The Dream Life of Astronauts by Patrick Ryan Read Free Book Online

power trip.
    He made a third attempt to get them off the beaten track by steering them onto a road clearly marked with large white signs that read
NO ADMITTANCE
and
NO VEHICLES BEYOND THIS POINT WITHOUT ADVANCE CLEARANCE.
This time there was no guard post, but a rack of metal teeth lay across the road. Clark spotted them just in time and the Trans Am screeched to a halt.
    They wound up at the Visitors Information Center.
    Not for the first time, Frankie stood on scales that told him what his weight would be on Mars, Venus, and Saturn. He peered into a Mercury capsule (his sister’s predicted setting for the butt-fuck). He wandered around the Redstones and Atlases and Titans in the Rocket Garden, while Clark trailed glumly alongside him, his eyes hidden behind his sunglasses and his hands tucked into his pockets.
    “It’s a literal changing of the guard,” Clark said as Frankie tore open a package of astronaut ice cream. “The old boys knew me on sight. I had the run of the place.”
    “Want some?” Frankie asked, holding out what looked like a pink block of Styrofoam.
    “Sorry we didn’t get in there deep. I feel like I should make it up to you somehow.”
    “It’s okay,” Frankie said again.
    “Seriously. You have any interest in getting a bite to eat tomorrow night?”
    Frankie felt warmth climbing up his neck. The freeze-dried ice cream softened on his tongue. “Yeah.”
    “You could come out to the house, and we could go from there to this great restaurant I know called Pounders. It’s a fun place.”
    “Your—your house?”
    “In Cocoa. You drive, don’t you?”
    Frankie nodded. “I got my license this year. I called your house before I called your office. A woman answered.”
    Clark took off his aviators. “That was Pepper.”
    “Who’s Pepper?”
    “You’ll
love
Pepper. She’s top-of-the-line.”
    —
    K aren’s hair was soaked in mayonnaise and wrapped in cellophane and Scotch tape. She leaned sideways across the backseat of her Datsun and filled a trash bag with beer cans, Burger King wrappers, and empty cigarette packs, then tied the bag shut and tossed it onto the driveway. “Garbage.”
    Frankie carried the bag to one of the trash cans alongside the house. When he got back to the car, she was sitting behind the wheel with a spray bottle of Armor All and a roll of paper towels. “Why’d you offer to help me, anyway?” she asked.
    “No reason,” Frankie lied.
    “Uh-huh. So how’d your top secret, underground NASA date go?”
    “We couldn’t really get in anywhere because he doesn’t work there anymore.”
    “I
knew
it,” she said. “He’s fake. Which is creepy.”
    “Clark’s not fake,” Frankie said, though he was starting to wonder if Karen might be right. “He’s taking me to dinner tonight.”
    “To a real restaurant, or a fake restaurant?”
    “A place called Pounders.”
    “Ha! I’ve heard about that place. Billy Myers goes there and times it so that he takes a big dump right in the middle of the meal. He really sticks it to them, that way.”
    Frankie didn’t know what she was talking about and tried to erase the image from his mind. He picked up the paper-towel roll from the seat and tore one off for her. She spritzed the dash. “Does Mom know there’s an old guy after you?”
    “He’s not old. He’s probably around thirty-five.”
    “And you’re sixteen.”
    “Almost seventeen. And he’s not after me. If anything, I’m after him.”
    “Oh my god, that’s even creepier. Have you had anything up your butt yet? You better stick a cucumber up there or something. He’s going to be kicking at the back door, mark my words.”
    “Clark’s not like that.”
    “If it walks like a duck and talks like a duck, it butt-fucks like a duck.”
    Frankie tore off another paper towel and handed it to her. “It’s fun, helping you,” he said.
    “For you, maybe.”
    “Can I borrow your car tonight?”
    Karen sat back on the seat and looked at him. Thin