“One week from today. Will that give you enough time to get your models and their wardrobes ready?”
Charley is typing away on her laptop and turns the screen toward me to show an animated gif of a cheerleading squad jumping up and down. Then she hops off the sofa and imitates the movements herself.
“That should be fine,” I tell the producer. “How many looks do you want for each sign?”
“We’ll only have time for one, but we’d like you to cover everything from casual to formal depending on who will wear it best. We’ll give you a budget to pay for the models. Most stores will either give you the clothes or let you borrow them if you mention their name during the segment.”
My body starts to vibrate in anticipation of my first-ever national television appearance. I feel all floaty, like my essence is lifting out of my form and hovering somewhere above myself. Before it can float to Brooklyn, I say, “Sounds terrific. If you send me all the details, I’ll make sure to give you the best fashion segment you’ve ever had.” I don’t know how, but I manage to keep my composure and not sound like I’m about to eat my first hot fudge sundae after successfully losing twenty pounds. Well done, me.
“Great. And FYI, we have someone coming from NASA the same day. We thought it might be fun if you gave him some fashion tips, as well.”
“Absolutely! If you ask me, those scientist types could use a little input on the more sensory applications of life.”
Waltraut says, “We really want to play up the juxtaposition between the scientific and the popular culture views of space.”
“The two aren’t mutually exclusive,” I tell her. “Just because science doesn’t give credence to astrology doesn’t mean astrology isn’t a relevant science of its own.”
“That’s exactly the kind of thing we want you to say on air,” the producer tells me.
Buoyed by her enthusiasm, I add, “Astrology has been practiced for over two thousand years, far longer than most scientific fields. If you think about it, two hundred years ago, people didn’t even know enough about germs and viruses to realize that washing their hands was a fundamental deterrent to illness.”
“I’m so glad I called you. I think this is going to be a real winner of a segment.”
“I’m sure it will.” After I hang up, Charley and I stare at each other for a full second before we both dance around the living room, screaming like fools. Once our initial burst of enthusiasm is over (there will be more), I suggest, “Celebratory donut?”
“This calls for two,” she says.
Oh, to have a fifteen-year-old’s metabolism. But you know what? Who cares about calories because I just got the best news in the two years since I launched my app. We hurry out of my apartment and take the elevator down to the main floor. Charley chats away about how sick this is going to be. (Apparently, sick is the new cool.)
As I listen to her, a tiny seed of worry starts to grow in my belly. Diehard astronomers don’t generally mix well with people from my world. In fact, scientists usually disregard astrology as a parlor game. As such, there’s a very good chance that if I don’t get the upper hand with this astronomer right out of the gate, he may very well try to make me look like a moron on national television.
Which is pretty much my worst nightmare.
Two
Ben
“…And then Chewy scooted his butt across the living room rug for ten minutes straight while Don complained about how my dog was ruining his nineteenth century Aubusson carpet. As if it’s my fault the little guy’s anal glands keep getting impacted. What do you think, Ben?”
I think I wish you would stop talking.
Carla Jameson, our senior data analyst — and, according to the mug she carries everywhere, “World’s Best Dog Mom”— has not stopped talking since she walked into my office twelve minutes and thirty-six seconds ago. I swear the woman has mastered the art of keeping up both ends of a conversation even while doing the kinds of calculations that would cause the average physics student’s head to explode. If you don’t answer her in a speedy fashion, she’ll answer for you. Her mouth moves non-stop, all day long.
There are six of us in total on NASA’s Earth II TRAPPIST-1 Exoplanet Research Team. I was tapped to lead our little group of geeks as we analyze the habitability of the seven rocky planets in the TRAPPIST-1 solar system. Five of our team are introverts (including me) and the sixth is currently nattering on about her Labradoodle’s hind quarters like I’m thoroughly invested in the topic. Which I am not.
While some of us occasionally lack social awareness — ahem, Carla — we are all exceptionally bright, and get along well considering most of us would rather be crunching numbers and hypothesizing about growing food on another planet than actually conversing with other humans.
As the team leader, I’m lucky enough to have walls and a door to my office that I can shut when I need silence, like I do right now. I’ve had enough of Chewy’s bodily functions and fluctuations to last a lifetime.
Picking up my phone, I tell the imaginary person who hasn’t called to, “Hold on a sec.” Then I shoo Carla toward the door with an apologetic look. “I’ve got to take this. Could you please shut my door?”
As she turns to walk off, she’s still talking about her dog, but now the unlucky victim is Alec Maestas, one of our junior analysts, who is about to get his daily Chewy update. I sit back in my chair, holding the receiver to my ear and nodding for good measure in case she looks back. After all, I don’t want to hurt her feelings, but I’m liable to scream if I hear the words “anal sac” again.
Through the glass wall, I see Alec giving me a dirty look as Carla descends upon his desk. I offer him a satisfied smile, then type Sorry, not sorry in our private chat. He sends back a middle finger emoji in return.
I’m about to reply with a GIF of Han Solo shrugging when my boss, Dev Grover, walks in and shuts the door. “Good God, you’d think she would just take the dog to the vet already. Wow, just wow,” he says, sitting down on the opposite side of my desk. “Speaking of wow — I’ve got the opportunity of a lifetime for you.”
“Really?” I ask, not liking the look on his face, which is a cross between trepidation and excitement.
Giving one firm nod, he says, “You know how we’re always lamenting the fact that we missed NASA’s glory days, when the entire nation would stop everything to watch a shuttle launch?”
“Yes …” I already hate where this is going.
“And you know how, when you took this position, I mentioned you’d be the face of our department when we needed to drum up publicity?”
“I also recall you saying that particular scenario would likely never come to fruitition since no one is interested in space exploration anymore.” I don’t know why I think pointing this out will change what he’s about to say, but I suddenly feel exceedingly nervous.
“Yes, well, it turns out, all of that is about to change!” he says with a wide grin. “A Caelum Supercluster-sized opportunity has popped up and we’ve finally got a chance to earn back the love of the masses.” His face morphs into something more sinister as he adds, “We might actually be able to steal some of the attention away from those Mars bastards.”