Chapter 9
“Would you go to space?”
Emily wrapped the phone cord around her finger. “I’ve never even been on a plane.”
“Let’s say you are guaranteed to come back alive. But it will change you. Astronauts say that it does: to see the Earth from far away. It does something to your brain. You’ll come back but you’ll be always different.”
“From everyone else, or from who I used to be?”
“Both.”
“But I would see the moon.”
“You would see the moon.”
“And the Earth. And come back alive.”
“Yes.”
“Okay. I’ll go to space.”
“Me too,” Gen said. “Let’s study today.” They had fallen into a rhythm in the past month: afternoons in the school library, then a run.
Emily was running faster and longer than ever, but Gen still beat everyone on the team and at all the intermural competitions against other Ohio teams. Sometimes Emily and Gen studied while they ran, though that made Emily crazy because she liked having paper and a pencil and Gen didn’t care where they were or how they talked about the helical structure of DNA or logarithmic functions.
Gen could hold a lot in her head and had a talent for responding to a question in a way that made it larger than what it was asking.
Emily had taken Gen to the guidance counselor and explained their idea: Gen could graduate in the spring by doing two years of classes in one.
She would attend half of each class and get notes about what she missed.
The guidance counselor said that was impossible, but Emily had made Gen take a practice SAT, and when she showed the counselor Gen’s score and he reviewed her grades, he decided that the plan was possible and that Gen should apply for college.
Outside his office, Gen looked worried when Emily thought she’d be glad.
Gen confessed that she hadn’t considered college, only graduating.
But Gen could get into college, she could go somewhere good, Emily knew it.
“I want to go somewhere free,” Gen finally said, and wouldn’t hear about loans.
Emily gave Gen her notebooks from junior year and talked with her senior-year teachers, who didn’t mind the unusual arrangement of Gen coming in and out of class as long as she kept up, which she did.
“I can’t study today,” Emily said. It was the weekend. “I have to work.”
“Want to come over after?”
Emily had never been to Gen’s home. She imagined Gen’s room, the color of the walls, the bedspread.
She suspected that Gen was messy. She imagined Gen on an unmade bed, one arm beneath her head, phone held against her cheek, long legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles.
Emily immediately wanted to go to Gen’s house, before remembering that she didn’t know where Gen lived.
Emily wasn’t sure how she’d get there without a car.
She had her license but there had never been a discussion about whether she could use her mother’s car.
Emily worked at IHOP because it was walking distance from her house.
“I’ll pick you up,” said Gen. “I’m a great driver. I learned when I was twelve.”
“Twelve?”
“The perks of living on a farm. You can drive pretty far without crashing into anything.”
“What about cows?”
“No cows. Corn and soybeans. But the crops aren’t ours. My gran rents out the land.”
“Not even chickens?”
“Yes, we have chickens.” Gen sounded amused. “I’ll show you the chickens. I’ll show you my favorite place, if you come.”
“I already said yes.”
“I don’t think you did.”
“Yes.”
“Great.”
“Hey, Gen.”
“Hey, what?”
“Who’s the sun and who’s the moon?”
“What?”
“You and me. Which one’s the sun and which one’s the moon?”
“I’m the sun,” Gen said promptly. “You’re the moon.”
“You’re right,” said Emily, pleased.
“I know.”
“How do you know?”
“I just do.”
The clapboard farmhouse’s white paint was dingy.
From a distance, it looked like a scrap of frayed cloth.
When Gen parked the pickup truck, three large dogs nosed their way out the screen door to weave around Gen’s legs.
They jumped up and planted paws on her thighs, muddying her jeans.
The porch had an uncertain, collapsible shape.
Inside, the wooden floors had a dull gleam and smelled of orange oil, and the furniture’s upholstery was covered in clear vinyl.
Gen’s grandmother, Nella, exclaimed over Emily as if she were a child and served her a glass of milk and fudge-striped cookies.
The clock on the kitchen wall was enormous and ticked loudly.
Nella was tiny and gray-haired, but younger than Emily would have thought, with a straight back and a warm snap of a smile.
“Gran, sit down.”
“Why should I? You are not sitting down. Be a good girl, like your friend, and sit at the table.”
“I’m making sandwiches,” Gen said.
Nella’s expression, as she placed her palms against Gen’s cheeks and gazed up at her, held such affection that it clutched at the loneliness inside Emily.
“Let me,” Nella said, and Emily thought, Let her, let her .
Emily found that she couldn’t look at the two of them anymore.
It felt like being in space. It felt like looking at the whole Earth, green and blue, and not being on it.
A dog’s head rested on Emily’s foot. From the kitchen doorway came the sounds of Nella watching Wheel of Fortune in the living room.
Emily was reading about the Treaty of Villafranca and taking notes, hand cramped.
Gen had her American history textbook open on the Formica table, but glanced up when Emily shook out her aching hand.
“Who’s the match and who’s the lighter?” Gen said.
“I’m the match.”
“Wrong.”
“I’m not a lighter .”
“Don’t be mad! Not a Bic lighter. A nice one. An old-timey one. Classy.”
“Fine, I’ll be the lighter.” The clock ticked. It was late. “You said you were going to show me your favorite place.”
“It’s too dark.”
“You said.”
“It’s better in the light.”
“Promises, promises,” Emily teased, but Gen didn’t smile. She looked anxious, lower lip bitten. Emily said, “You don’t have to.”
“I wanted to,” Gen said quietly.
“You can show me another time.” Emily added, “This is a great place to study.”
“Not too loud?” Gen glanced toward the living room. Televised applause rose and fell like the long pulse of cicadas.
“It’s nice.” Emily rubbed her tired hand.
Gen lifted hers, and for a moment Emily thought that Gen might touch her.
Gen’s hand dropped back to the book, but Emily saw, as though it were really happening, how Gen might have reached across the table to take Emily’s hand and rub a thumb into the spot that was sore.