by Shannon Hale
“Does philanthropist count as an occupation? Oh—” I said as I realized. “You’re rich.” He wasn’t one of the sweepstakes winners. His parents could afford this place.
He sighed melodramatically. “Poor me, burdened with billions, shackled to my father’s shadow.”
The room was empty but for us, everyone else headed for dinner.
“Jonathan Ingalls Wilder?”
“My mom read the Little House on the Prairie books in Russian when she was a kid. I think she married my dad for his last name.” He grabbed my folder and started to read. His eyebrows went up.
“Yes, that’s my real middle name,” I said preemptively.
“Maisie Danger Brown. What’s the story there?”
I sighed. “My parents were going to name me after my deceased grandmothers—Maisie Amalia—then in the hospital, it occurred to them that the middle name Danger would be funny.”
“So you can literally say, Danger is my middle—”
“No! I mean, I avoid it. It’s too ridiculous. It’s not like anyone actually calls me Danger. Well, my mom sometimes calls me la Peligrosa, which is Spanish for Danger Girl. But it’s just a joke, or it’s meant to be. My parents have to work really hard to be funny. They’re scientists.”
“Father, Dr. Nicholas Brown, microbiologist,” he said, reading from my info sheet. “Mother, Dr. Inocencia Rodriguez-Brown, physicist. Researchers?”
“Dad is. Mom works from home editing a physics journal and homeschooling me.”
“A homeschooled, black-eyed Latina.” He whistled. “You are turning into a very ripe fruit for the plucking.”
I blinked. No one talks like that. But he was so casual about it, so self-assured, as if he owned the world. And for all I knew, maybe he did.
We walked toward the cafeteria, reading.
“Your elective is …” I searched his class schedule. “Short-field soccer.”
“You almost managed to keep a judging tone out of your voice.”
“Why would you come to astronaut boot camp to play soccer?”
“Because I’m unbelievably good at it. And yours is … advanced aerospace engineering?”
“I’m not wasting my time here. I’m in training.”
“Wilder!” The redheaded boy came charging from the cafeteria. His name tag read FOWLER, and I wondered if it was vogue for all rich boys to go by their last names. “Hey, I saved you a seat at our table.”
“In a sec,” said Wilder. “It’s not every day I meet a future astronaut.”
“Who? Her?”
Wilder nodded, his attention returning to my papers.
“Are you delusional?” Fowler asked me. “You have one hand.”
“Then I guess I’ll be the first one-handed freak in space.”
“Whatever.” He turned back to Wilder. “So, if you want to join us …”
Wilder started into the cafeteria, still reading, and Fowler followed.
“Hey, you’ll need this back.” I held out his folder, but he shook his head.
“Yours is more interesting.”
That was probably true. Wilder’s papers had the barest info. He hadn’t filled out the survey or included a personal essay, and his academic records only showed he’d attended five schools in the past three years. I wondered what he was hiding.
Chapter 3
The folder switch forced me to track down Wilder at breakfast and ask him where I was supposed to be first hour.
He looked at me leisurely before opening my folder. “Astrophysics in 2-C. That sounds like a party in a jar.”
It did. If a party in a jar was a good thing. Would setting a party inside a glass container make it more amusing? Or was he being sarcastic?
“And you have navigation in 4-F,” I said, though he didn’t ask.
“I can’t just follow you to astrophysics? Sit in the back, pass you notes, sketch your profile on my desk?”
I was sure he was kidding. Almost sure. I should have done some homeschool projects on Teenage Social Life or Boys in General.
Wilder did not follow me to astrophysics. I looked around a few times, just to be sure.
For second hour everyone migrated to the auditorium again. The crowd hushed when a short white woman with frizzy hair clomped onto the stage. She was wearing a floral dress that was a little too big and a pair of heavy, wide sandals.
“I’m Dr. Bonnie Howell,” she said, her hair bobbing, her skirt swishing.
I started to clap, getting in three awkward slaps of my hand against my thigh before I realized no one else was clapping. I sunk lower in my seat. Maybe they didn’t realize that this was the Bonnie Howell, as in Howell Aerospace.
“I hope you weren’t expecting kiddie camp,” she said. “I don’t employ veteran astronauts and the top minds in science so you can eat marshmallows and sing songs. Did you know,” she bounced on the balls of her feet, “your teenage brain is a work in progress? If you want big, beefy brains as adults, you must learn to organize your thoughts, control your impulses, and explore abstract concepts while you’re still a teenager. Challenge yourselves, for pity’s sake! By adulthood, any neglected areas in your brain will shut down. So sit back and stick to what you know, and you’ll be condemned to being flimsy, pathetic little piñatas, frozen in form with no hope of establishing the connections you ignored as teenagers. Okay?”
And she left the stage.
If Luther had been there, I would have whispered to him, “I give her an A for Brain Trivia, B for Bounciness, and D for Closure.”
A large black man in a suit took the podium. Well, he stood behind the podium—but he did look capable of actually picking it up if he wanted.
“I’m Dr. Dragon Barnes, Howell Aerospace Chief of Operations.”
His name was Dragon? That was almost as embarrassing as Danger.
“In addition to your classes each day, you will meet in groups of four we call fireteams. Your fireteam will complete timed and graded missions. The fireteam with the best cumulative score will win an exciting opportunity.” His voice was leaden. I doubted he knew what “exciting” meant. “The last week of your stay, Dr. Howell and I are flying to the ocean platform that is the planet-side base for the Beanstalk. Usually only the Howell Aeronautics crew is permitted aboard the base. But this time—”
Dr. Howell suddenly ran back onto the stage and yelled into the microphone, “Some of you will get to come and watch!”
Everyone winced at the shriek of feedback from the speakers. Silence followed. I didn’t seem to be the only one unsure of what she meant. Dragon nudged her aside—I was already calling him by his first name in my head. It was just too memorable.
“To clarify,” he said, “the members of the winning fireteam will visit the Beanstalk’s base and observe the space elevator ascend. From sea level. The Beanstalk doesn’t take tourists.”
There were a few moans of disappointment.
“Nevertheless, you will tour a site few have set foot on. Recently the president of the United States requested a visit, and she was refused.” Dragon glanced sideways at Dr. Howell, his mouth stern. “Ahem. Know that this is a great privilege.”
He didn’t have to tell me. I hadn’t taken a breath in at least sixty seconds.
Dr. Howell nodded vigorously, her frizz bouncing. “So work hard, my little hamsters. We will be watching!”
She bobbed off the stage. Dragon added a quick “thank you” before hurrying after her.
The head counselors got onstage and assigned us to our fireteams. Wilder’s name was not read next to mine.
I found my assigned meeting spot by a fountain in the blazing-hot courtyard, my thoughts dancing up a Beanstalk cable into space.
A skinny Asian girl sat cross-legged on the lip of the fountain, drinking a blue slushie she must have carried out of the cafeteria. She introduced herself as Mi-sun. Her name sounded Korean, but her accent was fully American.
“So is this all weird or fun?” she asked.
&nbs
p; “Both, I think,” I said.
She nodded sagely and slurped her drink.
An older girl with loads of curly red hair approached but wouldn’t sit or make eye contact. Just as a boy joined us, a counselor with a megaphone told all the groups, “You have five minutes to get to know your fireteam members. Go.”
“Okay, I’ll go first,” said the boy. He had a short, tight Afro and black geek-chic glasses, and when he talked, dimples pressed into his cheeks. In less than a minute we learned:
1. His name was Jacques.
2. He grew up in Paris with his African-French father and American mother. When his parents divorced, he moved with his mom to the Chicago area.
3. He was an Illinois state chess champ for three years, and he spent a week on Junior Jeopardy.
4. He was a Blueberry Bonanza sweepstakes winner.
“I filled out that bleeping survey,” he said. “Marketing surveys are always digging for something, and I bleepity-bleep gave it to them.”
If you can’t tell, I changed some of his words. My mom only swore in Spanish. My dad’s worst insult was “chump.” Luther’s expletives included “Balefire!” and “Frak!” So I was a bit sheltered from R-rated language, and Jacques unnerved me. I tried not to show it.
The redhead went next. She had a curvy body and was super tall if she stood straight, but her shoulders rounded, hiding her chest. “I’m Ruth. I’m from Louisiana. I’m a sweepstaker too, and I hate the heat.” She threw her long hair over one shoulder.
After Ruth’s hasty intro, I worried I’d sound needy if I said too much. “I’m Maisie, I’m from Salt Lake City, and I … uh, I like cheese.” I angled my body away from them, Ms. Pincher behind me.
Mi-sun was more forthcoming about living in Alaska, her two little brothers whom she missed “so, so much,” and her crafty hobbies. Mi-sun was a sweepstakes winner too, even though she was only eleven.
“But the contest was for ages twelve to eighteen,” I said.
“I filled out the survey, and they called me and told me I’d won.” Her lips were stained blue from her slushie, and with her dark hair and pale skin, she looked undead.
A counselor fetched our fireteam for our first mission, gesturing us into a small outbuilding and shutting the door behind us.
We were in a bare white room, darkly lit. We waited. Was something supposed to happen?
“Cry havoc!” Jacques said suddenly, making me jump.
“What?” said Ruth.
He folded his arms. “It’s my battle cry.”
A man’s voice spoke from a hidden speaker. “Do not share details of this exercise with anyone outside your fireteam. Your ability to keep a secret will be considered in your final score.”
Metal doors rolled down each wall, encaging us with a loud screech and a clang. Mi-sun cried out. My body buzzed with adrenaline.
The man’s voice said, “Get out of the room.”
I tried to lift the metal doors. They were locked down.
“Could we reach that?” Mi-sun asked, looking up.
There was a hatch in the ceiling. Ruth was the tallest, so Mi-sun climbed on her shoulders. Not tall enough.
“Hey, check this out!” I said. The tiles on the floor were a little loose. I could unsnap them and pull them free.
Jacques turned a tile over in his hands. “Look at these notches. They’re building blocks.”
The girls started pulling up tiles as fast as we could and clicking them into boxes while Jacques figured out the best configuration to stack them. The process seemed to take forever. I kept glancing at the walls, sure they were closing in.
Finally we’d built a narrow staircase. As soon as we climbed up through the hatch and onto a ledge above a private courtyard, the man’s voice said, “Find the treasure.”
A zip line, coded map, and buried chest of chocolate coins later, a buzzer went off.
A gate opened, and Bonnie Howell stepped in. She looked us over. “Well, you just set an astronaut boot camp record.”
A rush of elation shot up through me, hitting my throat and strangely making me want to cry.
Jacques and Mi-sun high-fived. Ruth was beside me—tall, beautiful, so fearsome seeming. I held up my left hand.
“Yes, Ruth! Record time!”
“Don’t spaz. You’ll hurt yourself worse.” She looked at where my right hand wasn’t and shuddered.
Unsure what I had next hour, I made my way toward Wilder’s class, noticing for the first time just how many security cameras spied from the ceiling.
The zip line adventure had irritated my arm, so Ms. Pincher was in my bag. A couple of boys bumped into me, and when they noticed my arm, one jumped back.
“Gross, her meat stump touched me!” he said, wiping off the sludge of my touch.
Ruth’s reaction already had me on edge, I guess, because instead of pretending I hadn’t heard, I waggled my bare arm at the boys and shouted “WAAAH!” like I was some fearsome, spell-casting hag. “Foul creatures of the night! WAAH, I SAY!”
They ran away. I kid you not—ran, as if I were the chainsaw guy at the end of a haunted house.
Wilder was coming down the hall, and he smiled at me, appreciative, as though we’d been in on the joke together. As though we were the only two sane people amid this rabble.
He has intelligent eyes, I noticed.
And all afternoon I kept on noticing.
That night at lights out, I got my mini flashlight and read through his folder again. When his fireteam entered that weird room, would he discover the tiles were pieces of a puzzle? Would he find it all as strange and alarming and exciting as I did?
I closed my eyes and saw his. Sleep felt like the loneliest place in the world.
Chapter 4
On day five, I woke up grateful that at last I’d have a free hour. After morning scuba class, I hurried to the computer lab, checked out a tablet, and curled up in a corner chair. A few years before, Luther and I had discovered a Japanese website that appeared to promote teeth whitening. It had a message board no one ever used because, honestly, who sits around discussing white teeth? So we colonized it.
Luther was already logged in, his user name LEX blinking green. Homesickness pulsed in my belly.
Luther wouldn’t tolerate any emoticons or messaging shortcuts, but it didn’t slow me down much. I’d been typing one-handed since I was four.
MAIZ: Greetings, friend of Wookiees everywhere. How’s the weather?
LEX: Cloudy with a chance of stupidity. My cousins are staying over and they want to play “war” every day. I’m thinking of removing our “no kill” rule.
MAIZ: Enough with the quotation marks. I can hear your sarcasm from four states away.
LEX: Fine. How is “astronaut boot camp”? I mean … ASTRONAUT BOOT CAMP.
MAIZ: You’d go crazy happy for all the gadgets but throw up in the takeoff simulator.
LEX: I would not.
MAIZ: Remember the tilt-a-whirl?
LEX: That was an aberration. I had consumed a hot dog.
MAIZ: Anyway, nonhuman stuff is awesome. Human stuff is to be expected.
LEX: What are the flatscans doing?
MAIZ: Freaking out about the arm.
LEX: Frakking flatscans.
MAIZ: I’ll weather it.
LEX: When will you be home?
MAIZ: The 20th.
LEX: In the morning, afternoon, or evening?
MAIZ: I don’t know.
LEX: Find out.
MAIZ: Why?
LEX: I just want to know when Maisie Brown is in her house again.
MAIZ: You miss me, don’t you?
LEX: Yes.
I’d expected a snide rebuttal, but I saw no sarcasm in his yes. I thought of our accidental hug, the tick of his pulse against my cheek.
LEX: Are you still there?
MAIZ: Yeah. Sorry.
LEX: The 20th?
MAIZ: I’ll probably be home after dinner but not too late. I should go. I need
to call my parents still.
LEX: You wrote to me first?
MAIZ: You’re my best friend.
I waited. Luther didn’t respond. I suddenly felt shy.
MAIZ: Signing off …
LEX: Okay. Write again, okay?
MAIZ: Sure. Till Wednesday.
Just three more days felt like forever.
I phoned my parents from the lab’s landline. When my mom started to gush in Spanish, I felt a pricking in the corners of my eyes.
“Te extraño, Mami,” I said, telling her I missed her. “Three weeks is a long time, isn’t it?”
Dad sighed agreement. I didn’t tell them about the teasing. I suspected the reason they kept me isolated at home was to protect me from people like Ruth and the running boys.
As I left the lab, I overheard two girls talking. “I sneaked my cell phone in, but every time I turn it on, there are no bars.”
Weird. Were cell phone signals blocked entirely out here?
I shuffled toward my next class, watching my feet as I walked. I noticed grooves in the floors where steel doors could lock down, cutting off parts of the building. I didn’t notice that Wilder was next to me.
“You’re curling into a question mark,” he said.
I snapped back upright. He was without his usual satellites of blond girls and guys sporting last names.
“I just got off the phone with my parents,” I said by way of explanation.
“And they’re all a bunch of eejits?”
“No … I miss them.”
He tilted his head, trying to figure out if I was serious.
“How was your call?” I asked. I had his schedule memorized.
“Brief to non existent.”
“But numbers were dialed?”
“And words were spoken, so thin and flimsy as to barely count at all.”
“Words like, hello, how are you, I miss you, good-bye?”
“Like that, but mostly good-bye.” He sounded apathetic.
I held an invisible phone to my ear and made a ringing noise. He blinked.
“Answer the phone,” I whispered helpfully.
His squint was suspicious, but he answered his own invisible phone. “Hello?”
“Hello, honey bear! How are you?”
