Page 85 of Atmosphere

“Steve’s not been around as much,” Vanessa said.

“Because he’s training for his mission?”

“Yeah, but that means I can’t fly with him,” Vanessa said. “I can go up with Duke. But he doesn’t let me fly from the backseat.”

“I mean, none of them do very much,” Joan said.

“But I’m a pilot,” Vanessa said, her voice carrying an edge Joan had not heard before. “And Steve sees that. And he lets me fly the T-38 as a backseater.”

“Taking off and landing, too?”

“Yes! Of course. I know what I’m doing. It’s the only thing I’ve ever truly been great at.”

“I don’t doubt it—I’m just surprised.”

“Steve gets what I can do.”

“Good,” Joan said. “You deserve that.”

“But now…”

“But now you’re stuck with Duke.”

“Yes,” Vanessa said. “Do you know how frustrating it is? To have to get permission to do something I’ve been doing on my own my entire adult life? It’s insulting. It would be like if someone said you could only use a telescope under supervision.”

“I’m sorry,” Joan said. “It’s not right. And NASA should have accounted for the gap in military opportunities for women long before now.”

Vanessa squinted at her. “Say more things like that—I’m feeling better.”

“They’re wrong, you’re right,” Joan said.

“Oh, wow, now I’m feeling almost entirely pacified.”

“And youwillbe the first woman to pilot the shuttle,” Joan said.

“I don’t care about being the first, I just want to do it,” Vanessa said.

“Yes, I know,” Joan said, moving closer to her. “But we need someone undeniable in order for them to realize they can’t deny it.”

“And that’s me?” Vanessa said.

“That’s you.”

Vanessa tried not to smile. “Well, okay! I am here to serve.”

The two of them started laughing, then stopped when the doorbell rang.

“Maybe it’s Griff?” Joan whispered.

As Joan lifted the needle from the record, Vanessa got up and slipped into the bathroom.

“Joan, open up, it’s me.”

Joan had heard that voice so many times through her bedroom door as a child: Barbara always trying to convince her of something. To hide some gift from a boy or lend her money.

“I’m coming,” Joan said. When she opened the door, Frances was in Barbara’s arms, her legs dangling down at Barbara’s waist, her arms down Barbara’s sides, her head on Barbara’s shoulder. Sleeping. Frances was seven and a half now, so big, and so independent, but in moments like this, Joan was relieved at how young she still seemed.

“What’s going on?” Joan said.

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