Girl on the Moon (2 page)

She had to learn to fly to become an astronaut. So she was going to do it.

It might have been some deeply buried part of Conn that stopped her, coat in hand, in front of her dad’s bedroom door. Dad was paying bills on a tiny desk. He looked up and saw the coat. “Where are you off to?” Conn’s mind almost drowned him out. She stammered. Why couldn’t she tell her dad she planned to jump off the roof and fly? Was jumping off the roof bad? How could it be? And yet, she couldn’t tell him, couldn’t face him if she did. She told him she was going to take a shower instead. She did, and in the shower, she started to shake. She was still shaking afterward when she went to her dad again and said, “I think I need to see a doctor.”

Conn was bipolar, her doctor said, what they used to call manic-depressive: a disorder easily treated with a daily regimen of Symbyax and Levalil, antidepressants and mood stabilizers. The combination eliminated her manic episodes, but she spent most of the next month in a shallow version of one of her lows. Her doctor added Wellbutrin to the mix, and then Conn was her bright, engaged self again.

But she had just been disqualified from becoming an astronaut.

Having what was considered a moderate-to-severe mental disorder, and needing drugs to manage it, shut an otherwise grade-A candidate out of NASA and the ESA. It wasn’t strictly necessary to be trained by NASA or the ESA anymore, but it meant a leg up. Two legs up, and into the rocket on its way to orbit, as far as Conn was concerned.

The summer after she graduated from high school, Conn stopped taking her medication, hoping against hope that her disorder was instead a phase she’d grown out of. If it was, and she could get a doctor to pronounce her cured, she might yet have a chance to train as an astronaut somewhere. It didn’t take even two weeks to learn that her disorder hadn’t receded at all, and was still only held in check by her daily regimen of drugs.

As down as Conn had felt half the time before her diagnosis, it was nothing compared to the sense of loss when she realized she would never go into space. She had self-identified as a future astronaut for so long, and now she had no future. And she couldn’t even wallow in her disappointment. The Wellbutrin made her too constantly, superficially happy.

She finally accepted, kicking and screaming, that she could become an astronautics engineer. She could build the rockets that took astronauts into space, or even the space station they were going to. Not everybody who worked in space travel got to go into space themselves.

She had applications out to schools that would have impressed NASA or ESA recruiters by name alone, and had even been accepted to some of them. But without a chance of going into space, and not needing to pad her résumé, she chose her hometown Illinois Institute of Technology. Her education wouldn’t suffer, not really—Illinois Tech’s Mechanical, Materials and Aerospace Engineering department was world-class in 2028. It didn’t hurt that she could live at home, and could avail herself of in-state tuition and scholarships.

Those factors influenced her choice. What made up her mind was that her hero, Peo Haskell, would be starting at Illinois Tech at the same time—as a visiting professor of aerospace engineering.

August, 2028–April, 2030

Her first day of freshman year, Conn found Dr. Haskell’s office, and after several self-pep talks, was ready to meet the world-famous entrepreneur, astronaut and engineer. She found herself instead in front of the desk of Susan, the MMAE department admin. Susan had been physically placed so that to get to any of three department professors’ offices, including Dr. Haskell’s, Conn would have to go through her.

Could she please see Dr. Haskell? She would only take a moment of her time.

“Are you taking her Heat and Mass Transfer class?”

Well, no, she was technically just a freshman, but—

“Dr. Haskell only advises graduate students,” Susan said, seeming to be awfully satisfied with herself while doing so, “and will only see undergrads—with an appointment—who are taking her Heat and Mass Transfer class.”

Is that her only undergraduate class? That’s for seniors only.

“This semester, yes, it is. Dr. Haskell is a professor of aerospace engineering,” Susan said, rather unnecessarily, in Conn’s view, “and doesn’t teach chemistry, or calculus, or materials science, or any other first-year, basic engineering courses.”

Surely Conn could make an appointment to see Dr. Haskell just to introduce herself—

“If you have any questions about the first-year curriculum, you could ask a professor who teaches it, or you might speak with Dr. Dutta, who does advise undergraduates.”

Right, I have Dr. Dutta for Intro to the Profession. Conn winced—she couldn’t have vocalized a more freshman-sounding course.

“Dr. Dutta has office hours posted on the board over there.” Susan swept a careless gesture toward a department bulletin board. “And his office is on the first floor.”

That was that.

Conn blinked at Susan. Didn’t Susan realize Conn was here, instead of MIT or Cal Tech or Michigan, so she could work with Peo Haskell? What was she supposed to do if she couldn’t so much as talk to the professor until she was a senior?

She vowed not to be deterred. She vowed instead to be patient. But it wasn’t going to make freshman year go any faster.

It wasn’t like she had anything else to distract her. She had taught herself the first-year engineering curriculum in junior year of high school.

She wasn’t a friend-maker. Second day of freshman year, she was surprised and delighted to find Jody Guidetti, who went to her high school with her, in her General Physics I class, the name of which Conn now resented.

Jody was tall and wiry, with close-cropped dusty blond hair, and when he smirked, it looked like a grimace, and vice-versa. He was nobody Conn had hung out with. He hadn’t taken any honors classes like Conn had. He mostly spent his high school career playing basketball, and he was good enough that most assumed he would go somewhere on a basketball scholarship.

Illinois Tech did not have a basketball team. Jody confounded everybody by aspiring to an engineering degree instead.

Neither Conn nor Jody made friends easily, but as former high school classmates, they were familiar to each other in an intimidating new world. They glommed onto one another; he settling her down when she wasn’t sure where her bio classroom was, and she helping him with his physics homework.

“If I need homework help two weeks into freshman year, is my engineering career already doomed?” Jody asked.

“No,” Conn said. “When I run out of stuff I already learned two years ago when I was manic, is my engineering career already doomed?”

“Maybe,” Jody said. She swatted his arm.

So with Jody as a sounding board and cheering section (and tutoring pupil and drunk dialer), but no other relationships worth much of an investment, Conn kept her head down, tried not to screw up her grades, and coasted to an attention-getting GPA. Whether it and standing in the sophomore class would get Peo Haskell to notice her, she hadn’t a clue.

Once sophomore year began, Conn genuinely thought she had a shot at becoming Dr. Haskell’s only undergraduate advisee. She made overture after overture, having mastered the art of the “chance” face-to-face meeting and the letter and e-mail that wouldn’t be screened by Susan. She chafed when Peo stubbornly refused to take her under her wing. Conn’s persistence made Peo recognize her by name or by face, but that was it—and it wasn’t necessarily a good thing.
You would want to remember someone you wanted to avoid,
Conn observed.

Conn had all but resigned herself to having to wait years before she could work with Peo. Casting about for ways to be useful, she stumbled upon a grant open to Chicago Public Schools alumni that would pay a student for up to twenty hours’ work a week in an appropriate academic setting. She informed Peo of the grant immediately, let her know that she could basically work for free. Peo wouldn’t budge. She had a graduate research assistant. A boy named Pritam Chettri, with prominent ears, a big smile, and a limp Conn never asked about. Peo didn’t have enough work for someone else to do, she said.

Instead, Conn caught on with Dr. Dutta, her Intro to the Profession teacher, doing undergraduate-level make-work. The grant money came in handy. On one income, Dad was sending her to college, and Cora was just two years behind.

Then, during spring break, lightning struck. Peo had work, and Conn had made enough of an impression that Peo thought of her first. It would be perfect for her choose-your-own-adventure grant. Peo would square things with Dr. Dutta. She asked Conn to come in for an interview.

Conn wore a comfortable knee-length dress, and had to buy dressy but comfortable shoes. Her dark, red-tinged hair, usually only seen in a utilitarian ponytail, was primly up in a bun. She decided against makeup. She could never get it right—she was always drawing attention to her too-small nose or too-long mouth when she did her makeup.

Her commute to school from Humboldt Park, where she still lived with her dad and Cora, was always a pain. It was no better that day—worse than usual because it was raining. She didn’t think about taking a cab until she was already changing trains downtown. She managed to make it to Dr. Haskell’s office reasonably dry and without exploding from nerves or anticipation, but it was close.

Peo was hanging up the phone as Conn knocked on her open office door. Peo told her to come in, sounding disgusted. Conn hesitated at the threshold. She was back on her heels already, and the interview hadn’t even started.

“I wish I could have caught you before you left home,” Peo said. “They won’t approve the work I have in mind under your grant program. Not
academic
enough. I’m sorry.”

Conn reeled. She thought she might scream.

Peo looked at her, eyebrows raised. Expectant. What was Conn supposed to say?

“Professor, I took two long walks and two trains to get here. My feet are soaked. Could we at least talk? Over coffee would be great.” Peo cocked her head at the girl, smiled, and motioned for her to sit down. Then she got them both some coffee.

Peo Haskell was tall, wiry, with dark hair Conn could tell was straightened and with some silver streaks piping through. She had freckles, mostly under her big, round eyes. The contrast between the freckles and the wrinkles that came with being in her late fifties was amusing. It gave Peo a disarming face. Conn knew enough about Peo not to be disarmed.

“Thank you, Professor,” Conn said, taking the coffee.

“I prefer Peo. Still raining out there I take it?”

“I think I grew gills on the way here.”

Peo laughed, and Conn thought sadly that she would have nailed this. But it was too late.

“Let’s talk about you,” Peo said. “In your letters and e-mails, and in our previous meetings, you talked about how excited you are about aerospace engineering. Have you considered becoming an astronaut?”

Conn had prepared for the question. “I considered it,” she said carefully. “I was pretty obsessed when I was younger, actually.”

“It’s not for everyone,” Peo said.

“It wasn’t for me.”

The women were silent for a moment. Did Peo sense the real reason Conn had given up on becoming an astronaut? That she was broken, and NASA wouldn’t take damaged goods? Conn couldn’t bear the thought of Peo knowing that about her.

“Um”—Conn sipped her coffee, her heart hammering—“this position you have. Had. You said it wasn’t very academic. May I ask what it is? Was?”

“I have a company,” Peo said. “I don’t run it day-to-day anymore, but I still keep a hand in, and I’ve been getting more involved the last few months. My assistant back in California was my gatekeeper. She screened everything that was sent to me, and passed along what needed to be passed along. She handled the rest. Until she took maternity leave, and then quit on me as soon as it was over.

“I’m a little sour on the idea of hiring someone two time zones away again. I wanted to bring you on to do what she did.” She shrugged. When Conn didn’t say anything, Peo continued. “Listening to voice mail, reading e-mail, watching v-mail, reading memos and reports, bringing to me whatever needs my attention, summarizing the rest in a daily report—that’s a failsafe. I would look at your report and make sure you didn’t miss anything I needed to act on.”
Your
report, she said.

“Attending the odd meeting and taking notes for me. Nothing that would interfere with your class schedule. Arranging meetings I want to have. Writing basic memos and e-mails with my name on them
.

“So no, not a lot of academic work involved. But you would learn an awful lot about Dynamic Aerospace Technologies, LLC and running an aerospace company in general, if that’s something you would be interested in.” Peo finished, and Conn again wasn’t sure what she was meant to say, other than
Great. This would have been my dream come true
.

Instead, she took her cue from Peo, and acted out her portion of the interview. She asked the questions that she thought would naturally come next in a production of Job Interview Theater:

“How many hours?”

“The twenty you were going to get paid for, but also more, if you didn’t mind working for free after that.”

“You don’t need somebody full time?”

“I’d love to have someone full time, but I wanted to try this out first.”

“How would I know which things need your attention and which don’t?”

“You would pick it up. You’re bright, you would get the hang of it in a week. And if you made sure to err on the side of bringing stuff to me to start—you’d learn that way, too.”

Conn was almost bursting. This was exactly where she wanted to be, exactly how she wanted to start her career sending people into space.

So she couldn’t get paid for it? She decided she didn’t care.

“Could I try it out as an unpaid, I don’t know, intern? The money isn’t the point.”

Peo appraised her. “You could. But you can’t do this and work for Dr. Dutta. My hesitation is, if it gets to be too much, you might have to scale back—or find something that pays.”