It bewildered Cash how his dad could go from an angry tirade to a calm discussion about basketball in the space of a few minutes, but here he was, talking about Charles Barkley while Cash responded at all the right moments, agreeing here and nodding there. Normally he would be invested in the conversation, but his mental energy was currently focused on making lists.
He’d fallen asleep last night thinking about the one hundred days left of middle school and the long summer months, followed by another year at Park. Maybe if he had something going on in his life, like basketball or girls, the days wouldn’t feel like endless hours of torture. That was his thought as he fell asleep. When he woke up, he realized something: the reason he didn’t have anything going on was because he wasn’t good at anything.
Ms. Salonga always told them that everyone was good at something. And he’d heard it before, from other teachers. He never thought much about it. But now, at this moment, it was all he could think about.
So far this was the only thing he could come up with:
Bird is good at school.
Fitch is good at arcade games.
I am good at nothing.
He would have settled for being good at anything. Anything at all.
He shifted his arm. It was itching again, and he had nothing to scratch it with.
When Mr. Thomas pulled up to the school, Bird and Cash said their obligatory good-byes and went their separate ways. Bird went wherever she went in the mornings. Cash went to the boys’ bathroom. He washed his hands longer than usual so he could study his face in the mirror and psych himself up for the day ahead.
You will have something on your list by the end of the day, Cash Nelson Thomas.
Believe it.
THE WORLD IS HIS
Fitch wanted to be a housefly. He wanted to be so small that no one noticed him. He would fly into Ms. Salonga’s class and sit on the walls and listen to what everyone said. Did they think he was a lunatic? What did Ms. Salonga say after he left? What did he care what Ms. Salonga thought, anyway?
When his mind veered toward Amanda and the words “fat, stupid cow,” he reminded himself that he was home alone and the world was his.
He’d heard his parents’ argument that morning, of course. He pulled the sheets over his head, still groggy from sleep, and listened. He hoped it would go in his favor, and it had. Everyone was gone. He was alone.
He found his mother’s note in the kitchen. She would call around lunchtime, it said, and he better not even THINK (capital letters, underlined three times) about going to the arcade because she’d already talked to Mr. Hindley and he would call her if Fitch showed up. He grabbed the note with one hand, crumpled it, and left it sitting there, on the island, with all the other junk.
Now. What to do?
An empty house.
Just him. For hours.
First he stretched. He lifted his arms over his head and reached.
Then he drank two glasses of orange juice.
Then he walked into the living room.
He lifted a pillow from the sofa. He buried his head into it. And he screamed.
SOCIAL ORBIT
Bird was aware that there was a phenomenon called “going together,” and that some of the girls had boyfriends, and some guys liked girls and vice versa and all that, but she never considered it part of her life. More like a cosmic event that happened outside of her solar system, which she would study with detached curiosity before going about her normal business. If people were “cute,” she didn’t notice. If “going together” was a social badge of honor, she didn’t need it. It didn’t occur to her to enter into this orbit herself. As far as she knew, it didn’t occur to anyone else.
Until now.
“I think Devonte likes you,” whispered Jessica Diaz toward the end of Ms. Salonga’s class.
Bird wasn’t too happy about the interruption, since Ms. Salonga was discussing the television broadcast of the Challenger launch.
“Some news stations are broadcasting the launch live, which is very exciting. And the principal has decided that a selected group of students—about a hundred or so—will be able to watch the launch live in the auditorium,” Ms. Salonga was saying.
Jessica Diaz waved a hand in Bird’s direction, as if to say, hello, aren’t you listening?
Who could listen to Jessica Diaz during an announcement like this?
“You have to write an essay if you want to be considered,” Ms. Salonga said.
Groans all around.
Some kids were already packing their books, uninterested in the launch altogether, and certainly uninterested in writing an optional essay. But Bird was already mentally drafting hers—or she was trying to, anyway.
“Do you like him?” Jessica was saying.
“Who?” said Bird.
“Devonte. Duh.”
Bird glanced at Devonte’s desk, suddenly relieved that he was absent today. She wondered if he’d write an essay. The first sentence of hers came together. One day, I will become NASA’s first female shuttle commander.
“I don’t know,” Bird said. “I never thought about it.”
One day, I will become NASA’s first female shuttle commander. The launch of the space shuttle Challenger will be . . . will be . . .
Will be what?
“Well.” Jessica sighed. She had her books neatly stacked, ready to carry off to her next class. “You should.”
She raised her eyebrows. For the first time, Bird noticed how much blue eyeshadow she wore. JB wore it, too. She saw it every time JB’s eyes drifted closed. She occasionally nodded off during class. Sometimes Ms. Salonga called her on it. Sometimes not.
“If he likes you and you don’t like him, you should save him the embarrassment and tell him sooner rather than later,” Jessica said.
Bird’s essay fell away, drifted off to another time, as she considered this new information.
“What if I do like him?” asked Bird.
“Then you’ll have way bigger problems, don’t you think?” Jessica said. “I mean . . . my dad would flip out if I entered into an interracial relationship.” She said “interracial” very meticulously, like it was a new word that she’d just learned and she couldn’t wait to use it in a sentence. “What would your parents do?”
Bird was about to reply when she realized she didn’t know the answer.
NEVER-ENDING
The smoke alarm was the loudest thing Fitch had ever heard. It blared in his ears like a single, piercing wail, and it seemed never-ending. It took him by surprise when it started; he’d jumped back several feet and slammed his elbow into the counter. He cradled his elbow now and looked around frantically, trying to figure out how to make it stop.
All he’d wanted to do was fry an egg and make some toast. He’d shoved two slices of bread into the toaster and melted a lump of butter over the stove, just as he’d seen his mother do countless times. The eggs came out okay—a little burned and without the perfect yolk like he usually preferred, but edible enough as they sat dutifully on his plate—and he figured: Why not some bacon, too? But when he plopped the bacon onto the hot skillet, he didn’t expect large plumes of smoke to sizzle into the air. And he certainly didn’t expect the blaring alarm.
Could the entire neighborhood hear it?
He jumped from foot to foot, holding his elbow, his heart racing. He pulled a chair away from the dining room table. A stack of papers—who knew what—crashed from the seat to the floor, but there was no time to pick anything up. He steadied himself on the chair and fumbled with the alarm until the lid fell off, hitting him on the eyebrow. He cursed again and again until he finally fished the battery out and the alarm went quiet, all but the ringing in his ears. The house smelled like burned eggs and charred bacon. He wasn’t even hungry anymore. He felt stupid for thinking he’d be able to cook. He should have just made himself a sandwich or something. He’d been so sure of himself. Big man home alone, cooking on the stove. He was embarrassed, even though the
re were no witnesses.
He could already hear the commentary and remarks from his parents. Did you use the stove? his mother would ask, and she’d stomp over to investigate, sticking her nose near the burners to sniff. Then she’d list all the things that could have gone wrong. He could have burned down the house. Burned himself. Ruined the dishes. The list would be endless. You’re more trouble than you’re worth sometimes, she might say. She’d said that once.
He pivoted out of the kitchen. He would fix the alarm later. For now, he planned to go back into his room, his safe space, but his feet took him into his parents’ bedroom instead. He stepped into their space, breathed deep. It smelled like his dad’s aftershave. The bed wasn’t made.
Fitch glanced toward the dresser, where his parents often kept loose change, and swiped three quarters and two dimes. He shoved the money deep into his pocket.
Now: to the closet.
Why did he go to their closet? He didn’t know. And why did he open the door and step inside? He didn’t know. One motion followed the other, and he didn’t think much about it.
He didn’t turn on the light. He closed the door and nestled himself deep into the darkness. He was in a jungle of clothes. He sat down. He brought his knees to his chest and breathed. His mother’s perfume. Laundry detergent. Shoes. His father. He pushed his back against the wall. Clothes dangled over his forehead. He used to stow away in here when he was little. The three of them—him, his sister, and brother—used to play hide-and-seek, and this was the first place he’d go. The hems didn’t even reach the top of his head back then. It became known as his favorite hiding spot, but eventually, he got smart. Instead of throwing himself into the closet and closing the door with his heart pounding, he left the door open and stacked and arranged the clothes neatly around him—on his lap, all the way up to his chin and over his face—so he was completely camouflaged. Nothing to see here but a pile of dirty clothes, he’d think to himself.
But it never worked.
Bird always found him.
UNPRECEDENTED
Bird started with the unread magazines at the dining room table. Life, Woman’s Own, Time, Redbook. She straightened the stacks, lifted them into her skinny arms, and carried them to the hallway closet, which was a chaotic mess of old sweaters, old shoes, old jackets, old everything, but had just enough room (if a few things were kicked to the side) for a few stacks of magazines.
She was on her second stack when Mrs. Thomas entered the kitchen with Cash at her heels. Burgers for dinner, and Cash did something completely unprecedented—he asked if he could help. Bird stopped midway through her stack straightening. She thought she misheard at first, but then he repeated himself.
“I’ve never cooked anything before,” he said to their mother. “I wanna see if I’m any good at it.”
Bird carried the next stack to the closet and set it down. Personally, she’d never had any interest in cooking. When she grew up, she planned to live on chips and sandwiches. She figured it would serve her well when she became an astronaut. You can’t exactly have refined taste when you’re floating in a space shuttle thousands of miles from Earth.
“What’s triggered this sudden interest in home economics?” Mrs. Thomas said to Cash.
“I don’t know. Just trying new things,” he said.
Dishes clinked. The refrigerator door opened and closed as Bird gathered torn envelopes from mail that had been opened long ago.
“Who knows?” Cash continued. “Maybe I’m a great cook and don’t even know it.”
“Wash your hands first,” Mrs. Thomas said. Pause. “Bird, what are you doing?—Cash, really wash your hands. Not fake wash. Bird—I asked you a question.”
The faucet came on again.
“I’m clearing off the table,” said Bird.
“Why?” Mrs. Thomas said.
Bird’s hands slowly lost steam. She stopped gathering. Malfunction approaching.
“So we could eat dinner at the table,” Bird replied.
Cash turned off the faucet. “Everyone at school is talking about what Fitch did,” he said. “They say she started it.”
“Make sure your hands are completely dry,” Mrs. Thomas said. She was speaking to Cash, but still looking at Bird. “Stop doing that, Bird. I’ll never be able to find anything.”
“I heard she called him a name first,” Cash continued. “He probably didn’t even deserve to get suspended.”
“He deserved it,” said Mrs. Thomas.
When she turned around to keep making dinner, Bird sat down and stared at the table. One corner was clear. What a grand success. She thought about how she’d launched herself into space in Ms. Salonga’s class.
Copy. Copy.
She thought about what Jessica Diaz said about Devonte.
“Can I have bacon on mine?” Cash asked.
“You don’t need bacon,” Mrs. Thomas said.
Bird decided to launch herself out of her current environment and into the living room, where her father was silently watching The A-Team. They stared at the screen together. Captain Murdock was feared kidnapped, which was unfortunate because he was desperately needed to steal a Russian helicopter.
Sounds from the kitchen drifted into orbit.
“There’s no bacon,” Cash said.
“I just bought some.”
“Dad must have eaten it.”
“No, he didn’t.”
“Well, there’s none in here.”
“You aren’t looking hard enough.”
Cash was now at the skillet while their mother looked for bacon.
“Dad,” said Bird. She cleared her throat. “Can I ask you a hypothetical question?”
The question was on Bird’s tongue: Is it okay to like someone who is different from you? Ever since she’d had that conversation with the girls at school, she realized she didn’t know. Even if she didn’t like Devonte, the question felt important.
He didn’t respond. He was too entranced by the invisible pendulum inside the TV.
She was about to repeat herself, but Mrs. Thomas’s voice filled the room instead.
“Mike, did you eat the bacon?”
Bird held her breath. Sometimes, all it took was a single question to turn Dr. Jekyll into Mr. Hyde.
Mr. Thomas grumbled and called back, “What?”
“Did you eat the bacon?”
“No!”
“I just bought some, and now it’s gone!”
Bird’s eyes drifted from her mother to her father as they hollered questions and answers at each other. The shift of the house could be imperceptible, but Bird was an astute observer. Thoughts of Devonte fell away.
“I’ll alert the media,” Mr. Thomas mumbled.
From the kitchen: “What did you say?”
Bird darted out of the living room and to the kitchen island, where she sat down on a stool.
“He said he didn’t eat any bacon, Mom,” she said, quickly adding, “The burgers smell good, Cash.”
To be honest, they smelled charred. Cash pressed on the meat, despite being told not to. Mrs. Thomas slammed the fridge door and hurried to the stove. She shooed him away.
“I told you not to press down on the patties like that,” she said. “It burns them.” She shook her head.
“I thought it would cook it faster.” He shrugged. “We’ll give the burned one to Fitch.” He nodded toward the hallway, where their brother’s door was closed, and smiled conspiratorially at Bird.
Mrs. Thomas lifted each of the patties with the spatula.
“If we clear off the table, we can all eat together,” Bird said.
Mrs. Thomas straightened her back and released a single, exasperated sigh.
“These are all burned,” she said. “You’re not exactly the world’s best chef.”
Bird smiled at her brother. “Not yet, anyway,” she said.
But Cash’s smile had wandered away.
Wednesday, January 15, 1986
LEGENDARY
The air was charged when Fitch walked in. He expected as much. He’d planned for it. It went just as he suspected. All eyes were on him. They followed him from door to desk. The stares burned as he passed by. He’d purposely arrived just before the tardy bell, had even avoided Vern before class, so he wouldn’t make a fuss. But there was a fuss anyway.
Not just stares. Whispers, too. He heard them the moment he got to school. Girls nudging each other. Giggles. Fingers pointing, even. His cheeks warmed with embarrassment. He didn’t want the attention. He wanted to erase everything. He wanted to push it far away until it disappeared into the galaxy and evaporated into a black hole. But he couldn’t, and he couldn’t stop thinking about Amanda.
What would he say when he saw her?
What would he do?
What would she say? What would she do?
He sat down and pretended like her desk wasn’t there inches away from his, even though it gaped at him, waiting for her arrival.
“Dude, everyone is flipping out over what happened,” Vern said. He, too, shifted his eyes to Amanda’s desk. “People are saying the cops took you away in handcuffs.” He grinned. “You’re a legend.”
Fitch couldn’t read Vern’s expression. It was somewhere between awe and jealousy. He wanted to see something negative there, something that judged him and matched what he felt inside, but there was no negativity on Vern’s face.
In fact, most of the looks thrown his way were full of questions, not judgment.
What, exactly, was legendary about what he’d done?
“Amanda switched classes,” said Vern.
Fitch kept his expression blank, but his heart thundered. “What do you mean?”
“Ms. Salonga gave her a choice. Either you could switch classes, or she could.”
Fitch wanted to be that housefly again. He wanted to land on the wall and listen to Ms. Salonga’s conversation with Amanda.
We Dream of Space Page 10
