by Jenn Bennett
Most of the club members are filing out of the auditorium now, but a few hover around Dr. Viramontes’s podium. Avani is waiting for me to explain my mood, so I say the first thing that comes to mind to placate her curiosity.
“I’ve been invited to go on a camping trip with Reagan,” I tell her.
To my surprise, she brightens. “Oooh, I heard about that.”
Wait, she knew, but I didn’t? And since when had she started talking to Reagan again?
“I overheard Brett Seager talking about it,” she explains excitedly, twisting sideways to face me in the auditorium chairs while she sits cross-legged. “He was at the drugstore with his older sister earlier today.”
“What?” Now I’m interested. Very interested.
She nods quickly. “I was behind him in the checkout line. He was talking to someone on his phone, saying that he was going camping near King’s Forest with some other people from school. I didn’t catch any names but Reagan’s. He was trying to convince whoever he was talking to on the phone to go with him.”
Brett Seager is a minor celebrity in our school. His parents don’t have a ton of money, but somehow he’s always doing things like skydiving, or going backstage at cool concerts, or jumping off the roof of some rich friend’s house into their million-dollar pool. But he’s not just a party-boy daredevil. He reads Jack Kerouac and Allen Ginsberg . . . all the American Beat Poets. Most guys I know don’t even know what a bookstore is.
So yes, he’s pretty and popular, but he’s more than that. And I’ve been nursing a crush on him since elementary school. A crush that turned into a small obsession ever since he kissed me at a party over spring break. Sure, he got back with his on-again, off-again girlfriend the next day, which was humiliating and upsetting for me at the time. Reagan tried to cheer me up by playing matchmaker, introducing me to a couple of boys. Guess it wasn’t meant to be for any of us, because I never clicked with those boys, and then Brett and his girlfriend broke up over the summer.
The important thing here is that if what Avani overheard is true, it sounds like Brett could be going on Reagan’s camping trip. And that makes the great outdoors a lot more enticing.
More panic-inducing, too, because Brett was not a factor in my mental plan for this trip. Reagan’s mom had said it would be all girls. No way would my parents let me go on a weeklong unsupervised camping trip with boys. My father would flip the hell out.
Guess this information is under the table.
“Are you sure Brett said he was actually going?” I ask Avani.
“Yep.” She hikes up her shoulders to make herself look muscular and pretends to be Brett. “ ‘Bruh, you’ve to go with me. I need to jump off that wicked waterfall. We can Instagram the whole thing.’ ”
I snort at her bad imitation.
She shrugs. “I’m just telling you what I heard.”
“Who was he talking to on the phone?” I ask.
“No idea. Probably his latest bromance. He’s always changing friends, usually to whoever’s parents are out of town and have a house big enough for one of his legendary blowouts.”
“That’s just an act,” I argue. “He’s not really that way.”
Her face softens. “I’m sorry. I know you like him, especially after that party . . .”
I wish I’d never told her about the kiss. It feels like a weakness.
“Anyway, I guess he’s been expanding his friend list this summer. Katy even said she thought she saw him in the passenger seat of Lennon’s car a couple weeks ago.”
Wait, what? Lennon and Brett, friends? Surely that’s a sign of the apocalypse. “I seriously doubt it.”
“Maybe not. Lennon seems way out of Brett’s league, if you ask me.”
“I think you have that turned around,” I say with a snort.
“And I think whatever happened between you and Lennon is—”
“Avani,” I protest. I don’t like to talk about Lennon. Avani doesn’t know about the Great Experiment. All Avani knows is that we were supposed to meet up with her for homecoming. She doesn’t know why that never happened. No one does. Not even me, really. But I stopped trying to figure out Lennon’s motivations a long time ago.
It’s easier not to think about him at all.
“Never mind,” she says. “I’m sorry I brought it up. It’s none of my business.”
After I’m quiet for a few seconds, she elbows me. “So . . . camping. Alone in the woods. Maybe this is your chance with Brett. When is this trip?”
I texted Reagan earlier, but she only confirmed that the trip was happening and said she’d get back to me later with details. Normally, that would drive me nuts, but I was busy freaking out about hiding the photo book of my dad’s affair. Now I wish I had pressed Reagan for more information. All of these Unknowns and Possibilities are stressing me out.
“I think it’s in a couple of days?” I say. “Pretty sure she’s planning on staying a week.”
Avani’s face falls. “That’s during the meteor shower. I was kind of hoping you were going on the weekend trip with the group.”
“What group?”
“Our group. East Bay Planetary Society,” she says, brow wrinkling. “Weren’t you listening at all?”
I wasn’t.
She fills me in. “Instead of gathering here at the observatory, Dr. Viramontes is taking the club on a road trip to the dark-sky area on Condor Peak to watch the meteor shower there.”
Condor Peak State Park. They host the annual North California Star Party.
“All the other astronomy clubs in the area will be going,” Avani adds.
Apart from Death Valley, Condor Peak is the closest dark-sky preserve. That means it’s protected from artificial light pollution, which enables people to see more stars. Astronomers take amazing photos in dark-sky areas, especially during star parties—which are basically nighttime gatherings of amateur astronomers to watch celestial events. And though we’ve hosted a few minor star parties here at the observatory, I’ve never been to one this big with other astronomy clubs. That’s kind of huge.
I weigh my options. On one hand, the geek in me really wants to attend this star party. I mean, hello. The Perseid meteor shower happens only once a year. But on the other hand, Brett Seager.
Rolling a two-wheeled laptop case behind him, Dr. Viramontes ascends the aisle and stops when he sees us. I like the way his eyes crinkle in the corner when he smiles. “Ladies, are you joining us on our pilgrimage to Condor Peak? We’ll get some amazing photos. Great thing to add to your college applications, and there’ll be other astrophysics professors there, along with many important members of the Night Sky Program. And I didn’t want to say this to the group, because I’m not entirely certain, but I’ve got intel that Sandra Faber could make an appearance.”
Sandra Faber teaches astrophysics at UC Santa Cruz. She won the National Medal of Science. She’s a big deal. Meeting someone like her could help me get into Stanford, which is where I want to study astronomy after I graduate.
Avani draws in an excited breath and pokes my shoulder. “You have to come now.”
“I’m supposed to be camping with a friend in the High Sierras,” I tell the professor, suddenly filled with doubt. Why can’t anything be easy?
Dr. Viramontes shifts the long silver braid that hangs over his shoulder, bound at the tail by a beaded clasp made by someone in his local Ohlone Indian tribe. “That’s a shame. Where?”
I relay the details that my mom shared with me about the glamping compound.
Dr. Viramontes scratches his chin. “I think I know which one you’re talking about, and it’s not far from Condor Peak.” He slips a piece of paper out of the front pocket of his rolling case and hands it to me. It’s an information sheet on the trip. He points to the map and shows me the general area of the glamping compound in relation to King’s Forest and Condor Peak. “Probably a couple hours’ drive on the highway. Maybe you could stop by. We’ll be there three nights.”
“I’m not sure what the transportation situation will be like, but I’ll definitely check into it,” I tell him, folding up the paper.
“We’d love to have you. Let me know what you decide.” He raises two fingers to his forehead and gives me a loose salute before reminding us to be safe getting home tonight.
“You’re going, right?” Avani whispers excitedly as he walks away.
My mind is aflutter. So is my stomach. “God, I really want to.”
“Then come,” she says. “Meet me at Condor Peak. Promise me, Zorie.”
“I’ll try,” I say, not completely sure, but hopeful.
“Star party, here we come,” she tells me, and for a moment, it feels like old times between us.
But after we leave the auditorium and she walks me to the parking lot, I remember what awaits me at home.
I push away the dread and concentrate on enjoying the drive as I leave the hilltop observatory and descend into town. It’s a perfect summer night, and stars blanket the sky. My stars. Every winking point of white light belongs to me. They are wonderful, the town is quiet and dark, and I’m just fine.
Only I’m not.
Normally, I love driving my mom’s car, even though it’s several years old and smells faintly of patchouli. The stereo speakers are bass-heavy, and I relish taking the long way home, cruising the road between the freeway and the dark blue water, with San Francisco twinkling in the distance. Except for the occasional run to the grocery store, this is the only time I really drive. But, hey. At least my mom trusts me with her sedan, unlike my dad, who won’t let me near his vintage sports car. It’s worth too much.
But now I can’t stop thinking about that whole “one of many” line in that letter, and I wonder if my dad has driven other women around in his stupid car. Just how many others have there been? I’ve always thought my dad was a decent person, if not a little plastic and fake when he’s in full-on Diamond Dan mode, but now I’m picturing him dressed like Hugh Hefner with two curvy women on his arms.
It makes me want to vomit.
Dark silhouettes of skinny palm trees greet me as I turn into our cul-de-sac and park the car behind my dad’s Corvette in the narrow driveway next to our building. The clinic is dark, so no one’s working late. Hesitantly, I hike the steps of the connecting house and warily open the front door of our apartment.
A ball of white fur pads across the open living area to greet me. Andromeda is getting old, but she’s still sweet and pretty. No one can resist her dual-colored brown and blue husky eyes. I stick my fingers under her collar and give her a good scratch while kissing the top of her head.
“Hey, sweet thing,” my mom says. She’s stretched out on the couch under a blanket, reading a magazine under a dim lamp while the mute TV flashes a commercial in background. “How was astronomy club?”
“Fine.” I hand her the car keys. “Where’s Dad?”
She nods toward the balcony off the kitchen, where I spot a dark shape. “On the phone.”
My gut twists when I hear his voice, too low for me to make out what he’s saying. He’s always on the phone, and those phone calls usually are taken behind closed doors after he steps away. I assumed he was just being polite; my mom is old-school about people talking on cell phones in public.
Now I wonder who’s on the other end of the line.
Hoping she doesn’t notice my anxiety, I briefly tell Mom about Dr. Viramontes’s invitation to the star party while she’s flipping magazine pages. She’s mmm-hmm-ing me, completely distracted. I see her glance toward the balcony door, and a little line appears in the middle of her forehead.
Or maybe that’s my imagination.
All I know is that I can’t fake a convincing smile around my father, so after feigning weariness, I kiss Joy good night and make an escape upstairs, Andromeda at my heels.
My bedroom is in a converted attic space. My parents’ master bedroom is downstairs, so I have the entire upstairs to myself. Just me, an ancient bathroom without a shower, and a storage room filled with overflow supplies from the clinic.
Embarrassingly, my room hasn’t changed a lot since I was a kid. The ceiling is still covered with glow-in-the-dark stars—the “glow” ran out years ago—painstakingly arranged to match constellations. Pegasus lost the stars that make up his leg during a minor earthquake. The only decorative room additions from the last couple of years are my oversize handmade wall calendars, or “blueprints”—I have one for each season of the year, and they are all systematically color-coded—and my galaxy photos. I’ve had my best ones printed and framed. My Orion Nebula is particularly beautiful. I took it at the observatory with a special equatorial mount borrowed from Dr. Viramontes, and tweaked its purple luminance with stacking software.
After locking my door, I move past framed star charts and duck beneath a mobile of the solar system that hangs over my desk. I stashed the photo book in a deep desk drawer earlier, and when I double-check, it’s still there, under a neat stack of graph-lined planning journals and a rainbow bin of highlighters, gel pens, and rolls of washi tape. My parents don’t touch my stuff—it’s all carefully organized—so I’m not sure why I’m so worried. I guess I just feel guilty.
Best not to think about it. “Until I can figure out what to do, it’s our little secret,” I tell Andromeda. She jumps up on my bed and curls into a ball. She’s an excellent secret keeper.
The only window in my room has a Juliet balcony that overlooks the cul-de-sac. There’s not room enough for me to stand outside, but it’s wide enough for my telescope, Nancy Grace Roman—named after the first woman to hold an executive position at NASA. I open the balcony doors and take the telescope from its black carrying case to set it up. I actually have two telescopes—this one, and a smaller portable model. I haven’t really used the portable one much, but now I’m daydreaming about taking it to that star party on Condor Peak.
I wonder if I can really do the camping and the meteor shower.
It would take a lot of planning.
I dash off a quick text to Reagan: So, about this glamping trip. Who’s going? Are you driving? What day are you leaving?
She responds almost immediately: Slow your roll. I’m in bed. Super tired. Want to go pick up camping gear with me tomorrow afternoon? We can talk about it then.
I’m both relieved and disappointed. Relieved, because I guess it’s cool with her that I tag along. And disappointed, because though I need to plan things well in advance, Reagan does everything by the seat of her pants. She’s always telling me I need to lighten up and embrace spontaneity.
Spontaneity gives me hives.
Literally.
I have chronic urticaria. That’s a fancy name for chronic hives. They’re idiopathic, which means doctors can’t pinpoint an exact cause for why, when, and how long they flare. Sometimes when I eat certain foods, touch an allergen, or—especially—get super anxious, itchy pale-red bumps appear on the inside of my elbows and on my stomach. If I don’t calm down and take an antihistamine, they’ll spread into huge welts off and on for days, or even weeks. It’s been several months since I’ve had a breakout, but between Reagan and this thing with my dad, I can already feel the itch coming on.
I answer Reagan’s text, asking for details about meeting her tomorrow. Then I assemble my telescope and set up the tripod in the middle of the balcony’s open doors.
As I’m adjusting the mount, I look over the balcony railing to scan the cul-de-sac. Viewed from up here, our street looks like a fat raindrop, its center filled with a dozen public parking spaces. At night, they’re mostly empty, so I have a pretty clear view of the other side of the street, where I spot Lennon’s car. It’s hard to miss. He drives this hulking black 1950s Chevy that looks like a hearse, with pointy tailfins cradling a hatchback door that lifts up to carry the coffins, or whatever dastardly thing he hauls back there. And right now, it’s parked in front of a pale blue duplex
house directly across the street from us: the Mackenzies’ apartment unit.
I can’t pinpoint the exact moment Lennon morphed from the boy-next-door comic geek to the boy-in-black horrorphile, but I guess he’s always been a little odd. Some of that may be due to how he grew up. His biological dad—Adam Ahmed, who used to date Mac—is the former guitarist for a radical San Francisco punk band that was popular during the Bay Area’s ’90s punk revival explosion. His moms took three-year-old Lennon on tour when his dad’s band opened for Green Day.
So yeah, he hasn’t always led a so-called normal life, but he always seemed normal.
Until junior year, that is. After the night of the homecoming dance, we didn’t speak for days. No more hiking down to the Jitterbug to get coffee after school. No more night walks. Weeks passed. I’d see him occasionally at school, but our brief interactions were tense. He started hanging around other people.
Golden light shines from a window on the corner of the Mackenzies’ house. Lennon’s room. I know it well. We used to signal each other from our windows before sneaking out late at night to meet up for walks around the neighborhood with Andromeda.
We made a game of creating and naming detailed routes. Lennon would draw them all out, streets labeled with his neat handwriting and tiny sketches. He’s drawn maps since we were kids. Some were fantasy maps based on books he read; he redrew Middle Earth about twenty times. And some were of Melita Hills. That’s how our friendship started, actually. I’d just moved to Melita Hills and didn’t know my way around, so he made me a neighborhood map of the Mission Street area. He gave me a larger, updated one for my birthday last year—one that included our favorite late-night walking route, which extended out along a bicycling path curving around the Bay. It had funny little drawings, all the points of interest we considered important, and a legend of symbols he’d made up.
It’s currently upside down at the bottom of the same drawer where I’ve hidden my dad’s stupid photo book. I wanted to throw it away after we stopped speaking, but I couldn’t make myself do it, because that walking route he drew? It’s where the Great Experiment started.
