Life on Mars (15 page)

“Tripp? On a bike?” I finished.

Sure enough, the object got closer to us, wobbling and weaving but miraculously staying upright, Tripp balanced on the seat as if this was no big deal.

Priya jumped off the tires. “This is a big deal,” she said.

Exactly. Tripp hadn't ridden a bike in years. His mom said the health insurance wouldn't cover him anymore if he went
anywhere near a wheel again. Or a bonfire. Or most swimming pools and some sidewalks.

“Hey, guys!” Tripp called, waving grandly. The bike trembled from the motion. Priya made a small noise and clapped her palm over her eyes.

“I can't watch,” she said. “Let me know when the funeral is.”

But he stayed up, pedaled over to us, and eased to a stop.

“What's new?” he asked. He climbed off the bike and stood, his posture so upright he looked like someone had hung his shirt on a hook with him still in it.

“You're riding a bike, that's what's new,” Priya said.

“This old thing?” Tripp said nonchalantly.

I gave his shoulder a poke. “Why are you standing like that?” I asked.

“Like what?”

“Like you're having your height measured.” I poked again. He barely moved.

“I'm not standing any different than I normally stand. Sheesh.” He climbed up on a tire and immediately slid off backward, landing in the pea gravel on the other side.

“Never mind,” I said.

“So what's the scoop on the zombie next door?” Tripp asked, trying again to get on the tire.

“You're not going to believe this, but his name is Cash Maddux.
The
Cash Maddux.”

They looked at me blankly.

“Cash Maddux, the astronaut.”

“No way!” Tripp breathed. “A real space man? Like Luke Skywalker?”

“Well, I don't actually know if he's ever gone to space,” I said. “The flight suit looks pretty clean.”

Priya made a face. “So was he, like, mission control or something?”

“I don't know,” I said, and it occurred to me right then that I really wanted to find out.

“Can I just point out,” Priya said, sticking her finger up into the air, “that, one, he is not a zombie, and, two, I told you so.”

“Just because he's an astronaut doesn't mean he's not also a zombie,” Tripp responded, and, for once, he seemed to have a point because Priya didn't argue.

“So he's normal?” Tripp asked.

“I told you so,” Priya said.

I thought about how hard Cash laughed when he scared the egg salad out of me … and then picked it up and ate it. “I don't know if I would say normal.”

“I want to see it,” Tripp said. “The space room, I mean.”

“Yeah, me too,” Priya said. “Ask him if we can come sometime, too.”

I was torn. On one hand, Tripp and Priya were my best friends, and I wanted to share my amazing discovery with them. But on the other hand, I was afraid to tell Cash when his shoe was untied, much less ask him to let my friends in his house. Cash didn't strike me as someone who would love a seventh-grade dance party invading his space.

But I would be moving away soon, and I wanted to spend every moment I could with my friends.

“Okay, I'll ask him,” I said. “Sometime soon.”

Tripp and Priya cheered, and we all raced to the tornado slide where we had rock races until it was time for Priya to go home.

After she left, I got out my bike and Tripp and I rode around the neighborhood until it got too dark to see.

The dwarf planet Ceres. Vesta, Iris, and Flora—bright asteroids. The spiral galaxy M81. The Mundrabilla meteorite. Laika, the 1957 Russian space dog.

These were just some of the things Cash and I talked about as I sat on the floor of his space room. He was bent into a folding chair next to me, guiding me through books and magazine articles, photos from his days at NASA.

He told me stories about astronauts he knew and the discoveries they made. He told me the jokes they told. He told me about the fights they had, the findings they disagreed on, the achievements they celebrated.

I could envision it all. It was like being inside one of my dreams, only it was Cash's real life. I could picture a young Cash strutting through endless rows of beeping NASA computers. I could imagine myself standing next to him at the eyepiece of a giant telescope, the kind that made Dad's telescope
at the university look like Chase's Mickey Mouse binoculars. I could feel the excitement of getting ready to hop into a space shuttle and launch into the stars. It made me anxious to grow up so I could just get going already.

I was spending every day with Cash while Cassi cheered with the Brielle Brigade and Vega and the Bacteria spent every waking moment with their palms fused together and Dad painted and fixed things to get ready to sell our house.

Meanwhile, Mom worried about “cleaning out” and “getting rid of things.”

Arty's version of “cleaning out” and “getting rid of things”:
Pick up the obvious stuff, like your wadded-up Easter Sunday suit from kindergarten and the bucket of broken things you and Tripp spent an entire summer collecting. Kick everything else under your bed. Put the Easter Sunday suit and bucket of broken things back where you found them. The end.

Mom's version of “cleaning out” and “getting rid of things”:
Actually cleaning out and getting rid of things, with the help of your son.

I didn't want to clean closets with Mom. I wanted to talk about space with Cash. At first Mom worried about me going to “that man's” house, but after I “helped her” with a couple of closets, she stopped minding so much and let me go.

MY FIVE-STEP PROCESS TO GETTING OUT OF CLEANING CLOSETS SO YOU CAN HANG OUT WITH YOUR ASTRONAUT NEIGHBOR By Arcturus Betelgeuse Chambers

Step One: Groan
.

A lot. And not the usual groaning, but really loud, over-the-top groaning. I-Think-My-Appendix-Just-Ruptured-Into-My-Throat kind of groaning. I-Just-Stepped-Into-a-Pit-of-Lava-in-Flip-Flops kind of groaning. Vega-and-the-Bacteria-Are-Kissing-on-the-Couch-That-I'm-Currently-Sitting-On kind of groaning. And don't do it just once. Do it every few seconds for at least half an hour.

Step Two: Find Treasures.

And I don't mean real treasures like gold coins or jewels or Dad's lost golf shoes. Find “treasures” like a hair wad left over from when Cassi cleaned out her hairbrush or things kicked out of the old hamster cage or a muddy sock or a plate with a shriveled month-old hot dog stuck to it. Hug the treasure to your chest, make happy crying sounds, and tell your mom you'd rather die of an appendix rupturing into your throat while stepping into a lava pit in flip-flops than get rid of this long-lost gift.

Step Three: Guilt It Up.

When your mom balks about keeping your treasures, get sentimental about it. Tell her that she taught you to be sensitive and that you thought she, of anyone, would understand the significance of that particular receipt wrapped around that particular petrified hunk of chewed gum, because it was chewed “on that day,” “when that thing happened,” and when
you both “laughed/cried/cheered/danced/giggled/sniffled/sighed” over it. Together. Be vague. You don't want to accidentally end up in some big sentimental cry-fest with your mom about something terrible like when you were a baby and she used to give you baths and your cute little butt fit right into the palm of her hand. Embarrassville.

Step Four: Ask Tons of Questions.

Because once moms are in an I-Have-Only-One-Hour-to-Clean-Every-Closet-in-the-House sort of mood, they really love being sidetracked by questions like, “Hey, what's this?” and “Do you see that tiny speck right there? There. Right there. You can't see it? What is it? It smells bad. Can you smell it?” Or especially, “Is that mouse supposed to be in here?”

Step Five: Make the Pile Bigger.

And, finally, when you've worn her out with questions and crying and a fake spotted mouse, start putting more things into the closet when she's not looking. If she notices and yells at you, just let your lip quiver and tell her you were simply trying to help.