Free Don't Stop Now by Julie Halpern

the right of the door is a regular old hall closet (just like in outer space!), and to the left is a regular old bathroom. I walk farther in and spy the hot tub, center stage, fully tiled and surrounded by moon rock. Above it and around it stands a lunar module. Maybe it would look authentic (umm, authentic hot tub on the moon?) were it not for the twenty-inch television next to the average leather chair next to the window air conditioner. A not-at-all-spacey lamp sits on a table with a less-than-futuristic hotel telephone.
    â€œI do not feel as though I am in space,” I disappointedly tell Josh.
    â€œMaybe it’s not supposed to feel like we’re in space, just that we’re pretending like we think we’re in space? But more important, how many people do you think have done it in that whirl pool?” Josh asks, sounding both disgusted and intrigued.
    â€œI hope they have a thorough housekeeping staff. What if it’s just Mustard Man and his index finger?” I shake my head at the thought.
    We’re exploring the room, when I note, “There’s no bed.” Then Josh discovers some gloriously snot green carpeted steps hidden among the crags of the moon. “Lead the way,” I command, and I follow him up the narrow, winding stairway to the top of the lunar module that we saw from below.
    â€œThe bed is the lunar module!” Josh exclaims. “Oh, man. Too cool.” He dives onto the bed and lays on his side. “There’s a TV in the walls of the bed! And check this out.” He runs his hand along the pillows lining the inside of the module. “Vellllllvet.” He draws the word out in a velvety way. I sit down on the bed and look around at the space paintings on the walls. “Where do you think they find round sheets to fit the round bed?” Josh asks.
    â€œProbably just use regular sheets and tuck them in, I’m guessing.”
    â€œDon’t ruin the mystique.” He flips around the channels of our in-bed TV. I scooch in so I can see the small screen, and so I can be closer to him on the bed. I’m assuming we’ll sleep together tonight, since there’s only one bed. And by that I mean snooze-type sleeping together, not the other kind. Josh obviously has no interest in the other kind as he settles in with an episode of South Park and guffaws at the TV.
    â€œI’m gonna go dye my hair,” I decide. I want there to be a note of spite in my voice, like, if you ignore me maybe I will go away, but Josh doesn’t detect it.
    â€œOK. I’ll do mine when you’re done.”
    I head downstairs to the bathroom and follow the directions on the package. While I let the color sink in, I decide to run the hot tub. Just to see. Josh hears the jets and calls down, “What are you doing? I can’t hear the TV!”
    â€œI’m filling the hot tub. Might as well get our money’s worth,” I yell.
    â€œI’ll be down after this episode.”
    The glow of the digital clock, another not-exactly-spacey detail, helps me time my hair color as I slip out of my socks and shorts. I unhook my bra through the back of my T-shirt and wriggle the shoulder straps over each arm, then out the holes of the sleeves. The tub is almost full now, so I set one foot in gingerly to acclimate the rest of my body, then the other. I sit down in the hot, foamy water, experiencing the weird sensation of being in a hot tub wearing cotton underwear. The water hits only halfway up my T-shirt, weighing the rest of it down. I stretch my legs out and touch the bubbly jets with my toes. Using my big toe as a stopper, I plug the flow of bubbles, then open it. Plug. Unplug. I close my eyes for a few minutes, recalling the drama of the day.
    It all started with “ I did it .” And she did do it—I’ll give her that. But who does that? I remember being little and planning elaborate runaway scenarios when I was mad at my parents,