Maybe it’s the panic, but Grace’s first StarWatch interview plays in my mind. Over and over and over. It’s the only thing I can think of. Grace’s upright posture, her camera-ready attitude. Her subtle concern.
I flush the toilet and stand to stare at my reflection. My face glistens with sweat, and my panted breaths fog the mirror. I wipe it away and start to brush my teeth, holding my own gaze like it’s the only thing keeping me here, keeping me grounded.
My mind fills with more news stories. Local, national, gossip, blogs. The barely covered press release announcing the relocation of all astronaut families to Houston, the rumors of a shuttered mission—why spend money on space exploration when we could better fund schools or infrastructure?
And I remember the moment it all changed.
StarWatch Network announced its partnership with NASA, complete with a teaser episode of Shooting Stars featuring a pilot in a simulation cockpit. Sweat dripped down astronaut Mark Bannon’s brow as the narrator explained the test.
During the simulation, as the craft entered Mars’s atmosphere, the screen goes blank. As the surface of Mars comes into view, fast, Mark resets the gauges. When this fails, he reaches for a pen and paper beneath his seat. The scene cuts to Mark entering coordinates and new trajectories into the still-glowing command module. As the craft nears the ground, all panels come back to life, giving Mark just enough time to make final adjustments before … thud.
“Orpheus V has landed,” he says between breaths.
Then the screen cuts to a message to tune in weekly to watch StarWatch’s new show: Shooting Stars.
The uptick in attention the families got from adoring fans was instant. To some, they became American heroes; to some, they became the newest reality show. They’re interesting. They’re perfect. They’re …
Not like us.
“Calvin, honey?” My mom’s voice is hoarse.
My parents file in after I gain the strength to unlock the door. Mom’s got the look of a concerned mother down perfectly, all creased brows and soft eyes. But my dad’s got a different expression. His mouth slants, and he seems detached from it all. I can’t tell if he’s annoyed, or just not tolerating my reaction. Yeah, it was a little much, but I don’t exactly have control over when my falafel cart lunch decides to make a fast escape.
“Are you done?” he asks, and all my muscles tighten at once.
“I’m fine,” I say. “I—uh—ate too much.”
Dad chuckles and takes a generous sip of his drink. “Right. So it had nothing to do with—”
“You overcoming literal impossible odds to become an astronaut?” I force a laugh. “No, not at all. For the record, it’s also not about the fact that we have to uproot our lives in a few months. It’s definitely got nothing to do with how I won’t be able to stream my reports anymore. It’s just a lot to take in, okay?”
“Maybe they could let him keep doing the videos?” Mom says. “Why don’t you ask them when you go—”
“I can’t believe this is what we’re talking about right now,” Dad says, splashing the rest of his champagne into the bathroom sink. “Look, I’m sorry you won’t be able to play on social media anymore, but this is real life.”
I choke back a laugh. “Real life? I have to give up my journalism, plus my entire life, because a reality show says so. You really think what I do is less ‘real’ than StarWatch?”
My mom’s caught between us in our tiny bathroom. She’s wringing her hands and looking back and forth. Not daring to say anything else. When she and Dad fight, she always knows what to say, never backs down. But now, her face is frozen between panic and helplessness. I know this isn’t good for her anxiety, so I take a deep breath to calm myself.
I squeeze by her and into the hall and break into a quick walk to my room.
“Cal,” Dad says, and I stop. It’s short, but not sweet. His voice has an edge of pity to it. “I’ll … I can ask them.”
“No, it’s fine,” I say. “It’s great, actually. Why would I need to do the one thing I’m good at and actually enjoy, when I could be out there enjoying the Lone Star State? I’ve always loved the allure of Texas. Tripping over Republicans every other step, somehow keeping vegetarian in the land of Tex-Mex and barbecue ribs, it’s a literal dream come true.”
I’m being selfish right now, and I know it. But this whole thing is born of selfishness. Dad didn’t tell us he was going to apply. He didn’t explain what would happen if he got in. He just plopped a binder on the kitchen table one day. It was his portfolio—I have no idea why his résumé needed to be in a three-ring binder, especially when you could have just as easily scribbled “Delta” on a napkin and used that.
And then we waited.
Well, he waited. Mom and I gave him shit, because that was so much easier than accepting that he could actually make it in. He could change our lives, make us regulars on Shooting Stars, which, despite its patriotic and unifying start, slowly devolved into the overdramatic, ratings-hungry reality show it is now. But he never asked if that’s what we wanted.
“Jesus. Get it together,” he says.
Looking at my mom’s eyes, I can tell we’re in agreement here.
“Let’s leave him alone for a bit,” Mom says, voice squeaking, and ushers him away. I can breathe easier, even if just for a second, even though I know what’s about to happen.
“It’s not my fault he can’t process it. Neither of you seem to get how important this is.” His voice rises. “I’ve worked my whole life for this.”
“I think you can drop that,” Mom says. Her voice is stronger now. Anxiety be damned, she doesn’t take his shit. “We’ve been together seventeen years, and we all knew you loved space, but you never mentioned considering being an astronaut until you slapped us with that ridiculous binder.”
I take the opportunity to flee to my bedroom. As I’m shutting the door, though, Dad comes stomping back down the hall.
“Wait!”
I do, briefly. I take a deep breath and push out the nicest response I can muster. “I can’t be excited for you right now. I have to go clear out the troll comments on my video, plus my BuzzFeed internship starts on Monday, and I have forms to fill out. We’ll talk later.”
“Cal, you don’t get it,” Dad says. He looks nervous now. “We don’t have time to wait for you to get on board.”
A beat, and all the energy gets sapped from the room. My legs feel wobbly. I feel my heart rate spike, and my hand feels slimy on the doorknob. I breathe, but it’s shallow and unfulfilling.
“We need to start packing tonight,” he says. “They’ve got a house for us.”
“What do you—”
“We’re moving on Monday.”
My insides stop working. I’m experiencing literal—okay, figurative—organ failure right now. I just stare, and blink, and stare again. Then I pull back and unfreeze my body for a second. Just enough to clench my fingers around the doorframe and slam the door in his face.
I click the button lock and dash to my headphones. I press play on the cassette deck and let the sounds pump through, blocking out the shouting and the expectations and my frustrations.
I block it all out.
For a few minutes. The music isn’t working. I can’t concentrate, and everything sounds like noise and makes me tense up. I feel angry and sad, but I don’t know which feeling brings the tears to my eyes faster. I start to cry, but I take off my headphones before I let myself do it. I can’t let him hear.
My parents resume fighting in the other room. Well, not fighting, actually. It’s a discussion. I hear numbers being thrown out, and words like “movers” and “salary” and know they won’t be settling this anytime soon.
I pull out my phone and send a text to Deb.
Can I come down? Need to get out of here for a min
She responds in a flash.
Yeah, we heard the stomping. Door or window?
I send her an emoji of a window and double-check that my door’s locked. They wouldn’t mind me going down to talk to Deb—it’s only one flight down—but I can’t bear to look at them right now.
I imagine them coming to check on me and hearing no response. They’d think I was ignoring them, or if they used that little gold key above the doorframe, they’d know I bailed. And they’d stop the fighting for one second, and they’d sigh “oh shit” at the same time. And for once, I wouldn’t be the one trying to make things better, to fix our problems.
Finally, something would be about me.
I lift the window, then the screen. I duck out onto the fire escape and feel the wind tear through my body. I welcome the feeling, refreshing and calming, and stretch out on the landing. My eyes scan the world beneath me, all strollers and parents and dogs, rushing home for dinner before the sun finally sets. Bikes and cars and trucks and brick buildings line the avenue. Beyond that, the trees block my view of brownstones.
This might be the last time I stand out here.
This might be my last weekend living in Brooklyn.
When I reach the third floor, I hesitate at the open window. Her sheer curtains are drawn, and I see her silhouette frantically darting back and forth—she’s probably throwing all her dirty laundry in the hamper so I can find a place to sit.
It hits me so hard I stagger back and lean against the railing: I’m about to tell my best friend that I’m leaving immediately, indefinitely. Probably. Unless there’s some chance Dad’s being majorly pranked.
She pushes aside the curtains, and I gasp. The moment she sees my face, which must be lined with tears, her jaw drops.
A familiar pang hits me in the chest. I’ve seen this expression before. I’ve given her this expression before. Last year, I crawled in her window, a panicked mess, to break up with her.
For some reason, I didn’t ease her into it with talking about us growing apart or going different directions, or wanting to focus on school or exploring other options. These were all phrases I had rehearsed.
But she was my girlfriend … and my best friend. She deserved more than a weak excuse, so I went right to the point:
“I kissed Jeremy.”
We talked it out, and—months later—she accepted my apology. The thing was, Jeremy was always there in the back of my mind. He was the unattainable senior, and I was content with Deb. Unfortunately for her, I found something better than content as I sunk into his lips, the taste of Coors Light on our tongues.
I found a fire, a passion that I was missing. My identity seems to change by the minute, but I knew I was queer—and Deb did too. The hardest thing for her to accept was that it wasn’t that I didn’t like cishet girls … I just didn’t like her like that, and after dating for three months, I wanted to find someone I did like. And I found Jeremy.
Two weeks later, Jeremy found someone else.
“Calvin?” She grabs my hand and pulls me closer. “Come in. What’s—wow, last time I saw you looking like this I had to bring you back from a panic attack so you could break up with me. What’s going on, babe?”
My breaths aren’t coming easily. I’m suffocating, drowning in the overwhelming pink of her room. The pink beanbag chair with the pink fuzzy pillow and the—why can’t I breathe?—pink rug that I’m somehow lying on now, though I don’t remember crawling in through the window.
I focus on a point on the ceiling, and I don’t let it go. Breathe in. Breathe out. Slowly, I pull myself together. I’m okay.
“I’m okay.”
Deb rolls her eyes. “Yes, I see that.”
“I’m leaving. On Monday. Dad’s a fucking astronaut.”
This is when she busts out laughing. Like, I’m still crying, and she is one-hundred-percent losing her shit. I can see her try to hold it together—clenching, biting her lip—but nothing’s working.
“Oh, god, this is bad. Sorry.” She pauses to grab my arm. “It’s just so fucking unlikely. Your dad’s the least qualified person for this job.”
I shrug. “I mean, he’s a pilot, I guess.”
“For Delta.” She leans on that word like it tastes bad in her mouth. “He’s got to be the first nonscientist they’ve picked since, like, the seventies.”
I decide not to tell her that his degree in aeronautical engineering does make him a scientist.
“Focus.” I reach out to her, and all the air’s sucked from the room. She breaks eye contact and starts picking at the chipped paint on her toenail. “I’m leaving, Deb. On Monday, apparently. We’re moving to Houston, and I don’t know when I’m coming back. Or if I’m coming back.”
It’s as if the world reacts to my words. A cloud passes by, casting the window in shade. The pink around me dims. Her lips almost pout as she considers me.
She’s not laughing anymore.
So, no, I didn’t love her like that. But I do love her. From the moment we met at the mailbox downstairs, when I was geeking out about the vintage Prince cassette I’d just scored off eBay. She’d just moved in that day, but that didn’t stop her from relentlessly mocking my obsession with cassettes.
That didn’t curb my enthusiasm. I started rambling about it, about how much smoother cassettes sounded and how they had a quality she could never find in a digital copy or CD. I talked so much, I kind of forgot that my room was a disaster, even after I invited her up. She sat on my bed, which was totally unmade, and just listened.
She definitely didn’t get it. The cassette thing. But she listened anyway.
That whole year was spent falling into an easy friendship with her. One where I never had to ask if she was free later; I’d ask her, “What are we doing later?” We spent so much time together, it was like we were dating. Going from friends to more was easy too. Suddenly, we were dating, and it all felt the same.
The same, though, wasn’t what I wanted. Where I sought fire and excitement, I got the same calm, comfortable relationship we’d always had.
“What about BuzzFeed?” she asks, cutting through my memories.
I pause. After my coverage of the midterm election got picked up by the national news, plus one full year of building my following and reputation as a reporter, BuzzFeed News offered me a summer internship to help with video content for their new local New York City feature.
When I walked into the headquarters, with its yellow walls and couches everywhere, I knew I was somewhere special. With the laughing twentysomethings and their thick-rimmed glasses, phones always up on top of laptops in open meeting spaces. It was a dream. It was supposed to start next week. It was …
“Not going to happen.” I realize it as I say it. Everything I’ve worked for. A foot in the door with a career in media journalism. Stolen away by the astronauts. “Fuck, this sucks. What do I even tell them?”
“Tell them you’ll cover the Mars missions. They post a new article about the families like every day.”
“On the entertainment page. I was supposed to cover city news.” I gesture to the window. “And StarWatch has a gag order on any other video, or really anything, coming out of Clear Lake, Texas. Once Dad signs that contract, I’ll be a part of the show. I won’t even be able to do my FlashFame vids anymore.”
“That’s (a) not fair, and (b) wait, I just realized you’re going to be on Shooting Stars. Oh my god, Josh Farrow is going to be saying your name, aloud, on TV.”
I groan. “I can’t even process that you still watch that show. It’s all perfect families, fancy parties, and petty gossip nowadays. We’ll never be able to fit in with those people.”
The tension balls up in my chest.
“First of all, it is a fantastic television program.” She pronounces each word with extra force. “Okay, yeah, it’s a little petty. But hey, they’re entertaining at least. Don’t act like you aren’t a little starry-eyed—pun intended. You were just as invested as everyone else until you found out your dad got an interview.”
“Sure, I covered all the new astronauts and reported on the months-long debate about financing Orpheus before the Senate finally passed that funding bill. They were news stories that mattered.”
“Well, maybe I think watching astronauts get drunk off champagne before falling face-first into a bush matters too,” she jokes.
At least, I hope that was a joke.
Either way, I roll my eyes. “I even did that in-depth report on all the drama NASA caused by buying out every house on the market in Clear Lake, and it got picked up by the Washington Post.”
She nods, sagely, as I ramble through my frustration.
Clear Lake City is conveniently close to NASA’s Johnson Space Center. When the Mercury, Gemini, and Apollo astronauts—and, of course, all the related teams—relocated here from their respective towns, Clear Lake and a few surrounding areas became known for being the home of astronauts. American heroes who made their front lawns the Hollywood of the South.
There was more than celebrity appeal then, however, and the same is true now.
“StarWatch thinks people don’t care about the science of it,” I say. “Plus, the exploration, what it could mean for our planet, anything. It’s so scripted and boring. You know a producer is behind the scenes, stoking the fire or asking pointed questions.”
She sighs. “We’re getting off track. Forget them—let’s get back to you. At least ask BuzzFeed if you could do the internship from Texas? You might not lose this opportunity if you try. I’m sure they can be flexible. It’s not the Times.”
“I will,” I say. “It’ll give me something to do on the car ride to Texas.”
She laughs and punches me in the shoulder. “NASA won’t pay for a jet? Come on!”
“You know Dad wouldn’t go for that. He’s spent the past decade moving the car for street cleanings twice a week, even though we use it a handful of times a year. He’s not going to get rid of it. He’s going to make us all load up the car and go. Forever.”
She pulls me into a hug, and I reach around her body and hold her close.
“What am I going to do without you?” she asks.
I know the question isn’t exactly rhetorical. At least once a week, she’ll tap on my window, needing an escape from her family. They fight too. Maybe all parents fight, I don’t know. But with Deb’s parents … their fights are always … scarier. More desperate. The echoed sound of a fist breaking through a particleboard door settles in my head.
They break her heart, and I fix it. That’s how it’s always gone. Whether it’s splitting vegan frozen yogurt at Pinkberry or impromptu slumber parties, fixing her pain—or at least distracting her from it—puts me at ease.
A shiver runs through my body as the truth breaks through. Sometimes, it feels like the only thing keeping me stable is the shield I put up. Cal the performer is always put together. Cal the friend is always there to fix your problems.
I try, but I can’t even picture the real Cal. The one without a carefully planned video schedule and content calendar, the one who has a clear vision of his future, the one without anyone to turn to.
And I especially can’t picture any version of myself in Clear Lake, Texas.
I rest my head on Deb’s shoulder and fight back the tears. I’m a little more successful this time, so I get the courage to tell her:
“I’m really going to miss you, Deb.”
I nod toward the fire escape, and she follows me out there. We take our usual spots, me a few steps higher than her, the wrought iron crisscrossed grate I sit on hurting my ass. The wind is cutting, though it’s a warm day in spring, and my hair is a disaster.
It’s all perfect.
The sun’s almost set, but we could be out here all night for all I care.
“Everything’s going to change,” I say.
Deb releases a bark of laughter. “Is that so bad?”
She bites her lip, and her eyes glisten and puff up. I know Deb could use a change. The only reason Deb is okay now is because she’s working the register at Paper Source, which means she can avoid her family for most of the day and night, depending on the shifts she picks up.
I know she’d run if she could, but that doesn’t make it any better, for either of us. I wish I could bring her along, to have someone with me on this trip who doesn’t drive me mad like Mom and Dad do.
“It might not be so bad—god, why am I tearing up right now?” She takes a moment to rub each eye with her sleeve. “I’ll visit you, and you’ll come back when you can. You’ll end up back in Brooklyn eventually, for good, don’t you think?”
“Oh, um, probably.” I hadn’t yet thought about coming back, really, because I never thought about leaving.
Too much. “It’s too much,” I say.
“Promise me …” She points to my phone. “Promise me you won’t stop. Keep streaming all your news stories.
“You know how fickle fans are. If you take a year off, I’m afraid … once you move back here, you won’t have anything left to come back to.”
She’s right. Her words slap me across the face, waking some fire within me. I have my next decade planned out meticulously. I have the college brochures on my desk, the SAT prep courses scheduled. I knew exactly how I was getting into my career.
If I leave, even for a year, I could lose so much.
“I know it’s against the rules or whatever,” she says, “but I say post everything you can until StarWatch pries that phone from your hands.”
There’s nothing I can do to change NASA’s mind. There’s nothing I can do to stop this move. The only thing I can control is sitting in the palm of my hand.
A spark of rebellion warms my soul. It’s not the smartest move, and it could get my family in trouble, but maybe Clear Lake, Texas, has a story out there just waiting for me to uncover.
Shooting Stars
Season 1; Episode 10
EXCLUSIVE INTERVIEW: The Tucker family’s house has a reputation for being party central when it comes to welcoming new astronauts, honoring achievements, or celebrating holidays. In this episode, we pay a visit to Grace, Tony, Leon, and Katherine Tucker to get an inside look at their home and to learn more about the sacrifices the family’s made for the Orpheus project. (First aired 7/17/2019)
“Good evening to all our viewers. I’m Josh Farrow, and I’d like to welcome you to another new episode of Shooting Stars. Tonight I’ll be taking you on a very special tour through the Tucker family home. But first, I thought it would be nice to catch up with our astronaut family du jour: Grace Tucker, her husband, Tony, and their children, Leon and Katherine. It’s been a few months since we last got to chat, Grace, isn’t that right?”
“Yes, and I can’t believe how much has changed in such a short time. I want to thank all the viewers for their help. Without your support, and the thousands of calls and emails to Senate and Congress members … well, let’s just say we might not be sitting here right now.”
“Couldn’t have said it better myself. So, last time I was here, we did a quick interview with Grace on that couch, but we only talked business. I want to know more about you all as a family. Leon, with a mother like Grace, you have a lot to live up to. However, you seem to be doing so in your own unique way. By this point we all know about your great talent for gymnastics—in fact, Tony was just telling me about your impromptu gym session today. No pressure, of course, but a few of our fans want to know, do you think we’ll be seeing you compete anytime soon?”
“I’m … not so sure about that. I’ve only been back once so far. Still looking for the right trainer. Kat dragged me to a gymnastics center in Houston earlier today, and I spent some time on the rings, hit the mat, and … face-planted a few times. I’m not quite so sure I’m competition material anymore.”
“My brother’s being a little too humble. See, back in Indiana, Leon was basically guaranteed a spot in the USA Gymnastics Elite Squad for his age group. But when we moved here, it was hard for all of us to get into the right rhythm. Plus, our new school is a lot more competitive—academically, I mean. Having said all that, we all know he’s still competition material.”
“That’s great to hear—and I love to see the supportive bond you two have. My sister and I are a year apart too, but we’ve always been far too competitive to have that kind of relationship! Before we go to break, I wanted to let viewers know we’ve actually acquired some fan-submitted videos of the Tucker kids at the gym. Our viewers can go to StarWatch.TV to see those videos. Once you’re there, read on to take a look back on how Leon’s promising career in gymnastics may have been cut short years before a potential Team USA Olympics run. As we know, he’s not the only family member whose life or career was affected by the Orpheus missions. With a full StarWatch pass, you’ll get access to a new miniseries that takes an in-depth look at the astronauts’ loved ones and the dreams they’ve left behind.”