This Place Has No Atmosphere (9 page)

FACT SHEET

ABOUT SCHOOL

  1. This is definitely not Alan Shepard High School.

  2. There’s only one person in the senior class, Karlena Leibnitz. I bet that there’s a short yeardisk at the end of the year.

  3. There were only twelve kids total in the four high school grades. Now there are fifteen. Actually, there isn’t even a separate high school. All forty kids from first through twelfth grade (nicknamed the Eagles) are in the one large room with portable divider screens, computers, and a library.

  4. The very short people running and crawling through our classroom sometimes are the kids from the other room who range in age from babyhood through five and are nicknamed the Eaglettes.

  5.
There are no cheerleading tryouts. There’s no squad. There’s not even a team, and if there were, there would not be other high school teams to compete against.

  6. Cafeteria food is disgusting. Today for lunch we had mystery dehydrated substance and lumpy mashed sweet potatoes.

  7. There is no one here like the kids at Shepard. It’s not that they’re all barfburgers. It’s just that they are different and wouldn’t fit in with us. (And I don’t really fit in with them. It’s so hard. Sometimes I want to tell them that in my old school I was someone . . . so that they know . . . so that I don’t feel so all alone. But I don’t think that would be a good move.)

  8. There’s definitely no one here like Matthew.

  9. Mr. Wilcox, the teacher, is also the principal, chief guidance counselor,
and media specialist. He’s cuter than any teacher at Shepard . . . also nicer. He’s got a sense of humor and he actually likes to teach. With his smile and gorgeous blue eyes, Mr. Wilcox could probably have been a video star. To answer the question that I know you’ll ask—yes, he’s married . . . . To answer the question that I know Cosmosa will ask—no, he doesn’t fool around.

10. There is no truant officer at the school because there is no place to go when you cut. (It’s kind of hard to think about a senior cut day, with only the one senior, Karlena.)

11. Every student has to do a school service project. Mine is to work with the Eaglettes. They are very short and sticky. Eventually I will have to do a community service project as well.

12. Each new kid is assigned a guide. Mine is this guy named Hal Brenner,
but I’ve never asked him to guide me. He’s a real brain, a junior. Tall and skinny, he’s funny (funny ha ha, not funny weird). All of the kids here really seem to like and respect him. He’s okay, I guess, but I have a feeling that he’d never fit in on earth . . . at least not with our group.

13. Starr’s guide is Hal’s younger brother, Tucker. I think she has a crush on him.

14. I miss having a best friend.

15. I want to go back to Alan Shepard High School.

ABOUT TOWN

  1. Luna City is nothing like our hometown.

  2. There’s no weather here because there’s no atmosphere.

  3. There’s no atmosphere here (and I’m not talking weather).

  4. The general store is definitely not
the Monolith Mall. In fact, if it were located there it would go out of business. It’s one large room and it specializes in out-of-date merchandise.

  5. A lot of time is spent looking at mail order catalog disks. It’s not the same thing as being able to try on stuff, and anyway what difference does it make because of the stupid uniforms.

  6. There are no pets in town, no cats, no dogs, not even a gerbil. The good news is that you never have to look down at the sidewalk. The bad news is that there’s nothing to pat on the head, nothing to lick you and roll over to be tickled (except maybe one of the Eaglettes).

  7. There are no launderettes or dry cleaners on the moon. You take your dirty clothes into an ultrasonic room and the dirt gets vibrated off. The same procedure is used to clean human beings.

  8.
I miss being able to escape into a bathroom and relax in a tub for a couple of hours. (We’re allowed only six minutes in the shower, two times a week.) Ultrasonic cleaning is not warm and comfy.

  9. There are no birds here, which makes Tranquillity Base Park a very clean place. Boring, but very clean.

10. I want to go home.

“A
urora Borealis Williams, you whine too much,” my father says as I get into the dentist chair.

I stare. “What do you expect? You’re going to be drilling my tooth.”

“What do I expect? What do I expect?” He flings one of his arms up in the air and puts his other hand on his forehead. “I’m a painless dentist who uses the best, newest techniques. What do
you
expect?”

I think that some of my flair for the dramatic may come from him.

He hands me a metal rod which is attached to a box with dials. “Here. Hold this. If it starts hurting, remember to turn the power up. With TENS, you will feel no pain.”

TENS—that’s Transcutaneous Electrical Nerve Stimulation—current goes through the skin and stops the pain.

It’s weird, but it works. I like TENS better than when he uses acupuncture, which also works, but I hate it when he twists the needles.

“Open wide.” He looks in to see what’s hap-pening.

I am a captive audience.

“Aurora, you’ve done nothing but complain since we’ve gotten here. Nothing’s good enough for you. Look at how well Starr’s adjusting. Why can’t you? You’re the oldest and should be setting the good example, not Starr.”

“Aar iz a grep.”

“Starr is not a creep.” My father, from all his years of dentisting, is very good at translating from mouths filled with equipment. “She’s trying very hard at school, making new friends, and being helpful to her parents. All you do is whine. You hate school . . . you hate the moon.”

“I oo ate ih.”

“You came up here prepared to hate it. And now all you do is whine.”

I hate it when parents get an idea or word in their minds. Then that’s all the kid hears. My parents are really into using the word
whine
this week.

I sit still while he’s looking into my mouth. “I found the problem. The gemstone we implanted in your tooth to help fix the problem with your knee has to be replaced.”

He hums as he fixes it. My father’s really into the relationship of teeth to muscles and organs and to the healing power of stones and colors. I hope he stays so involved that he forgets to lecture me anymore.

“All done,” he says, taking away the equipment.

I get out of the chair.

“Aurora.” He puts his hand on my shoulder. “Your mother and I are really concerned about you . . . and your whining is making our lives miserable. We’re very happy here, except for you. We want you to be happy here—to at least try.”

“Whining doesn’t make me happy either,” I tell him. “I’m really truly honestly miserable. You just don’t understand. You never understand.”

“I understand that you’re not doing anything to
not
be miserable.”

I sigh. “Look, Dad. I’m going to need a written excuse to get back into class,” I say.

He writes it out. “Think about what I said . . . and I don’t want you and Starr fighting anymore.”

I’ll think about it, but I won’t change my mind. And the fight last night was not my fault. It was hers. All I did was put a sign on my body and lie down on the floor. The sign read “Died of mooning around . . . please return to earth.”

My parents just pretended I wasn’t there.

I added another sign to my body:
EARTH REARRANGED SPELLS HEART.

Starr’s the one who caused the trouble. She put her foot over me and said, “Let’s pretend that Aurora’s a grape. I’ll step on her and we’ll get a little wine. Whine, get it?”

So I bit her toe.

She definitely deserved it.

As I leave my father’s office, the mailperson arrives.

“There’s a letter here for you.”

I grab it out of his hands. “Oh, thank you. Thank you. Thank you.”

It’s a viddisk from Juna . . . all covered with 3D sticker lips that say SWAK.

I’m so excited. “Dad, can I look at the disk here—use your computer? It’ll just take a few minutes.”

He shakes his head. “You have school. You’ll have a lot of time afterwards to see it.”

I can’t understand how he can be so mean, but I don’t want to make a fuss in front of the mailperson, so I leave quickly.

There are computers at school.

I’ll use one of them.

My father can be so insensitive sometimes.

I really don’t think he understands what I’m going through.

I can’t wait to get to school to see my letter.

“O
kay, kids, go work at your computers.” Mr. Wilcox runs his hand through his blond hair.

We all go quietly to our computers and put on our headsets so that there will be absolute quiet.

What luck. Now I can see the viddisk.

Ms. Feldman, the classroom aide, is absent.

No townspeople were scheduled to teach today.

It’s Karlena’s turn to help out with the Eaglettes, so I don’t have to do it.

Mr. Wilcox has total charge of the whole first through twelfth grade, with only Karlena’s help.

He needs a mental health hour.

He deserves one.

It’s like back at the old school when a teacher would give a silent study hall. They always acted like it was because the assignment was so important. We, the kids, always knew it was because they’d had enough of us.

At least Mr. Wilcox is honest about it.

I take out the viddisk letter from the gang at the old school and insert it into the computer.

It opens with an entire room filled with the old gang.

They are obviously turning this letter into an occasion for a party—one that I would give anything to be attending.

People are smiling, waving, making devils’ horns with their fingers and putting them behind other people’s heads.

Juna yells, “A toast for Aurora” and everyone throws toast up in the air. I know that they did it to remind me of all the times we went to see this weird old movie,
Rocky Horror Show
.

The old gang would laugh if they knew that we only had one movie each week up here, which plays once.

Someone yells, “Turnip the music” and the whole gang sings, “For She’s a Jolly Good Fellow” to me.

I wish the kids up here could see how much the old gang liked me and how popular I was.

Each person gives me a personal message and then goes into another room for the continuing party.

“We miss you . . . your laugh . . . your fun . . . your neat way of dressing.”

It’s a good thing that they can’t see me now in this disgusto barfburger school uniform.

“Guess what? I made cheerleading,” What’s-her-face says.

I hope she gets her lips caught in the megaphone.

Brandonetta gets up in front of the camera, wearing dangling earrings that are really minispeakers. She sings, “We miss you, Aurora. Oh, yes, we do.”

With her voice, she’s either hitting the key of high C or Luna C.

“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.” That comes from Alexis, who does everything.

She should come to the moon and have to deal with a place where there are no cars and it’s hard to find a place for kids to go for privacy, let alone to find someone you’d want to be with.

A couple of the shyer kids just wave and leave.

Davie Arnold, the class clown, tells three very dumb jokes, including “Why did the chicken cross the universe? . . . Because he was being chased by Pluto.”

Ralph Norton oozes onto the screen to ask me if I’d “made it” with any E.T.’s.

Juna comes on, filling me in on all the gossip: who’s going out with whom, who’s broken up, what’s the latest fad.

She’s got on one of my T-shirts, the one with hot purple sequins, showing that she’s keeping her promise to wear something of mine every day to keep me part of the group.

She shows me how to do the latest dance step, the Quark.

Then she says, “Aurora, you are my best friend. I miss you so much.” She starts to cry and hurries off the screen.

Finally, Matthew is in front of the camera.

He looks uncomfortable, like he used to when he had to get up in front of the class in fifth grade and give a report. He looks down at the piece of paper in his hand and says, “I miss you . . . . I got a B average this semester, which isn’t bad with all the work I have to do as class president . . . . I’m getting my driver’s permit next month . . . . I’m two inches taller . . . . I thought of a new Baskin-Robbins flavor, sweatsocks sherbet . . . . And Aurora, I miss you a whole lot.”

He leaves.

I start to cry . . . a whole lot.

I wish he was here to put his arms around me.

I put my arms down on the table and lay my head on them.

I’m so miserable that my whole body hurts.

I don’t even care if anyone sees how awful I look when I’m crying.

If the scientists up here could bottle my tears, there would never be a water shortage.

Someone puts his hands on my shoulders and whispers, “Aurora, may I help you?”

It’s Hal.

“G
o to the Conference Room.” Mr. Wilcox hands us passes.

“It’s okay.” Sniffling, I look at him and at Hal. “I feel better now.”

Mr. Wilcox smiles. “Good. Go anyway. A change of scenery might do you good. It’s been one of those days for a lot of people, me included. In the old days I would have said ‘Must be a full moon.’ Up here I guess that I’ve got to say ‘Must be a full earth.’ ”

Full earth. When I look up at it now, it looks like
empty earth. It’s hard to believe I ever walked there with my friends and that they’re still there, and I’m not. I try not to look at earth.

We take the passes and leave his desk. It’s so embarrassing that everyone has seen me like this. My crying has started some of the Eaglettes crying.

Everyone’s staring.

As we walk past Starr’s computer terminal, I can see that she’s been writing a letter to Grandma Jennifer and Grandpa Josh.

She looks very concerned.

I try to smile to let her know that I’m semiokay.

Hal and I leave the room.