Text Wars - Whitney Dineen Page 0,2

I’m about to eat my first hot fudge sundae after successfully losing twenty pounds. Well done, me.

“Great. And FYI, we have someone coming from NASA the same day. We thought it might be fun if you gave him some fashion tips, as well.”

“Absolutely! If you ask me, those scientist types could use a little input on the more sensory applications of life.”

Waltraut says, “We really want to play up the juxtaposition between the scientific and the popular culture views of space.”

“The two aren’t mutually exclusive,” I tell her. “Just because science doesn’t give credence to astrology doesn’t mean astrology isn’t a relevant science of its own.”

“That’s exactly the kind of thing we want you to say on air,” the producer tells me.

Buoyed by her enthusiasm, I add, “Astrology has been practiced for over two thousand years, far longer than most scientific fields. If you think about it, two hundred years ago, people didn’t even know enough about germs and viruses to realize that washing their hands was a fundamental deterrent to illness.”

“I’m so glad I called you. I think this is going to be a real winner of a segment.”

“I’m sure it will.” After I hang up, Charley and I stare at each other for a full second before we both dance around the living room, screaming like fools. Once our initial burst of enthusiasm is over (there will be more), I suggest, “Celebratory donut?”

“This calls for two,” she says.

Oh, to have a fifteen-year-old’s metabolism. But you know what? Who cares about calories because I just got the best news in the two years since I launched my app. We hurry out of my apartment and take the elevator down to the main floor. Charley chats away about how sick this is going to be. (Apparently, sick is the new cool.)

As I listen to her, a tiny seed of worry starts to grow in my belly. Diehard astronomers don’t generally mix well with people from my world. In fact, scientists usually disregard astrology as a parlor game. As such, there’s a very good chance that if I don’t get the upper hand with this astronomer right out of the gate, he may very well try to make me look like a moron on national television.

Which is pretty much my worst nightmare.

Two

Ben

“…And then Chewy scooted his butt across the living room rug for ten minutes straight while Don complained about how my dog was ruining his nineteenth century Aubusson carpet. As if it’s my fault the little guy’s anal glands keep getting impacted. What do you think, Ben?”

I think I wish you would stop talking.

Carla Jameson, our senior data analyst — and, according to the mug she carries everywhere, “World’s Best Dog Mom”— has not stopped talking since she walked into my office twelve minutes and thirty-six seconds ago. I swear the woman has mastered the art of keeping up both ends of a conversation even while doing the kinds of calculations that would cause the average physics student’s head to explode. If you don’t answer her in a speedy fashion, she’ll answer for you. Her mouth moves non-stop, all day long.

There are six of us in total on NASA’s Earth II TRAPPIST-1 Exoplanet Research Team. I was tapped to lead our little group of geeks as we analyze the habitability of the seven rocky planets in the TRAPPIST-1 solar system. Five of our team are introverts (including me) and the sixth is currently nattering on about her Labradoodle’s hind quarters like I’m thoroughly invested in the topic. Which I am not.

While some of us occasionally lack social awareness — ahem, Carla — we are all exceptionally bright, and get along well considering most of us would rather be crunching numbers and hypothesizing about growing food on another planet than actually conversing with other humans.

As the team leader, I’m lucky enough to have walls and a door to my office that I can shut when I need silence, like I do right now. I’ve had enough of Chewy’s bodily functions and fluctuations to last a lifetime.

Picking up my phone, I tell the imaginary person who hasn’t called to, “Hold on a sec.” Then I shoo Carla toward the door with an apologetic look. “I’ve got to take this. Could you please shut my door?”

As she turns to walk off, she’s still talking about her dog, but now the unlucky victim is Alec Maestas, one of our junior analysts, who is about to get his daily Chewy update. I sit back in