The Night of the Comet by George Bishop Read Free Book Online

people—and most of all on my father. The comet changed him; anyone who knew him could see that. It was gradual, almost imperceptible at first, but as the summer slipped away and the comet crept closer, his transformation became more and more apparent until it was unmistakable.
    A person might argue that it wasn’t the comet but my father himself who effected these changes. But didn’t the comet come first, and didn’t the comet lead to the changes? And what was a cause if not that?

    The next week he plowed into the classroom, set his briefcase on his desk, and stepped forward. Twitching lightly in his clothes, he said he had some exciting news to tell us. He’d been talking to the other teachers about the comet, and during their last staff meeting, they agreed to a proposal he’d put forth:
    Given that the appearance of Kohoutek was an astronomical event of historic proportions, and given that such an event presented unique educational opportunities for students, 1973 would be designated “The Year of the Comet” for the freshman class at Terrebonne High.
    He wrote the phrase on the board, saying each word out loud as he did so, “The—Year—of—the—Comet.” Then he drew a big circle around it, just in case any of us missed the point.
    Dusting off his hands, he explained how, per their agreement, all ninth grade teachers would include space-related themes in their lessons this semester. So our history teacher might discuss the cosmologies of different civilizations through time, our art teacher might have us draw posters of comets, and so on. Comets, comets everywhere.
    “Sound fun?” he asked, and my classmates exchanged doubtfullooks. At the next desk over, Peter turned to me, lifted his hands, and wobbled his head, as if to say,
What’s with all the comet crap?
    My father took the lead by tacking up a long chart of the solar system to the side wall of his classroom. He’d made the chart himself from sheets of freezer paper, with a drawing of the Sun at the front of the room and Pluto near the back. He said how we would use this chart to track Kohoutek’s approach over the upcoming months. Every Friday he would phone the Astronomy Department at LSU for the coordinates, and every Monday morning, a special comet person would be chosen to position the comet on the chart.
    He held up a disk of cardboard, trimmed around the edges with pinking shears and wrapped with aluminum foil. “Here it is. The comet. Ouch. Hot,” he said, and snorted a laugh.
    This might’ve been an awfully dumb activity for ninth graders, except that the first comet person he chose, whether by accident or design, was Gabriella.
    “Comet person,” he said. “Arise! Take the comet.”
    “Yes, sir.” Gabriella came to the front of the class and took the silver comet. She turned it over in her hands, looking at it.
    “Distance,” he said, checking his notepad, “two point eight four four astronomical units.”
    “Where’s that?”
    “Here.” He pointed to an X penciled halfway between Mars and Jupiter. Tossing her hair over her shoulder, Gabriella bent in and stuck the comet on the chart. Then she stood back, sliding her heels together and cupping her hands below her waist. She had a marvelously upright bearing, as if she wasn’t afraid of standing in front of the class, as if she enjoyed it even. All the girls watched her with envy, and Mark Mingis, slumped in his desk, grinned approvingly.
    “How does our current location correspond with the projected location?”
    “Looks to be about the same.”
    “Any estimates on the date of perihelion? Same? Different?”
    “Um—the same?”
    “Excellent. Thank you.”
    “Aye-aye, sir,” she said, and gave a brisk kind of sailor salute before taking her seat. Good god, I thought. Had there ever been a girl as clever and adorable as Gabriella? And was everyone as in love with her as I was? How could they not have been? After Gabriella, everyone wanted to be the comet