by Kyla Stone
“Go away.”
“I’m gonna bring Felix over here.”
“Uh huh.”
I feel her reach down and swipe my phone.
My eyes snap open. “Don’t you dare.”
Simone smirks and slides her black square-framed glasses up the bridge of her nose. They don’t have prescription lenses. She just wears them for the heck of it. “Oh, Felix . . .” she mock-moans, pretending to text.
Felix Avery is my boyfriend of six months. I don’t normally go for the smart, quiet, good-boy type. Usually after a few weeks or a month, I’m ready to move on. Lots of pearls in the ocean and all that. But Felix is different. He’s got this sexy-nerd vibe going on, and coupled with his earnest sweetness, his puppy-dog desire to please—Felix Avery does me in.
Simone waggles my phone at me. “Smile for the camera!”
I’m a wreck. I can’t let him see me like this. My makeup is a smeared mess. And I smell like a garbage can. “You wouldn’t.”
“Do you know me at all? I most certainly would.”
She would.
“Taking an epic photo in three, two, one . . .”
“I’m up!” I drag myself to a sitting position and groan. Everything aches. Memories batter at my skull. I shove them away. Dad’s fine. He’s stable. Lena’s there, saving the day as always. Everything’s fine. It’s fine. Fine. Fine. I repeat the word in my head until it loses all meaning.
“Everybody at school is worried about you.” Eden sits down on her bed and pops a Tic Tac in her mouth. “Jayda says if you miss any more days, they’ll have to kick you out.”
“Jayda’s an idiot.”
“You need some sustenance,” Eden says. “When’s the last time you ate?”
I gesture at my messenger bag leaning against her dresser. “There’re some Twix bars in there.”
Simone raises one thick, black eyebrow. “Is that how you’ve been surviving in here all week?”
“Nah, my mom’s been bringing her egg rolls and chap chae. She doesn’t even cook for me like that.” As if on cue, Eden’s stomach growls loudly. She rattles her nearly empty Tic Tac container.
“Take some. I have five bars left.” Lugging around a giant messenger bag isn’t always convenient, I can keep a crapload of junk food in there: mini-boxes of Nerds, bags of Sour Patch Kids, Airheads, Jawbreakers, and handfuls of Starbursts, plus the occasional textbook and my folder of specialty paper.
“I can’t.” Eden’s shoulders slump. “I only have, like, four hundred calories left for today.”
I shove my bangs out of my eyes and glare at her. “I did not just hear you say that. Simone?”
“I’m on it.” Simone grabs my messenger bag, digs through it, and pulls out two king-sized Twix packages. She rips them open and doles them out. We’ve been doing this since seventh grade when Eden’s dad used to take us to the corner gas station on sleepover nights.
We always get a bucket load of candy—lemon drops, Skittles, peanut butter cups, jelly beans. And we each get a single Twix. The last one we always, always share, snapping it into thirds and splitting it between the three of us.
Eden holds hers like it’s something precious. And poisonous. She loves candy as much as we do, but she’s been trying to lose the same twenty pounds for forever. Even though she doesn’t need to. The zombie idiots at school make moronic comments about how Asian girls are supposed to be skinny, blah blah blah.
“Don’t make me come over there and shove that thing in your mouth, Skittles,” I say, using my favorite nickname for her.
She knows we will, too. “If you’re forcing me, then I guess . . .”
“We’re forcing you. You’re beautiful, Eden. Enough with the tasteless Tic Tacs already.”
She takes a bite, closing her eyes in pleasure. “Mmm. This is so good.”
I shove the whole Twix in my mouth, enjoying the crunchy butter cookie, gooey caramel, and creamy milk chocolate. The sugar injects itself directly into my veins. Almost instantly, I start to feel better.
“I’m seriously gonna call Felix.” Simone shakes her phone at me. “You. Shower. Now. And for the love of all that’s holy, please shave yourself.”
“I’m going au natural. Armpit hair and all.”
“Well, if you want friends, I advise you to rectify the situation. Pronto.”
“That’s how I roll. You don’t like it, Jellybean, you can kiss my sweet ass.”
“And . . . she’s back!” Simone rubs chocolate off her upper lip and licks her fingers. “I’m still starving.”
“Male penguins go without eating for up to two months.” Eden tosses the Tic Tac container into the trashcan next to her bed. “While they stand guard over their eggs, the females travel up to fifty miles one way to get fish.”
Eden does this all the time. It’s not even weird anymore. Her mom is a veterinarian at Paws Plus in Dowagiac. Eden wants to be a vet, too. She’s crazy about animals, the weirder, the better. She’s got posters of baby tigers and giraffes and fluffy sloths tacked all over her walls.
She’s always spouting horrible facts you wish you’d never heard, like the fact that a blue whale’s testicle weighs up to 150 pounds, or that female kangaroos have three vaginas. Three. I’m fairly sure I could’ve lived a happy, satisfied life without knowing that particular fact.
“I’m not a penguin,” Simone snaps. “And neither are you. Lux, if you don’t shower, I’m dragging you out as-is. Trust me, you do not want that. We’re going to Chili’s for chicken fingers and fries, so get your ass in gear.”
I take a shower, comb the tangles out of my long, almost waist-length hair, and put on my makeup. Eden turns up the latest Beyoncé hit, and we dance to the beat. The music pulses through me, pounding away the bad thoughts, blasting them to dust.
I grab my phone off Eden’s dresser and scroll through the messages. A couple from Felix. I tell him I’ll see him tonight, same time, same place. I’ve got a ton from Lena, the perfect sister I haven’t seen in over two years. Who’s so perfect, she hasn’t even bothered to come home for two years.
Until now.
Ignore. Ignore. Ignore. I don’t even read them. Who cares? Not me. Not one little bit.
We dig through Eden’s closet, pulling on thick knitted socks and draping ourselves in sparkly scarves. I fishtail-braid Eden’s hair and Simone swipes on her trademark crimson lipstick. I dot concealer over the pimples on my chin, adjust my nose ring, and circle my eyes with thick black liner.
I grin at Eden in the mirror.
Now I’m ready.
I’m back.
4
Lena
In my dream, everything is dark and shifting. My mother shimmers ahead of me, a barely discernible form in the shadows. I run toward her, tripping, scrambling, calling out for her. I can’t see anything but my two pale arms stretched out in front of me.
My wrists are crisscrossed with red, pulsing wounds. Blood bubbles out of the cuts and spills down my arms, spreading across my nightgown. The blood is on my hands, my forehead, my cheeks, seeping between my lips into my mouth.
I’m choking on blood, my mother’s blood as it fills my mouth and throat, great globs and clots of blood drowning my lungs and I can’t breathe, can’t breathe—
I wake up slick with sweat, thrashing at my blankets and gasping for air. I suck in huge breaths, my heart thudding wildly against my ribcage. My fingers clutch at my sheets.
I’m not dying. I can breathe. There’s no blood anywhere—not on my face, my arms, or the oversized Ansel Adams landscape print T-shirt that serves as my nightgown.
A sudden pain grips me, my gut clenching against the grief striking me fresh and undiluted. I lay unmoving for several minutes, curled like a comma, eyes closed, willing the pain to drain away, willing the memories, jagged as glass, to fade and lose their sharpness.
They do, but slowly, gradually replaced by a jarring emptiness nearly as painful, like there’s a hole in my chest where my heart should be. It was
taken, stolen away that day eight years ago, just like everything else.
You get used to it, even learn to forget it for long moments, hours, even days. But it’s devastating every time the knowledge comes crashing down again, when for just a moment, for just a dream, it wasn’t there at all.
My eyes burn. I rub my face with the back of my arm and grab my phone off the nightstand. 8:33 a.m. Dad comes home today. He’s coming home to die. How am I going to do this? How can I keep things together, take care of everything?
At school, it’s simple. Everything is easier. The scholarships, the grades, the friends. I imagine all the things I’d normally be doing now, either breakfast in the cafeteria with my roommate Sarah or a meeting with the photo editor of the university newspaper. Then classes and more studio time in the darkroom unless Sarah dragged me out with her theater friends.
I sit up in bed. This is the new reality of my life. I’m not at school but home after a long absence, sleeping in my old bed that still smells faintly of the lilac shampoo and conditioner I used for years.
My room is the same as I left it: scarred wood floor, bare dresser, a bed heaped with blankets. Famous prints and posters are taped to every square inch of available wall space, from Lee Jeffries’ blistering portraits of the homeless and Steve McCurry’s work for National Geographic to the vintage celebrity photographs by Philippe Halsman and Angus McBean.
A minimalist, Dad always called me. A prison, is how my room seems now, like the entire house. A place you escape from and never come back to.
And yet, here I am.
A photo above my dresser snags my gaze. It’s a close-up of me and Lux from three or four years ago. My forehead is too long, my nose too big, my skin veiled with freckles. My eyes are gazing off at some point in the distance, cerulean blue against the ginger of my hair. I look miserable.
Lux, on the other hand, hams at the camera, her grin lighting up her whole face. It’s Lux who inherited the porcelain skin, lustrous ruby-red hair, and devastating beauty of our mother.
The only sound in the house is the dull thud of my heartbeat. The thought of Lux brings a sharp pain behind my eyes. Is she okay? Is she safe? Where is she? And how am I going to bring her back?
She’s fine, I tell myself. She’s fine. But fear still snakes around my heart.
“Where are you, Lux?” I say into the silence. “Where are you?”
But there’s no answer. There’s never any answer when it comes to Lux.
The last time I saw my little sister was Christmas of my freshman year. Lux broke two of Mom’s china plates, hurling them against the wall. I don’t even remember what the fight was about. It didn’t even matter. We fought about everything.
Dad begged me to come home every break, but I couldn’t. I couldn’t bear it. Since then, I’ve spent Christmas in the dorm and filled up my summers working as an aide for my advisor, Dr. Wells.
My advisor. I need to tell him. I check my phone again for a message from Lux—still nothing—and call him.
“Dr. Wells,” he answers gruffly. I imagine him sitting ram-rod straight in his office chair, his skin the color of walnuts, his lean, brooding face as he squints behind the sheen of his glasses.
I explain what happened, why I’m here and not there. The words sound alien, like they’re coming from someone else.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” Dr. Wells says with uncharacteristic kindness. He’s not one for social niceties. But over the last few years, we’ve become something like friends.
“I’ll be back soon,” I force out, like saying it aloud will make it true. “I’ll do whatever I have to in order to make up the work. I’ll—”
“You need to focus on your family, now.”
My throat tightens. “I know, but—the competition.” The photography competition for the Central Florida Metropolitan Museum of Art is huge. The finalists’ prints will be displayed next to the likes of Annie Liebowitz and Steve McCurry. The winner receives a $10,000 grant and an internship and stipend with Photography magazine. With Dr. Wells’ guidance, I’ve made it to the semi-finalist round.
This is my big chance, my dream. Until yesterday, it meant everything.
“The committee needs to see your submission by March twenty-eighth,” Dr. Wells says. “That’s two and a half months away. If you make it to the finalist round, the gallery is . . . April eighth. The rules state you must be present to win. Lena—”
Surely, I’ll be back long before then. “I’ll be there.”
“Do you have prints ready?”
My gut clenches. I’ve been working on this project for months, but nothing is good enough. “I will.”
“I’m truly sorry about your father,” he says roughly. “Keep in touch.”
His kindness is going to undo me. I grit my teeth, shoving back the emotions hovering at the edges of everything, the grief creeping up my throat. “Thank you.”
I end the call and stand up, the shock of the cold floor knifing my bare feet. I stumble from my room to the downstairs bathroom, turn on the tap, and splash water on my face.
The bathroom is a makeshift darkroom. A sheet of black felt covers the window over the bathtub. The table Dad built out of two-by-fours stands across from the toilet. The solutions, the timer, and trays are placed neatly on one side of the table with the enlarger on the other.
I spent much of my childhood down here. I pick up a pair of tongs. Maybe I could set everything up again. Maybe I could still find time to prepare for the competition, even while I care for Dad. I place the tongs gently on the counter and head up the basement stairs.
On the main level, the morning light oozes between the curtains. In the cramped kitchen, dishes pile in the sink and overflow onto counters tattooed with juice stains.
The living room is heavy with shadows. Books and papers are strewn across the floor, crumpled pop cans and a crusting cereal bowl left on the glass-topped coffee table. My stomach clenches in dread. What happened here?
The lamp next to the couch is on the floor, the shade bent, the glass bulb shattered. Is this where Dad had his heart attack? Where he fell, hurting and terrified? What happened? And where was Lux?
Where is she now? Why isn’t she here? What did she do?
Tears sting my eyes. I fight them back, swallowing my grief. If I start to cry, I won’t know how to stop.
5
Lux
Thirty minutes after Eden goes to bed, I push the covers off and climb carefully to my feet. I’m dressed and ready to go. I grab my purse and Eden’s house key from her dresser.
“Where are you going?” Eden asks groggily.
“Shhh,” I whisper. “I’ll be back soon.”
“But it’s a school night.” Eden’s great at English and writing and
history. And science, pretty much everything but math. I used to love science, but school sucked all the joy out of it.
“So?” I hate school so much. I’ve had senioritis since freshman year, but now as an actual senior, it’s for real. I haven’t been to classes in four days. The thought of all the work I’ve missed is overwhelming, so I push it right out of my head. “I’m not going tomorrow. Sweet dreams.”
She groans and rolls over. Tomorrow she’ll give me a big fat lecture, but it’s not tomorrow yet. I blow her a kiss and slip quietly out of the house.
Twenty minutes later, I’m at the park, driving the old single-lane gravel road to the massive clearing Mom always took us to on her midnight picnics. It’s the best stargazing spot for miles, far enough from the small towns to keep the light pollution minimal.
Stark, leafless trees hunch like black shadows around the perimeter of the clearing. It’s so quiet out here. There’s the occasional rustle of tiny feet in the snow, the crack of something breaking and falling, a twig, a frozen acorn.
I’m grabbing my stash of blankets from the backseat when Felix Avery pulls up in his battered Ford F-150. We pile our blankets and pillows in the bed of the truck and climb in.
/> “Hey, hot stuff.” I pat the space beside me.
Felix grins, his large hazel eyes bright in the moonlight. “I can’t stay too long. I’ve gotta study for that Physics exam.” He hands me one of the cappuccinos he picked up at the gas station and runs his fingers through his mop of muddy brown curls. I’d rather have some peach schnapps, but really, it’s too cold for that and Felix doesn’t drink.
He’s a nerd through and through. His current life goal is to be valedictorian. But it’s like he thinks he’s going to earn it by sheer will and sweat alone. And unicorn tears, because that honor is going straight to Jayda Washington-Clark, who can recite the periodic table in her sleep.
He’s always worried about tests and essay deadlines, even though he already got into Notre Dame on early admission. Felix never drinks, and he always leaves parties by eleven to get his beauty sleep. Until me, that is.
Since we first got together six months ago, we’ve explored a dizzying array of make-out session locations: on his bed, on my floor, in the front seat of my car, on the bean bag in his friend Raj’s basement, and here, out in the big wide open beneath a sky full of stars. I’ve kept him up way, way past his bedtime.
“You okay?” he asks me, concern lining his voice. “You haven’t been at school. I’ve been texting and calling all week.”
I lean in and kiss him. I don’t want to talk about that anymore. It’s over and done. There’s only now, only the sharp air and the brilliant blue-black sky sprinkled with stars like crushed ice.
I sink down, and he hovers over me, kissing me harder, deeper. Stars and planets and whole galaxies explode in my stomach. Even after all this time together, it feels amazing. Like swallowing lightning.
After several long, spectacular minutes, we break apart. We lay back, and I snuggle into his chest for warmth. I listen to the steady beat of his heart. The thing about Felix is, we do way more than just make out.
The other guys—they always pushed for more. I like a hot make-out session as much as any girl, but I’m not ready. Not yet. Felix gets that. He never pressures me. We’re so much more, go so much deeper. We cuddle. And laugh. And talk about everything, anything.
