The Half-Life of Planets by Emily Franklin Read Free Book Online Page B

else…I jot “Plausible tracers from the early solar system are C-type asteroids and carbonaceous meteoroids,” because this will show him I actually paid attention to his tutorial over winter break despite the fact that I was hung up on yet another musician. “Characterization includes very high carbon content…something like 4.4–4.6 BILLION years old. This is determined from radioactive dating.” I stop there. He probably wouldn’t mind this, the minimum effort. But I add a bit more. “Since the solar system is posited to have condensed about 4.6 billion years ago, these objects hold the most direct clues to that origin—based on their age.” That’s the amazing thing about objects: they have a life of their own and tell more, sometimes without a voice, than people.
    After I answer Mr. Pitkin’s question, I lean on the cool counter and put back the beaker I used as a water glass. It’s totally not allowed, but I figure the chances of the glass being contaminated with any truly horrific germs is slim. I take a final swig and put it on the drying rack next to the lab’s pride and joy. There’s an amazing telescope, a LIGO, a Laser Interferometer Gravitational-Wave Observatory, that I get to use sometimes. It can detect all sorts of crazy happenings in the universe: collisions, even collapsed stars. Collapsed Stars.
    Now that’s the name for a band. I can tell Hank when I see him. Not that I’ve been planning on it, necessarily, but it’s Thursday and Espresso Love is on my way home, especially if I want to do my usual beach walk, which I do. With my dad not only out of the hospital but already back at work (read: on a plane to Memphis or Des Moines or Indianapolis) and my mother treading a solid path from the kitchen to her home office, staying out of the house seems like the best choice. Plus, my best friend, Cat, is accessible in thought only, and all things considered, I liked talking to Hank. It was a relief, kind of, to just talk with him and not wonder if—or when—we might get together.
    I check my watch. It’s almost three. I don’t have set lab hours, but I feel like a solid six is enough to call it a day. I log my hours on my study chart so Mr. Pitkin will have proof I’ve been here—more proof than my notes, I mean—and clean up the bits of paper, chewed-on pen cap, droppers. You have to leave a lab better than you found it. Immaculate. Pristine. Otherwise the next time you go to do your work, some debris or random bit of fluid could get into your experiment and screw it up.
    At Espresso Love, Hank’s not anywhere I can see. I check the coveted window seats, where the coolest kids hang out during the school year, and the back section, which is basically my local homework spot, always crammed near exam time, and since I can’t find him, I just go to the counter and order myself an iced latte. Then I remember Hank doesn’t like iced drinks and switch my order so he can have some if he wants.
    â€œActually, cancel that,” I tell the server, because this is not a date. And even if it was a date, I shouldn’t neg my coffee order because of some guy. Or what some guy wants to drink. That’s my problem. I take my wallet out to pay. It’s not so much a wallet as it is a case. My dad went to a four-day conference in San Francisco and brought back a bag full of goodies. Hollywood starlets might get gift bags filled with trendy clothes and lotions, but computer geeky dads just get things like mouse pads in the shape of cheese, and magnets with company logos on them. I like the case, though. It’s a white plastic rectangle, semi-see-through, and meant to hold business cards, which of course I don’t have and don’t want. But it holds my one credit card, my folded cash, and my driver’s license quite well. I hand the server five dollars and wait for my change. When it comes, I