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time. I resented them for it, and I know you will too, but I hope one day you’ll understand.”
    “And I hope …,” I start, not sure how to express the jumble that’s in my chest … how to say it in a way that will make him take my work seriously for once. “I hope you know what this is costing me. I know you’ve always treated my videos as a hobby, and I’m sure it looks that way for you. You don’t even watch them. So you don’t see the time I put into my reports. You don’t see the folders I have on my drive—portfolios to help me get into journalism schools after I graduate, all my research on writing scholarships to help pay for college. It took so much work to build this following, and having to abandon something like this just … sucks.”
    “I know.” Dad takes a big bite of ice cream. I follow suit. “I should have been more honest with you two in the beginning. That way you could have worked this into your plan. I know how you think—though, I have no idea where you got the planning gene, with how your mom and I are. It’s something I’m going to work on. But I need you to get on board, and help your mom do the same, okay?”
    I shrug. A half-hearted gesture is all I can offer right now.
    Pushing aside the rest of my ice cream, I take one last look at the small shop. I’m going to miss the sticky floor, the water-stained ceiling tiles, the enormous plastic ice-cream cone outside the storefront—the paint is chipping, yet it still manages to creepily light up at night.
    Right now, movers are loading boxes into the truck. Boxescontaining my entire life are about to be flung across the country. I sigh, and the chill of the ice cream finally catches up to me, until a firm hand grips my shoulder.
    Dad’s voice is almost a whisper. “I’m going to miss it here too.”

    “I still can’t believe you get to meet the astronauts,” Deb says while Dad loads our suitcases into the trunk of our car. “You’ll get to meet Grace Tucker and Mark Bannon. Like, actually speak to them. Maybe touch them?”
    I roll my eyes. “I think we’ll take it slow, at first. What with them being double my age, and always on the news.”
    “Oh, shut it.” She slaps me on the arm. “You know what I mean.”
    The thought of meeting Mark Bannon, one of the first astronauts picked for the project, immediately intimidates me. I did one report on him that focused on his advocacy for the space program, back before we even knew if Orpheus V would earn the funding to get off the ground. It got me a ton of new followers—the same ones who are probably complaining that I don’t do those updates anymore.
    I know him as a Hulk-like presence who still somehow always looks ready for the cameras. He’s got an animated, passionate personality reminiscent of the Apollo astronauts, and I wonder if the rumors are true, about him and Grace vying for the same spot on the Orpheus V mission.
    I think back to Grace’s Shooting Stars interview—which Ionly watched for research purposes, and maybe because I was a little interested in these new pseudocelebrities—and something about her stubbornness inspired me. How down-to-earth she was, when Josh Farrow wanted her to reveal some tension between the astronauts.
    Maybe there’s more to this mission. Maybe there are real people under this facade. A real story. The rush creeps back inside me. Blood pulses through my veins.
    I pull up the latest issue of Time on my phone and see the Tuckers’ faces beaming up at me. Deb, a notorious space invader, creeps up behind me.
    “God, they’re beautiful,” she says.
    My gaze drifts to their son, Leon Tucker. His smoldering stare makes my pulse spike. She’s not wrong.
    “Could you imagine us on that cover? Me and my parents? We’ll never pull this off.” I clear my throat. “You know where you watch a movie or read a book or something, and the main character switches schools and is worried about not fitting in, or making new friends?