I wanted him to say something, to tell me the secret that would kill the doubt worming through my brain.
But he rounded a corner, still grinning and waving, and then he was gone.
That afternoon Mickey showed me his room. It was more like a boy's room than a spaceman's. In it were all the little things that kids treasure—pennants, models of Everson's two ships, a tennis trophy, books, a home-made video.
I began to realize how important a room like this could be to a boy. I could imagine, too, the happiness that parents felt as they watched their children grow to adulthood.
I'd missed something. My folks were shadow-people, my impressions of them drawn half from ancient photos, half from imagination. For me, it had been a cold, automatic kind of life, the life of dormitories and routines and rules. I'd been so blinded by the brilliancy of my dreams, I hadn't realized I was different.
My folks were killed in a rocket crash. If it weren't for rockets, I'd have lived the kind of life a kid should live.
Mickey noticed my frown.
"What's the matter, Ben? Still sore? I feel like a heel, but I'm just not like you and Charlie, I guess. I—"
"No, I understand, Mickey. I'm not sore, really."