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“I see. And before he got into the lube game, did he get his science degree? A master’s maybe or a PhD?” Stop now. Right fucking now. “I’m only asking because I’m trying to ascertain his understanding of what science is. I’m assuming it went beyond the rudimentary teachings of secondary school, since he obviously holds such a strong opinion on the matter.”
She chews her gum with her mouth open while she shakes her head. “No. My grandpa owned the shop first and gave it to him.”
“Is he a big reader then? Like maybe he’s got some Stephen Hawking and Carl Sagan books hanging around the bathroom that he just … devours every chance he gets?”
“He mostly just listens to the Joe Rogan podcast.”
Don’t say it. She’s a child, Gwen… “Okay, well tell your dad to head on back to school, get his PhD in … any science at all, but preferably astrophysics, astrobiology, or astronomy, then come find me so we can have a talk about what is and what isn’t a science, because there’s no point in debating someone who lacks even a base knowledge on the topic.”
Dammit. I said it. But at least I didn’t let the Trans-Am thing slip out…
Mrs. Jones is full on glaring now. Like, death glare. I swallow and offer the girl an apologetic smile. “What I meant to say was that the work we do here adheres to the strictest scientific methods in the world. We’re using a multi-disciplinary approach with a team of engineers, astronomers, astrophysicists, and biologists. I can assure you that the answer to the age-old question of ‘are we alone’ is a resounding no.”
She snaps her gum at me and shrugs. “Whatever.”
I glance at my watch again. 1:52 p.m. Sweet. We’re rounding the corner to the exit of this shit maze. I lead the group over to the lunch room and stop in front of the door, smiling dramatically at them. “Okay, who wants to try a very special treat that normally only astronauts get to enjoy?”
A girl directly in front of me who has the most eyeliner I’ve ever seen says, “As long as it’s not freeze-dried ice cream. They always serve it at the planetarium and it’s so boring. I’ve had it, like, a thousand times already.”
Butts.
Mrs. Jones sighs. “Candace, that’s not polite. Gwen here is offering us a special treat and we need to accept it graciously, no matter how boring it is.” She turns to me with a slight wince and whispers, “Is she right?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact, my young friend Candace here has guessed it. It is freeze-dried ice cream,” I say, still smiling even though I’m simultaneously wishing a sinkhole would open up and swallow me. Hmmm … make that Candace. “There will also be a super exciting live event happening that you’ll all get to watch while you eat your snack.”
“Somebody kill me now,” one of them murmurs.
If you say so…
I lead them into the lunch room and walk directly over to the cupboard that I labeled ‘Freeze-dried NASA foods.’ I hear some snickering and when I turn, I see that I have completely forgotten about the dartboard. On it is a photo of Ty Sterling, Dr. Napper’s business partner, soulless billionaire, and hater of all things SETI. His face is full of holes made by angry darts thrown at him. On the counter, under the board, is a tall stack of photos of him, all of which have been defaced in some way. My favorite is the long, twirly mustache version that makes him look like a villain from an old timey cartoon. Too bad that one’s not up there now because the one that is on the board says “ASSHOLE” in bold, red Sharpie across his forehead. Shit. Mrs. Jones does not look pleased.
Candace turns to me with her eyes wide. “Oh my God, it says asshole on that guy’s picture!”
Triple shit. “Er, yeah, that’s not a nice word, is it? I’m not sure who wrote that.”
It was me. I wrote it. But I had a very good reason. “But I’m sure whoever it was, they had a very good reason. Who wants that ice cream?”
A bead of sweat rolls down my spine as I rush over and tear the photo down from the board, then flip over the other photos. The last thing I need is one of these kids to start videoing this and upload it to social media. I quickly grab the box of ice cream and rush to the door. “Let’s take this into the auditorium so I can get the video feed set up in time for the big event.”
A few minutes later, the kids are all seated, ripping into their packages of ice cream while I fire up the computer and start the Dick Cam.
Laughter breaks out across the room, accompanied by a loud gasp. Mrs. Jones rushes over to me, whispering furiously. “What exactly are you about to show us?”
“It’ll be fine, I promise. It’s just a poorly-named live feed. Dr. Dick Napper is our major sponsor. He spends most of his time doing daring things around the world and he has set up a live feed system at all of his foundations and corporations so he can share his adventures with us. Today, he’s aiming to set a Guinness World Record for Volcano Surfing.”
She gives me a hard look. “It better be fine, because after that whole dartboard incident, I’m not so sure this is an appropriate place for children.”
“It’s totally appropriate. In fact, it’ll be inspiring. Dr. Napper is one of the leading minds in the bio-tech industry. He’s a true philanthropist and is overall a very interesting person.”
“Children, stop laughing,” Mrs. Jones says. “The dick in this case is a man’s name. It’s short for Richard. Dr. Dick…” She looks at me for help.
“Napper. Dick Napper,” I tell them proudly. “He’s not only a genius, but a hero. Dr. Napper is one of the world’s most generous humans. He backed our research facility nearly ten years ago and has just agreed to give us another hundred million dollars in funding so we can continue our work for another decade.”
I’m so excited just saying it, I want to start clapping, but I won’t because these kids don’t give a flying fuck. They also won’t care that as soon as Dr. Napper had the Zoom call with our team to share the good news, I was finally able to put an offer in on my very first house—a cozy bungalow that’s only a forty-minute commute to work. I’m not sure what you know about real estate in Silicon Valley, but it’s a tad bit pricey, so it’s taken me close to ten years to scrape together enough to get me in the game. That Zoom meeting (which happened three weeks ago) was absolutely a best-case scenario for our team because not only are we getting the funding, but ASSHOLE Ty Sterling will no longer be a financial backer of the Napper Sterling Foundation. He’s moving onto more evil pursuits, I’m sure, while Dr. Napper is taking on the foundation himself, which means no more public criticism from a guy who, frankly, doesn’t have the first clue what we do. I mean, I can see him criticizing some of the other projects, like the ridiculous Yeti Research Institute or those crazy telekinesis people, but our project? One-hundred-percent solid.
Most of my team files in, except Allie, who must be delayed. They all take seats near me at the front of the room. Behind me, I hear one of the kids say, “Bet you ten bucks I can spit in that nerd’s hair from here.”
“Which one?” his friend asks.
