“Oh,” Dani said.
Bird sank a little in her seat. She felt like she was shrinking right then and there, shrinking and shrinking, smaller and smaller, while the universe around them swelled and swelled.
We’re practically nothing.
“We still need one more,” JB said. Her voice sounded distant.
Did she feel it, too?
Dani cleared her throat. “In Star Trek, they call space the ‘final frontier,’” she said. “We’ve explored all over Earth. Space is the last big mystery.” Pause. “Do you think that’s a reason?”
Everyone nodded. All but Marcus.
Bird watched intently as Dani wrote “final frontier” in her notebook.
HEY, COACH
Cash typically moved quickly to get a good spot in the lunch line, but today he breezed past the cafeteria on his way to the gym. Coach Farnsworth’s office was just outside the basketball court, where Cash had once run laps around Kenny and Brant. The door was open. His desk was covered with binders, lanyards, and a half-eaten sandwich. He sat behind it with Time open in front of him. “Skywatch: Halley’s Comet Swings By,” the cover read.
“Hey, Coach,” said Cash.
Coach looked up and smiled. One side of his face was round with food. He chewed and said, “Hey there, Thomas. What can I do for you?”
Cash glanced toward the basketball court, then stepped inside. He hadn’t been in Coach’s office since the day he was dropped from the team. We’d love to keep you, Coach had said, but if you don’t maintain a two-point-oh grade-point average, you can’t play sports. That’s the rules. The words had filled the room. At the time Cash had wondered if Coach was secretly thrilled that his GPA had dropped. It was an easy way to get him off the court. It didn’t seem like Coach’s style—he was a good guy, always propping them up, encouraging them to do their best—but you never know what’s going on inside a person’s head and heart.
“Um.” Cash shifted from foot to foot. “I was thinking about something and wanted to get your thoughts on it.”
Coach closed the magazine, leaned back in his chair, and opened his arms wide as he swallowed the rest of his bite. “Shoot.”
“Well . . .” Cash took a breath. “I was thinking about what you said when I was on the team, about me being a good runner and all . . .”
“Yep. If I remember correctly, you had a six-minute mile.”
“. . . and I was just thinking . . . I mean, well, I was wondering, or considering . . .” He hadn’t meant to sound so unsure, but his next words left his mouth as a question. “. . . the track team?”
Coach leaned forward and raised his eyebrows.
Uh-oh, Cash thought. This is the part where I get laughed out of the office. Give it up, Thomas, he’ll say. You’re not an athlete. How many more ways can I break it to you?
“You’ve always been hung up on basketball,” said Coach.
“Yeah, well. I was thinking of changing the game, I guess.”
Coach smiled. A big, genuine smile.
“Good thinking,” he said. “Track just might be your thing. Tryouts aren’t till March, so you’ve got a while to prepare. Best part is . . .” He motioned toward Cash’s arm. “That cast won’t stop you from training.”
Cash smiled, too.
“Just one thing, Thomas,” Coach said. He pointed to Cash’s backpack. “Your grades. You know the rules, right?”
“Yes, Coach. Two-point-oh grade-point average to play any sports.”
Coach nodded. “Doesn’t matter what sport it is. Rule’s the same for track as it is for basketball. But that won’t be a problem.” He cocked his head to the side. “Right, Thomas?”
Now it was Cash’s turn to nod. “Right, Coach.”
I TOUCH THE FUTURE
Bird: I finished another schematic today. My Dad’s old Walkman. But I couldn’t focus. I have so many thoughts in my mind at once.
Judith Resnik: Like what?
Bird: Well. Today I mostly kept thinking about what Marcus said, about how big the universe is and how small we are.
Judith Resnik: The universe is big. Humans are small. We knew that already.
Bird: I know, but . . . he said other stuff, too. Afterward I just keep thinking and thinking about it. I guess it bothers me that we’re just specks of dust floating in an enormous void.
Judith Resnik: That’s one way of putting it.
Bird: There has to be a reason for it all, right? I mean. You’re not just going into space for nothing or just for fun or so we can dominate the world or something.
Judith Resnik: Of course not.
Bird: What would you have said to Marcus? What should I have said?
Judith Resnik: I would have told him that quote from Christa McAuliffe. You know the one I’m talking about. Ms. Salonga has it written on a Post-it note, stuck to her desk.
Bird: Yes. I know it.
Judith Resnik: Christa said, “I touch the future.” That’s what we’re doing, Bernadette. Touching the future.
Bird: I like that.
Judith Resnik: Me, too.
Bird: Good night, Judith.
Judith Resnik: Good night, Bird.
Thursday, January 23, 1986
COLLECT YOUR THOUGHTS
The Challenger launch had been rescheduled, but that didn’t stop Ms. Salonga from droning on about it for the entire week. By the time Thursday came around, the weekend was on the horizon and Fitch decided to sink all his lunch money—and a few quarters he swiped from his parents’ dresser—into Major Havoc after school, with the singular goal of beating his high score. The time for distractions was over. He hadn’t caught a single glimpse of Amanda. That had to be a sign for him to forget what had happened and move on. It’s not like he’d murdered someone, after all.
Once he’d decided on a plan, the school day seemed endless, and it had only just begun. Ms. Salonga stood at the front of the room, talking about astrograms, which sounded like something from The Jetsons.
“How many of you believe in life on other planets?” she asked, tossing her chalk from one hand to the other. He knew she had applied for the Teacher in Space program, and he tried to imagine what it’d be like to see her in an astronaut suit, shooting off into the stars. It was a strange picture.
Most people raised their hands. Fitch didn’t. Not because he didn’t believe in life on other planets, but because he didn’t much care either way. Maybe he’d start worrying about life on other planets when he figured out life on Earth.
“It would be incredible if we could find out whether or not you’re right,” Ms. Salonga continued. “Some astronomers believe that there could be as many as ten million habitable places in our galaxy. But they also say there could be as few as twenty. And, of course, it’s possible that there’s only one—Earth. We don’t have the technology yet to travel to distant planets in search of life. But we do have the technology to communicate with them. Or try to, at least. One example is the radio telescope at the Arecibo Observatory in Puerto Rico. It sent its first message into space in nineteen seventy-four in an attempt to find extraterrestrial life. We call these messages ‘astrograms.’”
Rachel’s hand shot up. “What do the astrograms say?” she asked.
Ms. Salonga answered—something about our solar system, and sketches of technology—but Fitch’s mind wandered as he gazed at Rachel’s ponytail from his seat at the back of the room. Her interest in him had been fleeting. He hadn’t heard another word about the whole thing from either of the Jessicas. Certainly not from Rachel. But that didn’t mean she wasn’t a topic of conversation. Vern’s flame burned brighter with each passing day.
“I called her again last night,” he’d told Fitch just that morning. “She said she couldn’t talk because she had homework, but she asked for my number to call me back.”
“Did she call you back?” Fitch asked.
Vern’s smile drifted away. “No, but I bet she does tonight.”
Fitch had told him not to
count on it. He hadn’t meant it to sound sharp, though it came out that way.
“You’re just jealous because the only girls you can get are the ones who look like Big Bird,” Vern said.
At that moment, Fitch had wanted to push Vern. Hard. Partly because Vern was cutting on him and partly because he was cutting on Amanda. It didn’t make sense, and he knew that. Fitch had cut on Amanda worse than anyone—so much so that she’d apparently dropped off the face of the Earth—so what right did he have to defend her now?
It occurred to Fitch that he could shut Vern up by telling him that—as of one week ago—Rachel liked him, Fitch, but he kept it to himself.
Ms. Salonga took a stack of index cards from her desk and held them up, which was a surefire sign that they were all about to be forced to participate in some sort of activity. He hoped and prayed that it wasn’t another crew assignment. He’d trade every quarter in his pocket to get out of another one of those.
Luckily, he didn’t have to.
This was to be a solo project.
“I want you to take this index card and write your own astrogram,” Ms. Salonga said as she walked around the room, passing them out. “Think about what you want to say. Really think. What do you want to share about life on this planet? What would you want other life-forms to know? What is most important for them to understand if they’re going to survive in our environment? There are limits to what you can say, just as there are limits for scientists. You only have the room on this card. One side only. What will you share with the rest of the galaxy?”
Some kids were writing before she’d even finished talking.
“Take your time,” she reminded everyone. “Collect your thoughts.”
Fitch stared at the blank card.
He collected his thoughts.
He picked up his pencil.
WHAT PLANET ARE WE ON?
Except for holidays, the Nelson Thomas family had never—not once—sat down for dinner together. Yes, Bird had cleared the junk off the table—a corner of it, at least—but that didn’t encourage anyone to break bread around it. Her efforts hadn’t been wasted, though. Cash now sat at the table with Earth Science open in front of him. He had a pencil awkwardly grasped in his right hand as he attempted to maneuver a notebook with his cast, a skill he had yet to master.
When Mrs. Thomas came home from work, she set her purse on the kitchen island as usual. She eyed her eldest son suspiciously.
He looked up. “Hey, Mom, did you know that Venus is the third-brightest object in the sky, after the sun and moon?”
She glanced back at the front door, as if she’d accidentally stepped through a portal to another universe.
“What planet am I on?” she said.
Friday, January 24, 1986
MOMENT OF TRUTH
It was the moment of truth.
When Ms. Salonga’s class ended, Bird tapped Devonte on the shoulder as he gathered up his books and asked if she could talk to him for a second. He looked momentarily confused.
“Sure, Bird,” he said.
She saw the Jessicas and Dani in her peripheral vision but chose not to acknowledge them. She could practically feel Dani’s curiosity. They hadn’t discussed Devonte in any real way; for whatever reason, Bird wasn’t interested in making boys the center of any conversation. She’d rather listen to Dani talk about Star Trek for two hours straight.
One day—maybe—Bird would want to travel in the social orbit of boyfriendhood.
But not today.
The crowd in the classroom thinned. Bird and Devonte had some privacy as they walked toward the hall side by side. Bird walked slowly. Devonte followed her lead.
She didn’t say anything for several steps.
“So . . . ” Devonte finally said. “What did you wanna talk about?”
Bird hugged her books to her chest. They’d reached the classroom door. She motioned him over to the wall so they wouldn’t get gobbled by the hallway traffic. Now it was Ms. Salonga in her peripheral vision, only she wasn’t there long—she went into the hallway to greet her next class.
“I have something to tell you,” Bird said. She looked at her feet, then at Devonte. She cleared her throat. “I don’t like-like you. But I really like being your friend.”
Devonte raised his eyebrows. For a moment, his face froze. His eyeballs were the first thing to move. He looked right, then left. Like he was searching the air for words.
Bird’s heart banged harder than ever. She sensed something terrible on the horizon. A little voice that whispered: something incredibly embarrassing is about to happen to you.
And she was right.
“Uh . . . okay,” said Devonte. His face relaxed. It turned into something else. Bemusement. “But . . . I don’t like you, either, Bird. I mean. Not in that way.”
“Oh,” Bird said. “Oh.”
“You’re nice and everything. You’re just not really the kind of girl that I’d, you know, like.”
Noise from the hall drifted toward them—laughter and a whistle.
“Oh,” Bird said.
What did he mean?
She wanted to ask, but didn’t know how to form the words, and why did she care anyway? Wasn’t this what she wanted—to not be someone’s girlfriend?
“You’re just, kinda, plain. You know?” Devonte said. His expression instantly morphed into one of regret. “I don’t mean that in a bad way. I just . . .” He sighed. “You’re not . . .” He shrugged. “Anyway. I guess what I’m saying is—yes, we can be friends.”
“Oh,” Bird said. That one syllable was the only sound she was capable of making, apparently.
“See you around,” he said. He turned on his heel.
She watched him walk away.
THE GOD OF HAVOC
Marsh pushed his glasses up his nose and said, “You’re a god.”
Fitch had just finished his best run on Major Havoc yet. Vern and Marsh were at his side.
“No joke, that was awesome,” said Vern.
Fitch almost smiled. He was proud, to be sure, but lately every moment of his day had been colored by a vague sense of disappointment. Disappointment in what? He wasn’t sure. But for the past month, maybe longer, a fog had descended.
“When are you gonna teach me how to play?” asked Marsh.
The kid had called him a god. Half joking, sure, but the way Marsh looked up at him, blinking behind those thick, ridiculous glasses, made him feel like anything but.
Fitch gestured toward Pop-A-Shot. “You can’t even make one basket, and you think you can play this?” He shook his head. “Get serious, Marsha.”
Vern laughed.
Marsh’s look of admiration turned into something else. Well, good. Anything was better than that stupid little-brother look.
“Yeah,” Marsh said. He threw a quick wave over his shoulder before making his way to Ms. Pac-Man.
YOU’RE NOT
Bird had been looking for something to dismantle when she found the old music box on the top shelf of her closet. It had been a gift for her ninth birthday.
“See?” her mother had said, with the box carefully balanced on her lap. “You turn the crank and it plays a song. If you’re ever upset, you can escape right into the notes.”
A week later, when one of her parents’ arguments swelled and swelled until their words bounced off every wall in the house, Bird turned the crank until her fingers were sore. But it wasn’t enough to drown out the sound of her parents. Eventually she’d stowed the music box away in her closet. Now it was in pieces on her desk, next to a half-finished schematic. She wanted to finish. She wanted to make sense of all the parts. But she couldn’t stop replaying the morning over and over in her mind.
You’re just . . . plain.
That was bad enough, but the words that followed were much worse. They orbited her now as she sat at her desk, unmoving. Fitch’s muffled music seeped through the wall.
You’re not . . .
Those were quite possibl
y the two most terrible words to start any sentence.
You’re not pretty.
You’re not interesting.
You’re not special.
The possible endings were as vast as the night sky.
Fitch’s music stopped.
The silence felt heavy, as if it was coming from deep within Bird herself.
You’re just . . . a girl from Delaware.
Being pretty isn’t your thing.
A SHORT LIST OF PIPERS
Next door, hidden away in his own room, Fitch inhaled the scent of the Park, Delaware, phone book, and blared AC/DC as loud as he could.
The phone book smelled like newspaper. His index finger and thumb were smeared with ink from turning the pages. The short list of Pipers glared at him accusingly.
Amanda wasn’t individually listed, which wasn’t a surprise, but there were eight Pipers total, each with a different number. One of them had to be Amanda’s family, right?
An old tabletop phone sat between Fitch and his boom box. The phone had been banished to the linen closet last year because the mouthpiece was loose. Bird had promised to fix it (and she had, after taking it apart), but by then they had a new phone and this one was forgotten. Fitch had snatched it out of the closet right after swiping the phone book from the kitchen.
He plugged the phone in now, quietly and slowly, and picked up the receiver. The dial tone came through loud and clear. Ominous, almost.
He replaced the cradle, cracked his knuckles, and studied the list of Pipers. Piper, Adam. Piper, Coretta. Piper, Harold & Margaret. Piper, Oden. Piper, Richard. Piper, Rose.
He reached over to the boom box and turned off the music. Click.
Silence.
He cleared his throat. Swallowed away a dry patch. Ran his sweaty hands over his jeans.
Picked up the phone. Piper, Adam.
It rang three times before a man picked up. Adam Piper, presumably.
“Hello?” Presumably Adam Piper said.
At first Fitch thought he wouldn’t be able to speak. Then he blurted out: “Is Amanda there?”
The man paused. “Amanda who?”
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