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“But Keenan’s putting Chad’s name forward.”
“Well as soon as I get Frank up and running, he won’t have a choice but to change his mind. No way Keenan’s going to let Chad give his stupid ‘Space is Big’ presentation.” Putting on a face, I say, “Oh, is space big? We had no idea, numb nuts.”
Gwen laughs, then her smile fades. “Listen, you might have to accept that there’s a really good chance Keenan is going to let him present.”
“What makes you think that?”
She looks at me like I’m insane. “Because he said he is.”
“Oh, that.” I wave off her words. “I’m about to make the biggest leap forward in SETI history. If I can do it before the conference starts, even if Keenan puts Chad’s stupid name down, the conference organizers will make room for me. They’ll have to because it’ll be the only thing anyone will want to talk about.”
She gives me a ‘that could work’ look. “All right, I see where you’re going with this.”
“Yeah, you do!” I give her a firm nod. “No way am I letting Lando win. Or Chad. Even if I have to stay awake for the next six weeks straight. Even if I have to start wearing adult diapers. Even if it kills me!” Tilting my head, I add, “Well, maybe not the diaper thing. But the point is, I’m not letting the opportunity to crush either of those assholes pass me by. And I’m not just doing it for me. I’m doing it for women in STEM everywhere because it’s time for us to triumph over the sexist, cheating, lying asshats of the world.”
“Amen, sister.”
“Amen.”
Now, if only I knew how to get this freaking thing to work…
3
Burgers, Fries, and Comfort Milkshakes
Hudson
Well, today certainly hasn’t turned out the way I expected. I thought I’d do some surfing, hit the gym, and spend the rest of the day hanging out with Gersh and Oscar. Instead, I not only found out my career as a leading man is effectively over (and let’s face it, it is because there’s no way I’m going to pull this off), but I rode exactly zero waves. By the time Paul left, the ocean had already calmed down and the clouds had rolled in. I got out of my sweat suit (I’d be chuckling about that still if I weren’t so depressed) and took a quick shower while Gersh scanned the script and put it in Dyslexie font for me. Then the two of us read it through once, looked over the publicity package Paul included, and are now sitting staring at each other, both dumbfounded. The film is called Radio Silent, and Paul wasn’t kidding about this David Peck Todd character being complicated. He was a brilliant astronomer, an inventor, a philandering husband, and a petty thief who wound up in a mental institution. Tackling a character like this would require … well, someone who isn’t me.
Gersh tosses the package onto the coffee table. “Well, there’s only one thing we can do at a time like this.”
“In-N-Out?”
Nodding gravely, he says, “It’s burger time.”
Oscar lifts his head and gives me a hopeful look. I stand and smile down at him. “Yup, you can come.”
He springs out of his bed and over to the interior garage door, his entire body wagging. I throw on my ball cap and sunglasses, grab Oscar’s leash, and we pile into my new electric Range Rover. Pulling out of the garage, we then wait for the dark wood and black iron gate to slowly slide open. I roll to a stop at the edge of the driveway, glad there’s no paparazzi here today. After a few minutes on Pacific Coast Highway, we take a right and head north for a thirty-minute drive through the countryside to Westlake Village where a juicy cheeseburger, fries, and a chocolate shake are waiting. Well, hopefully they’re not waiting yet. That would mean the hot stuff’ll be cold and the milkshake will be warm.
“It’s been a good run,” I say, glancing over at my brother, who has Oscar on his lap. Oscar is standing on his hind legs, with his front paws pressed against the glass as he watches the world go by.
“Come on, dude, you’re just getting started.”
Shaking my head, I say, “You read the script yourself. There is no way in hell anyone is going to buy me as a genius astrologer.”
“Astronomer.”
“See? I can’t even remember the job title. There’s no way people will think I went to school for eight years to learn how to do that.”
“You’re underestimating yourself again,” Gersh tells me. “You’re so much smarter than you think.”
When I don’t answer, he says, “You know what? You seem hangry. Let’s talk about this after we eat.”
“Sure.” I let out a sigh, knowing he’s right.
He connects his phone to my truck and plays Starboy by The Weeknd. I hit the gas and let my mind wander while the music plays. I’m lucky. I really am. And I know it. I have a life most people would kill to have, and so much of it is because of my big brother.
Gershwyn is two years older than me and whizzed through school without any trouble, while I struggled to even write a sentence as a little kid. The letters just kept moving around on me and getting jumbled up. I was diagnosed with dyslexia in the second grade. But there was no way my parents were going to accept that. My father, the principal of the Manhattan private school we attended, insisted on hiding it. He couldn’t possibly admit to all the hoity-toity, Tribeca parents that his own son had a serious learning disability. Instead, he and my mom tutored me every night until well after bedtime. Sight word memorization, reading ahead in every subject so I could learn the material before I got to class the next day. The arguing, the fighting, the shame they passed on to me. It was a horrible secret and there was no way they were going to let it out, even if it nearly killed us all.
