If there’s life in outer space, it can’t be half as
weird as the life in my ninth period study hall. We’re talking
Mutant City! Our town must have been built over a nuclear waste dump or
something. I can think of no other way to explain the freaks I
have for classmates. They spend the whole period hissing,
gurgling, snarling, and snorting while I try to do my homework in the
front row. Whenever I turn around, they look at me like I’m
from outer space. As if I’m not self-conscious enough!
I don’t know. Maybe they’re just suffering from some mysterious
side effect of puberty. To be honest, I really don’t have enough
experience with the subject to know for sure. I’m not what you
would call an early bloomer. I’m about five feet tall and
ninety-five pounds, practically non-existent by high school
standards. In fact, teachers mistake me for a lost sixth-grader
all the time. It happens so much that I don’t even bother telling
them that I belong here. I just thank them for directing me back
to the elementary wing and wander down the hallway humming the theme
from Get
Smart.
Other than looking young for my age, I’d say I’m pretty
normal-looking. I mean, I’m no goddess, but at least I don’t have
extra facial features like some of the kids in my study hall.
That’s why it really bugs me when they treat me like a weirdo.
Our study hall teacher just sits there and lets them gang up on
me. Wasn’t she ever picked on as a kid? My parents tell me
to tough it out. “Don’t worry,” they always say. “In a
couple of years those same boys will be crazy about you. They’ll
fall all over each other trying to get you to go out with them.”
For some reason, that always makes me glad for the way things are
now. The day one of those slimeballs asks me for a date is the
day I apply for a flamethrower permit.
Right in front of my desk is a poster of the space shuttle blasting
off. I like to look at it when I know the Teenage Mutant Freshman
Turtles are making jokes about me behind my back. I fantasize
that I’m on board as its mighty engines ignite and the whole vehicle
thrusts upward like the ultimate middle finger to all of the study hall
mutants on the planet. It’s not the most original fantasy in the
world, I know, but it’s mine and I happen to like it.
I’ve often thought about what it would take to become an
astronaut. First, you go to college and major in something very
scientific, like physics, astronomy, or engineering. Third, you
apply to NASA and grow very old waiting for them to call you
back. Seeing how I hate school and would rather gouge my eyes out
than study for a test, I seriously doubt I’m going going to get past
step number one. In fact, I’ll be lucky if I make it out of the
ninth grade without having to slip my teachers a fifty dollar bill
somewhere down the line.
Right now I should be studying. I’ve got homework like you
wouldn’t believe. If I had half a brain, I would spend ninth
period study hall cramming for tests and working hard to get good
grades. Instead, I’m sitting here writing my memoirs in a
tattered notebook that I normally use for my creative writing
assignments. You’re probably wondering why a fifteen-year-old is
already writing her memoirs. I’m wondering about that, too.
I really haven’t lived long enough to tell my life story. I’m not
like one of those dried-up old movie actresses that waits until
everyone she ever knew is dead before hiring some failed writer to sift
through her diaries and come up with stories about all of the perverts
she had for co-stars. What I’m about to tell you happened within
the past few months, so it’s all pretty much fresh in my memory.
It would be wise for me to give you a little background on this
story. First, my name is Crystal Larson. I have an older
brother named Curt. He’s a senior. Our parents are Cal and
Connie. All our names begin with C, and we all have matching
blond hair and blue eyes. We live in a town called
Eastville. My father designs
satellites for Terra Tech Dynamics, the biggest industry in our town.
When the story I’m about to tell you began, Dad’s satellite was about
to be launched into outer space aboard the space shuttle Atlantis, and Dad’s best friend,
Colonel Warren Shelby, was the mission commander. At the risk of
making this sound like the plot of some cheesy Hollywood sci-fi flick,
I just happened to be the biggest space cadet on the planet, complete
with mandatory telescope in my bedroom window. Looking back now,
I’m tempted to puke, but at the time I took it pretty seriously.
The events of the story began on the trip my family took to Florida to
watch the space shuttle launch with Dad’s satellite tucked
inside. I had never seen a space shuttle launch in person before
and was really looking forward to it.
We drove to Florida in a my parent’s camper. It took a long time
to get there, and by the time we crossed the state line I was getting a
case of cabin fever that manifested itself in my dreams. The
strangest one I had was about hijacking the space shuttle with a toy
pistol after sneaking aboard and hiding in a storage compartment.
Totally stupid. If you’ve ever met me in person, you’d probably
laugh yourself sick over the thought of me holding somebody
hostage. I’m not the most intimidating person on earth.
Just thinking about getting in a fight is enough to give me a
nosebleed. In this dream I was a stick of dynamite with a short
fuse—a lean, mean terrorist teen. The astronauts weren’t exactly
terrified, but they did take me seriously. Uncle Warren made an
unsuccessful attempt to talk some sense into me.
“This is a federal offense, you know. They’re going to throw the
book at you for this. Why don’t you just pay attention in school
and fly on the space shuttle when you grow up, like us?”
“Everybody knows they don’t let math-haters fly on the space shuttle,”
I replied. I waved my gun around and told them to proceed with
the launch. “If I spend the rest of my life behind bars, it’ll be
worth it. Besides, I’m a cute white girl with no criminal
record. I’ll probably get a slap on the wrist and a chance to
play myself when they make it into a movie.”
So we launched. It was just like I imagined it would be: fast,
loud, and exciting. The engines crackled with tremendous power as
we plowed through the billowing clouds of exhaust and raced into the
wild blue yonder like an elevator from the fiery depths of hell.
The dialogue may have left a lot to be desired, but the special effects
were state of the art, like they were created by a computer or
something.
The voice of the launch controller came over the radio. I managed
to find a spare helmet and put it on my head to listen in. “Atlantis, go with throttle up.”
“Roger, Houston,” said the pilot. “Throttle up.”
“Looking good, Atlantis.”
Another voice came over the radio, this one completely different from
the launch controller. “You’ve got it tuned to WFLR, Florida’s
Lite Rock. We play the ballads and mushy stuff that other
stations wouldn’t touch with a ten-foot tire iron. Next up is
Barry Manilow’s latest single, ‘The Flower of Love.’”
“Turn that damn radio off!” I demanded. “I don’t want the
greatest moment of my life to get spoiled by elevator music, for crying
out loud!”
None of the astronauts seemed to hear me and continued to do whatever
it is that astronauts do during a space shuttle launch. I
resigned myself to sitting back and trying to enjoy the ride.
Barry came on with the first verse:
“Remember the night you kissed me?
I’d never been kissed before
And I’ll never be kissed no more
So why did you walk out that door?
Now my heart is oh so sore
Because it’s you I adore
Forevermore...”
“Gross me out!” I muttered. “This music sucks chunks! Shut
it off or I start killing hostages! Now, dammit!” Again, my
demands were ignored. This was beginning to really irritate
me. Barry Manilow came on with the next verse. Believe it
or not, it made the first verse sound like genius in comparison.
“Love is all I ever wanted from you
And you’ll never find a heart so true
I’m stuck on you like globs of glue
So why do you always leave me blue?”
I had enough. This was getting sickening. I had to yell at
the top of my lungs, “SHUT THAT DAMN THING OFF!” and woke myself
up with the roar of my own voice. The noise was enough to startle
my father and make him swerve the camper toward the edge of the
road. I had been sleeping in the folding bed where the breakfast
nook usually is. The sudden swerve was sufficient to make tumble
over the side of the bed and roll across the floor with a sheet twisted
around my body like a straight-jacket. I fumbled around on the
floor until I was rescued by my mother.
“Are you okay, Crystal?”
I was gradually starting to re-orientate myself to my
surroundings. Sure enough, we were on the highway in the dark of
night with Barry Manilow singing on the camper radio. “Crud! It
was only a dream!”
Like I said, I was messed up on outer space. When you’re fifteen
years old, it’s hard not to be messed up on something.
