Chapter 10

Five Months Later

JACK

I get 1,840,000 results for my search of “dumpling restaurants chinatown nyc open late.” I sift through news articles, best-of lists, and dozens of menus. The number of restaurants with neon signs in general in New York City is limitless. At this point, my memory and the hundreds of photos I’ve seen of Chinese restaurants have blurred into one collage. The only concrete lead I thought I had for finding Rooney was Mangetsu Jazz. Until I remember that I paid. I scour Street View around MoMA like it’s a part-time job.

When none of these restaurants jogs my memory, I try yet another search for “Rooney.” “Rooney MoMA,” “Rooney NYC,” and “Rooney tour guide.” Any combination I can think to try with her name, I do.

The results give me dozens upon dozens of articles about Rooney Mara and Sally Rooney. No leads, no clues. After the address of the party yielded no name results for owners or renters, my coworker went out of his way to track down the host through his wife’s chain of connections. Rooney couldn’t have been on the guest list because there wasn’t one.

I at least thought Dave at the print shop would come through. But Dave wasn’t kidding when he said he was getting out of there as soon as he could, self-imposed or otherwise. Apparently, the mix-up happened for more customers than just me. At the very least, I hope he followed his surfing bliss.

Even though Rooney never texted me and let me kiss her like a fool, still I search. Why did I have to go and make it awkward for everyone by kissing her like that? The way she got into the taxi, just staring at me. I scared her off. That has to be it. I terrified her with my lips and my talk of the law of diminishing returns. It’s no wonder why she didn’t want to text me. I wouldn’t even want to text me.

I feel the start of a tickle in my throat. All of this overthinking is starting to take its toll.

I solve harder problems than this every day at work. Why is this one impossible to figure out? I just want this resolved. I should let it go.

I glance at the calendar on my monitor. Ten minutes until I have my first special committee meeting.

As soon as I got back to work after New York City, I scoured the company’s internal websites for opportunities. It’s what I do best: take action and put pen to paper.

Performance review feedback runs through my head on repeat. And here I am, without a promotion. The most obvious next step is to do something more social. More visible.

The description for the Artist-in-Residence Mission Liaison role was vague, but I needed to join something big. And this opportunity felt especially relevant to my time on the East Coast. I had just seen an art installation, and I understood what it was about. Art and me? We go way back. A whole five months back.

For the role being voluntary, there were a surprising number of interviews to be part of it. It’s taken all the way up from when I first applied back in February until now for me to be selected as mission liaison. It felt good to be picked for a change.

I take a break to grab tea from the kitchenette before the meeting. I’m adding honey when a man I’ve only ever seen in the hallways reaches past me for a mug. He adds it to a collection of notebooks, figurines, and office supplies in a cardboard box. That doesn’t look good.

I head over to the conference room and find a few people already sitting around a table. Behind the glass windows on the far side of the wall are the San Gabriel Mountains. This view from NASA’s Jet Propulsion Laboratory never gets old. As a leader in robotic space exploration, JPL is the place where we work on spacecrafts that study atmospheric carbon dioxide and send and receive data from spacecrafts traveling beyond the moon. We run planetary defense missions and keep an eye on asteroids hurtling toward our planet. To me, this is the most magical place on earth. Here, we literally work every day to make far-fetched dreams a reality.

The mountains are brightly lit against the summer sun, the green and brown serving as camouflage. As though they hide in plain sight.

“Jackson, hello. Nice to see you again,” says Kenneth Lopez, the director of the newly reinstated Artist-in-Residence program. He stands to shake my hand. Kenneth was one of the people who interviewed me for this role. Last time I saw him, he was wearing a Jupiter-patterned tie. Today his tie is covered in paintbrushes.

“Nice to see you again, Kenneth,” I say, returning his handshake.

“As you may remember, this is Margie Kim and Nick Watson. They’re on our Office of Communications team doing community outreach and public affairs. We’ll loop in the internal communications and social media folks in future meetings. We’re all looking forward to working with you as the mission liaison for this program.”

“I’m looking forward to it, as well,” I say, setting my tea in front of me and taking a seat opposite Margie. The ends of her brown hair are dyed pink.

“We heard you’re the one who named the mission,” Nick says, sounding impressed. He has a tattoo of Saturn on his forearm.

I nod and open my notebook.

“The Fuel Atomized Technology Equipment,” Margie adds. “It’s catchy.”

“FATE has been a years-in-progress mission, with many more to go,” I explain, “but recently we were able to move out of code name status.”

When I don’t elaborate, Kenneth nods quickly. “Okay. Well, great!”

I make a note to work on how to better explain that to the artist.

Kenneth offers me a thick packet stapled too close to the edge. Under the title page are printed-out slides of a presentation I’m sure I’ll see soon.

“The board thoroughly reviewed the various missions happening, and we think FATE is an exciting one that will resonate with the public,” he explains. “FATE is a critical component of NASA putting boots on Mars in the next few years. Your equipment helps make the process more efficient.”

“I’m happy to hear it will be getting some spotlight,” I say. “It’s not the most glamorous mission.”

Kenneth chuckles. “You’re right. FATE itself isn’t, but Mars is, and for our social channels and events, we’ve learned that this project in particular is something the public continues to ask about. Though the artist will be representing NASA and will have the freedom to create anything they want related to what they learn during their time here, you being the mission liaison will help get more eyes on FATE.”

I can’t disagree there. It’s a mission I’ve most enjoyed working on so far. And there has been a lot of interest.

“If you remember from our initial discussion, in 1962, four years after NASA was established, an art program was created,” Kenneth continues. “NASA Administrator James Webb commissioned portraits of every NASA astronaut. He had a vision of combining art and science. He figured that artists like Andy Warhol, Norman Rockwell, and Annie Leibovitz could capture the work we were doing here in a visual way.”

Nick jumps into the conversation. “What we do here may seem abstract to the public, and it can be challenging to get through to people and make them care,” he says. “Who better than artists to capture the abstract and turn it into something tangible, visual, and understandable?”

I remove Rooney’s red pen from my button-down placket and pop the cap on and off. After writing out the Fate Tests on the menu, I forgot to give it back. Now I’m glad I didn’t so I can have proof that the night was real—that she was real—and not just a figment of my imagination. I jot down notes on the front page of the packet, the red reminding me too much of her. I really should find a pen with black ink and no trace of Rooney.

I try to refocus on Kenneth talking. “We’ve had to scale that back over the years because of funding cuts,” he says. “Recently, though, we secured grants that allow us to once again merge art and science together in a way that’ll bring more attention to the missions we’re working on. Artist-in-Residence program 2.0. The reinstatement of this program is a highly visible project. We’re not paid, of course, and the artist wouldn’t be paid very much, unfortunately, but it’s a lot of exposure for the artist and NASA.”

“It’s hard enough to get funding for missions,” I say. “We want as many people on our side as possible.”

“Exactly. You’ll be working closely with the artist and managing their relationships and logistics,” Kenneth explains. “You’ll teach them about how NASA operates, as well as the various projects and missions being worked on. You’ll also join them on suit-ups. It’s important that the artist gets a holistic look at JPL and NASA, and you can field the press’s questions about the nuances of FATE.”

Me. Mission liaison for a real human artist. For an important NASA program. With millions of eyes watching what we do. Future grants and artist residencies rest on the success of this one.

What was I thinking? There’s money on the line. The reputation of the art program is at stake. I’m in this role for the science part, not the art part. I take a sip of my honey tea to ease the rising tickle in the back of my throat.

“Sounds educational,” I say, attempting to exude confidence. I turn away and sneeze into the crook of my elbow. “Excuse me.”

“Bless you! Now let’s move into the fun part!” Nick says, grabbing the remote to turn on the projector attached to the ceiling. “The agenda for today, in addition to officially kicking off this program, is to decide on an artist. The one you recommended as part of your application looks very interesting.”

Margie taps a button on her laptop’s keyboard. A cover slide for their presentation appears on the screen at the front of the conference room. “Because it’s important that this program is a success,” she says, “and because you’ll be working directly with the artist, we thought it imperative to include you in the decision-making process.”

“Me?” I ask. “Like I said, I don’t know much about art. I was happy to recommend an artist. I’m not sure I’m qualified enough to help decide, though.”

“In a way, that’s the point,” Margie responds with a reassuring smile. “We don’t expect the public to know the nuances of the art being created. Our job is to find the artist who can tell the story of our work here in a way they’ll understand. Take a look at these images and see what speaks to you. Who would best tell the story of NASA?”

“The artist you recommended made it into the round of finalists, but you don’t know the artist personally, right? It shouldn’t be an issue, but this information is important to know up front so we’re making a fair decision,” Kenneth says.

The woman handing out sketchbook paper at the installation comes to mind. But there was no way I could confirm that she was Red String Girl.

I shake my head. “I don’t know who Red String Girl is. This artist works anonymously.”

Nick rubs his hands together. “NASA is all about discovery. This time, instead of discovering something new in space, we’re discovering talent right here on Earth. What a thrill.”

I attempt to mirror Nick’s excitement by giving him a thumbs-up. It comes off as awkward as one would expect. I reach for the red pen to keep my hands busy.

“Let’s review our top three contenders,” Margie says, pressing another button.

I direct my attention to the screen. Margie guides us to the next slide featuring an artist who specializes in charcoal drawings. From a distance, they look like photographs while maintaining a not-quite-real quality. It’s stunning how an entire image can be conveyed through varying shades of gray. But this doesn’t feel comprehensive enough.

Without overthinking it, I find myself saying, “There’s a nostalgic element to this artist’s work. A throwback to the original astronaut portraits.”

The group nods in response and take notes on their packets.

The next few slides reveal the paintings of an artist who doesn’t just capture people and places but who paints their souls into them, too. I see how the vibrant colors of the paint could capture a person’s imagination. This artist could be interesting.

“And now, your recommendation, Red String Girl,” Margie says.

Pictures of Entangled shine on the screen ahead. The installation is as impressive as it was when I first saw it. A familiar sinking feeling weighs on me when Margie shows us the next photo of Entangled in cut-up piles. I stand and lean forward to get a better look at the images, my fingers spreading across the conference table. I look at the timestamp of the article. I still can’t believe I was so close to seeing this in heaps instead of as the artist intended.

“Looks like it was taken down that same morning,” she says, reading off a news article that’s also projecting on the screen.

I think of sitting with Rooney in her Spot. How I encouraged her to go see it. She never would’ve been able to. I probably sounded like I had made up the whole thing. Sometimes it feels like I made up the entire night.

I’ve witnessed this piece of art in what feels like another life. No. Another dimension. But how I know it is, in fact, real is that I have a piece of the installation in my wallet, documenting that short-lived moment in time. At this point, it’s probably something worth recycling. And yet, the wrinkled note stays where I put it that day.

“I saw this in person before it was taken down, which is why I recommended the artist. The piece changes as you interact with it. It’s tangible,” I explain. “I liked the incorporation of science into the work.”

“Looks like it also integrated fate,” Kenneth says, referencing his notes. “The interplay of fate with FATE is cheeky. There’s something there. Maybe the artist will be inspired by that.”

Next to the photograph of Entangled is a sketch of a different Red String Girl installation. Margie taps to the next slide with more information.

“We pulled this from Red String Girl’s website. There was a list of other installations that she’s done over the years, but there were only photos of Entangled. And there’s this concept sketch of one called Gravity.”

The sketch depicts an island platform between subway train tracks, the string forming a grid with a giant heart in the center. It hovers above a string-made dip that looks like the downward momentum of a bounce on a trampoline.

“If gravity is the curvature of time and space—” Nick starts.

“Then love is the curvature of time and place,” I finish.

Margie gasps. “That’s why it’s at the subway station! It’s the beating heart of the city.”

“How very clever,” Kenneth says. “Subways literally push and pull people through the city. Sometimes we just pass by each other, and sometimes we’re on the same train.”

The conversations Rooney and I had over the course of our night come back to me. “Gravity is invisible, but we can measure it. What are the gravitational effects of fate but people being pulled toward their destined soulmates?” I ask out loud.

“Jackson, that’s beautiful,” Nick says, sounding surprised.

“No, that’s—” I start.

“And you said you don’t know anything about art!” he exclaims with enthusiasm. “If that’s what this sketch made you feel, imagine what an entire in-person string art installation will do to you.”

Margie hums as she thinks. “This is compelling, but just to voice what we’re all probably thinking, is anyone else concerned that Red String Girl only has photos of one installation? She hasn’t done anything new since”—she checks her notes again—“February.”

“Whoever we choose will need to create multiple projects over the course of the year,” Kenneth says, tipping back in his chair. “We’re trying to take advantage of frequent mentions in the press and have more opportunities for the public to talk about the mission and view the art. With more work, instead of just one at the end, the science and art can be an ongoing conversation.”

“How do we feel about the anonymity aspect?” Nick asks, his hands loosely clasped in front of him on the table.

Margie speaks first. “The way I see it, the anonymity is actually a draw. In articles about Entangled, besides the trash talk, people were intrigued by who the artist was. There’s a lot of chatter about it in various art forums. We’d have to figure out the logistics of how to work with the artist and protect her identity.”

“Managing this artist would be like running… a secret mission,” I say. I look over to see how the team reacts to this.

“Interesting! These are all stories we can play up,” Margie says, documenting my contribution.

I speak again. “Red String Girl teaming up with someone who works on a mission about the Red Planet.” I’m on a roll.

Nick grins. “Good one. We can work with that.”

I smile to myself. Maybe talking to the press won’t be so bad.

Margie flips to the last slide, detailing next steps.

“It sounds like Red String Girl is our first choice,” Kenneth says. “I’ll take this back to run by a couple more people and can let you know by the end of the week. Whoever we end up going with, I think it’s best that you make the call to the artist, Jackson. Kick things off as our mission liaison. Sound good?”

Margie, Nick, and I all nod in agreement. We say our good-byes, and Kenneth lets us know he’ll be sending out a recurring meeting invite.

Back at my desk, I exhale. A successful first meeting. I contributed about a topic other than FATE. Maybe I can do this after all. Maybe I’ll even… enjoy it?

I type Red String Girl’s website URL into my browser. There’s a string art animal portrait section highlighting nearly a dozen different pieces. I scroll past portraits of cats and dogs. Expected. The lower I go on the page, the animals become more varied. Dragons, pigs, penguins, and horses. They’re not like the string art kids make in grade school of suns and stars. This artist’s work is delicate. Detailed.

The light board behind the image is almost entirely covered in string. The nails are small and silver. They complement the string instead of drawing attention from it. If I stood back, the pieces would look like shaded pencil drawings. Or photographs. Up close, the zigzagging string around nails and silver dots tell a different story. If she’s this good with animals, she could probably do portraits of our astronauts and rockets. Maybe re-create some images from the James Webb Space Telescope.

Below each piece lists the materials used. Wood panel, brads, single red sewing thread. Each piece is made with one unbroken string.

In the order form on the website, the prices of each piece are shockingly reasonable for the level of quality. I surprise myself by placing an order. If she’s NASA’s newest artist-in-residence, one might call this an investment. I pause. Would this be considered insider art trading? I decide on commissioning a seahorse for Gōng Gong’s birthday instead.

Also for research.