As for Rooney and NASA, something she has going for her is that tickets for her first showcase have already sold out. People went wild for her art on social media, gaining exposure for several of NASA’s missions. Some people were torn between preferring the mystery and loving that Rooney is trying to make a name for herself. Many fans vocalized how meaningful it is to see people like themselves represented in the art world.
I reach the gallery and look through the large windows. Lining the walls of the place are dozens of string art pieces of cacti, astronaut suits, butterflies, Mars, a rocket, and clouds. They’re moments that Rooney and I spent together, inspired by Red String Theory. Each one a moment derived from a Fate Test. They’re intricate, practically looking like photographs from where I stand.
I lean closer to the glass. Every piece has a red dot next to it. If I remember what Rooney told me correctly, that means they’ve all sold. Excitement courses through me. Maybe she’ll have enough money to buy the video. Wrapping the Hollywood Sign unwrapped whatever was blocking her lack of inspiration.
My phone lights up with a text message from Rooney.
Where are you? I have amazing news! It rhymes with SchMoMA.
SchMoMA as in MoMA? Did she get an offer to do something with the Museum of Modern Art? It really is incredible news.
I peer back in through the window. Rooney and Talia arelaughing as they walk out from the back room with cups and a bottle of champagne. Rooney sits down on a couch that looks like a… dumpling?
It’s another tally in the streak of happy things. Maybe the contents of my parents’ letter won’t be so bad. Maybe they’re on their way back as we speak so they can be here for Rooney’s showcase. I reach for the envelope in my back pocket and rip it open. Inside is a letter on a single sheet of paper.
Dear Jackson,
Hope you are well. We write with satisfying news. The view of the galaxy we came down here to observe wasn’t destroyed on the webcam by satellites this time. What a success. By the time you get this letter, Thanksgiving will likely have passed. Given delays, maybe even Christmas, too. As we look into the new year, we’re making note of our achievements. We hope you do the same. What you have been able to accomplish with your mission at NASA is nothing short of impressive. You have always been practical and responsible. We are looking forward to seeing what comes next for you. You have worked hard to get to where you are today. Keep up the good work. We are extending our trip to the end of March. The sky is clear, the stars are bright, and we are on to something.
Say hello to Gong Gong for us.
Mom and Dad
I flip the page over, but it’s just the one side. My parents have noticed my hard work. These words send a small jolt of affirmation through me. They must’ve forgotten the showcase in January because they don’t mention it here. I sent a calendar invite but they haven’t accepted it yet. Maybe I should’ve sent a formal paper invite.
And so the good luck streak ends.
I look at the letter and then back up at Rooney. Another text appears.
Okay, fine! It’s MoMA! They want me to come back to New York to do an installation for them in the new year. Ahhhhhh! Get here so we can celebrate!!
I glance back down at the letter and once more at Rooney. The parallel hits me. I lived my childhood like this. I don’t know if I can live my adulthood this way, too.
I take a deep breath and tuck the letter into my back pocket.
My chest tightens as I look once more at Rooney smiling in the gallery. I can’t resist her.
Last minute work thing came up,I text back.Congrats! You deserve it. Can we celebrate this weekend at the show?
One of us is going to have to make a decision. We can’t risk leaving this up to fate.
Chapter 28
ROONEY
Rows of long red and silver tinsel are strung across the room, dangling over the bar and tables at Hugh’s, the local bar and grill where Jack will be playing his first show with Toby and Mac. The band’s equipment is set up on a stage across the room. On the left is an upright piano for Toby, in the middle a violin for Mac, and to the far right is Jack’s bass.
“So this is Christmas in Los Angeles,” I mumble, giving the room one more look-over. A cardboard fireplace is positioned under the bar counter, complete with ribboned garland and stockings. Ornaments are individually strung from the ceiling like decorative raindrops.
I stir the peppermint stick into my hot chocolate, a light dusting of the crushed red-and-white candy lining the rim. The air smells of cinnamon but this time there’s a hint of evergreen from the Christmas tree in the corner.
“It’s fake,” Jack says, catching me admiring it. “Hugh lights evergreen candles to make the tree feel real.” Jack is sitting across from me at a table for eight, waiting for the rest of the team to join us for the show. We’re both early again.
I can hardly take him seriously in his white bunny suit with the hood pulled over his head, blue latex gloves with the fingertips cutoff, and booties covering his shoes. It’s the uniform of the Red String Theorists, and Jack, after all, is a team player.
“Speaking of fake. This interaction,” I say. “You’ve been avoiding me. Why?”
Jack looks at me, his eyebrows pinched. “I don’t want to be,” he says finally.
