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chase, combat, archery, hunting and trapping. I’ll never be good at any of those things, but at least my light complexion and ultra-blond hair fit the Viking look. Still, being named for a Norse god does not do wonders for a person who’s already socially blacklisted.
    She sits on a bar stool and starts on a cookie. I perch myself in the stool across from her like we’re old chums.
    “So how nervous are you?” she asks.
    “Nervous?”
    “About going home.”
    I feel like she has somehow torn me open and looked at my soul. To everyone else I’ve appeared nothing but excited. In truth, I’m fearful of what I’ll find in Antarctica. I can’t fully explain it, but I think it has to do with my high expectations. It’s like when you go to a movie everyone has said is amazing, but it’s only so-so, and you end up hating it because of your raised expectations. I’m afraid that will happen in Antarctica, because I expect my homecoming to be magical. Even I know that’s stupid. Any real magic done in the past was simply science ahead of its time used on naïve people. Antarctica will not be magical, but I wish to my core that it will be. Of course, my rock throwing incident also has me worried that I’ll become a raging psychopath the moment I set foot on the continent.
    “A lot,” I admit. “Part of me wants to spend a lifetime there, learning about the place, searching for its history.”
    “For your history.”
    I feel a wash of embarrassment. “I know anything found on Antarctica isn’t really my history, but—”
    “You were born there,” she says firmly. “You probably have a legal claim to the continent, too. The history of that place is as much yours as South Africa is mine.”
    “You were born in South Africa?”
    She nods. “I spent the first year of my life there. And I still feel a strong connection to the country even though I have no memory of the place and have yet to return.”
    “You can’t remember it?”
    “I was only one when my parents came to the States.”
    I look at the plate of cookies, feeling awkward. Once again, she looks inside me and sees what no one else ever has. She gasps. “You can remember Antarctica, can’t you?”
    I give the slightest tilt of my head. I can. “Clark Station smelled like rust. There was a lot of it on the walls, and around the doors. My parents’ room was decorated with Indian wall hangings—India Indian, not American Indian.”
    Her open mouth confirms the accuracy of what I’ve said. I remember much more, but I’ve made my point.
    “I knew you were smart, Solomon, but I had no idea...” She puts her cookie down. “Do your parents know?”
    I shake my head, no. They already treat me special enough.
    She nods as though she understands why, and I think she really might.
    “What was the very first thing you remember?” she asks.
    “You mean after I was born?”
    Her eyes go wide for a moment. A wide smile follows as she realizes I’ve just made a joke. She picks up the cookie again and takes a bite. “Yes, after you were born.”
    “First memory?”
    “Very first.”
    I pause. I know the answer. But I don’t want to freak her out. I think she’ll see through it if I try to lie. So I tell the truth. “You.”
    The cookie falls from her hand.
    “Your face,” I say. “You delivered me. You were smiling just like you are now. When I saw you, when I looked into your eyes, I felt...loved.”
    “And you stopped crying,” she says, and I can see tears in her eyes. Good to know I’m not the only crybaby going on this trip.
    “I remember our eyes meeting,” she continues. “And then you just stopped crying. I thought it was a fluke, but you stared up at me so intently.”
    “And then Dad took me,” I say, “and I didn’t like it.”
    “He wasn’t used to holding a baby, never mind a newborn.”
     “Let’s go, you two!” Dr. Clark yells from the front door.
    Aimee wipes her eyes and dumps the cookies into a Tupperware