See All the Stars

by Kit Frick

  My lips twitched up at the corners. “You know I have no idea who or what that is, right?”

  “And I swear I will keep it that way.” He grinned, quick and easy, and my stomach did a little flip.

  “I’m going to hold you to that.” We stopped in front of the elevator in the center of the floor, and I suddenly realized that we were here for my benefit. Music was his thing, private. He wasn’t looking for a copilot for his regular Friday plans, so he’d brought me here because doesn’t every girl like the mall?

  “You know,” I said, “I think this is a first. I’ve never been on a mall date before.”

  “Really?” He seemed genuinely surprised. Suspicions confirmed. “Yeah, me either.”

  “But here we are. Exploring new territory.” I gestured in front of us with my smoothie cup.

  “Cultivating a fledgling interest in the American Mall Hang.”

  “Which we have now confirmed is officially not our scene.”

  We both laughed. He wrapped his arm around my waist, and we leaned back against a giant beige column to survey our surroundings: all the mall stores, the eighth-grade girls shrieking and skipping down the corridor, the moms and dads weaving strollers around the guys slouched in front of Game Stop. Groups of girls, groups of guys, other duos on meandering dates armed with sodas and hot pretzels.

  “I have to admit,” he said, “this classic artificial citrus drink is kind of growing on me.” He raised his cup into the air. “So here’s to the first of many nights of exploration. To be continued at an expanded range of venues.”

  “Cheers.” I clinked his cup to mine with a wet paper tap. The first of many nights.

  Matthias gestured toward a bench beside an oversized terra-cotta planter. “Let’s hit the pause button on this whole mall walk?”

  We settled down on the bench, and I thought he was going to kiss me. I wanted him to, just a little, just to confirm that what I thought was happening was really happening. That we had more than just cold hands and good banter. That he really saw me.

  But instead of kissing me, he said, “I think you’re beautiful.”

  “What?”

  “I’ve been wanting to tell you all year.”

  “You’re lying.” He was lying.

  “No, really. I just figured you thought . . . I don’t know. I’m not exactly a model student or whatever.”

  “You mean how you’re always sleeping in class?”

  “Yeah, that. Sometimes I work in the kitchen late. Sometimes I go to shows even later. I’m not very good at this whole sleeping at night thing.”

  “Your parents don’t care?”

  “They might care if they noticed. My mom would.”

  “But they don’t notice.”

  Matthias shrugged. “They have other stuff going on.”

  I looked at him hard, waiting for him to explain. After a pause that stretched on a beat too long, he said, “My dad installs audio equipment, the kind rich people buy for their homes. He used to play, though. He was a really good bassist.”

  “He was in a band?”

  “The Rocket Pops.” For a moment, his face lit up, and I could see him drift far away. I pictured Matthias as a little kid, his dad teaching him how to hold his instrument, where to place his fingers on the strings.

  “They still play?” I asked.

  He shook his head, the faraway look gone. “I have some of their old recordings. But they fell apart a long time ago.”

  “Oh.” I wanted to know more, but I could see Matthias closing back up. “And your mom?” I asked instead.

  “She’s a writer. She put out a book of nature poems in the nineties, but I guess there isn’t a big market for that stuff now. Cordelia’s a big fan, though.”

  “Your sister?”

  His face broke into another quick grin. “Yeah, she’s nine.”

  “Ankle bracelet phase?”

  “That’s her.” He reached for his phone and pulled up a photo of a smiling girl in soccer shorts and a grass-stained T-shirt, her long hair pulled back into a ponytail, the same brown-blond as her brother’s.

  “She does soccer, ballet, gymnastics, and she’s super smart. She’s basically destined for rocket science. If you want to meet her, I’ll have to schedule you in.”

  “I’d like that.”

  He stared at his phone for a minute more. When he clicked it off, his eyes stayed fixed on the black screen. Finally, he said, “Look, Ricky and Rebecca aren’t exactly winning any parent of the year awards. My dad drinks. A lot. My mom spends all day locked in her office. So now you know, okay?” There was a hard edge to his words that I couldn’t quite grasp onto.

  I nodded, my eyes searching for his, but they were still locked on his screen. Finally, he looked up.

  “But Cordelia’s got me. She’s going to be fine.” He said it like he had something to prove. As if I thought he might let his sister down.

  I reached over and touched his arm just above the elbow. I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to comfort him or offer to call child services. I was an only child. My parents were annoyingly present. I didn’t know what taking care of your little sister might mean. I pictured homework, rides, haircuts. I was sure it was a lot to keep track of, but my mental image didn’t quite line up with the gravity of his tone. I couldn’t find the right words, so I dropped my hand and ran it back and forth along the leg of my jeans.

  “Sorry, I didn’t mean to get into all that.” He shook his head softly, as if he were trying to clear the air. “We were talking about you.”

  “We were?” I asked.

  “About how beautiful you are.”

  I watched him click his phone on and off, then rest it face down on his knee. For a moment, I didn’t say anything.

  “Thank you.”

  “What for?”

  “For saying I’m beautiful. I’m not the best with compliments, but word on the street is you should say ‘thank you.’ ”

  “You’re welcome.” The grin was back. He reached out and ran his fingertips very, very lightly through my hair. They stopped at the tip of my earlobe, and he traced the outline of the enamel teardrop dangling there. “Sorry it took me so long to tell you.”

  I let him melt me. I was full-color, three-dimensional, in-focus Ellory. I was alive.

  He leaned his head back against the mall railing behind us. “If you want out, I totally get it. I probably would.”

  My phone chirped, ki-ka-ri, three quick notes. It was the signal for our group chat, the one that the four of us pretty much always had going when we weren’t together. That week, it was titled Hot Days & Kewl Nights.

  “Because of your parents?” I asked. “No way.” My phone chirped again, and I reached into my bag for it. “Sorry, one sec.”

  “No worries, I should check in with Cordelia.” He flipped his phone back over and clicked it on.

  I opened our chat.

  JENNI RANDALL

  How’s the hot date? Any ooh la la?

  ELLORY HOLLAND

  All the ooh and all the la.

  JENNI RANDALL

  I can totally see you with the tortured cutie type.

  BEX LANDRY

  Ellory! We’re so bored, there’s nowhere to go. Get over here right now.

  I could picture them. Bex sprawled out on the Randalls’ couch, her legs perpetually turned out at the hips. Jenni fussing over something in the kitchen, her stepmom’s cooking magazines spread out on the counter. Where was Ret?

  ELLORY HOLLAND

  You just love me for my car. Promise next Friday I’m all yours.

  JENNI RANDALL

  No way. Your face is not welcome around here until there are stories.

  I frowned into my screen. Jenni was enjoying my absence a little too much. Before I could come up with something good to say, Ret’s words filled up the screen. There she was.

  RET JOHNSTON

  Drop it, Jenni. Jealous, much?

  She didn’t have to type it into the
chat; they were no further than a room away. But Ret wanted me to see. Ret was Jenni’s for tonight, but her gloating wasn’t scoring any points. This was how Ret kept us on our toes. This was how Ret kept us.

  I typed back quickly, keeping it light.

  ELLORY HOLLAND

  Stories galore coming up.

  Tonight, I was not playing Ret’s games.

  RET JOHNSTON

  I expect a full report, missy.

  Every part of you is mine. Even the parts that are his.

  “Everything okay?” Matthias asked, clicking off his phone again.

  “Yeah. The girls are just making sure you’re not a serial killer.” I gave him a light shove in case he thought I was serious. Then I closed the chat, giving Ret the last word. She could have it. I was sitting on a wooden mall bench with Matthias Cole. He thought I was beautiful.

  When he kissed me twenty minutes later in the only slightly more romantic mall parking lot, it was my third kiss total, but the first one that really mattered. The kiss was short, but warm, and slightly citrusy, and quick pulses of heat flashed against my lips and tongue and then across my face and down my neck, until every inch of my skin was lit up by a fiery wave. We were oxygen and fuel. A deep, slow burn.

  And then it was over. He pressed his cheek against mine and whispered, “That was okay, right? That I kissed you?” We were half sitting, half leaning against the bumper of my dad’s car.

  “That was absolutely okay.” I pulled my cheek away to find those tiny green flecks in his eyes. I was brave. “As long as you plan to do it again.”

  A second later, his lips were crashing back into mine, the heat spiking up again beneath my skin. I wanted more.

  4

  SEPTEMBER, SENIOR YEAR

  (NOW)

  When we were in fifth grade, Maria Hidelman swore up and down that our elementary school was infested with mice—in the insulation and pipes, under the floors, lurking in the curled-up scroll of the projector screen—we just couldn’t see them. She said they came in through the vents at night, that mice could squeeze through the tiniest spaces because they had collapsible bones.

  It was complete bullshit, of course. Her house had just been exterminated or something, and the pest control guys had probably been messing with her. It was way too easy to pull a fast one on prissy Maria Hidelman. But even now, years after freshman bio taught us that mice do not, in fact, come equipped with a collapsible skeleton, the image has stayed with me.

  Collapsible bones. I sit in my seat in AP English, my long legs folded up as small as possible beneath the tiny desk. If I could have one superpower, that’s what it would be. The ability to fold myself in two, slink between tiny spaces, vanish inside walls.

  The old Ellory wanted to be seen, known inside and out. I can feel my classmates’ eyes wash over me, wanting to get a good look. Ellory’s back. Now I feel too visible, on display, and it’s only day five of senior year. My nine-month sentence until graduation has only just begun.

  I take a long, slow breath and remind myself that I chose this. I’m alone because I don’t deserve anything different. It was Ret’s fault first, and my fault last, and now I have to live with the consequences. But now that I’m back at Pine Brook, totally exposed and no one to run to, I’m not sure I’m going to make it.

  I glance up at the clock, careful to move only my eyes. It’s the game I’ve been playing in English this year. How many class minutes can Ellory get through without moving a muscle? It’s 2:26. Fourteen down, thirty-four to go. I tell myself I’m honing my listening skills. Who needs to take notes when your ears are tuned in to every word?

  I can get through most of the day okay. I know these hallways. I have my routes. But whoever designed my senior year schedule, slotting English into eighth period, must be some kind of sadist. They could have taken pity on me. Scheduled the class early in the day. But no. Instead, I am guaranteed to spend every hour of senior year dreading eighth, blazing bright at the end of the day like a house fire I just keep walking into.

  I force my eyes to drop from the face of the clock straight down to the face of the girl at the desk directly across the room. She is the reason this class is such hell, but she’s also the reason I can’t leave. I refuse to give myself an easy out. Or her the satisfaction.

  Ret. I’m prepared to look immediately away, but she doesn’t look up, doesn’t notice my eyes burning holes through her skin. She’s completely focused on the book open on the desk in front of her. With a shiny purple pen, she underlines some key passage, something meaningful only to her. If I let myself lean forward, even just a little, I could get a look at the page.

  But I can’t.

  I won’t.

  We used to sit next to each other. We used to share books. Ret & Ellory. Ellory & Ret. We used to share everything. Now, eighth period is a daily reminder of English classes past. Ret and me passing notes, secret smart, laughing at the book nerds. Ret and me against the world.

  Now she sits across from me, taunting me with her silence.

  My eyes wander over her ivory skin, her hair just brushing the tops of her shoulder blades. She’s let it get long over the summer. The glossy, black strands are streaked bubblegum pink, and her lips are coated in a faint, nude gloss. For Ret, it’s shockingly demure.

  Before she can catch me looking, I tear my eyes away, feeling both like a trespasser and somehow violated at the same time. Dr. Marsha would say I need to stop fixating. I need to live in the present. In the present, Ret and I are not friends. In the present, we do not share secrets or books or long afternoons on Jenni’s front lawn. In the present, we’re moving on to chapter three. I’ll have to give up my game and turn the page in a minute.

  I wait until the last possible second, until I’m sure Ms. Halim is going to ask me if I care to join the rest of the class, and then I reach in front of me and flip the page. My arm floats over the desk, weightless because it’s empty inside. Hollow.

  As Ms. Halim draws our attention to the use of foreshadowing in the text, I close my eyes and a soft, deep voice fills up the dark. I think you’re beautiful. I can almost smell him—smoke from somebody else’s cigarettes, bar soap, mint. I can almost feel his arm slide around my waist, pull me close. I give my head a firm shake, no, forcing my eyes back open. I will not let myself do this. I do not have a boyfriend, this is not last year. I’m not that Ellory anymore. I may look the same on the outside, but like we’ve always been taught, it’s what’s inside that counts: Burned-up girl. Wasteland.

  My eyes drift back to the clock. It’s 2:47, and the class is debating the merit of authorial intent. Ms. Halim suggests that critical analysis supersedes intentionality. Maria Hidelman is arguing, saying just to play devil’s advocate in her clipped, whiny voice, but she doesn’t have a case. Ms. Halim is so, so right. Best intentions, worst intentions. Planned, unplanned. All that matters about last spring is what went down. Who cares what I meant to happen, what I meant to say. Intentionality is so clearly meaningless when you run it up against the facts.

  I keep my eyes fixed on the second hand for the next thirteen minutes until the bell finally rings. My classmates are out the door with a squeal of chairs and a stampede of sneakers before I can even get my bag zipped up. I keep my head down and take my time. It’s Friday. They all have places to be, people to meet, but I’m only going down to the metal shop like every other afternoon of my life. And to be honest, I’ve felt a little off my game all week. I was on fire at camp this summer, but I haven’t felt inspired to make anything since I got back to school. Regardless, I still have cleaning to do and materials to pull for Mr. Michaels’s classes on Monday.

  I’m almost to the door when her hand closes around my wrist, digging my bracelet—our bracelet, the one I still wear—into my skin.

  “Ellory May.”

  I flinch. I didn’t see her hanging back, waiting for me. After a week of silence, Ret wants to talk. Has she been reading my thoughts, the ones that scream I can’t hack it
alone?

  “It’s not a good time,” I hiss.

  Ms. Halim turns from the whiteboard where she’s erasing today’s key words. “Did you have a question, Ellory?” she asks.

  I shake my head and drag Ret out of the classroom, into the hall. It’s clearing out fast like it always does after the dismissal bell rings, but there are still plenty of people around. People who will see us. I give my arm a shake, and she lets go. My wrist is sore where the bracelet pinched the skin, and I know she felt it too. How I still wear mine. How her wrist is bare.

  “We can’t do this here.” My voice is barely a whisper. Whatever we have to say to each other, it’s no one else’s business.

  She doesn’t say anything right away. Her hair smells like campfire and bleach. People are staring. I look away from the banging lockers and scuffling feet, right into Ret’s eyes. Bad move. I’m falling hard and fast; I can’t breathe.

  “Meet me by the river,” Ret says, her voice low but clear, pulling me up for air. “After you’re done in the shop. The patch of bank where the guardrail’s missing.”

  I know where she means. We used to go there sometimes freshman year, Ret and Jenni and me. You could scramble down the embankment toward the water, where no one could see you from the road. It was a hideaway right out in the open, and for a while it was ours. As soon as I got my license sophomore year—I was the oldest, the first—we packed into my car when we got the itch to explore. I haven’t been back to our spot by the river in years.

  My mind spins back to the first time Ret took us there, a March afternoon that still felt more like winter than spring. She’d discovered it, of course, led us through the break in the guardrail like she was taking us to Narnia. Nestled into the tall grass along the bank, we all wrote our darkest secrets on sheets of notebook paper and folded them into swans to sail on the surface of the water. Ret said it would be like an act of absolution, a letting go. But before we could set them free, she stopped us. It only works if you read them out loud first.

  She was playing with a stacked deck. She’d written something just incriminating enough, but still safe to share. Before we could stop her—and didn’t we want to know what she’d done?—she unfolded her paper and started to read. After my dad left, I made a list of all the ways my mom had driven him away. Then I left it on my dresser for her to find. I laughed after she read it, when she locked herself in her room and cried.