There were exactly 1,842 days between graduation and the day I intended to leave Earth.
Approximately.
The actual number depended on university, postgraduate study, flight training, whether I pursued aerospace engineering or astrophysics, whether I qualified for an astronaut programme on my first attempt, and several variables I hadn’t completely solved yet.
But 1,842 sounded achievable.
I had written it in the upper-right corner of my bedroom whiteboard.
1,842 DAYS.
Beneath it was the sequence that governed my life:
GRADUATE → SCHOLARSHIP → UNIVERSITY → AEROSPACE ENGINEERING → SPACE PROGRAMME → ASTRONAUT
Six steps.
Nothing impossible.
Nothing unreasonable.
Nothing I couldn’t accomplish if I worked hard enough.
I believed that because I’d seen someone do it.
Not exactly like that.
But close enough.
Years ago, I’d sat cross-legged on our living-room floor watching television while Mummy folded laundry behind me. The news showed a woman with Bahamian roots preparing to go into space.
I remembered staring at the flag.
Our flag.
Aquamarine. Gold. Black.
It looked strange beside rockets and flight suits and all those complicated machines.
Not wrong.
Just unexpected.
Until that moment, astronauts had belonged to other places.
America.
Europe.
Russia.
Countries with launchpads and space agencies and universities with buildings bigger than my entire school.
Places that appeared on documentaries.
Not Nassau.
Not us.
But there she was.
A Caribbean woman preparing to leave Earth.
I don’t remember everything the reporter said.
I remember what I thought.
She started here.
That was enough.
I’d always loved the stars.
After that, I wanted to join them.
So I researched.
And researched.
And researched some more.
Astronaut qualifications.
Engineering programmes.
Universities.
Scholarships.
Flight experience.
Graduate degrees.
Space agencies.
By thirteen, I had a plan.
By fifteen, I had revised it seventeen times.
By seventeen, I had reduced my future to six arrows on a whiteboard.
And right now, the second arrow was threatening to destroy everything.
I stared at the email on my laptop.
Dear Miss Rolle,
I stopped.
Closed my eyes.
Opened them.
Still there.
Maybe I’d misread it.
I started again.
Dear Miss Rolle,
Thank you for your application to the Caribbean Future Scholars Programme. After careful consideration—
I closed the laptop.
“No.”
Opened it again.
The words had not changed.
That was inconsiderate.
I continued.
While the selection committee was impressed by your academic achievements, we regret to inform you—
I slammed the laptop shut.
“Nope.”
I fell backward onto my bed.
The ceiling fan rotated above me.
One.
Two.
Three.
Four.
I counted.
Astronauts remained calm under pressure.
I’d read about that.
They trained for emergencies. Equipment failures. Communications problems. Unexpected situations.
This qualified as an unexpected situation.
Therefore—
training.
Five.
Six.
Seven.
Eight.
My heartbeat slowed.
I sat up.
“Okay.”
One rejection.
That was all.
One scholarship.
I had eleven other applications pending.
Eleven.
My grades were excellent.
My attendance was excellent.
My extracurricular activities were excellent.
My recommendations were excellent.
I had followed every instruction.
Every deadline.
Every requirement.
There was no reason to panic.
I looked around my bedroom.
Seventeen years of evidence surrounded me.
Physics textbooks.
Astronomy books.
Mathematics workbooks.
University brochures.
A world map above my desk with tiny circles marking schools in Canada, the United States and Europe.
And beside my window stood my favourite possession.
A telescope.
Second-hand.
Scratched.
One leg slightly shorter than the others.
Perfect.
I’d spent an entire summer tutoring two primary-school children to afford it.
Above the telescope was a small photograph I’d printed years ago.
Earth.
Blue and impossibly bright against black space.
Beside it, I’d pinned a tiny Bahamian flag.
A reminder.
An island could be a starting point.
I looked at the whiteboard.
GRADUATE → SCHOLARSHIP → UNIVERSITY—
The second arrow suddenly looked much larger than it had yesterday.
“Amara!”
Mummy.
I didn’t answer.
“Amara!”
“What?”
A pause.
Wrong response.
“Don’t ‘what’ me. Come downstairs.”
I closed the laptop.
“Coming.”
Before leaving, I looked at the whiteboard again.
Six steps.
One rejection didn’t change the equation.
It couldn’t.
END OF PART 1
The story continues in Part 2.