Page 29 of Space Cowgirl: Houston, All Systems Go
“A source at NASA?” Smiling, Bodie manages to look both agreeable and contemptuous at the same time. “Really, that’s what you’re going with?” He laughs, which serves two purposes. One, it makes what Susan said seem foolish. Two, and probably what Bodie was going for, it loosens the knot in my stomach and unwinds the muscles I had spring-loaded to do something I’m sure PR would not be pleased with.
He shakes his head, his dark, long hair, a trait from his Native American ancestors, falling across his forehead. “You do realize that NASA employs over one hundred medical personnel whose sole purpose is to promote and maintain the physical and mental well-being of agency employees, right?” Bodie asks the now uncomfortable reporter. “And that doesn’t even include the specialized team dedicated solely to the astronauts who bravely voyage beyond our atmosphere in an effort to better the quality of life on Earth by means of exploration and experimentation on the International Space Station.”
I’ve never seen Bodie quite so worked up. It takes the edge off my anger to see my friend sticking up for me, even after all the shit we like to give each other.
“Um… I’m aware,” Susan says, her past bravado faltering.
“Then I’m sure you’ll understand why we’re all surprised that you would take the word of some unnamed ‘insider.’” I’m going to have to tell him not to use air quotes again, though. He looks ridiculous. “Rather than the many highly-educated and trained medical professionals who have no problemliterallyputting their name on the line when it comes to signing off on astronauts’ mental and physical health.”
And not to use the word literally. He sounds like a pre-teen.
“Well…” Susan looks around to her peers for support, but all they do is inch away as if they don’t want to be associated with her and her slander. Frowning, she straightens her shoulders and looks at me. “Then what about this mandatory vacation NASA forced on you?”
Pushing down all the venom I can, I summon up my sweetest smile and address the crowd. “Forced vacation? Do you get the adjective there? That’s because in all my years at NASA, I’ve never taken more than a day off at a time. And I don’t mean to toot my own horn” —I totally do—“but I sort of saved the ISS a little while back thanks to the genius of Dr. Jackie Darling Lee and this guy right here.” I place my hand on Bodie’s shoulder, who looks amused at me giving him credit. “So to thank me for all my hard work, NASA simply insisted I take some time off and enjoy being awesome. And I came to Ellington today to do just that.” I lean toward the reporters conspiratorially. “You know, show off all my mad skills.”
It gets the intended eyeroll from Bodie and chuckle from the reporters—well, all but Susan—and the atmosphere lightens.
I slap Bodie on the back, making sure we’re both turned advantageously toward the cameras. “Come on, flashlight, let’s get you flying.”
A few camera clicks later, we both turn and walk toward the jet. Once we’re out of hearing range, Bodie leans in. “What the hell was that?”
I shrug, playing it off, though I’m just as confused. “Damned if I know.”
Bodie may have been doling out the facts about NASA’s medical team to get that reporter off my back, but he wasn’t wrong. NASA has lots of medical professionals at the top of their game. One of which, my ex-neighbor and friend Dr. Rebecca Sato, told me there was absolutely nothing wrong with my chest when I saddled up on the exam table after leaving the ranch. Doc said it could be anxiety or gas. We both laughed at the anxiety remark and she handed me a box of Gas-X.
I rub the spot on my chest. Probably should’ve popped one of those this morning.
Reaching the jet, we check over the helmets and chutes that we dropped by the wheels before talking to the reporters. Everything in order, we begin our walk-around flight check. I call off the list, and Bodie verbally checks the items off.
With the exterior inspection done, we grab our chutes and helmets. I follow Bodie up the ladder and once he’s situated, I stay on the top rung and rip open a Velcro flap on one of the flight suits’ many pockets to dig out my phone.
“Let’s capture the moment before you black out from g-force.”
“You wish.” Bodie smirks, making a duck face into the camera.
Laughing, I take the picture.
But my smile fades fast when the camera screen closes and I see the text waiting for me.
“What’s wrong?” Gone is the joking tone we usually have between us. Just like when shit gets real on the ISS, Bodie homes in on my mood and gets serious.
I don’t answer. I’m too focused on the picture of this exact plane, Bodie and me at the nose as we complete our walk-around. I look up, swiveling my head in all directions, knowing my stalker is close. All I see is runway.
The phone vibrates in my palm.
“Jules?”
My knuckles turn white around my phone. “Out.”
“What?”
“I’m not feeling well.” It’s not a lie, not after that text. I pocket my phone and jerk my thumb. “Out. Flight aborted.”
His glare shoots through me, but he nods. “Right. Flight aborted.”
When we march past the horde of reporters yelling out their questions, I make out Susan’s satisfied face.
But I can’t focus on that. All I can think of is those texts. First of Bodie and me, then one of a bunch of torn wires. And the message:Hotwire this, NASA’s Starr.
