The final countdown begins in three hours.
…
Blimey. The last thing Kurt wants is to wear a space helmet, and, no, they didn’t plan on saving the world either—Not before their eighteenth birthday anyway. Who’d have thought friending a lonely alien would lead to the Cape Canaveral launch pad.
Best friends since they were ten years old, Kurt O’Hara and Beast Harris tackle the typical teenage challenges together: pronouns, AWOL bodies, not to mention snogging. A long-distance relationship with an alien named Iuvenis is the least of their troubles.
Kurt loves programming, people-pleasing, and yellow dresses. Most of all, Kurt loves Beast.
Beast adores elephants, protest marches, and Kurt. Rules?—Nah. Humanity’s way down on Beast’s list of to-dos.
Beast and Kurt, Kurt and Beast. The end. Exactly how their love turns into a scene from Red Dwarf is anyone’s guess. Spaceships? NASA at the doorstep? No biggie. As long as they’re together, Kurt and Beast can survive anything.
Except, apparently, lift-off. Because nobody considered sensory issues, did they? Nope. NASA never made adjustments for neurodivergent astronauts. Unbelievable.
Will science be enough to blast Kurt and Beast—unlikely superheroes—into space to save the planet? Or will it take something much more extraordinary?
Excerpt
Ten footsteps to the left, ten footsteps to the right.
I’m ten years old, pacing the corridor outside the headteacher’s office, wearing one shoe, reeking of fear. It’s my birthday. My school shirt is torn. Voices bombard my head, but they’re not new.
How dare they?
I hate them.
Unfair!
And quieter echoes:
I hate me.
Stupid Kurt.
It’s weird how I can never hear my own voice. If it’s present, I don’t recognise it. Mum calls the voices my temper as if I have any control over them. Try to calm down, Kurt. Sometimes I can, and sometimes I can’t. She doesn’t understand why I get into so much trouble, and nor do I. I’ve tried to explain the best way I can. Htyr hur eer aaaaa. Kkk. Bl. It makes sense to me, but Mum gets cross. Speak properly!
Ten footsteps left.
Ten to the right.
One wrong move will cause my gasket to blow, just like Dad’s car.
Miss Smith doesn’t believe I’m sorry, not anymore. I hadn’t meant to rip the posters off the wall or call the dinner lady a fucker. If only Michael would stop chanting my name over and over, Kurt O’Hara, Kurt O’Hara, Kurt O’Hara, until the scared thing inside me blows a gasket. Bang!
Ten footsteps left.
Ten to the right.
Hearing my name chanted doesn’t bother me; the spite lurking behind Michael’s voice does. Those mean kids probably know all the answers. Otherwise, why would they wind me up? Last year hair-pulling, and now this.
I’m sorry about the posters, the dinner lady, and most of all about the badness. Maybe I should add an apology to my name. Kurt Sorry O’Hara. It would save a lot of time and energy.
Stupid Kurt.
Mum says the others don’t hate me. She’s wrong. I’m not sure why they hate me though. Why? What have I done? Worrying about what makes me unlikeable stops me from sleeping, even at weekends. I can’t enjoy my books and numbers like I used to. Why, why until I can’t escape, and then I blow a gasket again. Worse, the mean kids know about the scared thing inside me.
Ten left.
Ten right.
Repeat.
Repeat.
Today has been the ultimate shitstorm, worse than last year when Miss Smith and Mr Rogers rugby-tackled me. I was confused then, and I still am. How could being squashed achieve anything good? It made the scared thing inside desperate because it was threatened. Ten to the left and ten to the right didn’t calm me down. Now, I can’t be inside little rooms or lifts, and stairwells aren’t so good either.
Miss Smith is mean. Last week, she made me sit facing the wall like I was nothing. She pressed her pen too hard because the sound against the paper was as scratchy and loud as Dad when he crashes the kitchen pots and pans. I almost asked Miss Smith if she’d like me to show her how to hold a pen correctly. It hurts your hand, but Mr Wilson says it’s necessary if I want to write like the other kids.
After a while, Miss Smith left me alone, facing the wall. “Think about what you’ve done!”
I tried to think but grew bored and scared, so I read through a file with my name on the front. I didn’t mean to, honest. She left it on the desk, and I couldn’t help it. Unfortunately, Kurt O’Hara displays signs of autism, with little empathy for his peers. Now, the file’s stuck inside my head. I don’t know what to do about it. What can I do?
Purchase Links
NineStar Press: https://ninestarpress.com/product/if-we-were-stars/
Books2Read: https://books2read.com/if-we-were-stars
Meet the Author
Eule Grey has settled, for now, in the north UK. She’s worked in education, justice, youth work, and even tried her hand at butter-spreading in a sandwich factory. Sadly, she wasn’t much good at any of them!
She writes novels, novellas, poetry, and a messy combination of all three. Nothing about Eule is tidy but she rocks a boogie on a Saturday night!
For now, Eule is she/her or they/them. Eule has not yet arrived at a pronoun that feels right.
Author Links
Website: https://eule-grey.square.site/
Facebook: http://facebook.com/eule.grey/
Twitter: http://twitter.com/EuleGrey
Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/208981311-if-we-were-stars
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