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Okay.”
    I felt him relax as he put his arm around my shoulder, look-
    ing back as he reversed.
    “So what do you usually do to escape?” he asked.
    “Escape? I . . . I guess I ride my bike to Luther’s.” Man, that
    sounded pathetic to me now.
    “And Luther is?”
    “A guy. A friend. My best friend.”
    Wilder glared as we zipped out of the parking lot, and I
    suspected he wasn’t just squinting against the sunlight.
    The gate was open. I could see a guard in a turret. I low-
    ered my head, gripping the seat. Wilder waved and drove on.
    No one stopped us.
    “Why’d you come with me?” he asked. The honesty of the
    question startled me.
    “I don’t know. You have a certain gravity about you.”
    “You be Europa, and I’ll be your Jupiter.”
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    Shannon Hale
    “If you’re comfortable with that,” I said. “You know Jupiter
    is one of the gas giants.”
    “Now stop trying to woo me with all your sexy talk.”
    We drove to the nearest town and found a drive-through,
    filling the front seat with cheeseburgers, fried zucchini, onion
    rings, sodas with straws, strawberry and chocolate shakes with
    spoons. Wilder paid. Did this count as a date?
    We drove and ate, music booming and the road going
    straight, straight, straight, no signs, no stops, just fields and
    hills forever. Sometimes he looked away from the road just to
    smile at me. Maybe he was feeling like I was—that the day was
    enough under the candy-blue sky, the wind swooping into the
    car and taking parts of us away with it, swirling me and Wilder
    into the whole big moving world.
    I didn’t pretend to myself that someday I might drive
    around my home-town in a convertible with Jonathan Ingalls
    Wilder. He would get bored with me; summer camp would
    end. This was a stolen moment, an impractical fantasy, candle
    smoke that melts into the air as fast as you can blow.
    I wiped mustard off his chin with my napkin.
    “Thank you, darling,” he said, breaking the spell of silence.
    “We should get back. They’re announcing the winners after
    dinner, and I think my fireteam has a shot.”
    Wilder frowned but sped back to the complex and eased us
    into the spot we’d left. For a minute neither of us moved. The
    day was fiery brown, the shrubs rattling with insects. It seemed
    like everything was ticking toward an explosion.
    “I’ve never done that with someone before,” said Wilder.
    “The silence part. That it wasn’t awkward.”
    He turned to look at me. My pulsed ticked to life in my
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    Dangerous
    throat, and I wondered if he wanted to kiss me again. I didn’t
    dare kiss him first in case I was wrong.
    His glance caught in the rearview mirror. GT was standing
    outside the building, watching us and chewing gum, his suited
    goons flanking him. Wilder hopped out and tossed his father
    the key. I scrambled out my own door.
    “Jonathan . . .” GT’s voice was both inquiring and threatening.
    “Everything’s under control,” Wilder said, holding his fa-
    ther’s gaze as he sauntered into the building.
    GT held out his hand, stopping me from following. “Hi
    there. Who are you?”
    “Me? I’m Maisie Danger Brown.” I don’t know why I used
    my middle name—I wanted to be on the offensive, I guess.
    “Brown . . .” He said the word as if tasting it for significance.
    “What brought you to astronaut boot camp?”
    “A box of cereal.”
    His frown matched his son’s. “What’s your—” Then he
    noticed Ms. Pincher. “Are you missing your arm?”
    “Well, the separation was hard at first, but we’ve adjusted to
    a long-distance relationship.”
    His eyes flicked to the door where Wilder had gone. He
    chewed, his gum clicking in his teeth, then he turned his back
    and walked away.
    I’m not an expert on manners, but I think he was rude.
    Wilder was waiting just inside.
    “What is your dad doing here?”
    “He’s a control freak. He stops by once a week to make sure
    the security is vigilant in protecting an important