Park Middle School.
“If not, it’s no big deal,” said Dani.
“What’s no big deal?” Bird said.
“I asked if you wanted to come over after school sometime.”
“Oh,” said Bird.
Was she still in another galaxy? This was the first time since she’d started middle school that someone had invited her over. She’d always been a girl who had in-school friends and sat with different tables at lunch depending on her mood. No best friend. No sleepovers. Just Bird.
But if she could shoot off into space on the Challenger next to Judith Resnik without ever leaving Park, Delaware, surely she could launch herself to Danielle Logan’s house.
Tuesday, January 7, 1986
THE LOGAN FAMILY MACHINE
If Bird had to describe the way her house smelled, she would say it was the scent of old paperbacks that had been on the shelf too long. And sometimes it smelled like ground beef sizzling on the stove because Mrs. Nelson Thomas cooked a lot of dishes that required ground beef.
Dani Logan’s house smelled like neither of those things.
Everything about Dani Logan’s house was different, right down to where they hid the spare key. It was really clever, as far as Bird was concerned. At the Nelson Thomases’, the key was tucked into the mailbox—not exactly the most ingenious place to hide something. At the Logans’, the key was hidden inside the removable door knocker.
Bird inhaled discreetly as she slipped off her shoes and placed them obediently by the door—one of the “house rules,” Dani said, rolling her eyes—then followed her new friend into the house.
There were no piles to navigate. No land mines of sneakers and sandals. No laundry baskets lining the hallways. There was so much space, Bird could practically feel the air move.
“Let’s go to the kitchen and pig out,” said Dani.
Pig out.
The junk food adds up eventually, Bernadette. That’s what her mother said anytime Bird reached for junk food. If Bird ever asked why her brothers could eat whatever they wanted, her mother had a ready answer: They need it. They’re growing boys.
Dani pulled Cheetos and Doritos from the pantry and motioned for Bird to follow her to the living room, where she sat on the carpet and clustered the bags on top of the coffee table.
Bird sat next to her.
“I’m not supposed to eat in the living room,” said Dani. “But . . .” She shrugged and shoved Doritos in her mouth.
Bird looked around. So much open space. So much room to move. A person could be comfortable here. There was a sliding glass door behind the dining room table that led into a fenced yard. The Thomases had a fenced yard, too, but no one went out there except Mr. Thomas, and only when he had to cut the grass, which he didn’t do as often as he should, according to Bird’s mother.
Just in front of the Logans’ fence was an enormous tree with a ladder nailed to its trunk. Some of the steps were broken or tilted. Bird couldn’t see the treehouse from this vantage point, but the ladder had to lead somewhere.
“Do you have a treehouse back there?” she asked.
Dani glanced outside. “Yeah. Well, I used to. My dad built it a long time ago, but most of it has fallen apart. It’s basically just pieces of wood nailed to a tree at this point.”
“I always wanted a treehouse,” said Bird.
“Me, too,” Dani said. “That’s why my dad built it.”
Bird wondered what that was like, to want something and then get it. Especially something like a treehouse. Until now Bird thought treehouses only existed in books or television. An optical illusion, like Ms. Salonga’s constellations.
And on the walls: photos of Dani and her parents. In one of them—a huge, framed photo over the television—they wore matching colors and smiled broadly for the camera. Bird couldn’t remember the last time she stood next to her parents and brothers for a photo. For anything, actually.
Dani followed her gaze.
“I don’t have any brothers or sisters. Just me,” Dani said. “It must be awesome to have a twin, huh?” When Bird didn’t respond, Dani said, “I have a cat, though.”
Bird’s attention shifted immediately. “Really?”
“Yep. His name is Chekov. He can be kinda shy sometimes, but he’s around here somewhere.” Dani craned her neck this way and that and made kissy noises. “Chekov! Chekov!” She popped a chip in her mouth and chewed. Crunch, crunch. “His name is actually Chekov Scotty McCoy, because we couldn’t decide what to call him. I wanted to name him Chekov, my dad liked McCoy, and my mom wanted to call him Scotty. We argued about it all the way home from the shelter until my mom finally said we should reach a consensus and name him all three.”
Consensus. When Bird’s parents argued, one of them usually wound up leaving the house for a few hours. One time her mom stayed away overnight. Apparently they never came to a consensus, since their arguments often repeated themselves.
What a world Danielle Logan lived in. Treehouses and consensus.
“Those are interesting names for a cat,” said Bird.
“They’re from Star Trek.” Dani stopped mid-crunch. “Don’t tell me you’ve never seen Wrath of Khan.”
“No. I think my brother did.” Bird shrugged.
“You’d love it! It’s in space, Bird. Space! They are actually trekking through the stars in space!”
“It’s not real, though.”
Now it was Dani who shrugged. “Who needs real? We’re surrounded by real all the time.”
Bird had no comeback for that.
Crunch, crunch.
“Was it a bad argument?” Bird asked.
“What? Oh. No. It wasn’t really an argument argument. Mostly just joking around.” Dani grabbed another Dorito. “I wound up winning anyway because Chekov is his first name, so that’s what we call him mostly.” She stood up. “Do you want a soda?”
“Sure,” Bird said. She stared at the Logan family portrait as Dani disappeared back into the kitchen.
“Sunkist or Tab?” Dani called.
Bird never drank sodas at home unless they were diet. Too much sugar. Too many calories. You won’t stay skinny forever.
“Sunkist,” Bird sa
id.
Something about the Logan family portrait reminded Bird of the Challenger photo. She wasn’t sure what the connection was. The mind was a mysterious machine. Suddenly Bird was thinking about Judith Resnik.
Dani came back with the soda and called for Chekov again.
“He’s such a funny cat,” Dani said. “He only likes to come out if he knows the environment is safe.”
Bird took a long, deep sip of her Sunkist. “I understand,” she said.
TRACKBALL
Not all gamers were well equipped to use a trackball. The trackball was unwieldy, unpredictable, and almost impossible to control. A joystick was much easier. Joysticks only moved certain ways. Herky-jerky. But trackballs? Trackballs responded to the slightest movement, and if it rolled even a smidge too far, Major Havoc would never get where he needed to go. To succeed at Major Havoc, you had to master the trackball and the two buttons, one of which was used for firing and jumping, and the other for activating Major Havoc’s shield, which you could only do once per life. Missile Command and Centipede were the only other trackball games at the Pinball Wizard, and no one had achieved any impressive scores on either.
Fitch was always ready to defend Major Havoc to kids like Vern, who thought Major Havoc was subpar to all the other machines—trackball or no trackball—but he stayed quiet about his personal success. It was like his own little secret. No need for bragging. No need for showboating, like Vern often did when he hit a high level on Star Wars or Donkey Kong or whatever. As soon as people knew you were good at something, they started expecting things from you, and Fitch was perfectly happy living in a world where nothing was expected of him.
Somehow, though, as he reached his highest score yet and escaped into Major Havoc’s galaxy, he’d managed to invite an unexpected comrade into his otherwise solitary wormhole.
The comrade announced himself in the moment after Major Havoc died and before Fitch kicked the machine and spewed a curse word.
“You’re awesome.”
Fitch whipped around, his body burning with annoyance and adrenaline.
The kid in front of him was eight or nine, maybe. Fitch recognized him right away as the dork who’d been wasting his quarters at Pop-A-Shot last week. He was wearing a wrinkled T-shirt with E.T. on it, and Fitch suddenly remembered that E.T. was the last movie his family had seen together at the theater. Bird and his mom had cried at the end. Fitch would have cried, too, but neither Cash nor his father had shed a single tear, so Fitch willed his away.
“You’re awesome,” the kid repeated. He wore thick glasses with heavy frames. When they slid down his nose, he pushed them up with the knuckle of his thumb.
“Thanks,” Fitch mumbled.
“That game’s really hard,” the kid said. “I never saw anyone get that far.”
“Most people give up.” Fitch reached into his pocket. He knew he was out of quarters, but he reached into his pocket anyway. A small, impossible part of him always hoped to feel the ridges of a wayward quarter in the recess of his jeans, but it never happened. The day he found a forgotten quarter would be the day he’d fly off in his own Catastrofighter.
“I just moved here from New Jersey. The arcade back home didn’t have Major Havoc,” the kid said. “I tried to play it when I first got here, but I died in two seconds flat. I’m not good on the trackball. I’m okay with Centipede, though. Kinda.” He pushed up his glasses. “My name’s Marshall. People call me Marsh.”
Fitch craned his neck to look around the arcade.
“Do you think you could teach me sometime?” Marsh asked.
Oh geez.
“Huh?” Fitch said. He took a step away from the kid. The last thing he needed was some eight-year-old hanger-on.
“Maybe you could teach me how to play sometime.” Marsh shrugged. “Just a thought.”
A voice rose toward them in the distance.
“Fitch Nelson Thomas! Evil Vaxxian overlord!”
Vern. He knew how deeply Major Havoc hated the Vaxxian Empire, which is why he insisted on alluding to it in the most ridiculous ways.
Marsh’s eyes shifted toward Vern, who was now striding their way, holding a bag of popcorn dotted with grease. Every now and then Mr. Hindley cranked up his ancient popcorn machine and gave away free bags, just because.
Vern nudged Fitch with his elbow as he licked butter from his fingers.
“Hey, Henry. Finally hanging out with people your own age, eh?” said Vern, lifting a chin at Marshall and laughing.
Marsh ignored him. Pushed up his glasses. “See you around.”
“Yeah,” said Fitch, dismissively. “See you around.”
When Marshall was out of earshot, Vern said, “I bet that kid could see all the way to next year with those glasses. Maybe even the new millennium.”
“Whatever, man,” Fitch said. “I’m going home. Unless you got quarters you wanna give me?”
“No way,” said Vern. He lowered his voice. “I’m about to put mine on Ms. Pac-Man.”
“Ms. Pac-Man? I’ve never seen you play Pac-Man in your life, much less Ms.”
“Let’s just say that a certain someone is playing Ms. Pac-Man right now and I’ve never wanted to be a pellet or a ghost so bad in my life.”
Fitch took a few strides forward with Vern at his heels, then casually looked in the direction of Ms. Pac-Man, where Rachel Hill stood at the joystick, the Jessicas at either elbow, all side ponytails and ribbons. Then Fitch looked at the scoreboard. Not bad.
“This is my opportunity,” said Vern, through a mouthful of popcorn.
“Opportunity for what?”
“To make my move. What do you think?”
“You?” Fitch laughed—one loud, honest ha! “You’re gonna make a move on Rachel?”
Vern swallowed. His lips glistened with butter. “Yeah. Why not?”
Fitch sighed and watched Marsh sidle up to Rachel’s friends. Marsh stood still, eyes focused on the screen, watching Rachel maneuver through the maze, eating pellets and chasing ghosts.
“Listen, Henry,” Vern said. “Not all of us are as lucky in love as you and Big Bird.”
A bolt of electricity shot through Fitch’s arms. It happened that way sometimes, quick as lightning, and just as unexpected. Like lighting a match, except the match was deep in his bones. The spark made him want to grab Vern’s shirt, twist it into a ball right under his throat, punch him in the stomach maybe, right where all that buttered popcorn now rested. Push him against one of the game cabinets—Defender or Asteroids, which were just a heartbeat away—and tell him, through clenched teeth, that if he made a comment like that again, Fitch would fix it to where he couldn’t speak at all.
The fire blazed from his marrow to his skin, but instead of moving forward, Fitch forced his hands into his pockets and pushed his fists deep, deep, where they’d be safe.
“Good luck,” Fitch said. Casual. Like the fire had never been. “I’m taking off. Let me know how it goes.” He nodded toward Marsh. “Be careful, though. You’ve got competition.”
GOOD NIGHT, BIRD
That night Bird lay in bed and wondered what it meant that being smart—not being pretty—was her “thing.”
What about Judith Resnik? Jessica had said Judith Resnik was pretty, but she was also an astronaut, which meant she was smart. How could Jessica explain that?
Bird sighed. She always thought of good things to say when it was too late to actually say them.
Why did she care about being pretty, anyway? She didn’t care in elementary school. She didn’t even care that much last year. So why was she even thinking about it?
Bird knew that being pretty was important to her mother, even if Ms. Thomas liked to remind everyone that “looks don’t matter.” Was it important to everyone, then? Did Dani think about that kind of stuff? Ms. Salonga? Mission Specialist Judith Resnik?
Bird blinked at the ceiling. She created a picture in her mind of Judith Resnik fretting about her appearance as she gathered informati
on about Halley’s Comet. Someone pass me the brush. I can’t possibly do this kind of work with my hair like this.
It didn’t make sense.
Did it?
“I wish I could ask you,” Bird whispered.
She closed her eyes. Formed a question. Imagined it traveling through the atmosphere, on the invisible waves of air from Delaware to Texas, and landing on Judith Resnik’s ears.
Bird: It doesn’t make sense to only be one thing. Does it?
And Judith’s words, making the journey back.
Judith Resnik: No. It doesn’t. Good night, Bird.
Bird: Good night.
Wednesday, January 8, 1986
HEY, AMANDA
“Well?” said Fitch, the moment Vern walked into first-period science.
Vern sailed down the aisle, smelling like sweat with a finger dab of cologne.
“Well, what?” he said.
Fitch turned in his desk as Vern sat down. “Did you talk to her?”
“Shh,” Vern said, eyeing the front of the classroom, even though they both knew Rachel wasn’t there yet.
“Did you?”
Vern unzipped his backpack and pulled out his science book. “Not exactly,” he said. “I was going to, but your little friend wouldn’t shut up.”
“What little friend?”
“You know.” Vern mimicked the way Marsh adjusted his glasses. “Marsha kept asking her questions and wouldn’t shut up.”
“Questions about what?”
“Ms. Pac-Man, of all things. That’s what he was asking her about. Twenty questions per minute about Ms. Freaking Pac-Man. It was—” He stopped. His eyes drifted to the next aisle. The corners of his mouth turned upward.
Fitch knew what was coming.
“Oh, hey, Amanda,” said Vern.
Fitch didn’t look her way. Didn’t move, even. But he heard her sit down, followed by the sounds of her arranging her books. He burrowed his eyes into Vern’s face. A silent message: Don’t you dare.
“I was just talking to Fitch—er, I mean Henry—about Ms. Pac-Man,” said Vern.
“Oh, really?” Amanda smiled faintly. “I can never get past the first level.”
We Dream of Space Page 5