by Phil Stamper
“As I’m sure you know, we’ve got a little … media problem here,” Brendan says as he unlocks the door to our new house and steps inside. “Mostly local news, people looking for anything to trend. A few amateurs who want to sell footage to StarWatch, which is a whole other beast you’ll need to prepare for. But there are strict rules, even for StarWatch: They get full filming rights inside the astronauts’ houses—within reason, of course—and at the space station, but at the end of the day, it’s your home. You decide whether to let them in, keep them outside, or kick them out.”
Brendan and I share a smile, and there’s a strange comfort in having clear boundaries and a little bit of control over our new life.
“So why isn’t anyone here now?” Dad asks, disappointment hitting his face. Like he’s actually looking forward to getting assaulted by the press.
Brendan laughs. “NASA’s holding a press conference now and mentioned important updates, so every camera in the city is there. The media team tricked them into thinking we’re announcing the final astronaut, basically, so they didn’t swarm you right away. Don’t worry, we’ll let you settle in first.”
I hear my mom’s sigh of relief from here. When our eyes meet, a quirk of a smile hits her face. Even if Dad doesn’t end up on a flight, this is going to be a wild ride.
“Does everyone who works at NASA have this problem?” I ask.
“Well, I don’t. Since the news isn’t very excited about the soil samples I work on.” He chuckles, and ends with a high-pitched huff. “But the astronauts have to deal with it, all of them. They’re—you’re—the interesting ones.”
“I mean, soil can be interesting, I guess?”
“My team thinks so, but I doubt the general public does. Not yet at least.” He shrugs. “Rovers send back a ton of great data, but they can only do so much—we’ll get the first samples back after the Orpheus VI flyby, where we can do real tests, study the soil in a lab, that stuff.”
If there’s one thing I know about the “general public,” it’s that no self-professed media pro actually knows what the public is interested in. Sometimes trial and error is worth a shot, but it’s not surprising StarWatch would choose glamour and prestige over … dirt.
After following him inside, I take my first refreshing breath. The cool air makes my skin prickle all over, in the best way. The place is sterile, new. Foreign.
My dad paces around the living room, where a brand-new television sits on a midcentury-modern sideboard. A light-colored plush couch faces a retro coffee table flanked by two accent chairs.
Okay, this is a pretty cool house.
The whole place balances vintage personality with modern appliances. A record player sits on a bookshelf, with a collection of vintage records at its side. They really went all in on this retro thing. If you replaced that record player with a tape deck, I might be kind of here for it.
“Your lawn is your own. There’s a special number for the local police on the fridge. The media isn’t that bad, usually. But they’ll only get worse as we get closer to Orpheus V launch.”
I take in this moment of peace, knowing it’ll be my last in a while, and follow Brendan to my room. I throw my bag on my new bed, say I’m going to change, and shut the door. I find my dresser—this is where my cassette deck will go, I’ve decided—and I sit and lean against it, slumping down.
I take a few deep breaths. Admitting I like our new home, even this town, feels like I’m abandoning my old life.
I pull out my phone and open the FlashFame app. Then I close it. I know the rules, I’ve read Dad’s contract—to stay consistent with the narrative arc set by the Shooting Stars host and producers, no streamed or recorded video is to be shared publicly without prior consent and guidance from StarWatch Media LLC.
Meaning, they don’t necessarily want me to shut down my accounts. But they want to control it—which is even worse. The pang in my gut gets stronger as I type out a text to Deb.
I think I’m going to do it. I mean, technically, I haven’t signed anything, right? They can’t sue me or whatever, right?
… right?
I planned on updating on the way down and telling my followers I was going on a brief social media hiatus, but I wasn’t able to do it in the car, and the rest stops and hotel rooms only provide so much privacy—meaning, none at all.
But now that I’m here, knowing that my dream is flickering like a dying candle, I can’t go on any hiatus. I can’t—no, I won’t let StarWatch control me.
I clear my throat and stare at myself in the camera. My dark hair covers my eyes, a cowlick pushing my hair up in the back. Not my hottest moment, but this will be short.
As soon as I hit the LIVE button, the viewers tab starts climbing. I let it pause for a minute, allowing my followers to react to the notification they all got on their phones before I start. I smile and point to my cowlick comically as the hundreds of viewers become thousands. In the middle of the day on a Wednesday. Who are these people? I wonder. Why do they care?
And then I don’t care why they care, because I enjoy being a little famous. My core tightens again, at the thought of being forced to shut my account down. To give up everything I’ve worked for. By the time I got back to New York, I’d have … nothing.
“Hi, everyone,” I say, voice squeaking, after the viewers tab hits two thousand. “I, um, have one hell of an update for you all, so sit tight.”
I feel the rush flow through me. Once again, there’s a story out there to break. And I’m doing it myself.
“Let’s cut the intro,” I say, deciding to rip off the bandage. “You’ve all started to notice I’ve been dodging questions when it comes to NASA and the Orpheus missions, and it’s time I told you why. The twentieth and final astronaut added to Project Orpheus is none other than … Calvin Lewis. No, not me, my father, Calvin Lewis Sr. I’m coming to you live from Clear Lake, Texas, where we’ve just relocated. Recognize this dresser? This room? No? Well, I don’t either, but if I have my way, both of us are going to see a lot of it in the future, so get ready.”
I get up and walk around the room, collapsing on the foam mattress. I hold the camera high above my head.
“So, yes, I may have broken a big news story just now, but if you all don’t mind, I need to turn this into a personal story. My father—an airline pilot turned astronaut, apparently—forced the family on a three-day road trip to Texas instead of putting us on a plane. I don’t get it either, but I do have a very thorough review for the Higginsville Holiday Inn off Route 49 in Mississippi. As much as I love family time”—I pause for effect—“I can not handle another road trip like this.”
I spend the next five or ten minutes recapping my road trip from hell in all its gory (boring) detail, until my mom peeks her head in the door. “Are you …?” she mouths before taking in a sharp breath. “Never mind. Put that down and come outside with us. Now.”
“Please stand by,” I say robotically to my phone and peek through the window. A few cars line the streets, staying out of our driveway, and my dad and Brendan stand there staring at them.
“Well, that was fast. I should have mentioned this earlier, but I may have just broken a lot of rules. I’ll give you the full update tonight … if StarWatch doesn’t murder me by then. Wish me luck.”
I stop streaming and leave the room, ignoring the gnawing in my stomach that I’m not ready for whatever’s coming.
The mood shifts when I step outside.
The air-conditioning that cooled me off apparently gave me temperature amnesia, because I’m shocked by the curtain of heat I just dipped under.
Standing on the blacktop driveway by our car, a little stunned, is my dad. He just stares at the street while reporters buzz around their news vans like flies, making cameras appear as if from nowhere.
Mom sighs loudly. We make eye contact, and I can see the strain on her, the tension in her facial expression.
“You should go. I’ll get Dad.” I nod to make her feel confident
I can take care of this, and she darts back inside.
I can’t tell my dad’s expression from behind, but I see him go rigid. He’s never been the center of attention, outside of making the announcements as copilot on his flights. And for that, he can hide behind the cockpit. He can’t hide here, where the sun highlights every flaw and accents every doubt.
He had the foresight to wear a clean shirt at least.
“Crap,” Brendan says. “Okay, um. I’m not usually the person who deals with this. I’ll make a call.”
The realization hits me in waves. I did this.
I broke a national news story.
It was a small act of rebellion, which is not entirely uncharacteristic of me—like when I slipped past guards at City Hall to attend a press conference to grill the NYC Housing Authority on a mass of broken elevators in their public housing projects.
But that wasn’t for purely selfish reasons. The pang in my gut turns to fire. This is my calling, and I won’t let StarWatch get in the way. Sometimes, you have to take your future into your own hands.
And one way or another, I just did that.
Only, I didn’t think about what that would mean for my family.
“What do you want to do?” I ask Dad. There’s a firmness in my voice that I didn’t know I had in me. “Should I get Mom back out here? Or should we hide inside?”
My shallow breaths start to make me feel light-headed.
Dad turns to me for a second and considers my question as one producer starts her report.
“We’re here at the house of the newest astronaut for Project Orpheus, Calvin Lewis Sr., whose son is widely known thanks to his following on the social media platform FlashFame. Calvin—senior, that is—is assumed to be the final astronaut selected before NASA launches its preparations for Orpheus V. The lucky six astronauts on that mission, poised to be the first humans to set foot on Mars, are still to be determined.”
My stomach sours, and I feel the tension claw through my shoulders. We need to move fast if we want to get out of here with no notoriety. A solid smile. A brief wave. And we duck inside. But they’re recording, and I can’t shout that instruction to my dad, who’s stopped, standing like a dope with his head pivoting back and forth from me to the camera.
And I see why.
And my chest falls.
I knew they saw my FlashFame video. But I was wholly unremarkable with my almost-half-a-million viewers in New York City. Not here. Not to these small news stations. They know what happens when they put a clip of me online: all my fans will watch it. The cameras are on me.
Which means, they didn’t come here just to see my dad.
They came here for me too.
CHAPTER 6
To hell with a graceful exit, I think as Dad rushes past me and into the house, slamming the door so I’m stuck outside. That was on camera!
So I smile and pretend it’s one of my videos. I smile because it’s the only thing holding me and this family together, and I hope the cameras were too` focused on me to get the full effect of Dad’s tantrum. If he loses his cool in there, which he will, the mics might pick it up.
Please don’t shout.
Please don’t shout.
Without putting too much thought into the matter, I go into damage-control mode. I force my legs to move—they’re stiff and they ache from being held so tightly. I paste a smile on my face. At first, it’s strained, but as my limbs loosen, my face does too. By the time I’m at the end of the driveway, I’ve got as close to a natural grin as I can pull off.
The reporter stays on the sidewalk—she knows she’s not allowed to come closer—so there are a few feet between us. She’s got that Hillary Clinton look, with an immaculate solid blue pantsuit. Her smile is practiced; her arm is outstretched.
“Cal Lewis, I’m Gracie Bennett from KHOU-TV. We were thrilled to see your announcement about moving down here, as Houston doesn’t get many viral superstars in our midst. Congrats to your father and the family on this exciting adventure. So, we’ve got to ask—can we expect any Houston weekend roundups in your future? Are you going to give us the inside scoop on the astronauts’ lives?”
I chuckle—it’s forced, but everything’s forced right now, so give me a break. My mind scrambles for a way to redirect the conversation back to my dad, and NASA. “I, well, I’m not sure yet. All I know is my dad’s so excited to join the ranks of great astronauts like Jim Lovell, John Glenn, and to be living in the same town as they did—it means a lot. To all of us.”
She gives me that soft head tilt and pleasant smirk that you get when the other person starts to see you as some teddy bear. Adorable, I see her thinking. I groan internally.
I’m not sure what else to say, but I’m stopped short when I notice someone approaching the cameras from the corner of my eye. As her shoes clack on the sidewalk, her lavender sun dress billows in the soft breeze. It’s Grace Tucker. She takes off her sunglasses, and even I’m a little starstruck. She turns to the camera.
“Grace, hello! What do you think about—”
Grace cuts in. “We’re all so thrilled to have the Lewis family joining us. We’d say more, but I’m too excited to introduce my family to them, and I can’t wait any longer. ’Bye, now!”
I wave goodbye, and Grace reaches for my arm.
“You’re welcome down at the station anytime, Cal!” the reporter calls after me. “Remember, K-H-O-U!”
I let Grace guide me back into the house. I stop short at the door when I hear the yelling. We make eye contact, and I don’t want this to ruin her first impression, so I say:
“Sorry, we didn’t realize they’d be on us like that. It really surprised them.”
She nods and smiles and we pretend she’s accepting my words at face value, but then I step inside and announce over Dad: “We’ve got a visitor!”
Silence.
Recognition.
Awkwardness.
I see Dad go through these phases like they were the five stages of grief. That’s two embarrassments for him today. I wish I could tell him that it’s not my fault the cameras panned to me. That I didn’t want him to have to share the attention. I only wanted to tell my story, and not let some contract he signed get in the way of that.
“Grace. Or, um, Mrs. Tucker.” My dad crosses the floor to the doorway and offers his hand for her to shake. “It’s nice to meet you.”
“Same, same. And please, just call me Grace.” She takes a look around the house, and she runs her finger across a recently polished vintage typewriter. “How do you like the decor here? It takes a while to get used to, but it really is beautiful. Anyway, it’s a pleasure to meet you all.”
“It’s, well, better than I could have imagined.” Dad gestures to us, briefly. “This is Becca, my wife, and Cal, my son.”
“Becca,” she repeats. Then she turns to me and smiles. “And I actually know this one. My daughter Kat has been a follower of yours for years now. I heard they were bringing your family up here, but I didn’t know it would be today. Lucky that Kat saw your video and told me. I came as quickly as I could.” She turns to my parents. “The—for lack of a better term—paparazzi can be hell here.”
Dad glares at me. “You posted a video? Is that why—why they knew we were here? You know the rules about that.”
“I decided to sidestep the rules,” I say weakly. My cheeks flush, and I suddenly realize there are three pairs of eyes aimed right at me, judging me. I want to take a walk, but I can’t even escape with all the news vans out there. Maybe I can outrun them. “But I can fix this. Let me go out and see if they’re still here. S-sorry.”
As I’m leaving, I hear Grace warn me not to go outside, but I don’t care, and my speechless parents don’t protest. I can’t be in this house anymore.
I know I can fix this, even if I’m not sure how just yet.
When I open the door, I’m struck by the media circus in front of our place. The number of cars, vans, cameras, and reporters has tripled. I free
ze as they all point their cameras at me, but a thrill pumps through my veins. It’s the same rush I feel when I give my reports, but it feels bigger somehow. Why would America care about me? Just because I’m the newest character on this obscene reality show? Because my dad has a one-in-four shot at making it on Mars?
It doesn’t make sense.
“Hey, um, Cal?” a voice calls out from next door.
A second person’s gasp falls out behind him. “Oh my god, it’s really him.”
My cheeks flush as I turn and see the two teens from the Tucker family portrait staring at me. Both of them are immaculate and prepared for this life, with easy smiles and a confident gait. They’re wearing pressed clothes, dressed up a little too much for school.
“I’m Leon,” the guy says, extending a hand. His posture is too tight, his expression too practiced. “It’s nice to meet you.”
His voice is a little loud, and I guess it’s so the microphones pick it up. It makes me cringe, but when you’re standing in front of perfection—even when you look like a sweaty mess who hasn’t showered in days—you just have to do your best to fit in.
“Good to meet you too.”
An uncomfortable pause lingers between us. We’re making eye contact, and I’m so lost in his gaze I almost forget about the hundred thousand people who will be watching this interaction.
“We came as soon as we heard,” the girl says. “I’m Katherine, a pleasure to meet you.”
Though there are three of us, they’ve naturally angled their bodies out in a way that makes them look like they’re in a stage performance—all our bodies tilt toward the cameras. In this moment, I wonder how many rounds of media training they had to go through to act like this. So composed and polished next to each other.
My smile starts to fade, as these don’t seem like the people I want to be friends with.
The thrill’s long gone now, and all that’s left is this awkward energy.
“Right,” I say. “So we’ve all met.”
Silence cuts through us for a split second longer, until Leon bursts with laughter. His sister and I follow closely behind, and for one brief second, Leon hunches over and puts his hand on my shoulder. I feel his grip, even after his hand leaves my body, and despite the heat, a chill goes straight down my back.
