Chapter 24

JACK

Gōng Gong’s house smells like waffles. When Rooney and my team arrive for our Sunday Sundaes party, it’s the first thing they all notice. That, and Sprinkles, who I always bring with me to Gōng Gong’s. She’s scooping rainbow sprinkles out of a bowl with her paw like it’s a fun game. Her tail narrowly misses the stack of waffles on the counter. Next to those are tubs of homemade ice cream and smaller bowls with all the toppings you could want: sprinkles, cherries, chocolate chips, chocolate sauce, caramel sauce, marshmallows, mixed nuts, whipped cream, and cut fruit.

Once a month, it’s just me and Gōng Gong who do this. Today, Gōng Gong is excited for new people to try out our ice cream flavors. We made matcha, blueberry muffin, and red bean, since he wanted to include “a little something red for Rooney.” I purposely don’t read into the fact that red bean ice cream is what we ate together in New York.

Nell, Maria, and Brian have come, as well as Toby and Mac, FATE’s operations systems engineer. The people I work with most but who I don’t know very well. I introduce the team to Gōng Gong, and he tells them that formalities aren’t needed with him and that they can call him Bohai. At this, Rooney makes an unreadable expression.

While Gōng Gong pours batter into the waffle maker, I make sure everyone has what they need. Bowls, spoons, napkins. We move through the line, piling ice cream on top of waffles, and gather around the kitchen table. Earlier, I pulled chairs from around the house to accommodate the eight of us. It’s a tight squeeze or, as Rooney’s calling it, “cozy.”

“This was so nice of you to invite us into your home, Bohai,” Maria says.

“Yeah, thanks for setting this up, Jackson,” Brian says. “I was certain this would be a freeze-dried ice cream party with waffles, but admittedly I’m glad it’s not.”

As Rooney passes me, she lowers her voice and says, “It’s nice to see your Spot.” She settles into a chair a couple of seats away from me. Great. Distance is good.

“It’s best when the ice cream soaks into the waffle,” Gōng Gong says, getting everyone’s attention. “But you’ve reminded me that freeze-dried ice cream makes for excellent toppings. I’ll crumble some.”

I observe the situation, suddenly hyperaware. I see Gōng Gong and his house through my team’s eyes. In his late eighties, Gōng Gong looks like a shorter James Hong. He’s smiley and cheerful, which didn’t always come easily to him. Grandma died in her late fifties shortly after I was born, something Gōng Gong didn’t see coming. He thought they’d have not just years together, but decades. He hasn’t remarried since, and every day he wakes up choosing to be optimistic. If he can’t control anything else, he says that he can at least have a say over how he reacts to what else life throws at him.

Another thing he chooses to control: his nautical-themed house decor. Now that Gōng Gong can’t spend as much time out at sea as he used to, he brings the ocean to him. Assembled wooden sailboats and ships are positioned in front of the windows throughout the house, buoys and life preserver rings tucked into corners and hanging on walls. Even the round wooden kitchen table we’re all crammed around has a compass image engraved into the top. Why is it that the people I surround myself with love a good theme?

I’m pulled out of my thoughts by Rooney, who’s saying my name.

“Did you hear that? Toby and Mac have a band. You’ll never guess what they’re called,” she says, her fork mid-lift with a piece of waffle on it.

It could be anything. I shake my head, not even trying to speculate.

“Red String Theorists,” she says slowly, her eyes widening. Sprinkles has taken a liking to her. She’s purring in her lap and kneading her fuzzy sweater.

“Red for Mars?” I ask, venturing a guess.

“That’s right. Rooney says you play bass, Jackson,” Mac says, gathering ice cream on his spoon. “If you ever want to jam sometime, let us know. We play local shows every now and then for fun.”

“Oh, maybe. That could be cool. And you can all actually call me Jack,” I tell them. “Let me know when you practice, and I’ll see if I can come.” The jazz club in New York was the one and only time I’ve played bass in public outside of high school. I didn’t have plans to increase that number.

Rooney openly smiles about this.

Mac and Toby look slightly stunned that I’ve agreed. “Yeah. Okay. Yeah,” they say over one another. “We have a show at the beginning of December. We’ll… text you?”

I grin. “That would be great.”

Suddenly, Gōng Gong speaks up. “Oh, Rooney! I can’t believe I didn’t think of this earlier. Jack, would you please grab Skipper?”

Rooney glances between the two of us.

I don’t know how I’ve forgotten this or failed to mention it to her. I close my eyes and do as Gōng Gong says. In his study is the string art seahorse that I ordered back in July. When I walk into the kitchen with it, everyone’s silent in anticipation. Or confusion. Probably both.

When Rooney sees it, her eyes go even wider. “Wait, you’re Bohai from Alhambra! Your name sounded familiar, but I couldn’t quite place it. You ordered this months ago. Before I got the NASA call, I think.”

Gōng Gong smiles. “Actually, it was a gift from Jack.”

“I placed the order before I knew… before you were officially chosen,” I tell her. My tone comes off unexpectedly defensive. Maybe she’s thinking that this is a sign. But it was a choice I made, and I needed to get Gōng Gong a gift anyway.

“The shading on that is incredible, Rooney,” Nell says as she sets her spoon on her plate. “You take commissions? I’d love to have something made. Unless you’re too busy, of course, with the program.”

Rooney finally tears her eyes from Skipper. “No! I’m not too busy. I’d love to make anything you want.”

Nell looks pleased.

“Those are pretty good. So you do animal portraits in addition to installations?” Toby asks. He wipes his mustache with a dolphin-patterned cloth napkin.

Rooney shifts on her stool. “I appreciate that. For now, yes, I do both. My ultimate dream is to do large-scale installations in public spaces exclusively. I love that element of surprise and showing people something new somewhere they don’t expect. It’d just be out there for everyone, not limited to a ticketed museum or gallery.”

“It’s so important for more people to be exposed to art without barriers,” Nell adds.

“How wonderful,” Gōng Gong says. “Your themes are thought-provoking. With your art, you can share bigger ideas with people about the world beyond us, the world we live in, and how we can engage with both as humans.” He drizzles chocolate syrup around his scoop of matcha ice cream, the chocolate lines hardening as they freeze.

“Yes, Bohai! You get me. That’s why I love working with string. It’s tangible, and I enjoy taking something ordinary and turning it into something grander. As long as it doesn’t get littered in,” Rooney says with a laugh.

The joke doesn’t sound like one that Rooney sometimes uses to mask her pain. Instead, she sounds like someone who has had time to process it. She’s not letting it define her anymore.

Rooney watches Gōng Gong’s spiral motion carefully. His ice cream is almost entirely covered at this point. When Gōng Gong is finished with his masterpiece, she smiles. “That’s a solid technique, Bohai. Do you always wrap your ice cream?” she asks.

“That was a little too much chocolate string, wasn’t it?” he says with a chuckle.

Rooney adds chocolate to her own ice cream. “Never too much string.”

“Can I just say that I love seeing someone who looks like me doing cool stuff in the world?” Maria jumps in. “It was so meaningful that the first artist for this program was a mixed-race Asian American woman. I mean, I only know that because I know who you are, but still.”

“That means a lot,” Rooney says. She falls quiet, looking like she’s working through something in her mind.

As we talk, Gōng Gong flips through a copy of the Los Angeles Times. After a few more page turns, Rooney gasps and points to a photograph of a guy surrounded by flowers in the Arts section.

“Who’s that?” Maria asks.

“That’s Arlo Hart,” she says, her brows furrowed. “I went to his show. What does it say?”

Gōng Gong lifts the paper and adjusts his glasses, squinting at the small print. “Arlo Hart… twenty years old… son of a famous photographer… ah, here we go. It was a sold-out show in Santa Monica. It was so popular, they ended up selling not only the photographs but the flowers from the net. It’s followed by an interview with him.”

This artist sold all of his photographs and then some. I can practically hear Rooney counting numbers in her head across the table.

Rooney sits up straighter and pets Sprinkles so she doesn’t jump off her lap. “Good for him.”

“That could be you, Rooney,” Nell says. “Well, not a photo of you, obviously. But maybe your installation. Your first showcase is coming up.”

“Yeah. It’s a couple of months away,” Rooney says. She has a smile on her face but there’s worry in her eyes. “I hope there’s coverage at this level. My mom warned me that it can be hard for women in art.”

Maria waves Rooney off. “Nah! One day that’ll be you on the front page.”

“It can’t be if I’m always hiding,” Rooney says, pushing leftover waffle around on her plate. “I used to think that my anonymity would let my work stand out. Now I wonder if my hidden identity might overshadow the bigger messages of my art. People have been even more curious about who Red String Girl is.”

“You can do work outside of NASA, right?” Brian asks.

Rooney shifts in her seat. “Honestly, that’s where I’m a little stuck.”

The team encourages Rooney to tell them what’s on her mind.

“I feel like I’m on the verge of inspiration,” she tells them, looking at me when she says this. “My mom is an artist, too. A bold one. Sometimes I think I play it a little too safe because she’s so fearless. I used to want to take more risk like she did. But now I just… hide.”

“You know, we take a lot of risks at NASA,” Maria says. “We’re doing things that haven’t been done before. If we want to make change, we have to push boundaries.”

“And we have haters. There are people who think we shouldn’t be trying to go to Mars, or even back to the moon,” Toby adds. “Some people only want to look. Others believe we should be spending resources to make this planet better first before trying to go to others.”

“Everyone’s going to think what they think,” Mac says. “No matter what you do, even if what you think you’re doing is right, you’ll have people rooting against you. I’m sure you can relate, being an artist.”

Rooney laughs. “Like you wouldn’t believe. Going to another planet is the epitome of going big. To be totally honest with you all, doing something very public is a way for me to get my art and the themes behind it seen, but right now I also need the money. Which means I need the exposure. I’m not in trouble or anything,” she adds quickly.

“Specifics aren’t necessary. You need to make money to survive like the rest of us,” Maria says supportively. “I’ve lived in LA for a while so I take it all for granted, but I’m sure there’s something that would be exciting.”

“Like the Hollywood Sign,” I mumble.

A surprised expression washes over Rooney’s face. She looks at her plate of scattered waffles like she’s reading tea leaves. As if the bites hold all the answers. And then she smiles.

“Jackson No-Middle-Name Liu, you’re a genius!” Rooney says with excitement. “I want to wrap more than dessert.” She taps the chocolate shell encasing her red bean ice cream. “The Hollywood Sign. That’s what I want to wrap. It’s something that hides in plain sight, and I want to make it be seen again.”

My jaw drops but no one else even blinks. There’s risk, and then there’s risky. Risk with the law and risk being on the mountainside. But I don’t say any of this because everyone is nodding and smiling. They’re saying supportive words, even.

“There’s no way you could wrap that all by yourself,” Toby says, offering up a hopeful deterrent.

“True. I guess I won’t be doing that anytime soon,” Rooney says. “It would take me days.”

Gōng Gong’s face lights up. “I love a little bending of the rules every now and then. I would help you if I could. I once took a moon jelly home from an expedition.”

I make a face and ask a clarifying question. “You stole a jellyfish?”

“He was alone, and I wanted to give him a home,” he says. “I called him Jelly Belly. Eventually someone found out, and I had to return him. Sometimes bending the rules isn’t so bad. Giving him back was a sad day, but Jelly Belly kept me company through some hard times. I’ll always be grateful to him for that.”

My eyebrows pinch together as I process this. Rooney is feeling a different kind of inspiration. The last thing I want to do is take that away. Maybe this is where I can even be the ultimate team player. Show my support for her not just through tests but through action. If this is what Rooney wants, this is what I want. It hits me that I would scale a mountain for this woman. I would even risk getting in trouble with the law for her. Why would that be? Unless…

Unless it’s because I love Rooney. I am not allowed to love Rooney. A light sweat breaks out all over my body. I press my clammy hands together. I overthink everything. But I don’t have to overthink this. I love Rooney.

“I’m in,” I say, the words leaving my mouth before I have chance to stop them.

Now the group looks surprised. They also look impressed.

Rooney looks at me with exploring eyes. “You want to help me wrap the Hollywood Sign?”

“You could use the extra hands, right?” I say.

Rooney’s face softens.

Next to her, Gōng Gong smiles. Something behind his eyes tells me that he’s happy to see this side of me. This is a side of me I didn’t even know existed.

“If Jack’s going to help, I also want to,” Maria says. “I want to be part of Red String Girl history.”

“Isn’t it illegal, though? Can’t you go to jail?” Toby asks, looking slightly pale.

“It’s trespassing. You’ll be in more trouble if you damage the sign,” Gōng Gong says.

He says this like it’s nothing. Why is he saying this like it’s nothing?

“So whatever you do, don’t damage the sign,” Mac echoes.

“I’m in, too,” Brian says. “I never thought you’d do this, Jack. So cool. My uncle went to Caltech in the late eighties when a group of students pulled a prank and changed the Hollywood Sign to read ‘CALTECH.’ He still wishes he were a part of it. The police were there and everything, but they still completed it. Apparently, the police sergeant even said that they did a good job. Can you believe that?”

“That was the eighties,” Toby says. “I can’t imagine we’d get a pat on the back for doing something like that now.”

“If you get caught, Rooney, you’re going to be exposed,” Nell says with concern. “That’s the opposite of hiding.”

Rooney shakes her head. “I don’t want to hide anymore.” As she says this, she slams her spoon against the chocolate shell. It cracks open, the ice cream underneath revealed.

Rooney is willing to shed her hidden identity for this art piece. There has to be more behind it than just not wanting people to see her being born. She was known for it once, and she shares her mom’s last name so it’s not like people don’t know she’s Wren’s daughter. What else is in that video?

She looks around at all of us, locking eyes with me. “I am so appreciative of the support, but no one should feel like they have to do this with me. NASA will get me to the edge of space, but I need something else to catapult me into the exosphere. It’s time that I take a risk.”