“Oh, so now I’m a bad parent!”
At some point during their arguments, if they went on long enough, one of them would accuse the other of being a bad parent. That’s when the fights—or “disagreements,” as their parents called them—would get really ugly. They never hit each other. Instead they knocked things around the house. He might throw her book across the room and she might kick the kitchen chair until it broke, for example.
Bird wasn’t in the mood for broken chairs and tossed books.
Cash and Fitch had disappeared into their rooms back when the argument was a slow simmer, and she couldn’t blame them. She would have done the same thing, if she hadn’t already been in hers. Once their kids were out of sight, Mr. and Mrs. Thomas morphed into their own separate machine. One that shot sparks and burned skin.
Someone needed to stick a screwdriver in the spokes.
Bird took a deep breath and turned the knob.
But someone else beat her to it.
Fitch. His door flew open with such force that it shook hers.
“WHY DID YOU EVEN [EXPLETIVE] GET MARRIED?” he yelled.
Bird’s heart stopped beating.
The refrigerator door swung open and slammed shut. All the jars rattled. Fitch went back to his room. SLAM! One second later he turned on his radio. The volume went up, up, up. “Walking on the Moon” by the Police.
Bird sat down, right where she was standing, still facing her door.
She wondered what her parents were doing. She couldn’t hear them anymore.
All she heard was the music.
My feet don’t hardly make no sound
Walking on, walking on the moon.
Sunday, January 5, 1986
TOMORROW
Cash kept dreaming about his arm. He dreamed he was a rock climber. He dreamed he played the drums. He dreamed he shot hoops. In his dreams, he did all this with one hand.
On Sunday night, when the house was still and quiet, he woke up thinking he was on the court with the Sixers and the Rockets, but he was just in his bed with an aching arm. It itched and he had to use a wire hanger to reach inside the cast and scratch.
He didn’t want to do anything but lie around. He hadn’t left the house all weekend. He’d even missed school again Friday, and Fitch had forgotten to pick up some of his assignments. It didn’t matter, though. He was already way behind and now he’d probably flunk all over again. When he thought about being a grade behind his two younger siblings, it made a knot in his stomach that got tighter and tighter until he didn’t want to move.
Tomorrow he’d have to go back to school. There was no way around it.
Dr. J was poised to take a shot from the poster on the door. The Sixers had lost to Houston on Saturday night by fifteen points. It was disappointing, but you win some, you lose some. That’s what Cash’s dad always said. He only said it when something was being lost.
Cash had Monday all planned out in his head.
What did Ms. Salonga call it?
Best-laid plans.
Yes, that was it.
He had his best-laid plans.
They all centered around Penny.
They went like this:
1. Get signatures on his cast.
2. Get good signatures only. Brant and Kenny were solid. And his locker was near Rachel Hill, so he’d ask her, too. And maybe some of her friends. He wanted a mix of boys and girls.
3. Once the signatures were in place, take his seat in Ms. Salonga’s class, all casual, and wait for Penny.
4. Don’t look too anxious. Act like it’s any other Monday. If he was lucky, Penny would notice the cast right away and ask what happened. In which case:
5. Offer the marker to Penny and ask her to sign his cast. As she’s signing (and noticing the popular names on his cast), that’s when he would—
6. Talk to her. Like, a real conversation.
It was a good plan.
“Tomorrow, Dr. J,” Cash said, to the poster. “You have my word.”
Monday, January 6, 1986
HEY, HENRY
When Fitch was four years old, he threw a tantrum in Toys R Us. Bird blinked up at their mother and said, “He is really fitching a pit!” And it made everyone laugh, including him. They called him “Fitch” from that point on, just like they called Bernadette “Bird” because he couldn’t pronounce her name when they were little. He and Bird were twins, and they had named each other, for better or worse.
But Amanda kept calling him “Henry.”
When he walked into Ms. Salonga’s class on Monday morning: “Hey, Henry.”
When Ms. Salonga told them to open their science books to page one-twenty: “What page did she say, Henry?”
When the bell rang: “What’d you do this weekend, Henry?”
“No one calls me that,” Fitch finally said, jaw twitching, as they gathered their books. He’d answered all her questions as politely as he could, but if she called him Henry one more time, he wasn’t sure what would happen.
“I know,” said Amanda. She smiled. “I just like calling you Henry.”
Vern stifled laughter as he navigated his Trapper Keeper into his backpack. Then he opened his mouth.
“Do you have any nicknames, Amanda?” Vern asked.
Amanda raised her eyebrows. “Me? Oh. Sometimes my dad calls me Mandy.”
Vern swatted Fitch’s arm. “Mandy and Henry,” he said. “It almost rhymes.”
A PERFECT SPOT FOR PENNY
By the time Ms. Salonga’s third-period class rolled around, Cash had signatures from most of the social elite of Park Middle School. He’d had to answer the same question again and again—What happened? What happened?—and sometimes it hurt when he moved his arm a certain way so someone could sign a particular spot, but it was worth it. He had plenty of signatures, and there was still a perfectly placed spot for Penny. He could not have planned it better.
She walked in on cue. He made eye contact, but not too much. He smiled, but not too much. He scratched the tip of his nose the moment he knew her eyes were on him so she’d get full view of his injury.
She gasped as she slung her backpack off her shoulder. “What happened?”
Cash shrugged. Act casual. “I fell and broke my wrist.”
“Did it hurt?”
“Nah.” That was a lie—it still hurt, now and then—but he couldn’t really admit that, could he?
Penny situated her books. He waited for his plan to unfold, but the seconds inched by and nothing happened. Class would start soon. He needed to do something before she turned her full attention to Ms. Salonga.
“Do you wanna sign it?” he blurted out. He held up his marker, dropped it, picked it up. “My cast, I mean.”
“Oh. Sure!” Penny smiled. The freckles on her nose crinkled.
Cash’s belly flipped.
Their fingers touched when she took the marker from him.
His skin tingled.
He leaned forward to bring the cast closer to her and she reached over the back of her chair to write. The smell of fresh marker drifted in the air.
“The worst part is, I can’t take notes,” he said.
Penny didn’t look up. “Did you have Ms. Salonga last year? Maybe you can use your old notes.”
Cash cleared his throat. His neck warmed.
“Oh,” he said. “No, I had Mr. Duncan.”
“Just a thought.” She snapped the cap back on and said, “Voilá!”
Cash looked down. He saw her signature right away, exactly where he’d wanted it. Loopy. A single “i” dotted with a heart. It was upside down from his vantage point, but yes, there it was:
Penny L/S Charlie
Cash wasn’t fluent in romantic middle school shorthand, but he knew what L/S meant. Penny Loves Charlie.
Penny Loves Charlie, right there on his arm.
“Charlie who?” Cash asked, hoping his voice wasn’t laced with disappointment or—even worse—jealousy.
“Charlie Go
wan,” she said, matter-of-fact. “He’s in eighth grade. Do you know him?”
Charlie Gowan. Charlie Gowan. Charlie Gowan. A face came into view. Brown hair. Honors student. They’d never had any classes together, of course. Charlie Gowan was a smart kid and he . . . well, he was Cash Nelson Thomas, the boy who failed seventh grade.
“Yeah,” Cash said. “I think so.”
The tardy bell rang. Penny turned around. The smell of her shampoo wafted up Cash’s nose.
He sat back.
Maybe you can use your old notes.
She knew he’d flunked. Of course she knew. What other kid at Park Middle School was in the same grade as his younger brother and sister?
And now she loved Charlie Gowan.
Would Charlie have saved space on his cast for her?
Cash averted his eyes from Penny’s hair. He wouldn’t look. If she wanted to go around with some honors student, so be it. What did he care? He had laughed it up with Rachel Hill just that morning in the hall, and she was the most popular girl in school. He didn’t need Penny and her stupid honors boyfriend.
If she liked smart guys, that was her business.
School was stupid anyway. Ms. Salonga had them on imaginary crews going to space. For what purpose? None of them were ever going to space. What was the point?
He cradled his arm closer as Ms. Salonga wrote “Halley’s Comet” on the chalkboard.
Seriously.
What was the point of any of it?
OPTICAL ILLUSION
Stars were always moving, Ms. Salonga said. Constellations were an optical illusion, in a way. They seemed to stay the same, but really, each star was moving at high speed. Some were careening toward each other. Some were shooting in opposite directions.
“The only reason we can’t tell is because we’re so far away,” Ms. Salonga said. “But in fifty thousand years, the Big Dipper will look very different.”
There were other illusions, too, according to Ms. Salonga. Some of the light in the night sky didn’t even exist.
“Light takes time to travel long distances,” she said. “By the time it gets to us, it may not even be there anymore. And speaking of long distances . . . ”
She erased the vocabulary words she’d written on the board at the beginning of the period and replaced them with “Halley’s Comet.” She tossed the chalk from hand to hand, which she often did when she was excited about a particular topic. Space was worthy of a lot of chalk tossing, Bird noticed. It was contagious, too. Bird found herself tapping the eraser of her pencil on her notebook.
Ms. Salonga scanned the classroom.
“As you know, one of the missions of the Challenger expedition is to observe Halley’s Comet.” She paused. “Devonte, can you tell us what comets are made of?”
When Devonte didn’t answer right away, Bird whispered “ice” as quietly as she could, and without moving her mouth. Like a ventriloquist.
“Ice!” Devonte said. “And”—he raised a ceremonious index finger—“dust particles.”
Ms. Salonga nodded proudly. “Very good, Mr. Harris.”
When Ms. Salonga walked toward her desk to pick up a stack of handouts, Devonte threw a thumbs-up in Bird’s direction.
“I want all of you to learn the names of your counterparts on the Challenger,” Ms. Salonga was saying, her photocopies now in the crook of her arm. “Names and titles of everyone on board. And I want to know what you’ll be doing, individually, to contribute to your missions. Use the remainder of the class to discuss this with your flight crew.”
The students immediately got out of their desks and, in a chorus of scrapes and chatter, moved into semicircles with their fellow astronauts as Ms. Salonga gave each of them a handout.
Bird studied her photocopy as soon as she was seated with the rest of Bright Star One. “The Challenger Crew,” it said across the top. There was a black-and-white photo of each astronaut. They were smiling, wearing identical flight suits, and holding helmets. There were only two female astronauts—the teacher, Christa McAuliffe, who was listed as a “payload specialist,” and Judith Resnik, a mission specialist.
Bird studied Judith Resnik, mission specialist. She had curly brown hair, brown eyes, freckles, and dimples. Bird also had those things. She’d never considered their similarities before. The line between Judith Resnik’s face and Bird’s face blurred until Bird saw herself sitting there in a jumpsuit, holding an astronaut’s helmet.
She was lost in this image when Devonte snapped her out of it. Literally.
Snap, snap. “Earth to Bird,” he said.
The crew of Bright Star One stared at her from their circle.
“You zoned out,” Devonte said.
“Sorry.” Bird shifted in her seat. “I was just thinking about Judith Resnik.”
“Who’s Judith Resnik?” Christopher asked.
“One of the mission specialists,” Bird said.
“What about her?” Devonte asked.
“I was thinking about how much we look alike,” said Bird. She held up the photocopy. The astronauts smiled from the paper. “Don’t you think?”
The crew studied the photo.
“I guess,” said Jessica Diaz. “But she’s pretty.”
The words came out casually. But she’s pretty. Bird heard it again. But she’s pretty. That word—“but.” What did that mean?
“I mean, it’s not that you’re not pretty, Bird,” said Jessica, quickly. “Just . . . well.” She looked at everyone else in the circle. “Being pretty really isn’t your thing.” She shrugged, as if this concluded the whole conversation.
Not her thing?
“Being smart is your thing,” Jessica explained.
An awkward cloud of tension floated over them and hovered there until Ms. Salonga started speaking again.
“This is how the astronauts will be seated when they board the shuttle for takeoff,” Ms. Salonga said, drawing circles on the board. “Astronauts Scobee and Smith are in seats one and two, on the flight deck, with Onizuka and Resnik behind them. The remaining seats are on middeck. That’s where McAuliffe, McNair, and Jarvis will be. Everyone in this room should know those names.” She raised her eyebrows, as if to say: right? Collective and tentative nods moved through the room. “The seating arrangement will be slightly modified when they come back for landing. But for now, I want you to arrange your desks according to this seating chart, with all of you facing the board.”
Bird stood quickly. Jessica’s words were still there, drifting and buzzing, even if no one could hear them anymore but her.
“I’m a payload specialist,” JB whispered. Bird couldn’t tell if she was talking to her or someone else. “Which seat is for the payload specialist?”
Bird knew the answer, of course. The payload specialists sat on middeck. But she didn’t want to answer. She wasn’t sure if she wanted “smart” to be her thing just now.
Once everyone took their seats, Ms. Salonga weaved through the desks to make sure they’d arranged themselves correctly. The class was silent in their unfamiliar, staggered rows.
“Now,” Ms. Salonga said, walking from the back of the room to the front. “I want all of you to close your eyes.”
Bird did.
Moments passed.
“I’m serious, Marcus—close your eyes,” said Ms. Salonga.
Kids snickered. Not Bird.
“Okay,” Ms. Salonga continued. “Now I want you to imagine that you’re not in your desk at all. You’re not in Delaware. You’re in Houston, Texas. You’re strapped tight to your chair, on your back, pointed to the sky. You’ve got your helmet on. What do you hear?”
Someone made an obscene sound. More snickers.
Bird had her eyes closed tight, so she couldn’t see if Ms. Salonga reacted. If so, she didn’t say anything aloud. Instead she went on: “Think about it. What do you hear?”
Bird heard the crackle through her nonexistent headset. Mission control, mixed with Ms. Salonga’s voice. Perhaps Ms.
Salonga was working in Houston, like all those men in their button-up shirts and ties, except she’s wearing her teacher clothes—her long skirt and blouse, with her dark hair in a banana clip—and she is leaning over a switchboard, saying “Houston to Challenger. Do you copy, Mission Specialist Thomas?”
Yes, said Bird. I copy.
“The first thing you have to do is complete your series of preflight checks,” Ms. Salonga said. “Once all your preflight checks are complete, you’ll have to—eyes closed, Jessica Diaz—wait for the crew to finish final rocket preparations. Your heart is pounding in your ears. There’s something you keep wondering about—stop that, Christopher, I see what you’re doing—and what you wonder is: What will it look like up there? What will it feel like?”
Preflight check is complete.
Final rocket preparations complete.
Bird clutched her hands on the side of her seat.
She knew what it would look like. From up there, Earth would look like a bright blue ball, glowing in the darkness just for her.
She knew what it would feel like, too. In the summers she and her brothers sometimes went to the community pool. She would go underwater and stay there for as long as she could. It was like she was suspended midway in the universe—not exactly standing on two feet, not exactly floating in midair. That’s what space would feel like.
The headset crackled.
“All systems are go,” Ms. Salonga said. “The engines are powered.”
The floor rumbled underneath Bird, as if a giant beast was waking up. Engine systems, pressurized. The shuttle thumped and bumped with the opening and closing of valves. The rumble grew from the floor to the chair to the backs of Bird’s thighs. The world shook, shook, shook—so hard Bird felt it in every bone in her body.
“As the shuttle gears up for launch, the force of gravity against your body increases,” Ms. Salonga said. “This is called the ‘g-load.’ There’s a big push forward, and the g-load builds. Suddenly you’re in the air.”
We Dream of Space Page 4
