The Names They Gave Us(36)

“Water, please?” Simmons asks. Jones pours some from the gallon into a plastic cup, and Simmons crawls across the blanket to take it.

“Jonesy.” Simmons presses a hand against his cheeks, squishing them together. Her eyes are glassy, a reflection of vodka and fondness. “You’re one of my favorite Homo sapiens.”

“Oh, Keels.” His smile for her is adoring but, I see now, familial. “I wouldn’t change one thing about you.”

“Did you know,” she says, eyes brightening, “that according to quantum theory, there could be slightly different Keelys in parallel universes, based on scenarios presented but not chosen?”

Anna laughs, a low chuckle, as she glances at me. “She gets really sciencey when she drinks.”

“I can hear you.” Keely whips her head around. “And so do you, Annabel. We can’t help what we love, and I just love space so much.”

“I know.” Anna pats the blanket beside her. “Keely? Will you come tell me about other planets again? Please?”

“Okay, okay.” She scoots over to Anna, and they both lean back. Keely takes a deep breath, like she’s beginning a fairy tale. “Well, Gliese 667 is a three-star system with seven planets. Three of those planets are rocky terrain and possibly habitable. And the system is only about twenty-two light-years away. So it’s something that could maybe actually happen.”

“Probably the thing I’m saddest about right now,” Anna muses, “is that it might not be in our lifetime. God, I hope it is. So bad. I just want to know.”

I’ve always thought only in terms of heaven and earth. In my mind, heaven is somewhere inaccessibly skyward, and hell is somewhere near the molten core of the earth.

Anna twists around. “Lucy, do you believe that there are other life forms out there?”

“Um . . .” I know the right answer is yes, but it would be a lie. “I’ve never thought about it.”

“A nonbeliever,” Keely says to Anna.

“We can convert her,” she whispers back. They lower their voices more, giggling and occasionally pointing at the sky. I look up, where a patch of dark sky is barely touched by treetops. Stars splattered. If I squint, it’s almost like a page of music with the colors inverted. Black page with tiny white dots strewn across.

Tambe returns and joins them on the blanket, happily musing about universes beyond.

I look over at Jones. “What about you? ET? No ET?”

“Ah. I’m an alien agnostic.”

“Meaning . . . there may or may not be extraterrestrials, but you don’t really care to think about it?”

He taps a finger on his nose and points at me with his other hand. “Got other things on my mind.”

“Like trumpet.”

“Ha. Sometimes.”

“It’s very impressive for only ‘sometimes.’?”

“Eh, not really. I mean, you play the piano.”

“Yeah, but pianos have keys . . . I just know what they are and can press them in different combinations.”

In the firelight, I can see him arch an eyebrow above his glasses. “What do you think a trumpet has?”

“Well, I know those are keys too, but you only have three! I have eighty-eight! And I don’t have to do anything with my breathing for my instrument to make sound.”

“Well, I don’t have to use my feet at all.”

I guess I do use pedals; they’re just second nature now. “How long have you played?”

“Since I was five.”

“Five? That’s early, right?” I don’t know when public school kids start playing instruments, but kindergarten seems way early for a brass instrument.

“Yeah.” He laughs. “I sounded like a grief-stricken duck because my mouth wasn’t even big enough, but I just wanted to play so badly. I couldn’t wait. Have you heard of Sean Jones?”

This feels like a trick. “Is that . . . you?”

“No!” This is so wrong, apparently, that he laughs. “No relation. I wish. Sean Jones is a trumpet player. One of the best in the world. I saw him play when I was in kindergarten, and I was like: That’s it. That’s what I want to do.”

This feels so awkward, but I have to know. “So, um, what is your name?”

“Oh, that’s funny that you don’t know! Well, maybe it’s not. I’ve always gone by Jones here, even before I was a counselor. You don’t want to guess?”

“Rumpelstiltskin,” I say, which makes him burst out laughing.

“Henry Morris Jones IV.” He holds out a hand, which I shake. His skin is warm across my palm.

“Henry,” I repeat. I almost could have guessed it, maybe. Henry: old-fashioned but still cool. Like his glasses and his wardrobe. “Henry Jones. Wait. Isn’t that . . . ?”

“Indiana Jones’s real name? Yep. But it was my great-grandad’s before it was Indy’s.”

“Four of you with the same name? Isn’t that confusing?”

“Nah. My great-grandfather went by Henry, my grandpa’s Hank. My dad is Trey.”

“That’s so nice—a name with all that history, so much meaning.” I wrinkle my nose. “I’m named for Saint Lucy.”