Since I returned to the house, my life has been devoid of conversation. Leon hasn’t felt like talking to me, or anyone, apparently. Mom’s still recovering from the explosion, and the fact that we haven’t seen or talked to Dad in three days is alarming to all of us. But she can throw herself into her coding. Kat’s been coming over for more lessons lately. Anything to distract them, where they can zone out, stare at screens, and wait for time to pass.
I don’t have that luxury.
NASA’s panicking, that much is clear. Last we heard, Dad was still in Florida, in meetings all day to see what could be salvaged from the wreck. He and Grace, along with a team of engineers, are tasked with figuring out how to land without the antenna, if NASA can’t solidify the funds to build a new one.
StarWatch has promised everyone a revitalizing special tonight—one that will reportedly be extremely interesting to their viewers.
I check my phone, watching a few likes and comments trickle in. Most of them are from my postexplosion video, which is nearing a million views. There aren’t many videos out there of the immediate aftermath, and mine’s the easiest to embed in a news story or pick up for a live report.
I went from streaming four or five times a week to abruptly posting nothing for three days, but I don’t have much to say. It’s all fucked. We’re all fucked.
When the phone rings, I momentarily get excited, thinking it’s Leon. But it’s not—it’s Deb. I feel a nostalgic relief wash through my body, and I pick up the phone.
“Hey, what’s up?” I say.
“Finally answering your phone? I was just going to leave you a voice mail”—she pauses—“with my new address.”
My stomach lurches. “Your what?”
“Yep. My family got evicted, so I packed a suitcase and left. Don’t have the credit or savings to get a real place, but my cousin lives out in Rockaway and he had an empty couch. Once his roommate moves out in a couple months, I’m going to take it over. Thought you should know.”
Panic floods my body. She was my backup plan. If things got too bad, she was supposed to be there when I moved back to Brooklyn.
“But did you hear about the explosion? With that and the jet crash, we might be coming back sooner than I thought. Did you not still want to live together?”
There’s a heavy silence. “Dude, my parents don’t have a home anymore. You left me for Texas, then implied you might never come back. Not to mention that we haven’t actually spoken in two weeks. Don’t make everything about you, just this once.”
Another pause, then, “You know what, never mind. I’ll text you the address. I’ll see you around.”
Silence.
As the line gets cut, I let out a groan. I had a plan. Even if it was a backup plan, it was a plan. And now that plan is gone.
A pang of guilt hits my chest. Once my mind detangles from my panic, I realize what I’ve done. What an ass I just was. I go to apologize via text, but that feels cheap, so I call her back.
After three rings, her voice mail kicks in.
I call again, and it goes straight to voice mail.
So, I sulk. I sit on my bed, music pumping through my headphones, drowning out the rest of the world. Deb and I have gotten through worse fights than this, and I know I’ll be able to apologize once she cools down. I pull out my phone to make sure she hasn’t texted, and when I see she hasn’t, I message Leon to see if he and Kat want to watch the overly hyped Shooting Stars finale together. Within a few seconds, I get a reply:
Hey, sorry. Mom’s home so we have family time tonight. We can text through it tho.
I’m initially disappointed, then suddenly concerned. Grace is back from Florida, but we haven’t even heard from Dad. I leave the room and go to find my mom, who’s simultaneously stirring a soup she made for lunch and playing her DS.
“Have you heard from Dad?” I ask.
She eyes me wearily, and I get the feeling that she has heard from him. And it’s not good.
“He’s just been busy,” she offers. She’s closed off again, frustrated. It reminds me of before.
“What do you mean? Leon’s mom is already home; why would they keep Dad longer?”
She considers this and shakes her head. “Honey, I really don’t know. But he doesn’t have time to explain anything. He’s under a ton of pressure.”
I realize that either Mom is keeping something from me or she’s been too worried about pushing the point in case they start fighting again.
Either way, this situation is messed up.
I go back to my room and call Dad. Straight to voice mail. I call Leon next.
“Have you talked to your mom much this week?” I ask in place of hello.
“I mean, a little? Kind of normal stuff, though.”
“My dad hasn’t come back yet, and Mom’s acting really weird. Wasn’t sure if he was especially stressed or what.”
“I mean, everyone is stressed about it, but they can’t do anything else right now. NASA needs to figure out if they can postpone the launch or if they can keep it on schedule, and based on the next week or so, if the people still like us and stuff.” A pause. “Are you okay?”
My pause is longer. But I recover quickly. “Me, yeah, sure. Don’t worry about it.” I keep out the burning fear that he can hear the weakness in my voice, the worry in my cracking inflections. I’m the one who does the fixing. I’m unfazed, unbothered. My resolve is a freaking rock.
But the rock is breaking. It’s cracked and worn, and I know it. But if Dad comes home and things get okay again, I can handle it.
“Calvin?” he asks, and a gasp escapes my lips. I feel the tears welling up, and I don’t even know why. Everything is fine. Everything is fine. So I say it.
“Everything is fine.”
He believes me, or stops pressing the issue. Either way, I’m relieved. I say goodbye and end the call, and beg the tension in my body to release its hold on my chest.
Headphones on, I fix myself so I can go back to fixing the world.
It’s eight at night. Dad’s still missing in action, though Mom doesn’t seem to be worried—does she think he’s still in Florida? Could he really still be there?
My mom and I sit on the couch with the television tuned to Shooting Stars. She is cuddled up with a knit blanket, and I’m just staring at my phone, reading comments.
When I look back up, Josh Farrow takes over the show. He’s in a sleek blue suit, a little more dressed up than usual. I see something familiar in his glare; the mischievous glint is back in his eyes. It’s the polar opposite of when I last saw him, rushing out of the Tuckers’ home, full of shame and rage.
“A devastating explosion, teenage love, a shocking twist: your astronaut update starts tonight.”
He begins with the basics, showing us a few stills of the satellite before the launch, and briefly explains its purpose. But he rushes through this section and generally keeps his tone flat. It’s like he’s forcing his listeners to be bored by this.
“He thinks no one cares about this stuff,” I say. “It’s kind of insulting, to everyone.”
“I think your dad has always liked both sides. The drama, also the science.”
“Everything in moderation, I guess.”
Josh narrates the launch in full detail alongside video footage, and suddenly I see Leon and me. Our hands clasped together. I smile and look over to my mom for her reaction.
“Did you know they were filming you?” she asks.
“I saw them,” I say. “Kiara said they were changing their image—looking for a happy story. I thought it would help ratings and interest in the project.”
“And Leon knew?”
I swallow, hard. Her eyes on me make it seem like this wasn’t something obviously good. But she doesn’t know how he felt. How he was never the center of attention in his family, in his life.
Here he is—not his mother, not his family, him.
“I think so?” I say, and my phone buzzes as the explosion rocks the video.
I read Leon’s text: “uhhhhh”
Immediately, the feed cuts out. Josh Farrow steps forward and briefly explains the explosion, really dumbing it down for the viewers.
They replay the explosion three, four, five times. They play it in slow motion.
Then they show the aftermath. Astronauts, families, reporters run around in chaos, and the camera zooms in on me. I have my phone up, and I’m giving my update to my Flash following.
“After the explosion, social media superstar Cal Lewis checked in with his followers on FlashFame. Yes, you may have noticed by now, this is a theme for the young Mr. Lewis, whose reach has increased from five hundred thousand to one-point-two million followers since he started covering the NASA missions and interviewing a laundry list of scientists and astronauts.”
“What does that have to do with anything?” I ask, looking to Mom. She just stares at the screen in confusion.
“From the moment Cal stepped into the great city of Clear Lake, it appears he’s been manipulating many of his interviewers, not to mention his followers. As astronaut Mark Bannon once said, ‘The Orpheus V mission to Mars is a beautiful but challenging journey.’ And we at StarWatch have always focused on showing the challenges—both technical and interpersonal—within this mission.”
Josh’s face looks grim, and it feels like my heart’s stopped beating. It’s such a one-sided argument, and it makes no sense. Sure, I’m always looking for ways to increase my following, but I do that by telling the stories people care about.
“Our guest tonight is our very own Kiara Samuel, assistant producer for Shooting Stars. Kiara, why don’t you fill us in on what you’ve been looking into the past few weeks.”
She clears her throat and looks through the camera; her gaze pierces my composure.
“When you think of Cal’s reporting,” Kiara says, “you think of his authenticity. But as I’ve come to know him, I’ve seen a side of him that is troubling, to say the least. For example, at Mara Bannon’s last gardening day—we didn’t know it was her last at that point, of course—he complained to me extensively about how awful it was, even saying he would pretend to be sick the next time. But as soon as the camera turned on, his entire demeanor changed. I chalked it up to the hot weather, but the dishonesty stuck with me a bit.”
I gasp as a chill hits my core. The glint in Kiara’s eyes, the confidence and bravado of this whole program. Josh is settling a score, and Kiara’s right there with him.
“And if I might cut in, Kiara, some journalists tend to, let’s say, play with the truth—it’s a big challenge in our industry and something we at StarWatch have always tried our best to avoid. Sometimes we fall short,” he says while looking into the camera and chuckling, “but we try. That said, I want to know more about why Cal is doing this to the space program. To what end?”
“Well, we have a clip that will answer that very question.”
“I’ve been approached by a ton of ad companies. I mean, I could probably charge five thousand per sponsored video—these people are very loose with their money, and my followers are more active than ever, since I have an inside look at the Orpheus project.”
I remember, back at the airport, the phone tucked into her shirt pocket was the only pop of color in her entire ensemble. What I didn’t know—what I couldn’t know—is that the camera was running.
Josh chimes in. “I hear he might not have that inside look for long, though, is that correct?”
“Right again, Josh.”
My mother slides over to put her arm around me. She reaches for the remote, but I pull her hand back slightly. I need to see this.
StarWatch plays one clip after another.
“You could get me an internship at Teen Vogue?”
“Of course I’m going back to Brooklyn. As soon as I can.”
“Cal hasn’t yet commented on whether he’ll be continuing his FlashFame reporting, or whether he’s in a deal to sell it out to Condé Nast. Either way, it looks like Cal Lewis has gotten all he can out of these missions: viral streams, new followers, influencer deals, and maybe even a career.”
“That’s … not how the conversation went,” I say.
It wasn’t so cut-and-dried. Of course I want to go back to Brooklyn, someday. But the viewers don’t know what’s keeping me here or what draws me back.
My followers will think I’m trying to jump ship and monetize the channel with ads, or worse—BuzzFeed wanted to enhance my coverage, but a larger media company like Condé Nast buying my account? Josh’s lie is almost plausible.
Leon, Kat … they’ll think I’m trying to bail on them as soon as possible. Even though they’re two of the biggest reasons why I want to stay.
“That’s a lot to take in, Kiara,” Josh continues, “but I think it’s worth mentioning: this is the same guy who threw us under the bus as we prepared for the Mark Bannon tribute episode, which never did air.”
What Kiara told me at the airport echoes in my mind: “Anything we say about you gets us a ton of attention.” Well, they’re getting their attention. And their narrative is crafted perfectly. I’m the villain. StarWatch has been around for decades; their fan base is large and loyal. I just started streaming a couple of years ago.
A sinking feeling hits my gut, and I think I might puke. Not only did Kiara get up there and attack me, but she’d also been using me for weeks, and for what? To scare me away from StarWatch’s turf? To get in Josh Farrow’s good graces?
She was a breath of fresh air—a Brooklynite like me trapped in the middle of Texas. But she turned out to be nothing like me. Tears rush to my eyes, but I won’t let them drop.
After watching the horror unfold in front of me, I’m given relief in the form of a commercial break. I try to call Leon right away. Straight to voice mail. I stand and pace, and that is all I can convince my body to do.
“Honey, these gossip shows do this,” Mom says. “They haven’t been fair to our family this whole time. It’s going to be okay. Do you want me to call one of the other astronauts? Or maybe you should talk to Leon? I bet they all have stories like this.”
Her rambling isn’t helping, and I feel bad for tuning her out, but this could be very, very bad. The fallout could be so bad, StarWatch’s report could be the first thing that comes up when you google my name. It could ruin me forever.
But I can’t lose control.
The rock hardens again. I’m fine. I’m okay.
There’s the noise of a key getting forced into a lock, and for a brief moment, I thaw when I see my dad. Something’s unusually comforting about having your parents around when your life devolves into a disaster. But there’s a glazed look in his eyes, and I wonder if he’s been crying. I wonder if he ever cries. He storms away.
Looking back at my phone, I see notifications start to pile up on my FlashFame app—I know what they’ll say. I can’t check them, and I can’t form a coherent response fast enough. I look up at Mom with a panic-stricken face.
She’s torn between me and Dad. She’s deciding which one to console and which to leave alone to deal with his emotions. I know who she’ll choose. It won’t be me, because I’m always okay. Put together. In control of my temper, my emotions.
But I want to yell out and for once say that I need her. That I’m not okay. That my rock is all broken and I am falling apart, but I won’t do that. My chest tightens. I can’t do that.
I refresh my expression. Breathe. Nod. And she follows him into the bedroom.
The show comes back on, and I’m in such a daze I almost forget to pay attention. Please let them drop the topic, I beg.
Logically speaking, I can explain everything to Leon and make sure he knows I don’t have one foot out the door. It’s not unfixable. He’ll understand my quotes were taken out of context. I know he’ll believe me over a jerk like Josh Farrow—he has to.
Then, I think of my followers, the ones I’ve had since my very first news reports. I’m sure I was awkward and the video quality was shit then, but they stuck around. They’ll know it’s not as simple as me wanting to break “into the biz” like StarWatch said. I can balance my career with my content—unpaid content—and they’ll support me every step of the way. Won’t they?
I can fix this.
I can fix this.
“Now for the big dish.”
I groan. Josh’s personality causes me physical pain.
“We’ve got a leaked clip straight from the mouth of Todd Collins from NASA’s public affairs team.”
The video is blurry, but it’s unmistakably from that first party. The one where I met Donna Szleifer, Mark Bannon. The first night I really got to know Leon. Actually, the footage appears to be intentionally blurred, to make it seem more intriguing and secretive.
“We’re very pleased to have Calvin on board,” Todd says. “He’s going to be a great addition to the team.”
I squint my eyes, not really understanding what it means. He said something nice about my dad. A lot of people did that night. He’s having this conversation with Mark Bannon, and by the sparse crowd, this happened long before we got to the party.
“He’s a good pilot, from what I’ve heard,” Mark says kindly.
Todd laughs. “No, no. I didn’t mean that Calvin—okay, well, him too. But Donna and I were the ones who got him the interview. He had good experience, but he wasn’t a standout. But Donna recognized the name immediately. We knew all about his son’s FlashFame videos, and we were looking for a way to get younger people interested in us. So we begged them to give him a chance, bring Cal Junior on, and bring all his followers to our side. It’s already boosted a lot of our social accounts.”
There’s silence as the anchor lets the message sink in.
“How’s that for some drama?” Josh asks the camera, poison dripping from his smile. “How many more qualified candidates were turned away just because this guy’s son was good at social media?”
Kiara shakes her head. “And who would have thought that while Cal was sucking NASA dry to build his brand, NASA was using him too. Either way, it’s troubling news, and it’s a story I intend to closely monitor.”
Mara and Kiara both hinted at it, but I never listened: when StarWatch’s ratings are down, they ramp up the drama. And it’s clear what the purpose of this whole show is. They want it to look like everyone’s abandoning the project, that it was flawed to begin with. That no one can be trusted.
They want NASA to crumble, and they want to cover it all.