say what he really wanted to say.
He didn’t want to go to Andromeda Academy. He didn’t want to fol ow in his dad’s footsteps.
Sure, he wanted to learn how to fly. Desperately wanted to learn how to fly. But there were other flight schools - less prestigious ones maybe, but at least they didn’t require selling six years of his life to the military so he could be ordered around by more men who looked and sounded just like his dad, and
cared about him even less.
“What’s wrong with you?” his dad said, not taking his eyes from Carswell, even as he swiveled a
finger at Janette. She began to clear his place setting. “You used to be good at math.”
“I am good at math,” Carswel said, then shoved more pancake into his mouth than he probably
should have.
“This report suggests otherwise.”
He chewed. And chewed. And crewed.
“Maybe we should get him a tutor,” said his mother, flicking her finger across her portscreen.
“Is that it, Carswell? Do you need a tutor?”
He swal owed. “I don’t need a tutor. I know how to do it all. I just don’t feel like doing it.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means that I have better things to do,” he said, setting down his fork. “I understand al the
concepts, so why should I waste whole days of my life working through those stupid worksheets? Not to
mention-“ He gestured wildly – At everything, at nothing. At the light fixture that changed automatical y based on the amount of sunlight that filtered in through the floor-to-ceiling windows. At the sensors in
the wal that detected when a person entered a room and set the thermostat to their own personal
preferences. At that brainless robotic cat. “We are surrounded by computers all the time. If I ever need help, I’l just have one of them figure it out. So what does it matter?”
“Because it shows focus. Dedication. Diligence. Important traits that, believe it or not, are usually found in spaceship captains.”
Scowling, Carswell grabbed the fork again and began sawing at the pancake stack with its side. If his
mother had noticed, she would have reminded him to use a knife, but she as far too busy pretending to
be at a different table altogether.
“I have those traits,” he muttered. And he did, he knew he did. But why waste focus and dedication
and diligence on something as trivial as math homework?
“Then prove it. You’re grounded until these grades come up to passing.”
His head snapped up. “Grounded? But mid-July break starts next week.”
Standing, his dad snapped his portscreen onto the belt of his own uniform – the impeccably pressed
blue-and-gray uniform of Colonel Kingsley Thorne, American Republic Fleet 186.
“Yes, and you wil spend your vacation in your bedroom doing math homework unless you can show
me, and your teacher, that you’re taking this seriously.”
Carswell’s stomach sank, but his dad had marched out of the breakfast room before he could begin
to refute.
He couldn’t be grounded for mid-July break. He had big plans for those two weeks. Mostly, they
involved an entrepreneurial enterprise that began with sending Boots up into the fruit trees on his
neighbor’s property and ended with him selling baskets of perfectly ripe lemons and avocados to every
little old lady in the neighborhood. He’d been charming his neighbors out of their bank accounts since
he was seven, and had become quite good at it. Last summer, he’d even managed to get the Hernandez
family to pay him 200 univs for a box of “succulent, prize-winning” oranges, having no idea that he’d
picked the fruits of their own tree earlier that day.
“He’s not serious, is he?” Carswel said, turning back to his mom. “He won’t keep me grounded for
the whole break?”
His mom, for maybe the first time that morning, tore her eyes away from the protscreen. She
blinked at him and he suspected that she had no idea what his father’s doled out punishment was.
Maybe she didn’t even realize what the argument had been about.
After a moment, just long enough to let the question dissolve in the air between them, she said,
“Are you all ready for school, sweetheart?”
Huffing, Carswel nodded and shoved two more quick bites into his mouth. Snatching up his book
bag, he pushed away from the table and tossed his blazer over one shoulder.
His dad watned to se an improvement of grades? Fine. He would find a way to make it happen. He
would come up with some solution that gave him the freedom he required during his break, but didn’t
include laboring away over boring math formulas every evening. He had more important things to do
with his time. Things that involved business transactions and payment col ections. Things that would
one day to him buying his own spaceship. Nothing fancy. Nothing expensive. Just something simple and
practical. Something that would belong to him and him alone.
Then his dad would know just how focused and dedicated he was, right as he was getting the aces
out of here.
~~~~~
Jules Keller had hit his growth spurt early, making him a full head taller than anyone else in the class, and he was even sporting the start of peach-fuzz whiskers on his chin. Unfortunately he still had a brain capacity equivalent to that of a seagull.
That was Carswell’s first thought when Jules slammed his locker shut and Carswell barely manged to
get his fingers out of the way in time.
“Morning, Mr. Keller,” he said, calling up a friendly smile, “You look particularly vibrant this
morning,”
Jules stared down the length of his nose at him. The nose on which a sizable red pimple seemed to
have emerged overnight. That was one other thing about Jules. In addition to the height and the brawn
and the fuzz, his growth spurt had given him a rather tragic case of acne.
“I want my money back,” said Jules, one had still planted on Carswell’s locker.
Carswell tilted his head. “Money?”
“Stuff doesn’t work.” Reaching into his pocket, Jules pul ed out a smal round canister labeled with
exotic ingredients that promised clean, spot-free skin in just two weeks. “And I’m sick of looking at your smug face al day, like you think I don’t know better.”
“Of course it works,” said Carswell, taking the canister from him and holding it up to inspect the
label. “It’s the exact same stuff I use, and look at me.”
Which was not exactly true. The canister itself had been emptied of its original, ridiculously
expensive face cream when he’d dug it out of the trash bin beside his mother’s vanity. And though he’d
sometimes sneaked uses of the high quality stuff before, the canister was now ful of a simple
concoction of bargain moisturizer and a few drops of food coloring and almond extract that he’d found
in the pantry.
He didn’t think it would be bad for anyone’s skin. And besides, studies had been showing the benefit of placebos for years. Who said they couldn’t cure teenage acne just as effectively as they could cure an annoying headache?
But Jules, evidently unimpressed with the evidence Carswel had just presented, grabbed him by his
shirt collar and pushed him against the bank of lockers. Carswell suspected it wasn’t to get a better look at his own flawless complexion.