Dangerous (3 page)

deceased grandmothers—Maisie Amalia—then in the hospital,

it occurred to them that the middle name Danger would be

14

Dangerous

funny.”

“So you can literally say, Danger is my middle—”

“No! I mean, I avoid it. It’s too ridiculous. It’s not like any-

one actually calls me Danger. Well, my mom sometimes calls

me
la Peligrosa
, which is Spanish for Danger Girl. But it’s just a

joke, or it’s meant to be. My parents have to work really hard to

be funny. They’re scientists.”

“Father, Dr. Nicholas Brown, microbiologist,” he said, read-

ing from my info sheet. “Mother, Dr. Inocencia Rodriguez-

Brown, physicist. Researchers?”

“Dad is. Mom works from home editing a physics journal

and homeschooling me.”

“A homeschooled, black-eyed Latina.” He whistled. “You

are turning into a very ripe fruit for the plucking.”

I blinked. No one talks like that. But he was so casual

about it, so self-assured, as if he owned the world. And for all I

knew, maybe he did.

We walked toward the cafeteria, reading.

“Your elective is . . .” I searched his class schedule. “Short-

field soccer.”

“You almost managed to keep a judging tone out of your

voice.”

“Why would you come to astronaut boot camp to play soccer?”

“Because I’m unbelievably good at it. And yours is . . .

advanced aerospace engineering?”

“I’m not wasting my time here. I’m in training.”

“Wilder!” The redheaded boy came charging from the

cafeteria. His name tag read FOWLER, and I wondered if it was

vogue for all rich boys to go by their last names. “Hey, I saved

you a seat at our table.”

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Shannon Hale

“In a sec,” said Wilder. “It’s not every day I meet a future

astronaut.”

“Who? Her?”

Wilder nodded, his attention returning to my papers.

“Are you delusional?” Fowler asked me. “You have
one

hand
.”

“Then I guess I’ll be the first one-handed freak in space.”

“Whatever.” He turned back to Wilder. “So, if you want to

join us . . .”

Wilder started into the cafeteria, still reading, and Fowler

followed.

“Hey, you’ll need this back.” I held out his folder, but he

shook his head.

“Yours is more interesting.”

That was probably true. Wilder’s papers had the barest info.

He hadn’t filled out the survey or included a personal essay, and

his academic records only showed he’d attended five schools in

the past three years. I wondered what he was hiding.

16

C h a p t e r 3

The folder switch forced me to track down Wilder at break-

fast and ask him where I was supposed to be first hour.

He looked at me leisurely before opening my folder. “Astro-

physics in 2-C. That sounds like a party in a jar.”

It did. If a party in a jar was a good thing. Would setting a

party inside a glass container make it more amusing? Or was he

being sarcastic?

“And you have navigation in 4-F,” I said, though he didn’t

ask.

“I can’t just follow you to astrophysics? Sit in the back, pass

you notes, sketch your profile on my desk?”

I was sure he was kidding. Almost sure. I should have done

some homeschool projects on Teenage Social Life or Boys in

General.

Wilder did not follow me to astrophysics. I looked around

a few times, just to be sure.

For second hour everyone migrated to the auditorium

again. The crowd hushed when a short white woman with frizzy

hair clomped onto the stage. She was wearing a floral dress that

was a little too big and a pair of heavy, wide sandals.

“I’m Dr. Bonnie Howell,” she said, her hair bobbing, her

skirt swishing.

I started to clap, getting in three awkward slaps of my hand

against my thigh before I realized no one else was clapping. I

sunk lower in my seat. Maybe they didn’t realize that this was

the
Bonnie Howell, as in Howell Aerospace.

Shannon Hale

“I hope you weren’t expecting kiddie camp,” she said. “I

don’t employ veteran astronauts and the top minds in science so

you can eat marshmallows and sing songs. Did you know,” she

bounced on the balls of her feet, “your teenage brain is a work

in progress? If you want big, beefy brains as adults, you must

learn to organize your thoughts, control your impulses, and ex-

plore abstract concepts while you’re still a teenager. Challenge

yourselves, for pity’s sake! By adulthood, any neglected areas

in your brain will shut down. So sit back and stick to what you

know, and you’ll be condemned to flimsy, pathetic little piñatas,

frozen in form with no hope of establishing the connections

you ignored as teenagers. Okay?”

And she left the stage.

If Luther had been there, I would have whispered to him,

“I give her an A for Brain Trivia, B for Bounciness, and D for

Closure.”

A large black man in a suit took the podium. Well, he stood

behind the podium—but he did look capable of actually pick-

ing it up if he wanted.

“I’m Dr. Dragon Barnes, Howell Aerospace Chief of

Operations.”

His name was Dragon? That was almost as embarrassing

as Danger.

“In addition to your classes each day, you will meet in

groups of four we call fireteams. Your fireteam will complete

timed and graded missions. The fireteam with the best cumula-

tive score will win an exciting opportunity.” His voice was lead-

en. I doubted he knew what “exciting” meant. “The last week

of your stay, Dr. Howell and I are flying to the ocean platform

that is the planet-side base for the Beanstalk. Usually only the

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Dangerous

Howell Aeronautics crew is permitted aboard the base. But this

time—”

Dr. Howell suddenly ran back onto the stage and yelled

into the microphone, “Some of you will get to come and watch!”

Everyone winced at the shriek of feedback from the speak-

ers. Silence followed. I didn’t seem to be the only one unsure of

what she meant. Dragon nudged her aside—I was already call-

ing him by his first name in my head. It was just too memorable.

“To clarify,” he said, “the members of the winning fireteam

will visit the Beanstalk’s base and observe the space elevator

ascend. From sea level. The Beanstalk doesn’t take tourists.”

There were a few moans of disappointment.

“Nevertheless, you will tour a site few have set foot on. Re-

cently the president of the United States requested a visit, and

she was refused.” Dragon glanced sideways at Dr. Howell, his

mouth stern. “
Ahem
. Know that this is a great privilege.”

He didn’t have to tell me. I hadn’t taken a breath in at least

sixty seconds.

Dr. Howell nodded vigorously, her frizz bouncing. “So

work hard, my little hamsters. We will be watching!”

She bobbed off the stage. Dragon added a quick “thank

you” before hurrying after her.

The head counselors got on stage and assigned us to our

fireteams. Wilder’s name was not read next to mine.

I found my assigned meeting spot by a fountain in the

blazing-hot courtyard, my thoughts dancing up a Beanstalk

cable into space.

A skinny Asian girl sat cross-legged on the lip of the foun-

tain, drinking a blue slushie she must have carried out of the

cafeteria. She introduced herself as Mi-sun. Her name sounded

19

Shannon Hale

Korean, but her accent was fully American.

“So is this all weird or fun?” she asked.

“Both I think,” I said.

She nodded sagely and slurped her drink.

An older girl with loads of curly red hair approached but

wouldn’t sit or make eye contact. Just as a boy joined us, a coun-

selor with a megaphone told all the groups, “You have five min-

utes to get to know your fireteam members. Go.”

“Okay, I’ll go first,” said the boy. He had a short, tight

Afro and black geek-chic glasses, and when he talked, dimples

pressed into his cheeks. In less than a minute we learned:

1. His name was Jacques.

2. He grew up in Paris with his African-French father and

American mother. When his parents divorced, he moved with

his mom to the Chicago area.

3. He was an Illinois state chess champ for three years, and

he spent a week on Junior Jeopardy.

4. He was a Blueberry Bonanza sweepstakes winner.

“I filled out that
bleeping
survey,” he said. “Marketing sur-

veys are always digging for something, and I
bleepity-bleep
gave

it to them.”

If you can’t tell, I changed some of his words. My mom

only swore in Spanish. My dad’s worst insult was “chump.” Lu-

ther’s expletives included “Balefire!” and “Frak!” So I was a bit

sheltered from R-rated language, and Jacques unnerved me. I

tried not to show it.

The redhead went next. She had a curvy body and was su-

per tall if she stood straight, but her shoulders rounded, hiding

her chest. “I’m Ruth. I’m from Louisiana. And I hate the heat.”

She threw her long hair over one shoulder.

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Dangerous

After Ruth’s hasty intro, I worried I’d sound needy if I said

too much. “I’m Maisie, I’m from Salt Lake City, and I . . . uh,

I like cheese.” I angled my body away from them, Ms. Pincher

behind me.

Mi-sun was more forthcoming about living in Alaska, her

two little brothers whom she missed “so, so much,” and her

crafty hobbies. Mi-sun was a sweepstakes winner too, even

though she was only eleven.

“But the contest was for ages twelve to eighteen,” I said.

“I filled out the survey, and they called me and told me I’d

won.” Her lips were stained blue from her slushie, and with her

dark hair and pale skin, she looked undead.

A counselor fetched our fireteam for our first mission, ges-

turing us into a small outbuilding and shutting the door behind

us.

We were in a bare white room, darkly lit. We waited. Was

something supposed to happen?

“Cry havoc!” Jacques said suddenly, making me jump.

“What?” said Ruth.

He folded his arms. “It’s my battle cry.”

A man’s voice spoke from a hidden speaker. “
Do not share

details of this exercise with anyone outside your fireteam. Your

ability to keep a secret will be considered in your final score
.”

Metal doors rolled down each wall, encaging us with a

loud screech and a clang. Mi-sun cried out. My body buzzed

with adrenaline.

The man’s voice said, “
Get out of the room
.”

I tried to lift the metal doors. They were locked down.

“Could we reach that?” Mi-sun asked, looking up.

There was a hatch in the ceiling. Ruth was the tallest, so

21

Shannon Hale

Mi-sun climbed on her shoulders. Not tall enough.

“Hey, check this out!” I said. The tiles on the floor were a

little loose. I could unsnap them and pull them free.

Jacques turned a tile over in his hands. “Look at these

notches. They’re building blocks.”

The girls started pulling up tiles as fast as we could and

clicking them into boxes while Jacques figured out the best con-

figuration to stack them. The process seemed to take forever. I

kept glancing at the walls, sure they were closing in.

Finally we’d built a narrow staircase. As soon as we climbed

up through the hatch and onto a ledge above a private court-

yard, the man’s voice said, “
Find the treasure
.”

A zip line, coded map, and buried chest of chocolate coins

later, a buzzer went off.

A gate opened, and Bonnie Howell stepped in. She looked

us over. “Well, you just set an astronaut boot camp record.”

A rush of elation shot up through me, hitting my throat

and strangely making me want to cry.

Jacques and Mi-sun high-fived. Ruth was beside me—tall,

beautiful, so fearsome seeming. I held up my left hand.

“Yes, Ruth! Record time!”

“Don’t spaz. You’ll hurt yourself worse.” She looked at

where my right hand wasn’t and shuddered.

Unsure what I had next hour, I made my way toward Wild-

er’s class, noticing for the first time just how many security cam-

eras spied from the ceiling.

The zip line adventure had irritated my arm, so Ms. Pinch-

er was in my bag. A couple of boys bumped into me, and when

they noticed my arm, one jumped back.

“Gross, her meat stump touched me!” he said, wiping off

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Dangerous

the sludge of my touch.

Ruth’s reaction already had me on edge, I guess, because

instead of pretending I hadn’t heard, I waggled my bare arm

at the boys and shouted “WAAAH!” like I was some fearsome,

spell-casting hag. “Foul creatures of the night! WAAH, I SAY!”

They ran away. I kid you not—
ran
, as if I were the chain-

saw guy at the end of a haunted house.

Wilder was coming down the hall, and he smiled at me,

appreciative, as though we’d been in on the joke together. As