Touch a Star
by Mike Moscoe
Illustration by Randy Asplund-Faith
Dave pulled hard on the rope, driving the backyard swing up into the cool evening air. He held his breath, trying to catch the fleeting moment of weightlessness at the top of the arc. It was gone too soon; he began the plunge back. Earth sucks.
The swing thumped and bumped, swaying with his weight. It was for kids, not a thirteen-year-old. But he always came to the old swing when his world was flying—or when it crashed. He came because of a memory, or a memory of a memory.
“Mommy, David ride starship.” Even at three he’d known what he wanted. He watched it every day on TV.
“No, David. You can’t ride a spaceship.”
At three he’d discovered can’ts; he’d found a lot more since. But at three he’d also started hunting for ways around can’ts. He pulled urgently on his mother’s dress. “David ride airplane.”
“Yes, honey, someday you and Mommy may ride an airplane.”
He wasn’t finished. “David touch a star.”
For a moment, he thought he’d done something wrong; his mother just looked at him. Then she picked him up and held him so tight. He could still feel the wet tear on her cheek. She hadn’t said anything, just brought him out to the swing.
That warm evening they had swung forever high. The stars seemed so close, just beyond his fingers. Yet even when she held him up, he could not touch the stars.
His pocket phone beeped, pulling David back to the present. He ignored it, pulled harder on the ropes, pushed himself higher. The swing threatened to tumble over but he didn’t care. At the height of the curve, he threw himself into the air, clutching for a star. His fingers grasped air.
Landing with a drop and roll that would make any Starship Trooper proud, Dave felt the letter crumple in his pocket. As he jogged for the back door, he straightened the envelope. It was a real letter; in the fading light, he could see the stamp. The mail-woman had brought it on her weekly round. It said he would never touch a star.
In his bedroom, the monitor was flashing, call waiting from terry. Dave’s voice broke as he accepted the call.
The screen lit up, then split to show Terry and a construct of Joe. His folks didn’t have a video on their phone.
Terry scowled at his open letter. “Sixteenth at 99.70. Close but no princess.”
Joe’s construct shrugged. “Nineteenth with a 99.68. What about you?”
Dave spread his letter out. Halfway down the page was what counted. It hadn’t changed since the last time he looked.
Students tested 553
Your weighted average 99.72
Your class standing 14
Damn! What’s the difference between tenth and fourteenth—.02, maybe .03. Maybe one more question right? Shit!
What’s the difference between tenth and fourteenth? Several thousand dollars, Dave answered his own question. The difference between the standard high school voucher and a full ride scholarship to Stephen Hawking High.
“I missed too. Fourteenth.”
“I guess we’ll all be together at Bud Clark next year. Whoop, whoop.” Joe’s cynicism said what David couldn’t.
“With all the jocks and rocks,” he groaned. Nobody liked the kid who ruined the curve. The three of them had busted quite a few. Maybe it was time to quit that.
“Hey, cut the funeral,” Terry snapped. “We ain’t dead yet. The best science project in town gets a full ride. I say it belongs to us.”
“Yeah, how?” Dave glumly shot back.
As usual, Joe was ready to toss out an idea. “Let’s build a rocket, something with lots of boom and flame.” Joe liked games that ended with explosions.
Dave scratched thoughtfully at all three bristles on his chin. “Two years ago a sounding rocket with an ultraviolet payload got the scholarship when it showed the ozone was healing above Portland. But last year the same project came in sixth.”
Terry snorted. “Then we go straight for orbit. No middle school’s ever put up a satellite.”
“That’s cause TWA don’t take payloads below high school level,” Joe cut in.
But Terry’s grin just got bigger. “We build our own rocket. That ought to beat the shit out of any game boom.”
Joe’s simulation sprouted a grin like a drugger on a double load.
Dave tried for a reality check. “The school has a standard rocket that projects have to use, and it won’t make orbit.”
Joe made a rude sound. “The damn thing’s ancient and way over weight. With the new Buckistring composite my dad uses on the stock and funny cars, we could do something that’s out of this world.” He was off the pad and climbing.
Dave couldn’t believe his friends. “Aren’t you guys listening? Nobody’s going to let us put anything in orbit. They got traffic management up there just like on the Interstate. You bounce something off a Clipper and a lot of people are going to be pissed even if we don’t hurt anyone.”
Terry wasn’t in listening mode. “So you check the schedule, Dave. You can get into the traffic net. We launch when you say it’s clear. Crew, we go for the gold here or we forget Stephen Hawking High,” Terry grimaced, “and the rest of our lives.” Dave leaned back. Terry was right about that one. They couldn’t just be good, they had to be spectacular. But Terry had no idea of the risks he was tossing around. He also was forgetting one hell of a lot. “They don’t give scholarships for rocket motors. What are we supposed to do in orbit?” That ought to stop him. It didn’t.
“Find creation,” Terry shot back. “Popular Mechanics is advertising this neat set of build-them-yourself infrared goggles that pinpoint where heat’s getting out of your house. I say we ramp up that design, put it in orbit, and go hunting the Big Bang.”
Dave worried his lips as he studied the advertising in a third window on his monitor. “It took a zillion dollars and a mob of scientists to build the Cosmic Background Explorer twenty years ago.”
“Yeah,” Terry agreed. “So, when a couple of kids do COBE cheap, they’ve got to give us some respect.”
The doorbell rang. That would be the pizza Mom ordered for supper. Dave studied the schematic on the screen. He could do that! There were ways to shrink it and make it better. As long as they didn’t kill anyone, why not gamble?
The doorbell rang long and insistent. This might be the last thing between him and that dorky uniform the pizza delivery man wore.
“OK,” Dave said from his bedroom door, “let’s do it.”
Mom already had her hands full of pizza by the time Dave got to the front door. Dave winced; it was his job to lay out whatever food Mom ordered. She stayed at her desk until he phoned supper was ready. Dad came later. He never left the factory before Dave and Mom were half done with dinner, but Dave understood. You couldn’t leave computer chips half baked.
Mom knew about the letter. Had she told Dad?
The pizza was still warm. Before Dave could take over his usual job, Mom started reslicing the pizza with an abandon that left David fearing for her fingers. “Izu in Japan and I are dealing over a shortage for, ah, a drug in India.” Mom debriefed her day, leaving out what she thought a boy shouldn’t hear. Dave knew she often dealt in contraceptives and other women stuff.
Mom glanced up. “I may have to go back to work after dinner. With the health insurance due this month, it would be nice to get a good commission.” Her eyes fell back to the pizza. She always got embarrassed when she talked about money.
The clock over the fireplace chimed and a holo appeared on its face. A bear chased a hunter across the face of the clock, captured rifle jerkily hammering the man’s cap flat with each chime. The bear got in six hits. Dad had seen the original somewhere and built the simulation as a present to Mom.