Penny turned her desk completely around to face him and when she sat down and smiled, his stomach dropped. For a fleeting moment, he thought he might throw up.
Penny took out a clean sheet of paper and did as instructed. She dotted her i in “Machines” with a perfect round circle.
“I can think of a few already,” she said. Under “Machine,” she wrote “more logical.” “What about you?”
Cash stared at the paper. “Uh,” he said. “Machines are . . . more reliable, I guess?”
Penny shook her head. “I think people are more reliable. Machines break down all the time.”
“Oh.” Cash shrugged. “Yeah. You’re probably right.”
She wrote “more reliable” under “Humans.”
“Humans . . . uh . . . they know what they’re doing. Like, they can look at a situation from all sides. So they don’t make as many mistakes, maybe,” Cash said. “Machines can make mistakes.”
Penny shook her head again. “No. It’s the other way around. Humans make mistakes. Machines never make mistakes.”
“Oh,” Cash said.
She wrote “never make mistakes” under “Machines.”
“So . . .” Cash said as she made another perfect circle over her i. “What’d you do this weekend?”
“I saw a movie with my parents. The Money Pit.”
“Was it good?”
“It was pretty funny, I guess. I wanted to see April Fool’s Day, but my parents wouldn’t let me.” She tapped her pencil against the paper and stared at something above his head, apparently lost in thought. Was she actually trying to focus on this assignment?
“Did Charlie go, too?” Casual, casual.
“Charlie? Oh. No.”
“How long have you been going together, anyway?”
She looked at him and smiled. “We have our two-month anniversary next week.”
Two months.
That was a lot longer than Cash thought.
He wondered if they’d kissed yet.
He had almost kissed Stephanie Browne last year. They’d sat side by side through a whole basketball game, then they walked to the concession stand together. On the way there, they slipped out the side door because Stephanie said the gym was stuffy and smelled like feet. Once they were out of sight, he leaned forward to kiss her, but she suddenly stepped back and said she wanted to go back inside. Her cheeks turned bright, bright red, but he didn’t say anything. To be honest, he was partly relieved. His stomach had been in knots.
But now he was the only one of his friends who hadn’t kissed anyone. Brant had kissed Julianne Whatley the summer before sixth grade, and Kenny had gone with Rachel Hill for three months in seventh. They were passing him in everything, it seemed, and it would get even worse as time pushed on. Next year they’d be in high school, and where would he be? Sitting in a desk at Park Middle School, that’s where.
“He’s kind of a dork, don’t you think?” Cash said.
It came out unexpectedly. Like his brain had lost control of his mouth. He wasn’t even sure he thought Charlie was a dork. Maybe he was. But Cash never expected to say something like that to Penny.
Penny blinked at him. “What do you mean?”
Cash put his arms under his desk. He didn’t want her to get a whiff of the disgusting sweat smell emanating from his cast.
“I’m just saying. He’s a dork. I’m surprised you’re going with him.”
He couldn’t one-up Charlie in anything, but he certainly could drag him down low enough for Penny to see the error of her ways.
All is fair in love and—
“I like him,” Penny said. Her mouth was a tight line. “I don’t care if someone like you thinks he’s a dork or not.”
Someone like you.
What did that mean?
He wasn’t sure what he thought she’d say, but it wasn’t that.
“Whatever,” he said. “I don’t care who you go with, to be honest.” He leaned back in his desk and raised his hand. Time to abort mission by any means necessary. “Ms. Salonga, can I go to the bathroom?”
Ms. Salonga looked up from Craig Baker’s desk, where she was answering questions. “Can you wait until after class? I’d prefer if you finished the assignment.”
“We’re almost done anyway, Ms. Salonga,” said Penny. Her voice was strained. Annoyed.
Ms. Salonga sighed. “Fine. But come right back.”
He didn’t come right back. Once he was in the hallway, he realized how desperate he was to be somewhere else. He hated school. He tried not to use that word often—his mother discouraged it, something about hate being ugly and it was, of course it was—but there was no better word for it. He felt more at home in the empty halls, where he had space to breathe. Out here, roaming free, felt surreal. Like a secret just for him. All the lockers were shut. No squeaking sneakers except for his high-tops.
He moved slowly to the bathroom even though he didn’t need to go. When he got there, he walked in and out with every intention of meandering back to class. But his feet turned in the opposite direction. Where was he going? He had no idea.
He paused near the trophy cases. The basketball team had won a championship the previous year, after he’d been dropped.
Too bad they didn’t give trophies for being able to run across the court without sinking any shots. He would’ve gotten the tallest one.
There were also trophies for spelling bees, academics, and quiz bowls. There were black-and-white photos of kids who placed first in the state science fair. Cash squinted at their faces and wondered what it was like to be someone who willingly participated in academic activities. It was hard to imagine—almost as impossible as his mother on top of a pyramid.
When a door opened down the hall, he acted like he was going to the bathroom again. After walking a few steps in that direction, he realized no one was behind him so he lingered, trying to figure out his next move.
Ah, the water fountain. Good idea. He stepped toward it, still taking his time, and pushed the button. He even leaned down like he was taking big, huge gulps, but actually he was letting the water make its weak arc and fall back into the drain. He never drank from the water fountains unless he had to. It was disgusting. Like swallowing a mouthful of pennies.
Okay. Now what?
He wandered away from the fountain, away from Ms. Salonga’s classroom, away from her imaginary space shuttles and vertical lists. His feet, still working independently from his body, led him to the school’s front entrance.
What if he just walked off?
Just—left?
What if he went across the street and didn’t come back until class was over? It was freezing outside, but he could stand it for twenty minutes or so, right? What if he ran? Anything was better than being in that classroom. He could run around the block a few times, get some fresh air, and hurry back when the bell rang.
“Sorry, Ms. Salonga,” he’d say. “I had a really upset stomach.”
She probably hadn’t even noticed he was gone.
He stared at the door like a prisoner dreaming of freedom. He was at the cusp of making a decision—at least, he thought he was—when he realized that his mom’s car was parked outside, in the circle where they did drop-offs and pickups.
But that didn’t make any sense.
He took a tentative step forward and narrowed his eyes, like he was looking at a mirage.
It was definitely his mom’s car. There was the dent from the time Fitch accidentally rammed his wagon into the bumper years ago, and there was the Strawberry Shortcake sticker Bird had pressed into the back window when she was in first or second grade.
But why was the car here now?
Was there an event today? Was that why his mom was there? He racked his brain. No. It was just an ordinary Monday.
Fitch or Bird must be sick. They’d both looked fine that morning, but who can tell? If it was Fitch, he was probably faking.
Maybe he should get fake-sick, too.
Maybe he was feeling sick right now.
He cradled his stomach, putting on a show with no audience as he made his way to the bathroom yet again. Once inside, he went into a stall, leaned against one of the walls, and stood there. He wanted to sit, but the toilets had no lids.
He would’ve stayed there until he couldn’t stand it any longer, but the door opened about five minutes later and someone said his name.
It was Craig, from Ms. Salonga’s class.
“You in here?” Craig said.
Cash paused. He felt really stupid now, standing inside a locked stall.
“Yeah,” he said.
“Ms. Salonga made me come get you,” said Craig. He seemed embarrassed, too.
“I’m coming.”
“Cool.”
The door closed. Cash sighed. But he had made an executive decision: he would tell Ms. Salonga he was sick. Maybe he had the stomach flu. The stomach was always the perfect culprit. It was hard to fake a sore throat, runny nose, or fever. But a stomachache? A few moans and groans, big deal.
Mom was already here. What difference did it make?
By the time he walked back into the classroom, he had the entire day planned out—junk food on the couch, watch a movie. His dad had rented Rambo over the weekend, and it was still sitting on top of the VCR.
Everyone was putting their desks back in their original positions when the bell rang and Ms. Salonga waved him over. He made sure to walk like someone with severe stomach pains. As soon as he reached her desk, he planned to ask for an office pass, but the words disappeared when she started talking.
“You skipped half the class,” she said.
Maybe she’d been paying attention after all.
Cash didn’t say anything. What could he say? She’d made a statement, not a question.
He formed a series of words in response. I’m not feeling well, Ms. Salonga. I need to . . .
“You haven’t been turning in all your assignments,” Ms. Salonga said. She locked eyes with him and raised her eyebrows. “And your grade is slipping.”
Assignments and grades. That’s all teachers cared about. Seriously. Didn’t they have lives? Were the grades of Cash Nelson Thomas of such importance to her that she just had to get to the bottom of it?
“My grade was already low to begin with, so . . .” He didn’t know how to finish the sentence.
“You have a passing grade, Cash,” she said. “But you’re getting close to a D. And you seem distracted.” She paused. “Is everything okay?”
Students from her next-period class trickled in. Brant’s younger sister, Jessica, and her best friend, who was also named Jessica. He couldn’t remember her last name. Diaz, maybe? She smiled at him. He nodded back, then turned to Ms. Salonga.
“It’s been hard to do homework and stuff with my cast and everything,” Cash said.
His feet itched to run.
“I don’t mean your cast.” She lowered her voice. “Listen. Please know you can always come to me if you need anything.”
Oh god.
This was the most embarrassing moment of his life.
“Okay,” Cash mumbled.
More students were coming in.
As if things couldn’t get worse, Bird was walking through the door. She gave him a quizzical look on her way to her desk.
“That’s all, Cash,” Ms. Salonga said.
He beelined for the door.
IF BROTHERS WERE MACHINES
Bird and Cash had nothing in common. He was a mystery to her. They came from the same parents and lived in the same house, but he was a puzzle. She could put the pieces together but didn’t understand the picture. If he were a machine, he would be something simple with unreliable output, like a dot-matrix printer that always ran out of ink.
If Fitch were a machine, he’d be something hot that sparks.
“Bird, did you hear about your brother?” Jessica Brantley, aka JB, stage-whispered as they all settled into their desks for science.
Dani, Devonte, and other kids wandered in.
Bird glanced toward Ms. Salonga, who was greeting the third-period class.
“Who? Cash?” Bird asked, glancing toward the door that her brother had just exited.
Jessica Diaz picked up the conversational baton.
“He totally lost it this morning,” she said. “He went ballistic on Amanda Piper in front of everyone. He called her a cow or something. I heard they had to call the police.”
Fitch.
“They didn’t call the police,” said Dani, rolling her eyes as she unzipped her backpack. “They just sent him to the principal’s office.”
Devonte turned around. “Who went to the principal’s office?”
“Bird’s brother, Fitch,” JB said, flipping her blond hair. “He went crazy in class. This class. Ms. Salonga. First period.”
“But . . . why?” Bird said.
“Who cares?” Jessica Diaz said. “No one deserves to be called a fat cow in front of the whole school.”
“I heard she called him a name first,” Other Jessica said.
“What did she call him?” Bird asked.
The Jessicas shrugged.
Bird had more questions—about a hundred more—but the tardy bell ended their conversation. Ms. Salonga launched directly into the lesson without missing a beat. Bird studied her face for any hint of something terrible happening just two hours earlier, but she looked like her usual self.
“The Challenger mission at the end of this month is possible because of the extraordinary abilities of humans and machines,” Ms. Salonga said. “Obviously, we build machines to accomplish things that we can’t, or to make a process more efficient. There is a lot of discourse over whether this will be to our detriment or not. That’s a conversation that’s been happening since the Industrial Age. . . . Yes, Christopher?”
“What’s discourse?”
Ms. Salonga pulled the dictionary from her bookshelf and continued talking. “Without humans advancing technology, things like telephones, VCRs, and stereos wouldn’t be possible. Certainly, we wouldn’t be able to launch a shuttle into space!” She placed the dictionary on Christopher’s desk. “But just as there are things that humans can’t do, there are many ways in which machines fall short. This will be our focus for the first half of the period. I want you to get together with your pair partner and come up with two lists.”
Desks were already being moved, including Devonte’s.
“I want you to divide your paper vertically down the middle,” Ms. Salonga said. “On one side, I want you to—yes, Jessica?”
“Is vertical across or up and down?” Jessica Diaz asked.
“Up and down,” continued Ms. Salonga. “On one side I want you to write ‘Humans,’ and on the other, write ‘Machines.’ Then you and your partner will discuss ways in which one is better, or worse, than the other. Kind of like a pros and cons list.”
When Devonte and Bird were facing each other, Devonte leaned forward and said, “Sorry about your brother, Bird.”
She didn’t feel like smiling, but she did anyway.
“I’m sure there’s an explanation,” she said, though she wasn’t sure at all.
She thought about Amanda Piper. Amanda was tall and awkward and didn’t have many friends. Some of the kids called her names. Including Fitch, apparently. Bird had never spoken to her, but she seemed nice. She certainly didn’t seem like someone who deserved to be called a fat cow.
Then again, who did?
Bird waited until everyone else had turned in their assignments before she approached Ms. Salonga’s desk with the list she’d completed with Devonte.
“Ms. Salonga,” Bird said, quietly. “Can I ask you something?”
“About the assignment or something else?” Ms. Salonga said.
“Um. Something else.”
Ms. Salonga brought Bird into the hall. It was strange to stand on the other side of the door, alone with a teacher in gaping silence. The class watched w
ith curious eyes, as they always did when someone was singled out for something mysterious, like a private hallway conference with the teacher.
“Is everything okay?” Ms. Salonga asked. She was wearing one of her banana clips today, and her lips were pink. Bird imagined Ms. Salonga teaching her how to use a banana clip and put on makeup. It was a sudden, strange thought.
A four-foot cardboard cutout of the space shuttle was on the wall between Ms. Salonga’s door and the lockers. Bird absently pressed a wayward square of tape with her index finger.
“Someone said something about my brother . . .” Bird began. “About your class.”
Ms. Salonga nodded. She didn’t seem surprised.
“Fitch, I mean,” said Bird. “I heard he yelled at someone . . . I don’t know. And they had to call the police.”
“The police!” Ms. Salonga shook her head. “No one called the police. Your brother was sent to the office this morning after an outburst. That’s all.”
“Oh.” Bird nodded. She moved onto another square of tape.
“Is everything okay, Bird?” Ms. Salonga said. “At home, I mean? Or in general?”
“Yeah. I just wanted to make sure Fitch was okay. And . . . you know, whoever else was involved.” Bird thought of Amanda.
Ms. Salonga inhaled. “And what about you? How are you?”
Bird shrugged with one shoulder. “I’m fine. I’m worried about my brothers. Not just Fitch, but Cash, too. I don’t want him to fail seventh grade again, and I—”
“I understand all that, Bird,” Ms. Salonga said, gently. “But I asked about you. How are you?”
“Oh.” Bird dropped her hand from the wall. “I’m fine.”
She didn’t feel like smiling.
But she did.
We Dream of Space Page 8
