2
THERE
MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 8, 2008
(the day before my seventeenth birthday)
“Abby? Abby, honey, wake up.”
My eyes fly open. My mom, still in her pajamas, is sitting on the edge of my bed, her face the picture of calm. I appreciate her effort, but I know instantly that something is wrong. There is much too much sunlight in my room.
“What time is it?”
“Five till eight.”
I blink. For a moment I am still, calculating the exact number of minutes between now and the time the late bell rings. Thirteen.
“Abby?” My mom is clearly confused by my stillness. We both know there’s no way I’m making it to school on time, which means I’ll miss the beginning of the senior parking lottery. They start at the parking spot closest to the building and work their way toward the street, drawing names from a box at lightning speed. In order to claim your space, you have to be present at the drawing when they call your name. If you’re not, game over. You’re automatically relegated to the annex lot across the street.
I spring out of bed.
“Why didn’t my alarm go off? And why is my alarm clock on the floor?” I point an accusing finger at the base of my nightstand, where my clock radio is lying facedown on the carpet. My mom bends to pick it up.
“There was an earthquake last night,” she replies, setting the clock back on my nightstand. It’s blinking 12:00. “At least, they think it was an earthquake.”
“There was an earthquake? In Atlanta?” I stare at her. “How is that possible?”
“Apparently, it’s not the first time it’s happened. And it wasn’t just here, either.” She presses the radio button on my clock. The familiar sound of my favorite morning news program fills the room.
“No significant damage or injuries have been reported, but people are reporting power outages in various parts of the city. This is the third earthquake to hit the Atlanta area since 1878. Seismologists are baffled by the quake, which, despite its relatively small size—only five point nine on the Richter scale—appears to have triggered seismic activity all over the globe.”
I wonder briefly if I’m still asleep. An earthquake felt all over the world?
“Can I make you breakfast?” Mom asks, standing up.
I shake my head as I slide out of bed. “No time. But thanks.” I pull the elastic from my hair, wishing I’d had the foresight to wash it last night, and wince as my fingers hit a tangle.
“Any chance school is canceled?” I call after my mom. She reappears in the doorway and shakes her head.
“They’ve already announced that it isn’t.”
“What about aftershocks?” I ask as I give myself a once-over in the mirror above my dresser, trying to decide whether it’s absolutely necessarily to bathe.
“I guess they figure kids will be safer at school,” Mom replies. “Fewer windows.”
I skip the shower and douse myself with lavender Febreze instead. I put my unwashed hair back into a ponytail, grab my bag, and head down the back stairs to the kitchen.
“You excited about your big first day?” Dad asks when I appear.
“‘Excited’ is a strong word.”
“Well, try to enjoy it.” His voice is wistful. “You’re only a senior once.” I can tell by the look in his eye that he’s remembering his own senior year of high school, hanging out in Andy Warhol’s studio in midtown Manhattan after school (yes, that Andy Warhol), making silk screens and lithographs and probably doing massive amounts of drugs. He told me once that although his life got happier in the years that followed, he’s never felt quite as alive as he did then.
“Don’t forget your lunch!” Mom says, coming up behind me, brown paper bag in hand. As always, there’s a colorful sticker holding it closed. I told her once, years ago, that the stickers were unnecessary because the bag just ended up in the trash. The next day, there was a note inside the bag, on exquisite handmade paper: Dearest Abby, The Beauty of Life is in the beauty of life. Treasure the details. Love, Mom. The stickers kept coming.
“Don’t speed,” my dad warns.
“I won’t,” I lie, and head for the door.
My school is exactly four miles and five traffic lights from my house. Over the past three years, I’ve learned that the time it takes me to get there varies dramatically depending on the time of day and the weather. Before seven o’clock on a clear day, it takes me four minutes. On rainy days during rush hour, it takes at least twelve. Today is the first “morning after an earthquake” I’ve ever experienced, so I’m not sure what to expect, but I’m definitely not prepared for the standstill I encounter as soon as I pull out of my neighborhood. Nobody is moving. It’s as if everyone within a ten-mile radius decided to hop into their cars at the exact same time. I glance at the clock on my dash and groan. It’s 8:25 already, and I still have three and a half miles to go.
“If I’m late, then it probably means a lot of people are late. I’m sure they’ll postpone the drawing.” I say this out loud, confidently, trying to trick myself into believing it. Yeah, right. Our principal—a large, unfortunate-looking man whose arsenal of painful clichés and acne scars has earned him the nickname “The Cheese”—will no doubt relish the opportunity to wield his favorite catchphrase: “It’s up to you to do what it takes.” In other words, don’t blame the earthquake—if being at school on time is important to you, get a battery-operated alarm clock (this was his response after a tornado wiped out a local power grid two years ago, delivered to the entire student body, sans irony, with a completely straight face).
At 8:54, I pull into the school parking lot. From the looks of it, the cars clogging the roads hadn’t belonged to my classmates. There’s not a single empty space. “A preview,” I mutter, crossing into the annex lot across the street. “Might as well get used to it.” I park in one of the few open spots and sprint toward the building. The second-period bell is ringing, loud and shrill, as I pull open the front door. I don’t see any seniors in the crowded hallway, which I take as a good sign: The lottery must not be over yet.
As I approach the auditorium, I’m met with the muffled sound of the Cheese’s voice. I slip through the doors and take a seat in the back row. Our auditorium has stadium seating, so I have a bird’s-eye view of the stage. Behind the podium, there is a giant diagram of the parking lot propped up on an easel. Although I can’t read them from this distance, every space is filled with a name. Damn it.
“This is your year,” Mr. Cheese is saying. “Make it count.” He pumps his fist for emphasis. From the sea of slumped bodies, it’s obvious he’s being wholeheartedly ignored.
I scan the crowd for Caitlin and Tyler. Ty is easy to spot. He’s the only black head in a row of white ones (our golf team). I eventually spot Caitlin on the far left, one empty seat between her and the aisle, no doubt saved for me. My eyes are fixed on the top of her blond head, willing her to look at me, but she’s focused on something in her lap.
Two seconds later, my phone buzzes with a text.
Caitlin: WHERE R U???
I quickly write back. BEHIND U. FAR BACK. Right after I hit send, she turns around. I wave and she smiles, looking relieved to see me, then turns back to her phone.
U OK?
YEAH. ALARM DIDNT GO OFF.
YIKES. SORRY.
TELL ME ABOUT IT. WHAT # DID U GET?
#27
Lucky her! Second row from the building.
NICE! ME?
Caitlin raises her eyes and gives me a sympathetic look. My phone vibrates in my hand.
A7 :(
A as in Annex. Lovely. “Sorry,” Caitlin mouths. I shrug. At this point, it’s not like I’m surprised.
I’m not sure I want to know, but I ask anyway:
WHEN DID THEY CALL MY NAME?
Another sympathetic look.
#19
The very first row. Naturally.
“We expect each and every one of you to take ownership of your future,” the Cheese drones on. “Our guidance counselors are a wonderful resource—use them—but the decisions are ultimately yours to make. Where you go from here is up to you. Don’t get on a Road to Nowhere.” There is a collective eye roll. His captives are reaching their Cheese threshold. Thankfully, he’s wrapping it up. “It’s nine-oh-five,” he announces, pointing at the wall clock. “We expect everyone to be in their second-period classrooms, in their seats by nine fifteen. You are dismissed.”
I make my way to the left aisle to meet Caitlin. In skinny jeans, peep-toe heels, and a cropped silk blazer, she looks like she should be on the cover of Teen Vogue, not cruising the halls of a suburban high school.
“Hey,” Caitlin says as she saunters up the aisle. “Forgot to replace the batteries in your alarm clock?”
“How’d you know?” I fall into step beside her. “Did I miss anything important?”
She shakes her head. “Just pearls of Cheese wisdom. I know you’re devastated to have missed those.” Her phone buzzes with a text.
“Tyler?”
She shakes her head. “My dad. He’s down at the USGS field office. I made him promise to send hourly updates.”
“USGS?”
“U.S. Geological Survey. They’re worried about structural damage from the tremor.”
“Have they figured out what caused it yet?” I ask. “Since when do earthquakes shake the whole planet?”
“Earthquakes don’t.”
Before I can ask Caitlin what she means, someone taps me on my shoulder. “Abby?” It’s Ms. DeWitt, one of our guidance counselors. I’ve been to her office so few times I’m surprised she even knows who I am. “Do you have a minute?”
“Uh, sure.” I glance at Caitlin. “See you later?” Caitlin nods, then heads toward the lobby doors. I turn back to Ms. DeWitt, who motions for me to follow her.
“I sent a note to Mrs. Gorin this morning, asking that you stop by before the lottery,” she says as we set off down the hall. “But I gather you didn’t make it to homeroom today?”
“Oh—no—I just got here. We lost power because of the earthquake,” I explain. She’s a few steps ahead of me, so I hurry to catch up. “Uh, is everything okay?”
We arrive in front of her door, and she ushers me inside. “Everything is fine,” she says, gesturing for me to sit. “We just have to make a change to your class schedule.”
I freeze. “What kind of change?”
“Mr. Simmons has canceled History of Music,” she says, sitting down at her desk. There are photos of a mean-looking Siamese cat tacked to her bulletin board. “Which leaves you without a fifth-period class.” Her voice is brisk, like she’s in a rush. “This morning there were openings in a couple of electives, but since we’ve rescheduled twenty-two students since then, I’m afraid you don’t have many options.”
Shit. History of Music was a key component of my perfect schedule. The title sounds legitimate enough, but it’s a total no-brainer. The final exam consists of listening to Mr. Simmons’s hand-selected “essentials” playlist while writing an essay on the importance of music to American pop culture.
“So, where does that leave me?” I ask, hoping she’ll tell me that Mr. Simmons has created a new class, something that’ll make HOM look like rocket science.
“Principles of Astronomy.” To her credit, she doesn’t even try to make this sound like good news.
I will not freak out, I will not freak out. “That’s my only option?”
“At this point, yes,” she says apologetically. “If you’d been here when we first sent for you, you could’ve taken Ms. Ziffren’s drama class instead . . . but I guess that’s neither here nor there at this point, isn’t it?” She smiles reassuringly as she hands me my new schedule. “The good news is, astronomy will really stand out on your transcript.” I glance down at the page, still warm from the printer.
Yeah. Fs usually do.
“Abby, stop freaking out.” Caitlin stabs a cucumber with her fork and pops it into her mouth. “I took it freshman year. It’s not a hard class.”
“This coming from the girl who’s spent the past two summers interning at NASA.” We’re sitting on the hill behind the cafeteria, our lunches next to us. The lawn is packed with seniors enjoying the sunshine and one of the few perks of senior year: outdoor dining.
Caitlin rolls her eyes. “Abby, it’s not even a real astronomy class. I promise you, if there are sci-track kids in there, they’ll all be freshmen.”
“Great,” I say sarcastically. “So a bunch of fourteen-year-olds can make me feel stupid. I feel better already.”
“It’s senior year, baby!” We look up. Tyler is grinning down at us, flanked by four guys from the golf team.
“What are you so happy about?” I grumble as Tyler plops down on the grass next to Caitlin, lunch bag in hand. The other guys sit down at a picnic table a few feet away, no doubt worried about wrinkling their pressed khakis.
Caitlin, Tyler, and I have been eating lunch together every day since sixth grade. My parents met Tyler’s parents—both classical musicians—at a fund-raiser for the National Endowment for the Arts two weeks after they moved here, so Ty and I have been spending cookouts and game nights together since we were babies. There was a period in elementary school when we professed to despise each other, but by fifth grade we were inseparable. We didn’t meet Caitlin until sixth grade, when her family moved here from San Francisco. The three of us have been best friends ever since. These days, Caitlin and I are closer than either of us is to Tyler, mainly because he spends all his time playing golf and hooking up with volleyball players. And cheerleaders.
Tyler shrugs out of his blazer and drapes it over the fence behind us. Yes, he’s sporting a seersucker suit at school. That’s Tyler. A walking contradiction. The choirboy who uses a fake ID to buy beer every weekend but refuses to jaywalk. The jock with an unyielding Carrie Underwood obsession. The city boy who wears seersucker and plays competitive croquet.
“We’re seniors. What’s not to be happy about?” Tyler turns his lunch bag over and dumps its contents onto the lawn. Four sandwiches, two apples, an orange, two bags of potato chips, a carton of blueberry yogurt, and an entire sleeve of Chips Ahoy.
“Abby’s freaking out because she has to take astronomy,” Caitlin tells him.
“I am not freaking out.”
Caitlin looks at me, eyebrows raised.
“Ugh, I’d be freaking out, too,” says Tyler. Caitlin elbows him.
“Ignore him,” Caitlin instructs. “You’ll be fine. Mr. Kang is a great teacher.”
“He isn’t teaching it,” I tell her.
“What are you talking about? It’s Kang’s class.”
“Not this semester,” I reply, handing her the printout of my new schedule. Caitlin glances down at it and immediately reacts.
“No way!”
“What?” I demand.
“Unless this is a different Gustav P. Mann, the guy teaching your astronomy class is a Nobel Prize winner.”
Memories of tenth-grade Botany Basics come barreling back. “Please tell me you’re kidding,” I moan.
“There’s still room in all my classes,” Tyler says sympathetically. “History of the Southern Narrative, Prop Design, Intro to Tempo and Beats, Practical Physics, Senior Math, and Conversational Spanish.” Listening to him rattle off this laughable lineup, I am envious of Tyler and his utter lack of scholastic ambition. It’s not that he’s not smart, but when you’re a golf star, the college application process goes a little differently.
“Are those even real classes?” I ask him.
“Barely,” Tyler replies, polishing off the last of his sandwiches.
“What is he doing teaching here?” Caitlin is still staring at my schedule. “I know there was pressure for him to resign, but how did he end up down here?”
“Resign from where?” I ask.
“Yale,” Caitlin replies. “He has tenure there.” She frowns. “Had tenure.”
“What, did he molest a student or something?” Tyler jokes. Caitlin glares at him.
“No, he did not molest a student. He published a book the scientific establishment couldn’t stomach, mostly because it read like the plot of a sci-fi novel. When they weren’t able to dismantle his theory, they laughed at it. And him.”
“What’s the theory?” I ask.
“It has to do with parallel universes,” Caitlin replies. “Dr. Mann claims it’s possible for them to—”
“Hiii, Tyler!” Caitlin’s expression instantly turns sour. Neither of us has to look to know who the voice belongs to. Ilana Cassidy, quite possibly the least likable and most genuinely mean-spirited person on the planet. Apparently, the fact that Ilana is the devil incarnate was not enough to keep Tyler from hooking up with her at Max Levine’s annual end-of-summer party, giving Ilana the mistaken impression that she and Tyler are a couple now. Ilana is standing at the foot of the hill, hands on her bony hips, posing like she’s on the red carpet.
“Is she expecting paparazzi?” Caitlin mutters under her breath. The only person who likes Ilana less than I do is Caitlin.
Ilana’s eyes dart to Caitlin. In an odd twist of fate, the only person whose approval Ilana craves is Caitlin, which has everything to do with Caitlin’s runway-worthy wardrobe. Ilana sees me watching her and glowers. “What are you looking at?” I know better than to respond.
“I’ll catch up with you later, okay?” Tyler calls to Ilana. “We’re sort of in the middle of something.”
A look of annoyance flashes across Ilana’s face, but she covers it with a plastic smile. “Yeah, okay!” she chirps. “Text me!”
Tyler gives her a noncommittal wave, then turns back to his lunch.
“I still can’t believe you hooked up with her,” Caitlin says to Tyler when Ilana is out of earshot, her tone harsh.
“I don’t know why you hate her so much,” Tyler replies. “She’s not that bad.”
“Oh, yes. She is.”
“You know, you guys kinda look alike,” Tyler says casually, pulling the top off his yogurt. He licks blue yogurt off the little aluminum lid, then wads it up into a little ball and tosses it into the nearest trash can, pretending not to notice that Caitlin is glaring at him.
“We do not.”
“The blond hair, the blue eyes . . .” Tyler grins. “You two could be sisters.”
I can’t help but laugh. It’s true that Caitlin and Ilana are both blond haired and blue eyed, but they look nothing alike. Caitlin is a replica of her mother—tall, lanky, beautiful in an I-just-rolled-out-of-bed-and-threw-this-on way. Ilana, on the other hand, always looks like she just spent two hours in the bathroom (and about four hours at the gym) trying to achieve Barbie-doll beauty. Her five-foot-two-inch frame has been spun and kickboxed down to kids’ department size, and her frizzy brown hair has been bleached and straightened into submission, so that it now hangs limply at her bony shoulders.
Caitlin makes a face and punches Tyler in the shoulder. He catches her fist in his and holds it for a couple of beats longer than he has to. That’s when it happens. Something passes between them. Something I’ve never noticed before. Something so slight, it’s nearly imperceptible . . .
Chemistry.
The moment the thought pops into my mind, I’m certain of it. I can’t explain how I know, I just do. It’s like this intense gut feeling, an intuition so strong it almost feels like déjà vu. Is that why Tyler asked me yesterday if Caitlin had met anyone at the lab this summer? I assumed it was because he wanted to tease her about it (Tyler has no shortage of nerd jokes), but now I wonder if he had other reasons. And Caitlin has been disproportionately critical of the Ilana thing, catty when she’s normally not.
“So you’re saying Caitlin is your type, then,” I say, keeping my voice casual. “You can’t have Caitlin, so you’re settling for Ilana.”
Both Tyler and Caitlin look at me in surprise. We don’t joke like this. Ever. Is it me, or did Tyler’s cheeks just get rosier? It’s awkward for an instant. Then Tyler smiles, and the awkwardness evaporates.
“Yeah, that’s it,” he says, tugging Caitlin toward him, playing into my joke. “Ilana is filling my Caitlin-shaped void.”
“Last I checked, I wasn’t shaped like a lollipop,” Caitlin retorts, swatting him away. Her tone is sharp and bitchy and not like her at all. As soon as the words are out of her mouth, she winces. “Sorry. That was mean.”
“The girl has pictures of Mary-Kate Olsen taped to the inside of her locker,” Tyler points out. “I’m pretty sure ‘lollipop’ is what she’s going for.”
Caitlin looks at her watch. “I should go,” she says. “I need to stop by DeWitt’s office before class.” Her mention of the guidance counselor’s name sends me back into panic mode. Astronomy starts in ten minutes.
“Please tell me you’re switching into my class,” I beg. “You can learn from your idol and tutor me at the same time.”
“I wish,” she replies. “But I already took it with Kang freshman year. There’s no way they’ll let me take it twice.”
“So what’re you switching?”
“Not switching. Just adding. I want to see if they’ll let me double up sixth period.”
“You want to take two classes at once?” I ask. I’ve seen Caitlin’s schedule. It’s intense.
“Neither is offered spring semester,” she says nonchalantly. “So, yeah. Why not?”
I look over at Tyler. He just shrugs.
“News flash, Barnes. She’s insane.”
I get to fifth period a few minutes early, but the room is already full. Caitlin was right about the freshmen; about half the faces look young and scared. Another third are kids I know, probably other History of Music refugees. The rest I recognize as science-track brainiacs who will no doubt destroy the grading curve for the rest of us. I look around for an empty seat.
There’s only one, in the very back row, next to a guy I’ve never seen before. Blond crew cut, dark brown eyes, average-looking features. Light blue T-shirt tucked into dark green cargo pants that have about five too many pockets. White Converse One Stars (the low kind) that look like they just came out of the box. His vibe is definitely dorky, but cute dorky. The way Max Levine was before he grew his hair out and started smoking truckloads of pot. Since he looks too old to be a freshman, I decide he must be new.
Astronomy Boy sees me looking at him and smiles. He points at the empty seat.
“Hey,” he says as I approach. “I’m Josh.”
“I’m Abby.” Why am I suddenly nervous?
“Popular class,” Josh remarks, glancing around the crowded room. “That means it’s either really good or really easy.”
“Definitely not easy,” I reply. “Unless you’re on the science track, in which case ‘easy’ is a relative term.”
“Oh, right,” Josh says. “The whole magnet school thing. Are you in the science program?”
“Ha. No. Nowhere close. I’ve never met a science class I didn’t hate.”
“So what’re you doing in astronomy?”
“An unfortunate twist of fate,” I reply, distracted by the tiny mole beneath his left eye, just below his lash line. It’s infinitesimal, not more than a pinprick, but that little mark somehow elevates his face from average to adorable. Or maybe it’s the smattering of pale freckles on his nose. Or the perfect shape of his bottom lip.
The mole does a little dance as his eyebrows shoot up. “Fate, huh? This must be a pretty important class for you, then.” I can’t tell whether he’s teasing.
“What about you?” I ask. “Are you here by fate or choice?”
“Hmm. I guess I’d have to say choice. This was the first class I signed up for.”
“Oh, so you’re into self-torture, then.”
Josh laughs out loud. His laugh, deeper than his voice, reminds me of the rich sweetness of my mom’s gingerbread. I angle my knees toward him, wishing his were close enough to touch. “I mean, c’mon—what’s cooler than the universe?” he says. “It’s this great, big, never-ending mystery that astronomers and cosmologists spend their whole lives trying to solve. And after all that discovery and revelation, there’s always more to figure out.” His mouth widens into a boyish grin. “I love that.”
I match his grin. “I take it you were one of those kids with a telescope in your bedroom,” I tease. “And let me guess . . . glow-in-the-dark star stickers on your ceiling?”
“Guilty,” he says, as the lights dim.
“Velcome to Prinzeeples of Astronomy!” a voice booms, the words flecked with German. “Let zee fun begin!” Dr. Mann claps his hands together with glee, earning some muffled laughter from the back of the room.
Our teacher is shorter than I expected but otherwise looks like every photograph I’ve ever seen of Albert Einstein: wild gray hair, huge round eyes, unruly eyebrows. In his brown tweed suit with suede patches on the elbows, he’s the perfect incarnation of a nutty professor. Would his colleagues at Yale have laughed at him if he’d looked a little less like one?
Dr. Mann holds up a stack of papers. “This is the syllabus for this course,” he says as he hands the stack to a girl in the front row. “Our task is not to master the topics on this list, although that is certainly a worthy pursuit and one well worth the discipline it requires.” He pauses, surveying the room. He has our attention. “Rather, our work will be focused on the larger picture. The big questions. I just ask this: No matter what the concept, you commit yourselves to this principle.” He turns on his heels and strides to the overhead projector, where he begins to write with sharp, definitive motions. When he’s finished, he flicks on the light. Two words, all caps, appear on the white screen:
LOOK DEEPER
“No cross-country practice?” My mom is at the kitchen table paying bills when I come through the back door.
“Coach canceled it,” I tell her, setting my bag and keys on the counter. “I think he was spooked by the earthquake. What are you doing home so early?”
“The museum was closed today,” Mom replies. “We had a water main break.” She takes off her reading glasses and rubs her eyes.
“Uh-oh. How bad was the damage?”
“Not nearly as bad as it could’ve been, thankfully. An entire wing flooded, but there was only an inch or so of water, so the collection wasn’t affected. We’re in a lot better shape than MoMA,” she says. “They had an electrical fire and lost four pieces.”
“Oh, wow. That’s terrible.”
“I know. But listen to this: the four pieces they lost were the two hanging on each side of Dali’s Persistence of Memory—you know, the painting your dad and I were looking at when we met. The fire started behind that wall.”
“But the Dali survived?” I can tell by her tone that it must have.
She nods. “More than survived,” she says. “No damage at all. Not even from the smoke.” She smiles. “Your dad, of course, thinks it means something. He just hasn’t decided what yet.” She stands up from the table and stretches her back. On the TV mounted beneath our kitchen cabinets, a news reporter is talking about the earthquakes. The banner at the bottom of the screen reads EARTHQUAKE ROCKS THE GLOBE.
“Do they know what caused it?” I ask, nodding at the TV.
“They’re calling it a ‘fluke,’ if you can believe it. Which I’d say means they don’t have a clue.” She pulls open the fridge and examines its contents. “Want a snack?”
“Sure,” I say, suddenly ravenous. I hop up on the counter, then reach down to pull off my boots.
“So?” Mom asks, scooping hummus into the clay bowl my dad painted in Mexico last summer. We have a dozen dip bowls, but my mom always reaches for this one. “Am I allowed to ask for details?” She tosses me a bag of mini carrots.
“About my day? Sure.” I crunch on a carrot. “I arrived just in time to miss the entire parking lot drawing. Good news is, I don’t have to worry about exercise this year, because I’ll get plenty of it hiking to and from the annex lot.”
“I’m sorry, sweetie.”
“Eh, it’s okay,” I reply, reaching for another carrot.
“How about the rest of your day?” Mom asks. “You’re happy with that schedule you worked so hard on?”
I open my mouth to complain about my unwelcome astronomy class, and Josh pops into my head. Josh whose last name I don’t even know. Astronomy Boy. My stomach does a little flip-flop at the thought of him.
“I had to change it,” I tell her. “Good-bye, History of Music. Hello, Principles of Astronomy.”
My mom is clearly puzzled by my smile. “Is this a good thing?”
“I dunno,” I admit. “The teacher seems cool, and . . .” I hesitate, knowing that if I mention Josh, he will become the topic du jour.
“And . . . ?”
My cell phone rings from inside my bag.
“Tell Caitlin I said hello,” Mom says, sitting back down at the table.
“I will.” I grab one last carrot, then hop off the counter. “Thanks for the snack.” I dig my phone out of my bag and answer it. “Hey.”
“UGH. I literally JUST pulled out of the parking lot.”
Bag and boots in hand, I wave to my mom and head up to my bedroom.
“I’m sure they’d let you switch your spot for one in the annex,” I say, teasing, knowing Caitlin would rather sit in her car for an hour than walk the quarter mile to the annex lot, for two main reasons: She lives in four-inch heels, and she travels with about thirty pounds’ worth of science textbooks in her bag.
“Very funny. So how was astronomy? What’d you think of Dr. Mann?”
“The man used the words ‘kerfuffle’ and ‘tomfoolery’ with a straight face,” I reply. “What’s not to like?”
“Did he say why he’s at Brookside?”
“A kerfuffle with the Yale administration.”
“Seriously?”
“No. But it’s an awesome word, right?” I drop my bag and boots on my bedroom carpet and sprawl out on my stomach on my bed. “I think you were right about the pressure to resign. All he said was academia is not what it used to be, and that he wanted to spend some time with ‘unadulterated minds.’ He picked Atlanta because his daughter lives down here.”
“I wish I were his daughter,” Caitlin says wistfully. “All that Nobel-worthy DNA.”
“I’ll be sure to tell your dad that.” I roll over onto my back, propping myself up with the oversized Cheshire Cat pillow I’ve had since I was nine. He was supposed to go to Goodwill when I repainted my room last year, but he’s still here, big and pink and frayed around the mouth, holding court in the center of my blue-and-white-striped bed. “Hey, do you know where I can get some of those glow-in-the-dark stars?” I ask. “You know, the kind you can stick on your ceiling?”
“One day of astronomy and already you want stars on your ceiling?”
“This is me, embracing science. Go with it.”
“Can your stargazing wait until Thursday?” Caitlin asks. “I’m going to Fernbank for this young scientists thing. I’ll get you some from the planetarium gift store.”
“Thanks! It can be my birthday present.”
“Nope. Already have that, wrapped and ready to be brought to dinner tomorrow night with your cake.” Caitlin’s been getting me the same mint chocolate chip ice cream cake from Baskin-Robbins every year since seventh grade, and each year, we devour the entire thing in one sitting. It’s a highly caloric rite of passage we refuse to abandon. The rest of the day is always pretty anticlimactic, since by the time my birthday rolls around, everyone else in my grade has already had theirs. Turning seventeen (or sixteen or fifteen) is much less exciting when everyone else has already done it. “Hey, I’m pulling into my driveway,” Caitlin says. “Talk later?”
“Yup.” There’s a click, and she’s gone. Phone still pressed to my ear, I stare up at the ceiling, envisioning my future neon galaxy.
That night, I have trouble falling asleep. At ten past midnight, I give up. Very careful not to wake my parents, I make my way through the kitchen to the door that opens onto our deck. Outside, it’s both colder and quieter than I expect it to be. The wind picks up, icy against my bare legs, and I shiver in my thin T-shirt. I hug my arms close to my body. “Happy birthday,” I whisper in the darkness.
Above me, the dark, moonless expanse is thick with stars. I can’t remember the last time I noticed the night sky. When I was younger, I was enthralled by it, awed by its scale and mystery. On clear nights, I’d sit out here for hours, connecting the dots with my fingers, bringing animals and objects to life in my mind, while my dad sat beside me, sketching out my creations in his notebook, describing the exact location of each so none would be lost or forgotten. My creatures are up there now, right where I left them. Letting my head fall back, I trace their outlines with my fingertips, wishing I knew the real constellations.
My vision blurs as I stare, unblinking, at the starry sky. And then, out of nowhere, a strange sense of purpose overtakes me. Like a thunderclap, the words THIS IS IT reverberate in my brain. I blink—hard—and the sky comes into sharp focus. I blink again, trying to make sense of what I’m feeling. What is it? But the stars aren’t giving anything away.