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post-apocalyptic future, into the ruins of their own success, but in a good way.” He glances sideways at me. “Did that make sense?”
    “Maybe you’re like Radiohead and you don’t need to.”
    “Touché.”
    We order. Caleb gets a burrito and I waffle and settle on fish tacos, and instantly regret ordering the same thing I so often ordered with Ethan. Both band boys like Mexican. Is that a sign? Stop it! Most people like Mexican. Ugh. I’ll be lucky to make it through this without driving myself crazy.
    We get our paper plates of food and then turn to face the array of metal tables surrounding a modernist fountain. It’s like a coral reef, dotted with brightly colored yoga moms and strollers, and the occasional barracuda with his or her jacket off, crisp white shirt glaring.
    “Want to go eat at the center of the solar system?” Caleb asks.
    “You mean this isn’t it?”
    Thankfully, Caleb gets that I’m joking. “Not even close. In fact, there’s Venus.”
    I follow his pointing finger to a little pedestal off on the side of the dining area. It’s cone-shaped and at the top is a tiny model of a planet. “Ahh, right.”
    Back when we were in elementary school, the town Arts Council installed this scale model of the solar system all over town. Each planet is represented by a model on a pedestal, all at their exact relative distances from the sun. Theyprinted maps, and I remember thinking it was so cool, how you could travel the solar system, but somehow I never got around to seeing them all. The inner planets are all in this mall, but then Jupiter is like a mile away, and Saturn even further, and so on.
    We weave back through the strip mall, passing the pedestal that holds Mercury outside J.Crew number two (the one that sells only cardigans, belts, and sandals) and reach the giant yellow sun. It stands ten feet tall in the center of another consumer courtyard, surrounded by a ring of grass, which is then enclosed by home decor shops.
    We sit in the oval of shade off to the star’s side. The grass is immaculate, like no one’s ever touched it, let alone dared to risk staining their khaki on it.
    “Center of the Mount Hope universe,” says Caleb.
    “All the upscale housewares you could ever want,” I say, looking around. I rub my hand over the painted metal curve of the sun above our heads. It’s bumpy with sunspots. There used to be a big solar flare arcing out of the side, but it’s been broken off, its two endpoints sticking out with jagged edges.
    “Have you ever been to them all?” Caleb asks after his first bite of burrito.
    “No. I’ve always wanted to, but who has time with all the dumb movies to see and Facebook posts to read?”
    “I went once,” says Caleb. “My fifth-grade teacher loaded us in a bus and we drove all around town and sawevery one—well, except Pluto. It had been downgraded to dwarf planet that spring—”
    “An unspeakable injustice,” I say. “Pluto will always be a planet.”
    “Always and forever,” Caleb agrees. “But we skipped it.”
    “Was it cool? Seeing the others?”
    “I guess? I mostly remember eating Cool Ranch Doritos and getting harassed because I sat next to a girl named Lin Yee and everybody said I loved her.”
    I grin. “Obviously because you did.”
    Caleb shrugs, but smiles too. “She was good at kickball and didn’t mind playing Bionicles at recess so, obviously. Anyway I guess I learned that if space travel is anything like a school bus trip, it’s too long and too cramped. Still, the models are worth seeing.”
    “Why?”
    “Because they’re there, and, like you said, you don’t have to buy anything or ‘like’ anything to see them. Also, even though they took Pluto off the map, people say it’s still out there somewhere, because the town couldn’t afford to send a welder out to remove it.”
    “That I’d like to see. The lost ninth planet. I feel for it.”
    And I feel Caleb looking at me. “Maybe we will