As Pete gazed skyward and took in the spectacular northern night sky, he wondered why he hadn’t ever gone to the observatory before.
It was probably because he felt like there was so much he needed to learn about the Earth that he didn’t have time to pay attention to the heavens.
But still—he should have been aware of the majesty above him. And he turned to Ginette and confessed, “You know … I don’t think I’ve ever done this.”
“Done what?”
“Just … sat outside. Looked at the stars.”
“I think a lotta people here don’t.”
Ginette’s dad used to tell her that people from northern Maine didn’t realize how lucky they were to be able to see the stars. He was from a place where people couldn’t see very many of them but everyone was reaching for them. But in northern Maine, people could see just about all of them, it seemed. But not many people reached for them. He told Ginette before he left to make sure she’d never stop reaching for them. And Ginette promised she wouldn’t.
“You’ve been missin’ out,” chided Ginette.
“Yeah,” said Pete, marveling at the stars. “So … what am I lookin’ at?”
“Well—”
“I know the North Star, ’cause of scouts,” said Pete, looking directly above them.
“Kay.”
“And I know a couple constellations, like the Big Dipper and the Little Dipper.”
“Well, those aren’t constellations. They’re asterisms.”
“Huh?”
“Just—star patterns we all recognize. They’re inside constellations, which are bigger. Like … both of the Dippers are inside the Ursa Major constellation.”
“What’s Ursa Major?”
“The bear.”
“I don’t see a bear.”
“No one does. Just like no one sees Cassiopeia—but everyone sees the W.” Ginette swiveled southward and pointed out a W-shaped asterism that is the identifiable part of the constellation Cassiopeia. Pete swiveled southward, too, and saw the W, and nodded, because he had seen that W before.
Then Ginette pointed out the Pleiades, or the Seven Sisters, a small, bright cluster asterism that is part of the constellation Taurus, the bull, which Orion, the hunter, was fighting. Ginette helped Pete see Orion’s shield and his weapon—a club, which he was going to use to subjugate Taurus.
“Wow,” said Pete.
“What?”
“I guess I just didn’t know you knew all that,” said Pete, nodding skyward.
“It’s just stuff my dad taught me.” Ginette shrugged. “He used to take me here.”
“My dad thinks this place is hippie-dippie,” said Pete.
“That’s too bad. Everybody should come here. Or at least look up once in a while. To help them remember that things are possible. Everybody needs help with that from time to time.”
Pete wondered if Ginette needed to be reminded that things were possible. She seemed like the kind of person who thought anything was possible.
But Ginette’s mom wasn’t great at seeing what was possible. She was a great person and a great mom, but she was very practical and too often dwelled on what was impossible. And that had been wearing on Ginette lately.
“It helps me remember to dream, coming here.” Ginette missed her dad again, because he was a dreamer. But not a doer. Which was why Ginette’s mom had to ask him to leave. “You know,” continued Ginette, “I want to go up there someday. Space.”
“Really?” asked Pete.
“Yeah.” Ginette felt like she belonged up there, among the stars and planets. More than she belonged on Earth, sometimes.
“Wow.”
“You’ve gotta be really smart to go, though,” said Ginette, wondering how a girl like her would ever get to space—and then wondering if she should have shared her secret dream with Pete.
“You’re really smart,” said Pete. “You could totally go,” he added, looking up at the stars.
And Ginette looked at Pete and watched him as he stargazed. And she couldn’t have been happier that she had shared her secret dream with him. And that strange lightness surged through her body again. This time, it felt like it was giving her the courage to come right out and ask him if they were going out or dating or if they were boyfriend and girlfriend or what.
And she almost asked right then and there. “Pete?” she started.
“Yeah?”
But then she chickened out. And said something that wasn’t the question that she wanted to ask Pete. It was a statement—something she wanted him to know.
“I just … had a lot of fun today.”
“Me, too.”
“I always have fun with you.”
“Yeah.” Pete smiled. “Me, too. I mean—I always have fun with you, too. Not with me.”
“I know what you mean,” laughed Ginette. She was happy to hear that Pete always had fun with her, too. And it made her feel that strange lightness again. And the lightness gave her the courage to try—again—to ask him if they were dating or going out or if they were boyfriend and girlfriend or what.
“Pete?” she asked.
“Yeah?”
The lightness she was feeling grew inside her and seemed to take control of her body and she felt like it was hijacking her head and her heart and it suddenly pushed three small, immense words out of her mouth.
“I love you.”
Whoa. That was not quite what Ginette had intended to say. She had intended to ask Pete something like, “Are we dating?” or “Are we boyfriend and girlfriend?” or “Do you like me the way I like you?”
But she didn’t ask any of those questions.
Or any question at all.
She went straight to another statement: “I love you.”
And she felt like some sort of cosmic shutdown was happening. Like all motion in the universe was ceasing. She could have sworn it made a sound—like the vvvrrrmmm of a giant machine losing its power.
And she just stared at Pete.
And Pete just stared at her.
And neither of them breathed.
And then Ginette suddenly gasped for air as if someone had just revived her with CPR, and she laughed a loud laugh.
And couldn’t believe what she had just said.
And her laughter decrescendoed into a hopeful smile.
And she looked at Pete and waited for him to say something.
But he didn’t say anything.
And then Ginette’s smile turned into a look of concern.
And then it turned into a pained frown.
Because Pete still wasn’t saying anything.
He was still just staring at her. Like a deer frozen in headlights.
He stared at her for so long like that, that Ginette felt like she had broken time.
And then Pete suddenly gasped and sucked in some air as if he, too, had just been revived by CPR.
And he turned away from Ginette. And looked out at the horizon, his eyes still wide.
And then Ginette turned away from him. And looked out at the horizon. Her eyes were wide, too.
And Ginette and Pete sat in the silence. And the stillness. For a while. And the stillness felt like it was full of motion. And the silence felt like it was full of sound.