Mothership (2 page)

Did I not mention earlier that Britta McVicker—former cheerleading captain and most popular girl at Lower Merion—is now simply another knocked-up teenager at the Hanover School for Expecting Teen Mothers, just like me? Due to pop any day now too.

Okay, so it’s not like I actually
wanted
to end up preggers in outer space or anything. If you’d told me a year ago that I’d be here on this ship, and with Britta McFreakingVicker to boot, I’d’ve told you to check the dosage on your Phezalin prescription. But, you know, shit happens.

I guess, if you want to be specific about it, the first shitty thing that happened was that I got the hots for Cole Archer, which was the perfect example of what my dad would call “one’s loins speaking more loudly than one’s brain.” My dad finally stopped using that expression when I told him that saying the word “loins” was the most psychologically damaging
thing a parent could do to a child. But maybe I should have let him stick with it, because when it came to Cole Archer, my brain didn’t stand much of a chance. His eyes were this unearthly blue-green-blue-again that could, like, make you melt or something. And that part wouldn’t have been so bad—the getting the hots and melting, I mean. But somehow that single, solitary time we got steamy, I—hello, biology class!—got knocked up. And then Cole totally bailed, leaving me with one bun and no baker. Which, you know, sucks and stuff.

The second shitty thing that happened was that I was forcibly enrolled at the Hanover School for Expecting Teen Mothers. Since I’m a member of Hanover’s inaugural class, they don’t have a motto yet, but if they ever decide to get one, my vote will be for “Catapulting Troubled Young Ladies into Outer Space Since 2074.” Well, technically we’re in low Earth orbit, but that’s not as catchy. I’ve been here for three full months now, and even though my baby is due to pop fairly soon—the week before Christmas, like someone’s idea of a gag gift—I’ll be spending the rest of my junior year here with all the other Hanover girls. I mean, it’s not like they can just land the whole ship for winter break or anything. I can’t decide if life on board the
Echidna
will be better or worse after the baby is born. As meticulously scheduled as my every second is now, I get the feeling that once the Goober arrives and I hand it off to the adoptive services coordinator, I’m going to have a redonk amount of free periods. Which, given the bafflingly terrible connection speeds and limited flat pic library up here, could actually be more of a curse than a blessing.

As I travel the ten levels on the lift from the Health and
Wellness Center up to the living quarters, I decide that a bruised coccyx is a steep but acceptable price to pay for an hour’s respite from the inane chattering of my classmates. I’m only a few steps from the door to my stateroom when I feel a buzz in my back pocket. I yank out my phone and check it. A blink from Ducky. Smiling, I tap the screen while the phone’s still vibrating.

check it out found britta’s online dating profile.

I tap the link and shut the door, and then flop down onto my bed in my holey gym shorts while the new site is buffering. It’ll take, like, nine hundred years. Shit takes
forever
in space. Which totally blows, because my blinks with Ducky are the only thing keeping me from going completely bonkers at Hanover.

When I finally get to the site, it’s not a dating profile. It’s a vid of a baby elephant peeing. Like, this fire-hydrant torrent of pee.

I snort so loud, a little snot comes out my nose. I shift my phone around until I get a good angle against my belly, and I blink back to Ducky.

britta’s never been that hot in her life. flippn skank just tried to take me out in gym. :(

I told Ducky once that Britta McVicker was my arch-nemesis, and he told me she was more like my arch-nematode. Which really just goes to show that while I was busy getting
knocked up, Ducky was actually paying attention in life science. But nerd king status notwithstanding, he was right. Britta McVicker is a genuine grade-A worm. The lowest form of life on the planet—and now, God help me, in space, too.

I mean, really, I know that I’m not exactly a saint, but I swear that in my former life I must have been a claims adjuster or something, because there is no other way to explain why fate decided that Britta McVicker should
follow me into the cosmos
. If only I’d gotten a screen cap of my face three months ago on launch day, when Britta showed up with two trunks, eight garment bags, three totes, and a big-ass baby bump of her own. Up until that point I thought the worst thing I’d have to deal with until my love child popped out was suffering through morning sickness in zero grav. I didn’t even know the girl had gotten herself storked. But she had, of course. She trumps my due date by two whole weeks. Which made sense, once I did the math. But I don’t care to think about that particular math very often.

I’m guessing the surprise wasn’t a pleasant one for Britta, either. As soon as she saw me, she got a look on her face like she’d just accidentally used the wrong hair smoother. I think maybe I deal better with shock than some other people.

I feel a rumble on top of my bump. Another blink from Ducky.

:( heres something to cheer u up, E-fab.

I tap the link, and twenty thousand years later it opens. Ducky’s gone and bought me another poster. I smile. Damn
you, Ducky. Way to make me cheer up just when I’m getting a really good funk on. I aim the phone at the last square of remaining white space on my wall, tap
IMPRINT
, and
snap
! The image is pasted on my wall next to the last poster he sent me, of
The Godfather
. Ducky knows I have a thing for classic flat pics, so lately whenever I’ve been feeling particularly gruesome, he goes and buys me a poster of one of my faves. So far I have
The Princess Bride
,
Transformers 5
(totally the best of the series, no matter how hard Ducky argues for number
7
),
Rebel Without a Cause
(Mom was really into James Dean, Dad tells me), and now, the crown jewel,
Mega Shark Versus Giant Octopus: The Musical
. Call me a sap, but I eat up that tortured unrequited love stuff with a spoon.

As I’m rummaging through my closet for a change of clothes, I set a hand on my belly and feel around for the Goober—that’s what I’ve decided to call the mini Cole who up and ruined my life. Sure enough, the little bugger’s lodged itself lengthwise in my uterus. It’s weird to be able to feel a tiny
thing
inside you. That’s something they never mention in health class, that you can actually feel it, especially when they get bigger. Head here, over there an elbow, foot poking into what used to be your gallbladder. It’s a little gross if you think about it too hard, being a human hotel room for some kid you’ve never even met before. So I try not to think about it very often. Instead I try the trick Dr. Marsden taught me, rubbing my belly in tight little circles, slow and steady. Dr. Marsden says this calms the kid down, lets it know you care about it. I told Dr. Marsden that all I cared about was the little bastard not kicking me in the
bladder anymore, and he just handed me my vitamins and told me the rubbing would probably work for that, too.

After I’m changed into my “favorite” pair of maternity stretch pants, I check my clock. Almost an hour until my physical, and not a thing to do.

Thank you, Dr. Marsden.

The trauma of gym class has left me famished, so I decide to make a trip upstairs to see what grub I can rustle up. I grab my phone as I head for the door, just in case Ducky decides to send me any other choice Britta vids, and make my way down the corridor toward the elevator.

The Hanover School is actually an old recommissioned low-orbit luxury cruise liner. The kind that folks my dad’s age used to travel on for tacky ooh-look-we’re-playing-shuffleboard-in-space style vacations back in the fifties and sixties, when being in orbit was still sort of a novel experience. These days, of course, you can’t throw a rock out the viewport without hitting a vacant ship or orbital station that’s floating aimlessly through the void. Most of them have been empty for decades, or are home to some less than desirable characters, but in recent years there’s been a real push to refit them as residential, commercial, and educational estates. “Ozone re-gentrification” my dad derisively calls it. The L.O.C.
Echidna
is supposedly pretty small by space cruiser standards, but the first time I set my swollen feet on board, I have to admit I sucked in my breath at how freaking huge it is. It’s pretty kitsch, honestly, but it’s not all bad.

My cabin is on deck eighteen, same as the other girls. There are more than a thousand rooms on board, but the place is mostly empty. There’s just forty-six of us girls, and
about half that many teachers and counselors. Apparently hundreds of applicants were turned down for matriculation. I guess I should feel honored that I have such a desirable set of ovaries, but mostly I just feel how deserted and lonely this place is. The faculty all sleep on the next floor up, deck nineteen. Kate Mueller once told me that the faculty’s rooms are much bigger, although how she came across
that
information is probably more interesting than the square footage. There are twenty-five decks total, ten for staterooms, one each for the mess hall, auditorium, and the athletic courts. There’s a big honking hangar for shuttles that runs nearly half the length of the deck, and it’s situated in the lower fore section of the ship. Leading off of that is the entry parlor, the game rooms, and the Health and Wellness Center. The HWC houses all the medical suites, in addition to the fitness center and the understandably (given the condition of most of the school’s residents) underutilized sauna. The lido deck has the big lap pool and “sunbathing area,” which reflects sunlight through a system of adjustable mirrors so that people can work on their melanoma even in space. I’m heading for the uppermost level of the ship, the observation deck, where the snack kiosks are.

I’m steps away from the elevator when I run into someone barreling around the corner. For the third time this morning, I find myself flat on my ass. Although to spice things up, this time I’m covered with dozens of tiny, hard, and stinky round objects.

Brussels sprouts. I’m covered in brussels sprouts.

“Good grief, Miss Nara. Would it really hurt to look where you’re going?”

I look up at my brussels sprout attacker. It’s none other than Fred, Hanover’s “chef.” I’m no gourmand or anything, but even I know that someone who serves up succotash more than three times a week needs to think about returning to culinary school.

“Sorry,” I mumble, flipping over to my hands and knees before grabbing a handful of the vile little veggies to toss back into Fred’s crate. I shouldn’t be apologizing. Fred was the one who wasn’t looking where he was going. And what the heck is he even doing walking around the girls’ living quarters carrying a crate of brussels sprouts, anyway? But I’m not going to argue with a dude who holds my gastrointestinal fate in his hands.

He just growls at me, ever the picture of friendliness. “Shouldn’t you be in
class
?”

“I have a pass from Dr. M,” I tell him.

Fred harrumphs like he doesn’t believe me, but I guess playing truant officer is low on his list of priorities at the moment, because all he says to me is, “Try to stay out of trouble, will you?”

“I’ll do that.” I plop the last sprout into the box and shuffle as quickly as I can to the elevator.

When the lift doors open on the observation deck, I find the floor totally deserted. This is my favorite deck—completely encircled by curved, six-meter-high windows, permanently bathed in Earth light. The first few weeks after launch, anytime we didn’t have class or yoga or some other mandatory project, you could always find all the girls up here, faces plastered against the windows, staring at Earth as it shifted down below us. It takes
a little less than two hours to make a full orbit around the globe, and for those first few weeks, just watching that sucker sweep by was like tweaking out in geography class. “Look, there’s Japan!” “Holy crap, it’s the Nile!” “Guys, check it. I can cover up Greenland with my thumb.” But once they’d seen Earth go by a few times, they seemed to get over it. Now the observation deck stays pretty much empty around the clock.

The only reason most girls head to the observation deck these days is for the snack area. It’s basically just an alcove filled with vending machines. Junk food, juices, and some sort of dehydrated dessert called Astronaut’s Delight, which I think is someone’s idea of a joke. That corner of the spaceship is a pregnant lady’s neon-lit paradise. But there’s one machine that is calling to me more than any other—the one stuffed with pint-size cartons of Midnight Craving. Yes, the flavors and ad campaign that are specifically targeted at pregnant women border on the offensively stereotypical, but damn, sometimes you
do
just want to dive into a pint of Double Cheese’N’Chocolate Pretzel Swirl.

The vending machines on board the
Echidna
work on the HONOR System—Honest Operations Necessitating Objective Reward. You do something the faculty thinks is pro, they give you points for vended nachos. I slap the button for my ice cream and hold my HONOR bracelet up to the scanner. The scanner beeps and flashes red, and then the robotic voice I’m beginning to loathe informs me: “You currently have
zero
HONOR points. Request for
Cherry Marsala
denied.”