7. Angle of Attack #2
“Luckily, at NASA, the road to becoming an astronaut has widened, allowing for men and women of all nationalities, races and creeds a chance at the stars. In fact, the next mission will include the first astronaut from the UAE, the United Arab Emirates.”
There is a bunch of murmuring, letting me know there is more than just one or two people on the line with her.
“My main struggles came from my younger years, before the culture shift of allowing women, not only in the work force, but in male dominated fields, like the armed forces, science and math.”
Carefully, I peek around the corner.
I’m stunned by what I see.
Jules’ laptop is raised up by a phonebook and a few boxes of cereal, so it is more or less at eye level as Jules sits with military posture in front of her computer’s camera.
And in the screen, on the other end of the line, is a classroom of teenage girls.
“So it’s better now?” a young woman asks.
Jules tilts her head, weighing her answer.
“I don’t want to lie and tell you how great things are, how far society as a whole has come in accepting women into STEM fields.
I mean, it has. The other female astronauts and I are proof of that.
But it still isn’t equal.” Her face remains uncharacteristically serious.
“If you go into a male dominated field, you’re going to have to fight twice as hard.
You’ll be called a bitch and hardass for taking charge, whereas a man will be praised for his leadership skills.
Your success will be questioned, wondering who and how many you slept with to get there, or with people saying you got the job because they needed a token woman and not your brain.
If you start a family you’ll feel you have to apologize for time away from work to take care of your children or even to take the necessary maternity leave recommended by professional health care providers.
Everything will be more of a challenge than if you were a man. ”
The students all stare back at her with equally solemn faces.
I suddenly want to hug Rose.
“So,” the girl who asked the last question pipes up, “is it worth it, then?”
A smile I haven’t seen before from Jules spreads across her face. It’s large, genuine and almost heartbreaking.
“Abso-freaking-lutely.”
The tension passes with a laugh from the class and the students move on to less weighted questions.
How much training is required for a spacewalk?
How do astronauts wash their hair in space?
What’s the food like? Is it scary or awe inspiring when looking at Earth from the ISS?
What classes did you take at college to prepare for your job?
And with each question, Jules remains at the ready, standing tall, shoulders back, but with a smile on her face, taking time to answer everything they throw at her, even when the teacher interjects and says time has run out.
Jules waves away her concern and keeps talking, telling the class there is nowhere else she’d rather be than talking to them.
And they believe her.
I believe her.
Finally, good-byes are said and Jules promises to send them some cool NASA gear.
When the picture blanks, Jules clicks the browser closed, letting her shoulders finally relax.
Still looking forward, she rolls her neck one way, then the other. “So is eavesdropping your thing, cowboy?”
Caught, face on fire, I come fully into the kitchen. “Uh sorry. I came in to make a sandwich and heard you in here.”
“Sandwich, huh?” She turns to me, her red shirt a polo with the NASA emblem over her heart. It’s tucked in with a skinny brown belt at the waist of her pale khakis that are cuffed at her ankles, her toes wiggling in her socked feet.
She’d taken off her shoes.
“Uh, yeah.” For some reason my neck muscles feel tight. I tap the counter and point to her laptop. “You do that often?”
“What?” She looks where I’m pointing. “Skype sessions? Yeah.”
“With kids?”
“Yeah…” She draws out the word, looking at me like I’m stupid.
When I just stand here, she tilts her head at the fridge. “So about that sandwich?”
Relieved at something to do, I pull open the old ivory-colored appliance.
Loading up my arms with lunch meat, cheese and condiments, I throw over my shoulder, “And, uh, sorry about what I said on the porch after your run. You know… about Tucker.” I straighten and drop the ingredients on the counter in front of her. “That was out of line and I’m sorry.”
She seems to think things over, frowning, but with that trademark gleam in her eye. “All right, cowboy.” She nods, her curls bouncing. “You’re forgiven.”
We share a smile that seems more weighted than usual before each of us looks down. Me with sandwich assembly, her with keyboard tapping.
With the sandwiches complete, I grab two Cokes and a bag of chips from the pantry and set everything down in front of the island barstools.
Popping the top off her can, she clinks it with mine. “Thanks.”
“No problem.”
She reaches out to close the laptop but I stop her with my hand on hers. “Wait.”
Jesus. Even her side-eye is sexy.
“Why don’t we look over the wedding stuff while we eat?”
She smiles, her eyes softening around the edges as she sets down her drink to slide her laptop between us. The screen is full of graphs and an email inbox that looks to be over fifty emails long. And that’s just the unopened ones.
Windows are minimized and a Dropbox folder opens. A few more clicks and we’re drowning in photos of various barn weddings.
Grabbing her sandwich and taking a large bite, Jules moves the food to the side of her mouth and mumbles, “Here we go.”
One of the pictures has a crystal chandelier hanging from the barn rafter.
Here we go indeed.