Brightly Burning(9)

“You’re drunk!”

“Yeah, but I’m right,” he replied stubbornly.

“Is he bothering you?” It was him. My George. Pretty, pretty George.

“Hi!” I was practically bouncing. “We’re fine! You’re fine. We’re all just great!”

“Stella, come with me,” George said, and suddenly it was like I was floating, following after him, through the crowd, outside into the cool corridor. “What’s with you? You’ve never been like this.”

“Like what?” I could feel the bass reverberating in the metal walls and desperately wished to go back inside, but then I realized George had a firm grip on my arm.

“Throwing yourself at guys.”

“I’m not throwing myself at anyone,” I insisted, trying to dance my way out of his hold. “They’re throwing themselves at me! Are you jealous?”

“No, I’m not jealous,” George said. It sounded ridiculous to my ears, like the highest notes on the piano—?tink, tink, tink.

“I don’t believe you.” I quieted him with a finger pressed over his lips. Lips that looked too inviting, lips I could kiss. So I did.

It was clumsy, wet. A blur. But also bliss.

Until it wasn’t.

George shoved me away. “Stella! What the frex!” I felt my stomach plummet. “I don’t . . . I don’t think about you that way. So please . . . don’t.”

Suddenly things were clear. I had laser focus. And I felt like I was going to be sick.

“I’m sorry,” I spat out, careening away down the hall to the stairs. Up. I wasn’t sure where I was going, but with each level, my head felt a bit more clear. Then I was on the main deck, and I knew where I was headed: the community room. Straight back to the desktop tab in the corner. I logged on, checked my messages. I clicked on the one that called out to me in bold:


Application for teaching position on board the Rochester


I read the first line of the response:


Dear Ms. Ainsley,

We were delighted to receive your application and would like to offer you employment aboard the Rochester.


And then I promptly vomited all over my shoes.


Chapter Four


I woke regretting all my life choices. My body ached, but that pain was secondary to the wretched pounding in my head, as if something had burrowed into my skull with a hammer and was striking it against my temple over and over. Still, I rose from my bed, shuffling to the food port for my day’s water and protein rations, gulping down half the water in one go.

My underdress was the worse for wear—?more soaked in sweat and grime than usual. I’d had a banner week. At least my chance to steam-clean my clothes was close. It was Friday, so I just had to get to Sunday. I pulled on clothes, thankful my day coat, at least, didn’t smell like stale hooch.

For once, the dim of Ward Z was a gift, and I wasn’t the only person sleeping in after last night. The corridors were mostly quiet. I trudged, slower than usual, to the community room to ensure I had not imagined the missive from the Rochester. So much of last night was a blur.

I avoided my favorite station—?back corner by the window—?lest they connect me to last night’s vomit splash. I repeated the fuzzier of the evening’s steps: logged in to my account, opened my message portal, clicked on the top missive, no longer bold. And I read it again in the sober light of the morning:


Dear Ms. Ainsley,

We were delighted to receive your application and would like to offer you employment aboard the Rochester. We were impressed with both your teaching credentials and your experience with ship maintenance. The Rochester is a private ship with a small but dedicated crew, and we would request that in addition to tutoring your intended pupil, you also offer auxiliary support to our engineer. We will provide you with a monthly stipend of two hundred digicoin, as well as room and board, of course.

While we did already appeal to your ship captain for permission to take you on aboard the Rochester, please be sure to speak with your placement head as well prior to departure. We will require you to bring your citizenry papers along with you. We’ve arranged for a shuttle to pick you up in two days. I am very much looking forward to making your acquaintance in person. Welcome aboard the Rochester, Stella.


In Salutation,

Iris Xiao

First Officer, the Rochester


Wait. Two days? They’d sent this yesterday, which meant the shuttle would arrive tomorrow. Frex. Suddenly it was all real, and panic rushed me. I’d have to say goodbye to everything I had known for six years: Jatinder, Karlson too, the children—?Arden!—?even the girls from my age group. I’d miss them all. And George most of all. Oh, God, I had kissed George. Heat rushed into my cheeks, and the hammer in my head started going again. For a brief moment, I worried I’d vomit, anointing yet another corner of the community room. But thankfully it passed.


I hadn’t anticipated the crying children.

“But who will teach us about Earth history?” Carter wailed to a background chorus of sniffles and moans from the others.

“And art,” Arden chimed in. It was her favorite subject—?a useless bonus class I snuck into other lessons when I could. Even Jefferson, the resident smart-ass, seemed upset.

“You always taught us the weird death stuff that no one else did, Miss Stella. I’ll miss you,” he said.