Meet Me in Outer Space

by Melinda Grace

  Crap.

  “That’s right, you have that class—” CJ snapped her fingers as she tried to think of the name.

  “Global Trade Dynamics.” I sighed, the undue anxiety from Galloway’s office creeping back into the pit of my stomach, overpowering the urge to crawl under the table to avoid talking about Paris in front of Cody.

  Serena pointed at me. “That’s the one.”

  “Yeah. I mean, Paris aside, I feel like I should know at least a little French if I’m going to stand a chance in the fashion industry.”

  “What did you say you had, like, three meet and greets with some major people, right?” Terrance asked.

  “Three for everyone, but we’ll all be attending a convention where we can go off on our own and there will be wholesalers, garment manufacturers, and a bunch of retailers.” I sighed. “I want to work somewhere in between the manufacturer and the retailer. I need to be able to communicate with both.” I struggled to maintain a conversation when the dining hall was crowded; how was I supposed to pay attention in an entire convention center full of people speaking in all sorts of accents and languages?

  “Okay, so let us help you. What should we do? Help you study? Yell at the professor? Enlist the help of the TA with the Eyes?” Serena said, looking to our friends.

  “Seriously, Edie,” Cody said, glancing toward Serena, clearly unamused with her nickname for Hudson. “If you need the help, just say so.”

  “Thank you, but no. I’ll just—I don’t know. I’ll figure it out,” I said, the thought of being alone with Cody again tightening my stomach. The last time we’d been alone there was yelling and storming out and a slew of unfriendly text messages. The fact that we were both sitting at the same table was progress.

  “Let me help you figure it out,” Serena said, popping the last bite of pizza into her mouth. “We can tight tea forever.”

  Tight tea forever. I gave it a second to settle in. Fight this together, maybe? That was something Serena would say.

  “I appreciate you jumping in to help—all of you—but just let me try this on my own first, okay? If I don’t get anywhere, then I’ll enlist your help,” I said. “I’ll let you yell at whoever you want.”

  4

  How About the 5th of Never?

  “Can I help you?” asked the woman not much older than me seated at the front desk of the tutoring center.

  “Yeah, um,” I stumbled over my words as I played with the bottom button of my chambray oxford. “I’m looking for a tutor … I mean … I am in need of a tutor.” I rested my arms on the counter that separated us.

  “What subject?” she asked, her eyes going from me to her desktop computer; her fingers rested lightly on the keyboard. She had great nails. A fresh manicure for sure. The blush color was perfect for her skin tone.

  “French,” I said. “Also, if I could have access to copied notes, that would be awesome,” I added as I looked around the tutoring center nervously. There were two students huddled over a textbook to the left, whispering animatedly. A guy playing online Scrabble, the only person at a bank of five computers. A person reading the paper, face obscured by the pages, but legs crossed ankle to knee. Another guy seated with his back to us, alone at a large circular table, his head bowed.

  “And your name, please?” she asked.

  “Edie, Edie Kits,” I said, stumbling over my own name, caught off guard because my mind had wandered.

  “Which French?” she asked.

  “Um, 102,” I stumbled again. “Please.” I lifted my index finger to my mouth, my nail touching my teeth before I scolded myself.

  The woman tapped on the keyboard, then looked over her shoulder and into the large room behind her. “You’re in luck,” she said, swiveling her chair away from me and toward the room. Her words and smile said I was lucky, but her tone said otherwise. “Usually I’m the languages tutor, but I’ve been promoted to secretary.” She rolled her eyes, using air quotes around promoted, trying to make a joke. I was too nervous for jokes. “We happen to have a French tutor available right now.” She pointed to the person with his back to us as she bit at her bottom lip.

  “That’s great,” I said with zero confidence. “Thank you.”

  I watched as she walked toward him. I guess shouting across the tutoring center was a no-no. I would have to remember that since shouting was one of my calling cards.

  She had a great style. Charcoal ankle boots, black-patterned tights under ripped jeans, and an off-the-shoulder buttermilk-colored loose-knit sweater. She tapped the guy on the shoulder, a broad smile on her face as her fingers lingered on him. He lifted his head in response. A head I recognized. A head with a maroon beanie and short brown hair peeking out at the nape of his neck.

  “This is—”

  “Yeah, we’ve met,” I interrupted as I brought my index finger to my mouth again, but pulled it away just as quickly.

  “Makenna, would it be possible for Edie and me to use the testing room?” he asked. “Edie has a hearing thing that hinders her concentration.”

  What. The. Hell. Would I forever be the girl with the hearing thing? Why would Hudson describe me like that to her? Makenna. A person I didn’t even know. And why was he doing it in the middle of the tutoring center, where anyone and everyone could hear? And hinders? Who even uses that word?

  “I don’t think that’s necessary, Makenna,” I said, holding my hand up to her, my eyes on Hudson. “I don’t have a hearing problem. This is plenty quiet for me.” I knew I was starting to get loud and I needed to check myself. Dial down the defensive tone in my voice, too.

  The entire vibe had changed, and not for the better.

  Makenna hesitated. “Of course you can use the testing room.” She looked as though she’d stepped into a puddle of mud. If she could have tiptoed away, she might have.

  I probably should have thanked her for her help, but instead I stood there dumbfounded as she made her way back to her desk to assist a student who had been waiting.

  “So, when do you want to start?” Hudson asked. He took a step away from me and toward the table at which he’d been seated.

  I opened my mouth to speak, but nothing came out. He had said he would tutor me, but seeing him in the room didn’t compute. I never told him I wanted him as a tutor.

  “We can compare schedules,” he said, walking backward. “Have my people call your people.” He scrunched his nose in what would have normally been an absolutely adorable way.

  “I don’t think this is going to work,” I blurted, gaining the attention of pretty much everyone. I was absolutely the loudest thing in the room.

  “What? Compare schedules?” he asked in a forced whisper as he picked up his planner.

  I closed my eyes and ran both hands down my face with complete disregard for my makeup and hair. When I opened my eyes, Hudson was standing in front of me.

  “Can you just walk over to the table, please? Literally everyone is staring right now,” he said. His eyes were on mine, but then shifted quickly to the left and the right. Not embarrassed, just observational.

  I didn’t have the courage to look around the room to verify that literally everyone was staring at me. I nodded as I followed him to the table.

  “I can do next week.” He flipped a page in his planner. “Wednesday at seven?” he asked as he looked at the book.

  “Sure,” I muttered.

  “Aren’t you going to check your schedule?”

  “No,” I said as I looked him in the eyes, finally regaining my emotional balance. This wasn’t going to work. There had to be some sort of conflict of interest in here somewhere. Between him telling the secretary that I had a hearing problem and the fact that I still felt like he was only doing this because he felt sorry for me, there didn’t seem to be a place for us to meet in the middle.

  CJ had urged me to give him a chance, and in all honesty, I wanted to, but we weren’t off to a great start.

  “No because you know you’re free and don’t nee
d to check it, or no because you aren’t going to schedule a time with me?” A small smile started at the corner of his mouth. I knew he said that last part to be funny, but the real funny part was that it wasn’t actually funny at all.

  “Both.”

  5

  Roger That, Over and Out

  “So then I said no because it wasn’t going to work, and he just stood there like okay,” I said as my mom cleared the dinner table after our bimonthly dinner.

  “What does that mean?” she asked, her tone as clipped as mine.

  “It means that there is no way this kid is going to tutor me. First impressions mean a lot, Mom, and this was not a great one,” I said, recalling my real first impression of Hudson, which had taken place on the first day of French 102, when I couldn’t keep my eyes off him the entire class period.

  “I’m not sure I understand what you’re going for here, Edie. Of all people, you should be the last person to judge someone based on a first impression. You hate it when people judge you because of the way you dress and the way you do your hair and all that.”

  She looked frazzled, her dress pants and silk blouse wrinkled from a day of sitting behind a desk. Her almond-colored hair was frizzy, like mine, from the drizzle that had been falling all day. My mother’s face was longer than mine, oval with high cheekbones. I looked more like my father, who had a heart-shaped face, round cheeks, and a subtle chin.

  She wasn’t wrong. First impressions were what always got me teased. I hated it, and now I was doing it to someone else.

  “But I didn’t even tell you the worst part,” I said, resting my arms on the table and then my chin on my arm. “He told the secretary that I have a hearing problem and that I need a special room to study in.”

  “Maybe he wanted to give her a heads-up that you weren’t a typical student. Who knows?” she said, defending someone she didn’t even know.

  That was so my mother. She was always defending someone or something. It was what she was born to do. She was a stay-at-home mom as my brother and I grew up, and when the school discovered I was having a hard time learning, she became a parent advocate, too. Not only did she sit in on every single one of my meetings to ensure I got everything I needed, but she also volunteered to sit in on other people’s meetings to make sure their child got everything they needed. She was perceived as a bit of a beast by my teachers, but she didn’t care how the school viewed her.

  “Mom, you don’t even know him. And plus, shouldn’t he be tutoring me like I’m a typical student? Why can’t I just be a student who needs help? I didn’t have to tell anyone any of this last year, and now all of a sudden everyone and their brother needs to know.”

  “Because you aren’t just a student who needs help. What you need is different from what other people need, and the only way to get that help is to let the person helping you know. Just let him try to help you in a different way. It sounds like he was just trying to be conscientious.” She pointed the mashed potato spoon at me with a smile. “And besides, even if you hadn’t told him about your CAPD, he would still have to try to tutor you in a way that worked for you. So, in essence, you’ve saved yourself and him a lot of time trying to figure out what works and what doesn’t.”

  “But that’s not fair,” I whined, sinking my head into the crook of my arm, the tip of my nose touching the table. “I just want to be like everyone else.”

  “But you’re not and you don’t, not really. We’re not having this conversation again, Edie.”

  She was right; I didn’t really want to be like everyone else. I truly wanted to be me and that me was not ashamed of my disability. That me was going to fight for what I needed to be successful. That me might end up punching Wesley Hudson, though.

  “You need to pass this French course, and you need help to do it. Be thankful you did okay last year and didn’t need to go through all this trouble. But you need the help now, and you’re going to get it. Accept that and move forward.” She walked out of the dining room and into the kitchen. She banged around a few pots for emphasis before coming back into the dining room.

  “Every time you get frustrated with this tutor, just remind yourself that it’s all for Paris.”

  I sighed. She was right; it was all for Paris. It was also for a general education requirement, but there was a bigger picture. There was more at stake than checking a box.

  Paris. Paris. Paris. My new mantra.

  “What about the spy kit?” she asked. I pulled my head out of my arms. “It could work. The professor did tell you to come back with a better plan.”

  “I don’t know. I mean, would it even still fit my ear? I haven’t touched it in years.” I wasn’t entirely against the idea, but memories of middle school filled my head quickly and I didn’t think I could go through that again.

  The spy kit was an FM transmitter I used to wear in school, from first grade through seventh grade. It was two pieces. A microphone that hung on a lanyard around the teacher’s neck and an earpiece that went into my ear. It allowed the teacher to talk directly to me, minimizing as many distractors as possible. I’d stopped wearing it because the other kids relentlessly teased me. Because wearing it made me different, and at the time there was nothing more I wanted than to be the same as everyone else. Even though nowadays there was nothing more I wanted than to be exactly who I am, I couldn’t help but worry about history repeating itself.

  “It’s worth trying,” she said as she headed toward the designated junk drawer in the oversized mahogany credenza we never used. “I imagine we could buy a different earpiece if we needed to.”

  I watched her rummage through the drawer. The transmitter was a good idea, but I wasn’t feeling overly confident about it. Dr. Clément had already denied my request to record his lectures, despite having explained my situation to him. What if he said no to this, too?

  “Aha!” My mom turned around, holding the earpiece in one hand and dangling the transmitter in the other.

  “Oh my God,” I said, laughing at the look on her face and the state in which she’d found the device’s lanyard. “I’m pretty sure that thing had a fancy case to it. Where the heck is it?”

  “Hell if I know.” She dropped the pieces on the table and turned back to the drawer, rummaging again.

  “You never should have let me get the microphone and earpiece in pink. No wonder I got picked on so much.” I smiled as I attempted to untangle the microphone strap.

  My mom sighed as she lowered herself into the chair next to me. She opened her hand, dropping two AAA batteries and a watch battery onto the table. The small battery rolled on its side before falling close to my pinkie.

  “What?” I asked, catching her eyes as she bit at the dry skin on her bottom lip. I scooped up the batteries and began clicking them into place.

  “Nothing.” She waved at me dismissively with one hand while the other traced the orange and white paisley pattern on the tablecloth.

  “Yeah, okay.” I knew she was lying. I laid my hand on hers, stopping the tracing.

  My mom was a busy-hands kind of person. If she was feeling even the slightest bit uncomfortable, her fingers would pick at nonexistent lint or trace designs on tablecloths or run through her hair. Or fiddle with my hair.

  “I just don’t like to talk about how you used to get bullied,” she said, swatting my hand away from hers.

  “First of all, I wasn’t bullied, I was teased—there’s a difference—and second of all, it made me a stronger person, so whatever. What doesn’t kill you and all that…”

  “Oh, is that why you almost failed the eighth grade?” She narrowed her eyes.

  Eighth grade, the worst year of my life. The year I stopped growing up and started growing out. The year I grew a butt and boobs. The year I decided to take back control over my life by putting my foot down about the FM transmitter.

  “I didn’t almost fail eighth grade. And besides, I needed to learn how to learn without this.” I dismissed her words, holding up the piec
es. I’d spent most of the first two marking periods of eighth grade staying up half the night trying to memorize the Hebrew of the haftarah for my bat mitzvah.

  I pushed aside my other work to concentrate on that. At the time, I was more concerned about letting Mrs. Leventhal down than I was about letting down my teachers at school. My teachers in eighth grade saw me as a hassle; Mrs. Leventhal was kind and caring and patient. She raised the bar, knowing it would be hard for me, and her. She challenged me, and that had made me want to put in the work to accomplish something the school district told me I’d never be able to do—hence the language exemption.

  So yes, I had almost failed eighth grade. I’d barely made it through, but I didn’t sink. I swam. It may have been a doggie paddle, but I didn’t drown. My mom didn’t know that the pressure of getting my haftarah perfect for my bat mitzvah was almost too much for me to handle, and she never would. But the truth was I focused so much on that, on learning to read Hebrew, because part of me wanted to prove I could. After years of feeling like I couldn’t, all I wanted to do was achieve.

  “No, you didn’t need to learn how to learn without this. That was the whole point of having this stuff. Because you needed it. Because it helped you.”

  She ran her hand down my arm, smoothing the fuzz of my ivory cardigan.

  “I know, I know. It leveled the playing field. I understood it then and I still get it now,” I reassured her as I moved my hair to one side and fumbled with the earpiece to fit it against my now adult-sized ear.

  “Does it fit?” she asked.

  I placed the device snugly around my ear, adjusting it before letting go.

  “Yup,” I said, revealing it game-show-host style. I flipped my hair back into place, covering the earpiece behind a curtain of waves.

  “Hand me that.” She pointed at the microphone.

  I handed her the untangled transmitter and watched as she walked out of the kitchen and into the foyer.

  I listened for that familiar click the earpiece picked up when the transmitter was turned on. No click yet, but I could hear the heat blowing from the floor register. The hum of the refrigerator. The ice falling into the tray. A car driving by. The dog barking two houses down.