Buried in the Stars

by Gretchen Tubbs

  “School starts in a week. Are we all excited?”

  Clearly, Mrs. Winters is.

  “Ugh, Mom, why’d you have to ruin dinner?” Easton grumbles.

  “Oh, hush,” she tells Easton. “You’ve had all summer to be lazy. It’s time we all get back into our normal routines.” She looks at me and smiles. “Scarlett, honey, are you all set for school?”

  “Oh, um, I don’t think, um,” I stutter. I had no idea that school starts next week, so I feel sure that my mother is just as clueless as I am. If I had to guess, she hasn’t even thought about enrolling me.

  “Your poor mom’s probably been so busy getting you settled into your new home that it slipped her mind.”

  “She works a lot,” I blurt out. It’s the only response that comes to my mind.

  “Well, I still have to take the boys shopping for their supplies. You are more than welcome to come with us.”

  “I’ll talk to her tomorrow,” I croak.

  “What grade are you starting?”

  “Seventh.”

  “Perfect. You’ll be with Easton. Oak Hills Middle is a great school.”

  I look across the table at Easton and smile, and he returns it immediately. He’s always with Sutton when we are in the woods. He’s nice, but much quieter than his older brother. Sutton and I hang out more than me and Easton. Maybe it’s because I met Sutton first. I wish Sutton was my age instead of fourteen. School would be easier if he was there with me, but he’s starting high school.

  “I wish you were coming to Immaculate Conception with me,” Emily says between bites. “Oh, unless you are and just didn’t mention it.”

  “No,” I practically snort. “I’m not.” We can barely buy food, much less pay the tuition for a private school.

  “Bummer.”

  “Where did you and your mom move here from, Scarlett?” Dr. Winters asks.

  My fork falls and clanks against my plate, causing Mrs. Winters to jump in her seat.

  “Sorry,” I murmur. “New Orleans.”

  “Is that where you’re from?”

  This is why I haven’t been over here. This is what I was trying to avoid. “No.”

  “I pegged you for a California native,” Sutton says beside me.

  “Really?”

  “Yeah. The freckles, the tan, the blonde hair. You look just like the girls from back home.”

  “I didn’t know that’s where you were from.”

  “Yep. We moved here about three years ago when Dad decided to open his own practice with an old friend from school. So, not California?” he asks, turning the conversation back to me.

  I shake my head. “Not California.”

  “Florida then?”

  “Quit grilling the poor girl,” his mom chimes in.

  “I will as soon as she tells me where she’s from. I’m intrigued now,” Sutton tells her, even though his eyes stay on me.

  “New York.”

  “No way. I never would have guessed. You don’t even have an accent.”

  “We move around a lot.”

  “Is your dad still there?” Emily asks.

  Heat creeps up my neck and cheeks. I guess they assume my parents are divorced since I never mention him. “No, my dad is,” I clear my throat and try again. “My dad passed away.”

  Sutton’s hand drops to my knee and gives it a gentle squeeze. I expect him to move it away, but he keeps it there.

  “I’m so sorry, honey,” Mrs. Winters tells me, her eyes wet with unshed tears. She clears her throat and waits a few beats. “I was thinking if you’re free Saturday, we could all go shopping then. Emily, ask your mom if you can come, too.”

  “I’ve got all my stuff, but I still want to come. I’ll never pass up a chance to shop.”

  Dinner conversation steers clear of my family, and I force myself to eat the food Mrs. Winters has prepared. I have a lead weight in my stomach, but I don’t want to appear rude. Between talk of my dad and having to ask my mom to register me for school and to give me money for supplies, I’m done for the night. I give it a few more minutes before I can excuse myself without appearing rude.

  “Thank you for dinner. It was great, but I really need to get back home.”

  “Anytime, honey. I mean it.”

  Sutton stands with me. “I’m gonna walk Scarlett home.”

  “You don’t have to,” I tell him. If that car is still in the driveway, I have no intentions of going back home. I’ll walk the neighborhood all night if I have to.

  “He does,” Dr. Winters says. “My boys know better than to let a young lady walk home alone in the dark.” His warm smile matches the one that his son always wears. “Thank you for having dinner with us. I hope to see you around here more often.”

  I return his smile, tell Easton and Emily bye, and walk to the door, Sutton on my heels.

  There’s really no need for him to walk me home when I can see my house from his driveway, but I’m too tired and emotionally drained to argue with him. It’s a relief to see the car gone, so at least I can crawl into bed and get some sleep. It will come easy tonight; my belly hasn’t been this full in ages.

  “Thanks for coming over.” Sutton’s steps are unhurried.

  “Thanks for asking.”

  He stops at the curb and waits for me to look at him before speaking again. “I don’t like you hanging out in the woods alone. Please, believe me when I say that my parents would be thrilled if you ate dinner with us every night. I would be thrilled if you ate dinner with us every night.” I open my mouth to protest, but he keeps talking so I don’t have the chance. “It’s not a big deal. My mom thrives on having a full house. Plus, I enjoyed it,” he adds on a whisper.

  “We’ll see,” I whisper back.

  “Don’t forget to ask your mom about coming shopping with us.”

  “Okay.”

  We start walking again, but we stay silent for the rest of the short distance to my house. He starts to follow me up the walkway, which I can’t let happen. I don’t know what is going to happen when I open the door, and I don’t need him seeing or hearing anything.

  “Goodnight, Sutton. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “Goodnight, Squirt,” he says with a wink. “See you later.”

  When I get to the door, I turn back, knowing he’ll still be there, watching. He is. I wave goodbye, take in a huge breath, and push the door open. It’s dark and quiet; I want to cry with relief. I close the door as gently as possible and sag against the wood, listening for a few more minutes for sounds coming from the back of the house before I start walking.

  My mother’s muffled sobs can be heard in the darkness.

  This is why I can’t hate her completely. Somewhere, deep down inside, she still feels something. Almost every night when she’s done with her liquor and her random men, I hear her crying. Sometimes I can hear her calling out my father’s name.

  Tip-toeing, I make my way to my new room, strip out of my clothes, and change into one of my father’s old t-shirts. I’m too scared to take a shower. She’s still awake, and I don’t want to draw attention to the fact that I’m home. I slip into my bed, wrap the thread-bare sheets around myself, and replay the night’s events in my head.

  I know it’s not a good idea to get involved with this family, but, for once, I pray that we stay here. I want to be a part of something. I want to have friends. I want to belong.

  Chapter Two

  Right after he died, the memories of my father would ignite in my mind faster than I could prevent them. I was helpless against the blazing inferno so I learned not to fight it. Instead, I would let the memories flash through me until there was nothing left but a scorching pile of embers. I’d stay locked in my room for hours, sometimes days, unable to rise from the ashes. Now, the memories aren’t as strong or as frequent. It usually takes a song, a movie, or a phrase I hear during a conversation to spark a memory about my time with my father.

  Those memories of him don’t come without my mother.
The two of them were young, they were happy, and they were in love. If my parents were in the same room together, they were touching, even if it was in the smallest of ways. He always wanted to be close to her. If music was playing he would sweep her up in his arms, and they would laugh and dance and spin around the room.

  The woman I’m currently standing over is nothing like the woman who was married to my father. She looks like she’s aged twenty years since his funeral. I’ve heard drinking and smoking will do that to a person, but I thought it was an exaggeration. It’s not. Her hair is matted around her face, which still shows evidence of yesterday’s heavy makeup. I can smell booze seeping through her pores. The last thing I want to do is wake the sleeping dragon, but we have to go to school and get registered.

  “Mom,” I call, my voice low. I place some toast and glass of water on the stacked milk crates next to her bed. An ash tray is overflowing next to the plate, and I make a mental note to get in here and clean when she goes to work. “Mom,” I repeat. “I need you to wake up.”

  She grunts and rubs at her face, but makes no attempt to open her eyes.

  “Momma, we have to go to school today. I need to register.”

  She rolls over and pulls her pillow over her face. “Go away, Scar.”

  The fact that she used my name is a good sign. She usually calls me much worse. I kneel next to the mattress and try again. “Momma, I made you some toast. Do you want me to start the shower?” I do a mental scan of the kitchen cabinets before I continue. “I can make you a cup of coffee while you freshen up.”

  At the sound of the word coffee, she moves the pillow and cracks one eye open. One watery, blood shot eye. The woman loves coffee as much as she loves alcohol. “Yeah. Make me a cup. Better make it strong.”

  I move from the bed but linger in the doorway to make sure she doesn’t roll back over and fall asleep again. When I’m satisfied that she’s awake and semi-alert, I decide it’s safe to start her shower and coffee. I would imagine most parents have to do this for their children, but that’s not the case in this house.

  Nothing about this household or our relationship is typical.

  Over the years, I’ve had to gather paperwork for enrolling at school more times than I can count. After a while, I learned to keep it in my room to make it easier on myself. My birth certificate, social security card, immunization records, and proofs of residency all stay in a file folder in my dresser. I update the proofs of residency with every move. As I’m gathering my file and changing from my sleep shirt to my clothes for the day, I try to remember if I’ve seen the school around here. Mrs. Winters mentioned the name of it last night at dinner, but I didn’t think to ask her where to find it.

  Mom’s moving around the kitchen, so I go back to the front of our tiny house to gage the mood for the day. After we get over this hurdle, I need to get money from her for supplies. We also need food.

  “Where are we going?” she asks, cradling her coffee cup against her chest.

  “To school to register. It starts next week.”

  “I know that,” she snaps. “What’s the name of the damn school?”

  “Oak Hills Middle.”

  “Go get your stuff.”

  I know better than to stay, so I go back to my room and slip my feet into a pair of flip flops that are too small for me. In fact, most of my clothes and shoes are too small for me. I’m not sure how I’m going to manage to get money for supplies, food for the house, and clothes. I can feel myself starting to panic, so I quickly shut my thoughts off. I can’t do this right now.

  One thing at a time.

  Mom’s car rumbles to life in the driveway, so I dash out of my room and out the door. I don’t bother locking it… we don’t have anything worth stealing.

  “Where the hell are my sunglasses?” she asks as soon as I sit in the passenger seat and reach for my seatbelt. I open the middle console and sift through empty cigarette packs, receipts, and a few condoms before I pull them out. She doesn’t thank me when I hand them to her.

  “I’m not sure where the school is,” I tell her.

  “It’s a few miles up the road.”

  We ride in silence. I don’t dare turn on the radio. Putting music on when mom’s hungover will earn a backhand to the cheek. I learned that lesson the hard way.

  Surprisingly enough, a few miles outside the neighborhood is the school. I’m impressed that she’s aware enough of our surroundings to make note of it. She probably works close to here and passes it every day on the way.

  “I guess you need me to come in,” she mutters behind her shades. I refrain from rolling my eyes and simply nod. “Well, let’s go,” she continues. “I can’t believe you woke me up this fucking early.”

  It’s 10:30, but when you’re a lush, that’s early. Her steps are slow as we walk up to the main entrance of the school. It looks like it’s fairly new, not anything like the last school I left. That’s not exactly a good thing, though. At my old school, with its crumbling walls and teachers that didn’t really care what went on, I could blend into the background, and it took a lot longer before things about my life started to be questioned. Here, I’m not so sure how long I’ll last.

  I’m slightly comforted by the fact that Easton Winters will be here with me. I’ve only known him for a few weeks, but the kindness and friendship he and his family has shown me in that time is not something I’m used to.

  “Can I help you?” an older lady asks from behind a long desk, pulling me from my thoughts about the Winters Family.

  “Yes. I need to register for school.” Before she can even ask, I hand over the manila folder with every piece of information she’ll need about my life.

  She flips through the folder and rewards me with a gentle smile for my efforts. “Perfect. I’ll just need your mother to fill out these forms and we’ll be all set.” I follow her gaze to my mother, who is sprawled in a chair on the opposite side of the office, sunglasses still covering her blood shot eyes.

  “Okay.” I grab the clipboard and pen from her and walk to my mother, who appears to be sleeping. “Momma,” I whisper, nudging her on the shoulder. “I need you to fill this out.”

  “You do it.” Her hand falls off the armrest, like holding it there takes too much effort. “Show me where to sign when you’re done.”

  I sneak a peek at the secretary, but she’s turned her back to us and is busy at her computer. I sit down and begin filling out my life history, nudging my mom a second time to sign in the appropriate places. She makes a few unintelligible markings on the spaces I show her, accompanied by some choice curse words… because signing her name is so hard. I make my way back to the desk and hand over the pages.

  “Thank you, dear.” She flips through the sheets, stopping and frowning when she reaches an incomplete section. “Scarlett, I need someone listed under the emergency contacts. We can’t just have one number on file.”

  If only she knew that number didn’t even work.

  “We just moved here last week. I don’t know anyone’s number.”

  “Have you met any neighbors? Anyone at church?”

  I chew on my lip for a few seconds, trying to decide if this is a good idea or not. “I’ve met my neighbors,” I whisper, not wanting my passed out mother to overhear. She’s not too keen on me making friends.

  “Who are they?”

  “The Winters Family.”

  “Oh, perfect,” she practically squeals. “Vera Winters is a volunteer here… has been for years. I’m sure she won’t mind if I list her as an emergency contact. Let me give her a call.”

  I don’t want her to do that. I don’t want that family to feel like they need to take care of me or watch out for me. Before I can even protest, the secretary is on the phone, laughing and chatting away with Mrs. Winters. She hangs up after a few ‘okays’ and looks back to me.

  “All set. Vera said to remind you about shopping for supplies tomorrow.”

  My eyes dart back to my mom, but she’s obli
vious to everything going on in the office. “Okay.”

  “Is she sick?” the kind lady behind the desk asks.

  No. She’s a raging drunk who can’t put down the bottle for one night to see about her child. “No. She works nights. She’s just really tired.”

  “Well, be careful driving home. I’ll see you next week, dear. Make sure to stop in your first day to pick up your schedule.”

  “Yes ma’am. Thanks for your help.”

  The secretary comes out of the back entrance to the office, and I quickly walk back over to my mom and rouse her from her nap. A few choice expletives leave her mouth before she gets up from the chair and walks out.

  Deciding that she can’t do too much damage in the car, I figure now is probably the best time to ask for supply money.

  “Momma?”

  “What?” she yells, then winces. Her hands tighten around the steering wheel, and I want to forget about asking, but I can’t show up for school empty-handed.

  “I, um, I’ll need some supplies for school. Do you think I could have some money?”

  “Do I look like a goddamn bank?” She swerves onto the shoulder and overcorrects, nearly getting into a head-on collision with the car in the other lane.

  “I just need a little bit to get a few essentials. Plus, while I’m there, I can pick up some more coffee for you. I’ll get the groceries this week so you can rest.” Maybe if it seems like I’m doing her a favor she won’t be so angry.

  She stays silent for the rest of the drive. I never know if she’s too zoned out to hear what I say, or if she’s ignoring me. Once we’re in the driveway she throws the car in park and stumbles inside. I shut off the ignition, grab her purse and make my way into the house, wary of what I’ll find.

  “Do we have any fucking Tylenol?” Most of the drawers in the kitchen are open, even though she should know we haven’t been here long enough to fill them with junk. Things like that accumulate over time. We never stay in one place long enough to collect enough junk to necessitate drawers for it.