Tomorrow, starting at noon, they will allow the first volunteers to travel through vertexes. I can’t imagine anyone crazy enough to set foot in one of those things. I mean, for all we know, it’s a death trap. Take one step inside and you fizzle up into oblivion.
But across the globe, a small number of volunteers actually come forward to sacrifice themselves to the vertexes. Ex-military, former astronauts, adventurous spirits—all waiting like inmates on death row. Major networks interview them one by one. They must be suicidal.
The next morning, Rita comes over to watch the moment with me. Her family has banned all media coverage of the holograms and vertexes. I text Dominick to join us, but he’s watching his little brother since his mom has to work. He promises to take me to the movies tonight to make it up to me. How can he think about going to the movies at a time like this?
At noon, the major networks focus on the first U.S. volunteer at the Washington, DC vertex. The President of the United States stands stoic as the hologram delivers its daily rote warning. Military officials flank each side of the vertex. At the entrance, a soldier holds an electronic tablet, ready to enter those who depart into a database.
I gulp for air from the safety of my bed and grab my journal. Rita comes out of my bathroom wearing a red, V-neck T-shirt, jean shorts, a stack of silver bangle bracelets on both wrists, and red, white, and blue earrings that look like falling fireworks. She drags my purple saucer chair in front of the TV on my bureau. The back of her dark head bobs in and out of my view of the screen.
From the living room, Dad’s commentary bounces off the walls and makes its way down the hallway. Mom scurries from the parlor to the kitchen to my bedroom and back again, bringing snacks, forgetting things, and yelling from the kitchen, “Is it time yet?”
“I can’t believe Private Benjamin can’t be here,” Rita pouts from the chair. “I was hoping to get in some good flirting time.”
“He has to guard the vertex in Quincy even though no volunteers are going through there.”
She swings her legs up and sits upside down in the saucer, letting her head fall backward. Her feet dangle in my view while her dark hair mops my dusty floor. The germs that might be collecting on each strand, invisibly crawling up to her scalp . . . I bite my tongue to keep from sharing my concern.
“I hope he’s safe,” Rita says. “Why are guys in uniform so attractive?”
“Grace,” Dad’s voice echoes. “It’s time.”
“Ooh, it’s starting.” Rita flips her body back around in the chair. My stomach and shoulder muscles hurt from anticipating her tipping over and cracking her skull on my wooden floor.
On screen, George Rogers, a former U.S. astronaut, waves to a crowd. He’s been a pop culture icon ever since his ex-wife and her lover tried to poison him. The trial lasted months, and the two lovers were found guilty of attempted murder. Rogers became a household name after that. The fact that he’s willing to throw his life into a cosmic anomaly while we watch seems like backward poetic justice to me. The media’s putting a positive spin on it. They claim he’s sacrificing his life to his one, true love who never betrayed him: space.
President Lee presents Rogers with a folded American flag, the kind they usually present to families of lost soldiers, an image that I’ve come to dread. She salutes him, and he reciprocates. Rogers surprises everyone when he unfolds the flag and drapes it around his neck in a final show of patriotism. The crowd in Washington, DC goes wild.
“Stop treating the flag like a fucking towel,” Dad yells from the living room.
I sigh. Rita giggles.
“I should shut the door,” I say and jump off my bed.
“No, leave it. He’s hilarious. My parents never swear. They never say what they really feel. I like this. It’s real.”
I shake my head and return to my bed. It’s not real—it’s wrong.
“I wonder how Private Benjamin is doing,” Rita sighs.
“Stop it. I’m sure he’s fine.” I hug my pillow. Even though no one volunteered in our area to leave today, that doesn’t mean people aren’t crowded around waiting in hope and horror for someone desperate enough for fame to step forward.
Rogers steps up to the microphone and gives a quick goodbye speech about life in our world and “the possibilities beyond the stars.” The crowd eats it up. I copy it down verbatim. Then he straps on a black backpack with his belongings and spins around to face the vertex. The soldiers on each side of him salute. One soldier types onto the tablet, making George Rogers the first name on the census list of the departed. Cameras zoom in on his face. He closes his eyes, taking a moment. I wonder if it’s for himself or for the camera.
I hold my breath. I want to scream Don’t do it! At the same time, something inside me wants him to go. Wants to push him in and see what happens.
When Rogers opens his eyes, they seem darker. He takes one step forward. Another. Then another. And with one final step his body evaporates into the swirling blue of the vertex like the sparrow. The hologram bows low in respect. The crowd pauses in silent awe, and then a slow clapping and cheering begins and spreads until the noise becomes deafening.
He did it. I can’t believe he did it.
“Whoa.” Rita’s face glows a patriotic blue and red since she’s so close to the television screen. “He’s totally gone.”
“Idiots,” Dad comments from the other room. “This isn’t the Olympics.”
Media channels repeat footage from around the globe of the first six volunteers who stepped into vertexes. I jot down the names.
George Rogers age 72 United States
Kun Wen age 86 China
Abani Dhillon age 77 India
Vadim Kozlov age 91 Russia
Nakamura Manami age 82 Japan
Jack Brocklehurst age 75 England
It feels like the beginning of a bizarre space race. Who’s willing to sacrifice themselves into the unknown to show they are the bravest, ready to take on a new challenge and represent their country?
Not me.
Plus, according to the government’s new Q&A website, the holograms said that people live an average of two hundred and fifty years there, so it makes sense that all the initial volunteers are elderly. It’s like a wacked-out fountain of youth. The volunteers aren’t brave or suicidal. They’re like the 49ers, hoping that the rumors are true, that the grass is greener on the other side.
But who says there’s grass or gold on the other side of this rainbow? Why risk it all without a guarantee?
Chapter 6
Day 19: August—3,966 hours to decide
Question: Do you have sex to reproduce?
Answer: Yes, we are humans like you. We have sex for reproduction, pleasure, and connection.
That night, the doorbell rings, and I race to answer it. Fail. I hear Dad’s voice boom, “Nick. Weren’t you just here?”
“Can’t stay away,” Dominick says, stuffing his hands in both pockets.
“Not trying hard enough,” Dad responds.
I intervene before Dad gets too cocky. “Hey,” I say, stepping between them.
“Hay’s for horses,” Dad says. He pats me on the back a little too hard. A sweet, all-too-familiar smell radiates from his pores.
“We’re going to the movies,” I say and escape out the front door with Dominick before Dad can argue. Dominick still has his hands in his pockets. He’s not looking at me. “Sorry. You know how he is.”
“It’s not that,” he says. “My mom had to work overtime. I have Austin with me in the car.”
“Oh.” I was hoping for some quality talking and making out time.
“I was thinking instead of the movies we could go back to my house? Put Austin to bed and watch a movie there?” His eyes shine with nervousness. Is he afraid of disappointing me, or afraid of disappointing himself?
Eve
n though I’m almost eighteen, my parents have a rule against me going to Dominick’s house for obvious reasons: A) his mom is never home, and B) they think I’m a virgin, which I am, and they want to keep it that way for as long as possible.
After watching Rogers take a cosmic leap, breaking a parent rule seems super trivial.
“Sure, let’s do it.”
His eyes light up, and a wide grin spreads across his face.
“I didn’t mean that. Don’t expect anything.”
“Never,” he says. His dimples say something else.
Dominick's little brother, Austin, pulls my hand and offers to show me around their place. He’s so excited, I don’t remind him that I visited after his father’s funeral.
“This is my room,” Austin says, giving me a tour. Across one wall, a series of shelves hold a collection of Transformers, plastic figurines, airplanes, other vehicles, and video game equipment, all in strict procession. After my years in therapy and reading about psychology, I recognize signs of obsessive compulsive disorder when I see it. No kid’s room should ever be this organized.
“Nice,” I say and point at his Pokémon poster over his bed. “Who’s your favorite?”
“I like Pikachu, of course, but I also like Charizard.” He picks up a stuffed orange dragon with turquoise inner wings and a flaming tail.
“Why do you like him?”
“’Cause he can fly and breathe fire.” He stands on his bed and flies the Pokémon around my head.
“That’s cool,” I say and blink as the toy buzzes repeatedly in my face and whacks my nose. I back away to escape the torture.
“All right, time for bed,” Dominick announces.
“No. I wanna stay up.” Austin jumps off the bed, runs to his desk, and starts coloring an unfinished drawing of a Transformer.
“I’ll tell you what,” Dominick bargains, “if you hop in bed, I’ll let you watch a movie in the dark.”
Austin dives into bed, and Dominick sets up the DVD player. Watching their routine together makes me appreciate the full responsibility Dominick feels for his family. There’s something both cute and sad about it.
I want to help, so I pull up an airplane-patterned sheet over Austin’s legs.
“No, it’s too hot,” he complains and kicks off the sheet.
“Movie’s on,” Dominick intervenes. “If you get out of bed, it goes off. Got it?”
“Got it.” He sits Charizard next to him on his pillow.
“Good. Night, buddy.” Dominick clicks off the lamp.
“Night.”
We step out of the room, and Dominick leaves the door open a crack.
“He’s afraid of the dark. The TV helps. He’ll be asleep in like ten minutes.”
I put my hand on his shoulder. “You’re so good with him.”
“Someone has to be.” He fixes his glasses and changes his tone to a fake kid voice. “Wanna go to my room? I can show you my Pikachu.”
“Gross!” I smile and push his chest.
He laughs and says, “Fine. Living room it is.”
Once there, he kicks off his sneakers and tosses them under the coffee table, so I slip off my flip flops and do the same.
“We can do shirts next,” he offers, lifting his black T-shirt so I see his belt, the top of his shorts, the hair on his navel. So distracting.
I change the subject. “So what did you think of Rogers and the other people volunteering to leave first?”
“I think it’s absurd,” Dominick says, putting his shirt back down. He clicks on the television and channel surfs.
“I know, right?”
“I can’t tell if they’re doing it for the fame or to escape their lives. I understand wanting to go for scientific reasons, but I still think it’s way too early.” He stops on a rerun of The Big Bang Theory and puts the remote on his lap. So distracting.
“You want something to eat? Drink?” he offers.
“Um, sure. Water.”
Once he leaves the room, I put on more lip gloss and glance down the front of my red tank top to check if my cleavage looks even underneath. I shift the underwire of my favorite, lacy, black bra to get the right lift.
What were we talking about? Oh, yeah. “I thought maybe it was an age thing,” I say loud enough for him to hear me.
He returns with water for me and a can of soda for himself.
“What do you mean?”
“Did you notice how they were all older? I looked it up. On the other planet, humans can survive for 250 years.”
“No kidding.” Dominick takes a sip of cola. “That’s a selling point.”
“Yep.” The cold water slips down my throat. I didn’t realize how thirsty I was.
He puts his feet up on the coffee table. “So what do you want to do?”
I smile. “Not what you’re thinking.”
“How do you know what I’m thinking?”
“’Cause I’m psychic. Like on Medium.”
“That show sucked,” he says. “And you’re not a dreamer. You’re a fact finder. Ball buster. You’re definitely still a Scully.”
“Stop it. I am not that cynical.”
“Cynical. Skeptical. Sexy. It’s all the same.” He grins and those dimples reel me in. We kiss and kiss and he climbs on top of me. His hand slides up my tank top, and my stomach muscles tense. I stifle a laugh since it tickles. He feels so good and I want to say yes, but I can’t make a decision with all these unknown decisions ahead of us. Colleges. Vertexes. It’s too much.
“Dominick—”
He must be able to tell by my voice because he stops and lifts off me. “Slowing down,” he whispers.
I feel like such a tease, but he doesn’t realize how much I want him. We started dating in April of junior year. There’s nothing we could do about that. You feel what you feel when you feel it. But it always meant that our relationship came with a huge decision attached. Senior year. College decisions. I don’t want our choices to be dependent on each other. With everything else going on, sex will just make everything harder. No pun intended.
I must look upset because he says, “No worries. I don’t want to do anything you don’t want to do.”
That’s what worries me. I’m afraid to do so many things, but I’m most afraid of holding him back.
Dominick's mom returns dangerously close to my curfew. I get home with seconds to spare and my heart in my throat. Thankfully, the living room is dark, but it’s never that easy. I find Dad in the kitchen making a turkey and cheese sandwich.
“How was the movie?” he asks as he spreads mayonnaise on bread.
“Fine,” I say.
He cuts the sandwich in half the triangle way. “What did you see?”
“That new horror movie. The Macbeth Murders.” I maintain eye contact as long as I can.
“Was it good?”
“Yeah.” I shove a slice of turkey into my mouth from the package on the counter.
“Where’s the movie stub?”
My heartbeat hammers away, and I can feel it pounding in my skull. I stall, chew. I automatically reach into both pockets, pretend to search.
“I dunno. I must’ve lost it.”
“Huh.” He takes a huge bite of his sandwich and chews in loud, wet circles. I can’t tell if he’s bought it. Now I know why Dominick sticks his hands in his pockets; no one can see if they’re shaking. After an awkward minute of the silent treatment, including Dad licking his fingers, wiping his face with a paper towel, and taking a swig of milk, he zeroes in on me, and I can’t look away.
“Glad you enjoyed yourself. Hope not too much.”
My face feels hot. “Yep.”
I escape to my room and lie on my bed. That was close. It’s embarrassing that Dad still treats me like I’m twelve. I’m almost eighteen. If I want t
o have sex with my boyfriend after months of dating and two years of friendship, I will. And my decision will have nothing to do with him and his rules.
But if I want to go to law school someday, I can’t let anything get in my way, not my family, not my anxiety, not my boyfriend. Dominick’s kisses still linger, soft and tempting. I never expected to doubt myself so much in all three areas, nevermind contemplating the future surrounded by holograms and the vertexes.
I wonder if they even have lawyers on their planet. Maybe we’re in for a rude awakening, and we’ll discover that their world works a billion times better than ours. That would be a game changer. I don’t know if we’re evolved enough to adapt. I know I’m not ready to change everything I’ve ever known.
What if we get there and bring all of our old problems? Wouldn’t that ruin their little utopia?
I take a pill so I can sleep.
During the next three days, the first major exodus takes place among the homeless, mentally ill, extremely poor, and the sick of the world. I take notes. According to the news, small lines have formed at vertexes in Michigan, New Jersey, Ohio, Kentucky, Florida, New York, and South Dakota. The suicide rate has dropped since many people have jumped through a vertex instead of off a bridge. According to one report, “experts attribute these changes to a newfound hope in another world with better medical treatments and no need for wealth.” The mentally ill who haven’t left the planet, however, are checking into hospitals at a skyrocketing rate. Some are disappearing through other means. Experts believe those people have gone off the grid—out to unpopulated, wooded areas, bunkers. Their “inability to comprehend the message within the scope of their already intense paranoia” has finally splintered their brains and confirmed their worst fears.
Note to self: keep an eye on Dad. Other than boxes in the basement and more beer cans in the recycling, he’s been okay. The light in his eyes is still on. But at any time, lightning could strike. Or a power outage. You’d think the lightning strikes would be the worst, but no, somehow the power outages hurt even more.
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