Consider (7 page)

Chapter 6

Day 19: August—3,966 hours to decide

Question: Do you have sex to reproduce?

Answer: Yes, we are humans like you. We have sex for reproduction, pleasure, and connection.

That night, the
doorbell rings, and I race to answer it.
Fail.
I hear Dad’s voice boom, “Nick. Weren’t you just here?”

“Can’t stay away,” Dominick says, stuffing his hands in both pockets.

“Not trying hard enough,” Dad responds.

I intervene before Dad gets too cocky. “Hey,” I say, stepping between them.

“Hay’s for horses,” Dad says. He pats me on the back a little too hard. A sweet, all-too-familiar smell radiates from his pores.

“We’re going to the movies,” I say and escape out the front door with Dominick before Dad can argue. Dominick still has his hands in his pockets. He’s not looking at me. “Sorry. You know how he is.”

“It’s not that,” he says. “My mom had to work overtime. I have Austin with me in the car.”

“Oh.” I was hoping for some quality talking and making out time.

“I was thinking instead of the movies we could go back to my house? Put Austin to bed and watch a movie there?” His eyes shine with nervousness. Is he afraid of disappointing me, or afraid of disappointing himself?

Even though I’m almost eighteen, my parents have a rule against me going to Dominick’s house for obvious reasons: A) his mom is never home, and B) they think I’m a virgin, which I am, and they want to keep it that way for as long as possible.

After watching Rogers take a cosmic leap, breaking a parent rule seems super trivial.

“Sure, let’s do it.”

His eyes light up, and a wide grin spreads across his face.

“I didn’t mean
that.
Don’t expect anything.”

“Never,” he says. His dimples say something else.

Dominick's little brother,
Austin, pulls my hand and offers to show me around their place. He’s so excited, I don’t remind him that I visited after his father’s funeral.

“This is my room,” Austin says, giving me a tour. Across one wall, a series of shelves hold a collection of Transformers, plastic figurines, airplanes, other vehicles, and video game equipment, all in strict procession. After my years in therapy and reading about psychology, I recognize signs of obsessive compulsive disorder when I see it. No kid’s room should ever be this organized.

“Nice,” I say and point at his Pokémon poster over his bed. “Who’s your favorite?”

“I like Pikachu, of course, but I also like Charizard.” He picks up a stuffed orange dragon with turquoise inner wings and a flaming tail.

“Why do you like him?”

“’Cause he can fly and breathe fire.” He stands on his bed and flies the Pokémon around my head.

“That’s cool,” I say and blink as the toy buzzes repeatedly in my face and whacks my nose. I back away to escape the torture.

“All right, time for bed,” Dominick announces.

“No. I wanna stay up.” Austin jumps off the bed, runs to his desk, and starts coloring an unfinished drawing of a Transformer.

“I’ll tell you what,” Dominick bargains, “if you hop in bed, I’ll let you watch a movie in the dark.”

Austin dives into bed, and Dominick sets up the DVD player. Watching their routine together makes me appreciate the full responsibility Dominick feels for his family. There’s something both cute and sad about it.

I want to help, so I pull up an airplane-patterned sheet over Austin’s legs.

“No, it’s too hot,” he complains and kicks off the sheet.

“Movie’s on,” Dominick intervenes. “If you get out of bed, it goes off. Got it?”

“Got it.” He sits Charizard next to him on his pillow.

“Good. Night, buddy.” Dominick clicks off the lamp.

“Night.”

We step out of the room, and Dominick leaves the door open a crack.

“He’s afraid of the dark. The TV helps. He’ll be asleep in like ten minutes.”

I put my hand on his shoulder. “You’re so good with him.”

“Someone has to be.” He fixes his glasses and changes his tone to a fake kid voice. “Wanna go to my room? I can show you my Pikachu.”

“Gross!” I smile and push his chest.

He laughs and says, “Fine. Living room it is.”

Once there, he kicks off his sneakers and tosses them under the coffee table, so I slip off my flip flops and do the same.

“We can do shirts next,” he offers, lifting his black T-shirt so I see his belt, the top of his shorts, the hair on his navel. So distracting.

I change the subject. “So what did you think of Rogers and the other people volunteering to leave first?”

“I think it’s absurd,” Dominick says, putting his shirt back down. He clicks on the television and channel surfs.

“I know, right?”

“I can’t tell if they’re doing it for the fame or to escape their lives. I understand wanting to go for scientific reasons, but I still think it’s way too early.” He stops on a rerun of
The Big Bang Theory
and puts the remote on his lap. So distracting.

“You want something to eat? Drink?” he offers.

“Um, sure. Water.”

Once he leaves the room, I put on more lip gloss and glance down the front of my red tank top to check if my cleavage looks even underneath. I shift the underwire of my favorite, lacy, black bra to get the right lift.

What were we talking about? Oh, yeah.
“I thought maybe it was an age thing,” I say loud enough for him to hear me.

He returns with water for me and a can of soda for himself.

“What do you mean?”

“Did you notice how they were all older? I looked it up. On the other planet, humans can survive for 250 years.”

“No kidding.” Dominick takes a sip of cola. “That’s a selling point.”

“Yep.” The cold water slips down my throat. I didn’t realize how thirsty I was.

He puts his feet up on the coffee table. “So what do you want to do?”

I smile. “Not what you’re thinking.”

“How do you know what I’m thinking?”

“’Cause I’m psychic. Like on
Medium
.”

“That show sucked,” he says. “And you’re not a dreamer. You’re a fact finder. Ball buster. You’re definitely still a Scully.”

“Stop it. I am not that cynical.”

“Cynical. Skeptical. Sexy. It’s all the same.” He grins and those dimples reel me in. We kiss and kiss and he climbs on top of me. His hand slides up my tank top, and my stomach muscles tense. I stifle a laugh since it tickles. He feels so good and I want to say yes, but I can’t make a decision with all these unknown decisions ahead of us. Colleges. Vertexes. It’s too much.

“Dominick—”

He must be able to tell by my voice because he stops and lifts off me. “Slowing down,” he whispers.

I feel like such a tease, but he doesn’t realize how much I want him. We started dating in April of junior year. There’s nothing we could do about that. You feel what you feel when you feel it. But it always meant that our relationship came with a huge decision attached. Senior year. College decisions. I don’t want our choices to be dependent on each other. With everything else going on, sex will just make everything harder. No pun intended.

I must look upset because he says, “No worries. I don’t want to do anything you don’t want to do.”

That’s what worries me. I’m afraid to do so many things, but I’m most afraid of holding him back.

Dominick's mom returns
dangerously close to my curfew. I get home with seconds to spare and my heart in my throat. Thankfully, the living room is dark, but it’s never that easy. I find Dad in the kitchen making a turkey and cheese sandwich.

“How was the movie?” he asks as he spreads mayonnaise on bread.

“Fine,” I say.

He cuts the sandwich in half the triangle way. “What did you see?”

“That new horror movie.
The Macbeth Murders
.” I maintain eye contact as long as I can.

“Was it good?”

“Yeah.” I shove a slice of turkey into my mouth from the package on the counter.

“Where’s the movie stub?”

My heartbeat hammers away, and I can feel it pounding in my skull. I stall, chew. I automatically reach into both pockets, pretend to search.

“I dunno. I must’ve lost it.”

“Huh.” He takes a huge bite of his sandwich and chews in loud, wet circles. I can’t tell if he’s bought it. Now I know why Dominick sticks his hands in his pockets; no one can see if they’re shaking. After an awkward minute of the silent treatment, including Dad licking his fingers, wiping his face with a paper towel, and taking a swig of milk, he zeroes in on me, and I can’t look away.

“Glad you enjoyed yourself. Hope not too much.”

My face feels hot. “Yep.”

I escape to my room and lie on my bed. That was close. It’s embarrassing that Dad still treats me like I’m twelve. I’m almost eighteen. If I want to have sex with my boyfriend after months of dating and two years of friendship, I will. And my decision will have nothing to do with him and his rules.

But if I want to go to law school someday, I can’t let anything get in my way, not my family, not my anxiety, not my boyfriend. Dominick’s kisses still linger, soft and tempting. I never expected to doubt myself so much in all three areas, nevermind contemplating the future surrounded by holograms and the vertexes.

I wonder if they even have lawyers on their planet. Maybe we’re in for a rude awakening, and we’ll discover that their world works a billion times better than ours.
That would be a game changer.
I don’t know if we’re evolved enough to adapt. I know I’m not ready to change everything I’ve ever known.

What if we get there and bring all of our old problems? Wouldn’t that ruin their little utopia?

I take a pill so I can sleep.

During the next
three days, the first major exodus takes place among the homeless, mentally ill, extremely poor, and the sick of the world. I take notes. According to the news, small lines have formed at vertexes in Michigan, New Jersey, Ohio, Kentucky, Florida, New York, and South Dakota. The suicide rate has dropped since many people have jumped through a vertex instead of off a bridge. According to one report, “experts attribute these changes to a newfound hope in another world with better medical treatments and no need for wealth.” The mentally ill who haven’t left the planet, however, are checking into hospitals at a skyrocketing rate. Some are disappearing through other means. Experts believe those people have gone off the grid—out to unpopulated, wooded areas, bunkers. Their “inability to comprehend the message within the scope of their already intense paranoia” has finally splintered their brains and confirmed their worst fears.

Note to self: keep an eye on Dad.
Other than boxes in the basement and more beer cans in the recycling, he’s been okay. The light in his eyes is still on.
But at any time, lightning could strike. Or a power outage.
You’d think the lightning strikes would be the worst, but no, somehow the power outages hurt even more.

A few top astrophysicists, mathematicians, and other adventurous types have also decided to take the plunge. The opportunity was too enticing for them to pass up. I think they’re just as crazy as the other people, but Dominick disagreed and explained their need to explore a part of space “where no [Earthling] has gone before.” I can’t argue with him when he uses
Star Trek
against me.

Other people have started talking crap about the good the exodus will have on the nation:

“Getting rid of the baggage that’s weighing the country’s economy down.”

“Vertexes are cleaning up the gene pool.”

“Dregs of the streets. Good riddance.”

Even Dad and Benji have gotten onto this train of thought.

I don’t understand how people can be so desperate and so mean. Life on Earth must be terrible for those leaving if they can risk everything for the slightest possibility that the holograms are actually telling the truth. I mean, we have no evidence that there’s a comet. It could all be an elaborate trap.

I need evidence. Facts. Ambiguity breeds overreaction. I should know. I’m the queen of biological overreaction. We simply don’t have enough information to make a permanent decision. How can people, especially scientific people, make this kind of leap of faith? Can this level of hopelessness and disinterest in our planet really exist?

Maybe Dominick’s right. Maybe I really am a Scully. But she always seemed so cool, calm, and collected, not sweaty, shaky, and scattered.

"Come fishing with
me tomorrow morning,” Dominick asks over the phone. His request catches me so off guard my bowl tips, sending a cold dribble of cookie dough ice cream down my bare leg.

“But you said, and I quote, ‘I fish alone. Man versus fish.’ I remember the lofty speech.”

I grab a T-shirt from my laundry basket to wipe my leg.

“I changed my mind.”

“Are you sure?” I know what he’s not saying. His father used to bring him on fishing trips. It was their thing.

“I wouldn’t ask if I wasn’t sure.”

The silent shift in our relationship is palpable. It’s a proposal of sorts. He’s inviting me deeper into his world, right when it’s almost time to let our worlds go.

“Sure,” I say. My mind screams
Don’t do it!

“Six a.m. Bring a sweatshirt. It’s usually windy.”

Early the next morning, I search through my bureau for something appropriate to wear on our fishing date. I choose jean shorts, a Patriots
T-shirt, canvas sneakers, and a “Life is Good”
hat. My anxiety revs up inside my chest.
I’m forgetting something. I know I’m forgetting something.
Then I remember to grab a navy-blue sweatshirt like Dominick suggested. You would think that remembering I forgot something would make me feel better, but instead it justifies my anxiety, which starts a loop in my brain thinking that I must be forgetting something else.

What else am I forgetting? There’s something else. I know there’s something. Something. Something. If I forget it, something bad will happen. Something really bad. And I won’t be able to fix it.