The Gravity of Us

by Phil Stamper

It’s like they’re having two separate conversations. Neither’s listening to the other.

Their fighting isn’t camera ready. It’s messy, it’s real, in a way that’s too raw to be captured by a camera.

Today, though, my chest is too heavy. There are some pains even ice cream can’t fix.

I stop outside the house and call Dad, who comes out dressed in a sharp suit and tie. He’s carrying this boxy briefcase I’ve never seen before. It’s all somewhat adorable, and this must be what parents feel like taking their anxious and/or excited children to their first day of school.

“I’ll share your video with my colleagues, and I’ll download the app and see if I can figure it out. God, I’m twenty-five and I already can’t keep up with technology.”

I want to question her, but I don’t. Though I spend a majority of my day talking back to my parents, when something feels wrong, when something deeply unsettling happens, I somehow revert to an obedient kid.

“I’m fine. I’d rather you not be here when I curse out that NASA rep, anyway, if they ever take me off hold.”

“Well, if you don’t mind,” Kiara continues, “I need to go back to filming a grieving lady for money, before I inevitably go to hell.”

Nostalgia is a blindfold.

“They’ll have to fight for you. God, Cal, if you save this mission—you could literally alter the course of history.” That sentence makes my body scramble up in bed. I’m a seventeen-year-old guy in bright yellow shorts and a Dolly Parton T-shirt with major bedhead. I don’t think I’m capable of altering anything.