It Came from the Sky Page 3

  Ishmael, who’d never managed to keep his mouth shut about anything. How many people had he told? What exactly had he told them?

  I fired off a text to Cass saying no, that was not the case, and I’d explain at lunch. Then I opened my phone contacts and sent another message.

  Text Conversation

  Participants: Gideon Hofstadt, Ishmael Hofstadt

  GH: Are you telling people about last night?

  IH: no1

  IH: i mean

  IH: kinda

  IH: but just like 2

  GH: Two? Two what? People? Classrooms? Hordes?

  IH: ppl

  GH: Could you please not do that anymore?

  IH: dude

  IH: you srsly need to chill

  1 To my chagrin, Ishmael had turned off autocorrect on his phone because it “suppressed his individuality.”

  Event: Immediate Aftermath (Cont.)

  I did not “need to chill.”

  I needed to evaluate the situation and prepare for every possible outcome.

  In my brief moments of free time between classes, I researched legal implications of the explosion. Unfortunately, the information I found online was contradictory and muddled.

  According to one website, making homemade explosives was only criminal in certain contexts. For example, if I was planning to sell the explosives, it was illegal. If the explosive wounded someone, it was ultra-illegal. Neither of those stipulations applied to me.

  On the other hand, a different site claimed that in some states, one could receive jail time for “combining raw materials into a mixture capable of creating an explosion.” I tried to search Pennsylvania-specific laws to no avail. The closest thing I discovered was that Pennsylvania allowed the sale of fireworks containing up to fifty milligrams of explosive material, which roughly equated to one roman candle.

  The explosion in my yard was not caused by a Roman candle.

  Basically, either Ishmael and I were in the clear, or we’d end up sharing a cell.

  It was my own fault. I shouldn’t have let my brother participate in the experiment. After all the practical jokes I’ve endured from him, I should’ve known his sudden interest in science had a punch line.

  Truly, I shouldn’t have even broken the rule (The Rule: Ishmael was not to come within fifty feet of my lab for any reason, at any time.) I’d put into place last year, after he spilled orange soda all over a circuit board I was working on. (He claimed it only happened because Kepler had clawed him.)

  My worries weren’t alleviated as the day went on. Six separate individuals approached me before lunch to inquire about the “meteor.” This was especially concerning because there were some weeks when I didn’t speak to six different people.

  By the time I slid into my usual seat in the cafeteria, my body was a network of tension. Shoulders tight, head pounding, teeth beginning to ache. Stress made me clench my jaw, which in turn sent pain radiating outward.

  There was no one at the lunch table yet, and I hoped for a quiet day. Sometimes our table filled up with random acquaintances. Other times, when everyone was off doing various activities, it was only me, Cass, and Arden. (Arden Byrd, age fifteen, a recent transplant to Lansburg following her parents’ divorce.)

  As I removed food from the paper bag Father packed, Cass slid her lunch tray onto the table next to me.

  Her curls were pulled into a ponytail, and she wore a pair of retro glasses. Her polka-dot dress looked like it was straight from the 1950s. Cass was of the opinion that costumes were more entertaining than regular clothes, so therefore her clothes should be as costume-like as possible.

  “You know women were oppressed in the fifties,” I said as she plopped into her chair.

  “And as a black woman, I wouldn’t even be allowed to sit at this table with you. Doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate the fashion.” She gave me an expectant look. “But don’t we have something much more important to discuss right now?”

  “Such as?” I asked, playing dumb.

  “Um, how about your house getting blown to smithereens?”

  Cass gazed at me eagerly. I was 67 percent sure she’d be disappointed when she found out the truth wasn’t as cinematic as she’d hoped.

  “You must realize that’s an exaggeration.”

  “But was there really a meteor?”

  “Technically it would’ve been a meteoroid.”

  “Whatever. Was there one?”

  I glanced around to see if anyone was within hearing range.

  “Of course not.”

  Cass sighed dramatically. “Hells bells, Gideon Hofstadt! How dare you taunt me with the possibility of something exciting finally happening, only to cruelly dash my hopes?”

  I couldn’t help but smile.

  My friendship with Cass was a mystery to most people. Honestly, I didn’t know what made it work. Cass had other friends and was popular within her theater crowd. And I had other…well, maybe not friends, but acquaintances. People I attended Science Club with, anyway.

  But despite our different interests and social groups, Cass was one of the few people who understood me. And in turn, she was one of the few people I understood. Friendships had been built on less.

  Knowing it would thrill her, I said, “But there was an explosion.”

  “Go on,” she said, sitting up straighter.

  “It was my experiment. Remember the seismograph? I set off explosives to test it.”

  “Got a little overzealous, huh?”

  “No,” I replied as Cass began eating a slice of pizza, with no regard to how messy it was. I envied her. “Ishmael got overzealous.”

  “Well, praise Zeus for the Ishmaels of the world. Life would be so boring without them.” (Zeus: Greek god of the sky and ruler of Mount Olympus. Why Cass chose to praise him over Earth’s other deities, I didn’t know.)

  “Boring, maybe,” I said. “But less stressful too.”

  I told Cass about the nonexistent meteor, Kaufman’s investigation, and the trouble I’d be in if the truth came out.

  “Maybe the truth won’t come out,” Cass said. “Maybe Lansburg will become a famous meteor crash site, and the Discovery Channel will make a show about it, and of course I’ll have to give them an exclusive interview.”

  “See, Cass, that’s the difference between you and me. I don’t want to imagine that.”

  “You didn’t even hear the part where I’m discovered and get offered a movie role and become the third-youngest person to ever win an Oscar.”

  “I’ve always admired your logical thought processes.”

  Cass threw back her head and laughed with the kind of abandon I’d never have.

  “The worst part,” I continued, once she’d calmed down, “is I never even got to check my reading to—”

  I stopped talking abruptly when Arden appeared at the table and pulled out a chair. It wasn’t that I didn’t trust Arden. Not exactly. But we’d only met midway through the previous year. That wasn’t enough time to really get a read on a person.

  For me, anyway.

  Admittedly, I’ve been accused of having “trust issues.”

  “Gideon, are you okay?” Arden asked, twisting a rope of her long, pale hair like she always did when she worried. “I heard what happened.”

  “I’m fine,” I assured her.

  “A meteor really crashed into your yard?”

  I only hesitated for a moment. “Meteoroid. And yes, it seems that way.”

  “How horrible.”

  I felt a pang of guilt. Arden was already scared of half the things outside her front door. Now I’d given her something else to fear: objects falling from the sky.

  “It wasn’t so bad,” I said. “It was over in a second.”

  Despite my assurances, Arden shivered and wrapped her cardiga
n more tightly around her shoulders. Even in summer, Arden often wore a sweater.

  “How did you hear about the meteor, anyway?” I asked.

  “I think you mean meteoroid,” Cass said with a sly grin.

  Arden shrugged. “Everyone’s heard about it.”

  Well, wasn’t that wonderful.

  “Owen asked about it in third period,” Cass broke in.

  I was struck with the perplexing feeling I often got when Owen’s name was mentioned. I both wanted to act as if I couldn’t care less, and eagerly ask to hear everything he’d said and the exact tone in which he said it.

  “Oh,” I replied, deciding that was safe middle ground.

  “He wanted to make sure you were all fine and dandy.”

  He already knew I was fine. He’d texted me himself, probably right after he’d heard about the explosion. But he checked with Cass to doubly make sure.

  “That was nice,” I said evenly.

  “It was nice,” Cass agreed. “Even if I’m still annoyed at him.”

  Cass had yet to forgive Owen for getting the lead role in the fall play—a role she desperately wanted. Never mind that it was a male role. Cass had been cast as leads, male and female, since freshman year. Her portrayal of Ichabod Crane in The Legend of Sleepy Hollow had been particularly epic.

  “Owen likes you so much,” Arden said dreamily, the meteor apparently forgotten.

  “Well,” I mumbled, “I…I have a lot of respect for Owen.”

  “Why don’t you like him?” she asked for the hundredth time. “He’s gorgeous.”

  I felt my face getting red. Cass smiled and raised an eyebrow at me, a look that clearly meant, Are you ever gonna tell Arden about you and Owen?

  I ignored her.

  It wasn’t that Arden had ever done anything untrustworthy. It wasn’t that she’d spread gossip. Still…I wasn’t ready to be completely candid with her.

  Luckily, or as it turned out, unluckily, I was saved from answering by a commotion at the other end of the cafeteria. From her vantage point, Cass was the first to see what was happening.

  “Uh, Houston, we have a problem.”

  I turned and followed her gaze to a sight that filled me with immeasurable dread: my brother, standing on a chair, giving a speech.

  I couldn’t hear what he said over the noise in the room, but from the way he gestured, it was clearly an exciting topic.

  “Please excuse me,” I said stiffly to my friends.

  I marched across the cafeteria, jaw once again clenched so tight I could’ve shattered teeth.

  My rage increased when I got close enough to hear him. Fratricide (Fratricide: the killing of one’s brother.) was becoming more appealing by the second.

  “So I ran outside,” Ishmael preached, “just in time to see a meteor whizzing through the air!”

  The crowd around my brother made noises of approval and urged him to go on. Only one person standing in the back was unimpressed.

  “Who cares about a boring meteor?” the guy mumbled, shuffling off to another section of the lunchroom.

  Ishmael frowned after him for a moment before someone else asked, “Then what happened?”

  “Right. Anyway, so I saw the meteor…the fiery meteor, and… Hey! What are you doing?”

  “Show’s over,” I announced, tugging Ishmael off the chair.

  “Gideon… Ow! Come on, what’s your problem?”

  I didn’t speak until I’d pulled him safely away from the center of the room. “What are you doing?”

  “I was… Nothing.”

  “Nothing!” I snapped. “I specifically told you to keep your mouth shut.”

  “Dude, you’re being way too uptight,” Ishmael said, shaking my hand off him.

  Was I? I felt a twinge of doubt. It wasn’t the first time I’d been accused of being uptight. (Also: stuffy, rigid, tense, and boring.)

  “I just don’t see what you could possibly gain by talking about this.”

  Ishmael seemed to consider it. “I dunno. I mean…does it really need to be about gaining something? Can’t I just like telling stories or whatever?”

  “Yes. You can like telling stories. But I like having a future. And my future involves attending MIT and getting a job with NASA and making an important discovery that rocks the field of space exploration. Do you understand?” (MIT: Massachusetts Institute of Technology, one of the world’s top-ranked universities; known for its emphasis on the physical sciences and engineering.)

  “I actually don’t understand at all.”

  I took a deep breath and spoke firmly and slowly. “Your storytelling could get me in legal trouble that derails my entire future. We could go to jail for this.”

  “Dude, that’s definitely not going to happen.”

  Ishmael’s confidence that all outcomes would turn out favorable for him amazed me. In a way, I admired it.

  “Just please tone it down,” I said, a pleading note entering my voice.

  “Okay, okay,” Ishmael conceded. His expression clouded. “Apparently, meteors aren’t that interesting anyway.”

  “Good. Then you have no reason to keep talking about them.”

  Without any real expectation that he would stay quiet, I returned to the table with my friends, which had unfortunately filled up with other people.

  “What was that about?” Arden asked.

  “Just my brother being his usual attention-seeking self,” I replied.

  In between bites of pizza, Cass said, “Ishmael’s lucky he’s so freaking cute. Otherwise he’d never get away with anything.”

  Interlude

  Musings on Attractiveness

  Do I think my brother often “gets a pass” because he’s conventionally attractive? Yes. I do.

  Despite his fondness for Hawaiian shirts and an aversion to combing his hair, Ishmael has always been good-looking.

  And I…

  I wouldn’t say I’m ugly.

  But I don’t share my brother’s above-average height, strong jawline, or unexpectedly graceful way of moving. I certainly don’t share his unblemished skin.

  I don’t consider myself ugly, but I’m not handsome either.

  Before you jump to conclusions, you should know I don’t resent Ishmael for this. Being conventionally attractive has never been an ambition of mine. Unlike so many people who say “Looks aren’t everything,” I mean it. I would never trade my mind for my looks.

  I’m not even claiming I have superior intelligence. But my mind calculates data in a way that’s specific to me, the same as yours does in a way that’s specific to you. And I love it. I love my mind. It means more to me than my appearance ever could.

  Still, I’ll concede that based on our looks, Ishmael and I have had very different life experiences. I’ve seen the way people treat him. Everything he does seems charming, and a smile can get him out of trouble.

  And maybe in the context of the explosion and everything that followed, Ishmael’s attractiveness benefitted me too. After all, from the very first moment, we were in the situation together.

  Interview

  Subject #1, Ishmael Hofstadt: The thing is, at lunch, when Matthew said meteors were boring, I realized he was right. I mean, don’t meteors fall practically every day? And what about meteor showers? Like, a thousand meteors all fall at the same time. That’s why I changed my story…just slightly. I wanted it to be a little bit cooler, that’s all.

  Event: Interview

  Date: Sept. 8 (Fri.)

  I went straight to my lab after school. For all of my attempts to put the previous night from my mind, I had to see if the seismograph worked. Kepler twisted around my feet, purring for attention, or maybe just expressing his own eagerness to see the results.

  And there they were, the results of my experiment. The seismograph funct
ioned perfectly. What’s more, when I opened my laptop and pulled up OSU’s seismography data, I saw that the explosion had registered there too.

  I’d succeeded. Sure, there had been more trouble than expected, but isn’t trouble worthwhile when it’s in the name of science? Shouldn’t the first priority always be the pursuit of information, of discovering new and exciting things about the world?

  The thought gave me pause. I reached down and scratched Kepler’s head while I sorted out what was bothering me.

  Yes, discovery should come first.

  But I hadn’t actually discovered anything, had I? I’d only duplicated a machine whose earliest prototype came from 132 AD. Nor would I stumble onto new information with my seismograph. I’d contributed nothing to the world.

  I was hit with a wave of melancholy. The feeling of not being quite enough. I wanted to invent something of my own. Discover something special, accomplish something no one had before. I wanted to contribute to science in a meaningful way.

  Truth be told, I wanted glory.

  My phone dinged with a text message, and my musings screeched to a halt.

  IH: come up to the house

  I ignored him. A moment later:

  IH: hurry

  I decided to comply only because it was getting chilly and I hadn’t set up the space heater for the season. (My lab was kept running with a generator, so it had electricity, but heating and cooling options were limited.) Ishmael was the sort of person who’d interrupt important work to show you a YouTube video of a sloth playing guitar, or to see if you agreed that his fried egg was in the exact shape of Texas, so my expectations were low.

  I crossed the field and approached the farmhouse from the back. In the kitchen, Ishmael sat at the table with a man who looked vaguely familiar. He was in his midtwenties, tall and lanky, wearing an ill-fitting suit. The jacket was too wide for his narrow shoulders and the cuffs hung over his wrists. While I wasn’t immensely knowledgeable about fashion, I did know wearing a suit that wasn’t properly tailored looked less professional than not wearing a suit at all.

  The suit-wearer had a notepad and pen on the table in front of him.