“It’s not you,” Diego said. “It’s just a reflex. I moved from Colorado.”
The first thing that popped into my mind was, “Jack Swigert was from Colorado.”
“Who?”
“Jack Swigert? Apollo 13 astronaut? Nearly died in space trying to reach the moon?” I stuffed my hands into my pockets when Diego shook his head. “I read a lot.”
“Books are for ugly people.”
“And old women. My nana reads a book a day. Of course, she’s got Alzheimer’s, so she could read the same book over and over and it wouldn’t make a difference to her. She used to write in her journal every day. I kind of picked up the habit from her.”
“So you’re a writer?”
“I write sometimes—mostly about stuff that happens to me, and occasionally different ways the world might end—but I’m not a writer.”
Diego laughed, and the rich, sincere sound of it made me smile. “That sounds . . . odd. I paint.”
“Landscapes?”
“Lots of ’scapes.”
“I can’t even draw stick figures. I sat next to a kid in middle school who specialized in turning the illustrations in his textbooks into dicks and vaginas. I doubt there’s any real-world application.” I couldn’t stop rambling, so I bit the inside of my lip to shut myself up.
We reached the social studies building. It was a squat, two-story structure that was begging to be torn down. The paint was peeling, and the classrooms smelled moldy and damp. “Here we are. Two nineteen is on the second floor.”
“Thanks for being my guide.”
“Sure. Oh, and you should avoid sitting in the front row; Mrs. Parker’s a spitter.”
Diego tapped his temple. “Noted. See you later, Henry . . .”
“Denton.”
“Diego Vega.” He climbed the stairs, and I walked in the direction of the football field. “Hey, Henry!” I stopped and turned around. Diego was leaning over the railing of the second floor, and I had to crane my neck to see him. “You think you’ll ever go into space?”
“I’d say it’s pretty likely.”
? ? ?
Twenty minutes later Marcus was pawing me under the bleachers while I kept a lookout for spiders and tried not to feel like a dirty cliché. He didn’t even say hello when he saw me because he was too busy slipping his tongue into my mouth and putting his hands down my pants. It would have been sweet if I thought he were actually happy to see me rather than just plain horny.
My stomach churned, and I pushed Marcus away to avoid burping in his mouth. “Sorry, I skipped breakfast.”
Marcus grabbed his crotch. “I’ve got something you could—”
“I changed my mind about this weekend,” I said, cutting him off before he ruined the moment.
“Really?”
“Yeah. My mom’s preoccupied with work, and Charlie can look after Nana.”
Marcus uncapped his bottled water and took a swig. “Too late, Space Boy.”
“Why?” My voice was crumbling, and I struggled to shore up its supports.
“After you blew me off, I decided to throw a little party.”
“Oh.” Marcus twisted my nipple. I slapped his hand away. “Dick!”
“It’s not even a party, really. More like an intimate gathering of friends.”
“Next time.” I pinched my leg through my jeans and focused on the pain. I had no right to be upset; I’d bailed on him first. It’s not like I expected him to sit home all weekend, pining for me, but would it have killed him to act a little disappointed?
“Definitely.” Marcus checked the time on his phone. “Come on, Space Boy. Bell’s gonna ring soon, and I didn’t invite you out here to talk.”
11 September 2015
On Friday, Marcus hardly acknowledged I existed. I loath admitting I wanted him to pull me into the restroom to make out or send me a text, begging me to come to his party. Anything to prove he gives a shit. To occupy my mind and keep me from spiraling out of control, I tried to come up with an explanation for why the sluggers chose me to save the planet.
I think most people would have pressed the button the moment they realized the stakes. Most people are motivated by their own self-interest, and pushing the button would ensure their survival. But I am not most people. Maybe that’s why the sluggers chose me: they weren’t sure what I’d do.
On the surface, it seems like there are a million reasons to press the button—great movies, books, sex, pizza with everything, bacon, kissing—but those things mean nothing. The universe is more than thirteen billion years old. What is the value of a single kiss compared to that? What is the value of an entire world?
It’s too much to wrap my brain around, which only leads me back to wondering why I’ve been chosen. There are smarter people who could make a more informed decision, and dumber people who’d make a quicker one.
The sluggers didn’t abduct them, though, they abducted me, and all I can do is be honest.