JAN 28, 1986

Dear Bridget,

I am writing this letter to you in my head because I am running. I am running to find you because I know where you are. I know you are in the place I last saw you, but I thought you would not be there anymore. I thought you would come find me. I thought we would watch the Challenger launch together like you promised. You promised!

I believed you. All these weeks since we ran away, I have been waiting. But now I know. I know that you lied. You are not coming back. You were never coming back. You were never going to watch the Challenger launch with me. You were never going to watch the First Teacher in Space achieve our dream. I had to watch without you.

I had to watch the countdown and the lift-off and the explosion.

I had to watch the fire and the dust and the smoke and the small gray pod falling from the sky.

I had to watch them fail to leave the Earth’s atmosphere, fail to reach the stars.

They won’t make it back, Bridget. They’re gone. Forever.

You won’t make it back either.

And I know why.

I remember.

Do you remember? As I run, the leafless trees rush by in a blur.

As I run, I see it all.

And as I run, I understand.

It started in the afternoon, the fight you had with our foster parents. They wanted you to stop seeing that boy. They wanted you to stop listening to music and getting bad grades and “acting out.” That’s what they kept saying. “You need to stop acting out, young lady!”

You said two words to them that I hadn’t heard you say since you told off my teacher on the first day of kindergarten. Foster Mother slapped your face.

“That’s it!” said Foster Father. “We’re calling Mrs. Steele in the morning. Nova can go back to the group home and if they’re smart they’ll stick you in a juvenile detention center somewhere!”

You yelled back with more bad words. That’s how I knew how mad you were. Then you took the stairs two at a time to our room and slammed the door.

That night, as soon as they were in bed, you woke me up, dressed me, and told me to be quiet. We were going to the house from the Halloween party. You had a plan.

The next thing I remember, I was sitting in the backseat of your boyfriend’s car. I rocked back and forth and made my humming noise. You buckled my seat belt and kissed my temple and told me to quit worrying. Then you moved my tapping fingers away from my chin. You said, “Be happy, Nova! This is it! Our escape! From here to the moon, just you and me and NASA Bear, our space shuttle, and the moon!”

But it wasn’t just us. It was us and your boyfriend too.

You promised we were going to be free.

Unless we got separated. Then you’d come back for me. That is what you said.

“Our planet is in order, little sister! Let’s go rake out our active volcanoes!” You borrowed those lines from The Little Prince.

“Oh-kay, Bidge.” I trusted you. I pointed to the sky. It was dark. The moon was bright against a black sky. The stars were twinkling. My favorite kind of night. Yours too. I smiled. You smiled.

“Let the stars be not our tiny lights, but our guides!” You borrowed that line too, except it is really “For the travelers the stars are guides. For others they are nothing but tiny lights.”

“What are you talking about?” asked your boyfriend, the one Mrs. Steele called a bad influence. He was twirling silver keys on a ring around his index finger, smiling.

“It’s a sister thing,” you said. He shrugged. You laughed. He got into the driver’s seat. You sat in front, beside him, as usual, but I wanted you in the back, with me. He put one hand on the wheel and turned the key in the ignition with the other.

My seat was directly behind yours. I reached out to touch your hair but you pulled away, turning to look at me, sitting on your knees with your back to the windshield. You were not wearing a seat belt. Your boyfriend was not wearing a seat belt. Only I wore a seat belt.

“This is our escape! No more foster homes, Super Nova. No more getting moved around and split up and then put back together until they send us away again. We don’t need any more temporary parents pretending like they’ll be forever families. I’ve always taken care of you, right?”

“Mm.”

“And I always will. No matter what happens, we’ll be okay, okay? Child Services, if they find us, they’re gonna be mad…maybe so mad they split us up for good. But if they do take you away, I promise I’ll come back for you. I’ll be back for the launch and I’ll be back again when I turn eighteen in August, so I can take you away. Don’t worry. I promise.”

I was still worried but I said “Oh-kay” to make you happy.

Leaning into the back, you reached into your old backpack, which was on the floor between my feet, and pulled out NASA Bear. You handed him to me. “He’s completely yours now, Nova. Take care of him.”

I felt confused but you laughed, kissed your fingers, and tapped my nose to give me the kiss.

“By the year 2000, people will be headed to space all the time! On vacation, like it’s Disneyland or Myrtle Beach. Parents will go, ‘Say, honey, what should we do this summer? Visit Auntie Em and Uncle Henry down in Kansas, or take the kids to the moon again?’ Kids will be like so over boring rocket ships they’ll pick Kansas for the scenery change! You and I can take NASA Bear with us. He’ll be the first astronaut teddy in space. It’ll be glorious.”

The boy in the driver’s seat laughed. “What? You’re crazy, babe.” You giggled even though he called you a not-nice name—crazy. You kissed his cheek. My own cheeks burned. Why did you kiss him?

“You like music, right, Nova?” He turned on the radio. “This is the sixties and seventies station. Maybe they’ll play David Bowie for you!”

I liked the radio station but I did not like him, I did not like how he was taking up all your time and making you forget about me, so I did not say “Mm.”

He drove very fast. Snow-coated trees whirled by, making me dizzy. I never liked being in cars. Will it feel this way in a rocket ship too? Will I get space-sick the way I get carsick? Probably not, since roller coasters are more like rocket ships than cars are and I don’t get sick on them. I hugged NASA Bear close and tried not to think about it. I wanted to tap my fingers against my chin but I knew you did not want me to worry and I wanted you to be happy with me.

The radio was loud. Too loud. I pressed one ear against my shoulder so I had a free hand to hug NASA Bear. In the front seat, you were talking and laughing but I could not hear your words. You opened your window and more sound whooshed in. You sat on the door, putting the top half of your body outside the car, your legs on the inside. That was not safe. I wanted to scream at you, Bridget. I wished I could talk so I could scream, “That is not safe!” I opened my mouth but no sounds come out.

The boy grabbed your arm. He pulled you back inside. He said, “What’re you doing? You have a death wish?” but he was laughing.

It started to snow but you did not put up the window. I was cold. Most of the time I like cold, but not that night. I didn’t have a coat.

He drove too fast. The music was too loud. You changed the radio station. The announcer said, “We’re counting down the best songs of 1985! This is number nine: ‘Crazy for You’ by Madonna!”

The car slid a little on the icy road. Your boyfriend said “Whoa, major fishtail!” and laughed but I felt scared and sick.

“Bidge,” I managed to say. “Bidge, no!”

You did not hear me. You were singing along with Madonna. You called Madonna “the best there is” like you’d forgotten all about David Bowie. I could not stay still or quiet anymore. I squeaked and hummed and rocked. The seat belt pressed against my twisted pretzel tummy when I rocked, which hurt, so I leaned forward, placing my head between my knees, pressing my fingers to my chin, cradling NASA Bear against my cheek.

Too fast. Too loud.

The car fishtailed again.

Your boyfriend said a bad word. You screamed.

The car spun around and around. It happened before I could lift my head.

Impact.

The front seat came into the backseat, slamming into my knees, pressing against the top of my head.

The roof came down with a crunch, stopping inches above me.

I could not lift my head.

I could not see you. I could not hear you.

I could not hear anything.

I closed my eyes.

Darkness.

When I felt arms around me, I woke up.

It was you, it had to be. You were carrying me back to the foster home to get my coat because I was cold. So cold.

I was still holding NASA Bear.

There was wetness on the side of my face. It ran from my hair into my mouth, tasting like metal.

Blood.

I wanted to touch it but my arms were too heavy. Too tired. Stuck.

“She’s alive!” shouted a man. I opened one eye. The man was holding me, not you. “This little one’s breathing! Get a stretcher!”

Bridget?

“There’s a survivor!” exclaimed a woman’s voice. Not yours.

It was still snowing but the winter air smelled like smoke.

I opened my eyes again. I saw a twisted block of metal, the same color the car was, but it could not be the car. There was no hood, no room for an engine. No laughing boy with a leather jacket. No you.

I saw a long truck turned over. The truck was on fire. The flames raged high. Ash fell onto my face. Ash, like from a volcano.

So many loud noises surrounded me. Shouting, sirens, the crackling of the fire. I wanted to cover my ears but I could not move.

Then I was on a bed. The bed was on wheels. Strangers strapped me down.

An ambulance. I was in an ambulance. The siren was screaming. I hate screaming even more than I hate crying.

I knew where we were going. To a hospital. That is where ambulances go. I still could not see you, couldn’t hear you. Were you sitting in the front seat?

I fell asleep.

When I woke again, I was in a hospital room. I looked around. NASA Bear was on the table beside my bed. He was clean and his fur was fluffed, like someone gave him a bath.

My body ached, my brain hurt.

There were people talking softly in the hall. I recognized the voice of Mrs. Steele, our social worker. She must have known where you were.

“She won’t be able to answer your questions,” she was saying. “She only says a couple of words. She can’t read or write. She’s autistic, nonverbal, and severely mentally retarded.”

I waited for you to start hollering at her, the way you always did when someone called me the R-word. But maybe you were asleep in your own hospital room, because nobody said, “My sister’s not dumb. She’s a thinker, not a talker.”

“We have to know what happened.” It was the voice of a man, a voice I never heard before. “She’s the sole survivor of the crash.”

“I’m sorry, Officer,” said Mrs. Steele. “She can’t speak to you.”

Sole survivor?

I didn’t know it then, but sole means only. One. Alone.

A lone survivor. Only one.

But that could not be true.

Because you were in the crash too.

And if we were both in the crash…

And there was only one survivor…

And I’m alive…

No.

They made a mistake.

We are going into space together! We are going to soar past the stars, holding NASA Bear between us! We are going to vacation on Venus, to meet Martians on Mars! We are going to leave footprints on the moon!