Els shuts down her tab. “You should’ve told me you were struggling.”
I scuff my feet. “I tried.”
“You have so much potential.” When I don’t respond, Els adds, “We can make other adjustments. Don’t count yourself out just because of these impossible past weeks.”
For a moment, I’m tempted. Work was fine at first, wasn’t it? I enjoyed it, and she’s right, the stress will never again be as bad as it’s been—
But school was like that, too. Starting each year thinking it’d be different, and within a month I’d be skipping class and fighting tears in the girls’ bathroom.
“I’ll try my best,” I say. “What if it’s not enough?”
“That wouldn’t be fair to the other passengers. It’s not about you being autistic—you’ve seen Dr. Meijer. We treat everyone equally. And everyone works.” She looks to Leyla as if for help.
“Everyone who can.” I back away. “I’ll talk to the captain myself.”
“Denise—”
The door shuts with that awful whine, erasing Els from my sight.
This time, it’s the captain’s turn to find me.
I scramble from my bed to open the door. He stands out on the balcony, lit from behind by the massive sunlamps arching around the ceiling.
“You’re giving me mental whiplash.” He sounds amused, but it’s hard to really tell. “Max passed along your message. I’m almost scared of the campaign your sister would set up if I don’t let you stay,” he says. “You’ve made the past two weeks look very different. I’d say you’ve proved yourself, no matter what you do or don’t do in the future.”
A few days ago, those words would’ve made my heart soar. I wish I could say that they no longer do, that I’ve learned to care more about looking after myself than about proving myself, the way Iris and Dr. Meijer say I should.
I wish I could say that staying on the Nassau felt like victory, rather than failure.
“You’ll be trouble down the road, won’t you?”
“Mostly, I want to spend some time reading about cat anatomy,” I tell him truthfully.
“I can live with that,” he says.
“But first . . .”
He definitely smiles this time. “Oh, man.”
“You said we’re a democracy now,” I say, carefully rehearsed. “We ought to set up a vote before liftoff.”
“About?”
“About where we’re going.” I lift my chin to look somewhere over his shoulder. There’s a young couple across the circular walkway, backpacks by their feet, hugging their friends goodbye. They’re not the only ones who’ve decided to stay with their family on Earth. Some people—those who needed it most—came on board in their place, but not nearly enough.
And not Iris.
“We can stick with the original plan to follow the other ships to the twin planets. Or we can stay in orbit around Earth. Scientists predicted the dust might settle in a year. The rest will recover, too. Eventually. We can send a shuttle to Earth to see, or touch down ourselves. We could help rebuild. Share supplies. Do something. Try.”
I reach for the rest of my argument. I memorized all this, went over it with Fatima, and I don’t want to miss anything.
“I know we need to leave to be able to generate energy, to set up our crops, but . . . we don’t necessarily need to go far. We can leave for the twin planets whenever we want. Next year, in ten years, fifty. Once we’re flying, it doesn’t matter, right? We can stay in our biosphere indefinitely. We can pass the choice to leave down to our children, if Earth really is beyond hope.
“The Nassau’s passengers should have a say in their futures. In their home.”
I think of lying in that airport hallway with Mom and Iris, spreading my arms.
Roots digging deep.
“I should’ve laid down ground rules beyond ‘don’t shower’ when I let you on board.”
I can’t tell if he’s joking or dismissing me. I breathe deep.
One more push.
“Other ships might’ve made the same decision. Maybe there’s a whole fleet past the dust, waiting to give Earth a second chance. Remember what you said about picking and choosing? You can have both this time. Other planets will wait.”
He looks at me for a long moment. “Let me think about it.”
The door slides closed.
Everything I said was true. But here’s my own small picture, my own lack of objectivity: I don’t want to say goodbye to Iris.
Not for good.
CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO
I TELL IRIS ABOUT MY DECISION TO STAY. We’re back in that exercise room, each sitting on our own stationary bicycle. Iris leans back, facing me.
“The Nassau is a better place,” I say. “Better for me.”
Tears haze up her eyes.
Mom waits in front of my cabin.
I stop dead in my tracks. “What. What are you.”
“Surprise,” she croaks out.
“What are you—what—Are you allowed to be here?”
“Els pulled some strings. She said she had something to make up for.”
I stand two meters away in the middle of the walkway. I make no move to approach. “You’re staying? Permanently?”
“Yes. Els asked about my job history and studies and . . .” She spreads her arms and repeats, “Surprise.”
Iris has visited Mom these past few days. So has Matthijs. Me, I’ve barely thought of her. I wanted Mom to stay, I did—I do. But seeing her here makes my insides curl into a hard ball. Mom gets to stay, and Iris—
This isn’t how it was supposed to be.
“Why?” I ask. “Why did you choose the Nassau?”
“It’s what we wanted.”
I shake my head. The Nassau is what I thought I’d wanted—for the wrong reasons. Now I still want it—for the right ones. But I don’t know Mom’s reasons. I don’t know whether she’s afraid. Whether she thinks I need her more than Iris does. Whether she’s more likely to have access to drugs on the Nassau than on Earth—or whether she’s more likely to get the help she needs. Whether she needs stability and predictability and a home she can know every centimeter of as much as I do.
I could repeat my question: Why?
I could choose not to.
“Denise? Aren’t you . . . ?”
I wait until I’ve found my words. “If this is where you want to be, I’m glad you can stay. I’m so glad you’re OK. But I . . . I . . .”
Her expression falls. I’ve seen that look before. “Honey—”
“I want separate cabins. No meals together unless you’re clean. Nothing else until you stop completely.”
“You’re not serious,” she scoffs. “You’re sixteen. You’re my child. Honey—”
“I’m serious,” I say.
“You’re just—”
“I’m serious,” I say, louder.
“I’m human, OK? I might make mistakes, but they’re my mistakes to make. I’m still your mother. You’re punishing me for—”
“I’m not punishing you,” I say. “I’m protecting me.”
She stares at me blankly. I see that from the corner of my eye. Then I turn away, start walking, and I no longer see her at all.
I’m not the only one saying goodbye.
There are dozens of us in this loading bay, minutes before the Nassau’s ramp is raised and the ship is closed down. Behind us, people run around preparing, or embracing their friends and crying, recording each other for what may be the last time. Before us, roiling dark water stretches into nothing.
“Be safe,” I tell Iris.
“Take care of yourself,” she tells me. “You know you best.”
Fat tears roll down my cheeks. For the hundredth time, I want to tell her that I’ve changed my mind and I’m staying with her—and for the hundredth time, I don’t.
“One year,” she says. “That’s not long. It’s like I’ll be off to college in England or the United States and will be back for the
holidays. That’s all.”
I want to say something witty, but just wipe my sleeve past my face and repeat, “Be safe.”
“If I have any say in it.” She hesitates. “I’ve already said goodbye to Mom in the med bay. Told her I understood why she chose the Nassau. You know, what you told her . . .”
I think of Dr. Meijer’s message to my tab. Mom didn’t take my decision well.
“Don’t let her change your mind. OK?”
“I don’t want to talk about Mom.” I spread my arms. I invite a smile to my tear-stained face. “Can I?”
I won’t have the Earth beneath my feet.
But I’ll have borrowed patches of it in the park. I’ll have vines stringing the walkway railings guiding my way to breakfast each morning. I’ll have the sun overhead and stars every day and night. I’ll have patterns in the walls that I know by heart.
I’ll have Fatima and Sanne and Max. I’ll have my book and my pillowcase. I may even have Mom. I’ll have a doctor who’s helping her, and who’s sending me files comparing cats’ anatomy to our own.
I have a sister who’s doing amazing things.
When we’ve broken through the dust, when gravity releases its hold on the ship and then latches back on, we unstrap ourselves and stumble onto the walkways, into the park, into the crop fields ringing the ship. We look up. We cheer at the sun. We send videos and invitations into the far black, to the ships that went before us.
It’s February 13, 2035.
We welcome our future, whatever it may be.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
Growing awareness and changes in diagnostic criteria have led to skyrocketing rates of autism diagnosis. Yet, far from being a “fad,” autism has always existed, and will always exist—in a thousand and more ways all across the spectrum. This includes those who, for reasons of class, race, gender, or uncommon presentation, are never (correctly) diagnosed in the first place.
Everyone experiences autism differently: sometimes positive, sometimes negative, and often a wild, contradictory mix of both. Denise’s experience is only one of many.
Since my own autism diagnosis in 2004, I’ve come to accept and embrace it as an inextricable part of myself, but it hasn’t been a straightforward journey. I’ve grappled with many of the same fears and pressures as Denise; I still do. These are complex topics, with no easy answers.
The best way to understand these complexities is to listen. Misinformation and fearmongering help no one, and it’s frightfully easy for our own voices to get lost in the passionate, difficult discussions around this topic.
Thank you for hearing mine.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Thanks to my insightful readers who critiqued this book in its early stages: Emily, Marieke, and Kayla, and to those who helped me with areas outside my expertise: Alice J., Rick, One’sy, and Alice W. In addition, Justina, Katherine, Kaye, and Léonicka patiently answered my questions about everything from capitalization to cats.
I’m delighted to have my home with Teams Amulet and EMLA: thank you all for looking after Denise with so much care.
Dear disabled self-advocates—rock on with your bad selves, and thank you for fighting the good fight.
And, of course, many thanks to my ever-supportive, ever-enthusiastic family.
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