Page 8 of Bound By Stars
“With a lighter sketchbook.”
“Something tells me they would have held the transport for you.”
She isn’t wrong.
“Weslie, I detect a minor contusion on the frontal region of your skull.” Hovering a foot away, ILSA, a vaguely humanoid bot, smooth and rounded enough not to look threatening, bows over her. “Expect minor swelling, discoloration, and mild pain. Healing time estimate: three to five days.”
“Got it, ILSA.”
I reach for the last pencil between us the same time she does. Our hands recoil. I lift my gaze to apologize for almost touching her or taking my anger out on her. Or maybe just for who I am.
There’s something familiar about her eyes. Hazel. More green than brown. Beautiful and full of disdain. Long, dark curls fall over her shoulder. She smells like fresh air. It transports me back to my unsanctioned walks on Earth when I’d make it to the trees before Gianna caught up with me. Earthy and musky-sweet, like leaves and grass baking in sunlight.
Drawing back, she pops up on her feet. “All good here, or should I find your butler or nanny or whoever to pick up after you?”
I can’t help but smirk. It’s fascinating. Refreshing even. Everyone I meet seems to know who I am, who my mom is, my family name, and I’d never know if they hated me or loved me. It’s always the same. Fake smiles. Undeserved compliments. Pretending. But this girl doesn’t even try to mask her annoyance.
I nod, but she’s rushing past with her bot on her heels without waiting for an answer. Something in me wants to follow.
Chapter Four
Jupiter
Thirty-five days to Mars
Next to one of the large round windows in the empty classroom, I take a seat. No points for being early, but the room is nearly silent aside from the constant, gentle hum of the ship. I sip the coffee I snuck out of the busy dining room alongside my cinnamon bun. Opening my sketchbook from a random point in the middle, I flip past the portrait staring back at me as fast as I can and find a blank page.
I tear a bite out of my pastry and etch short, flowing lines on the paper until they begin to resemble wild hair around hooded, hazel eyes.
No. Nope. Not that. I can’t start sketching the Earther girl. I won’t get it right the first time, which will lead to lots of staring and wasted pages and probably her pummeling me on purpose next time. I imagine her tackling me, that fire still burning behind her soft eyes like she could explode at any second. That wouldn’t be so bad…
No. Stop.
That cannot happen for so many reasons. For starters, she doesn’t seem to like me at all. And even if she did—I’m an heir now. I no longer have the luxury of making choices like that for myself.
I flip to another page and stare out the nearest oval window, Earth visible along the bottom edge, and sketch swirls of clouds and curves where land meets water.
A slurping sound breaks my concentration.
Curran pauses right inside the classroom door, focused on the tablet cradled in his palm. His short, dark curls are matted from sleep, but his brown eyes are puffy like he didn’t sleep at all. Steam rises out of the mug at his lips.
“Still working on that family history project?”
He lowers the cup. “Still avoiding your mom?”
I raise my eyebrows. “Always.”
An heir to the oldest family company on Mars, he was practically born ready for the responsibility. Unlike me.
You learn early when you’re a second-born that your job is to listen, observe, be invisible. You’re backup, a spare, expected to aid the family heir who managed to be born before you. That was my purpose when my sister was alive, and I was perfectly happy to do it.
Curran doesn’t understand my aversion to being my mother’s heir. But we’ve been best friends for as long as I can remember, so he’s spent enough time around her to understand the scope of my mom’s unrelenting intensity.
He slides into the seat on the opposite side of the table. Up close, the faint shadows under his eyes stand out against his pasty skin. Paler than I would be if my parents hadn’t been dictating my every move on Earth, but I didn’t befriend him for his sense of adventure. He snags my cinnamon bun, ripping off a bite without asking. The silver medallion that always hangs from a chain around his neck clinks against the table. He grips it like he’s trying to imprint his family crest into his thumb. “Heard there’s a new girl in first class. Met her yet?”
We didn’t exactly exchange names. “Not really.”
“Good morning, dedicated pupils.” Calypso, our instructor, sweeps through the room, tossing their bag on the desk. They get to work, throwing documents from their tablet that shrink and line up in a row of icons across the long wall screen.
