In Sight of Stars

by Gae Polisner

  “Shit,” I whisper. “I’m sorry.”

  She sits up and pulls her shirt down, pulls her jeans on.

  “Fuck, I’m sorry.” I say again. I sit up and stare out the window. “I think it’s this car … it was my dad’s and … I can’t move around right…” I don’t finish the thought. It’s dumb, a lie, and she knows it. She adjusts her clothes, not looking at me. “I can be ready in a minute, if you give me…” My words are idiotic, and my ears burn hot and red. I don’t even know what I’m saying.

  “Forget it, Alden,” she says, climbing back into the front seat. “I’m flattered. Really. It’s no big deal.” But she doesn’t look flattered. And she can’t even stand to be next to me.

  “Sarah—”

  “God! You really need to lighten up, Alden. You’re too intense. It’s hard to take. I like you a lot. I do. But everything with you feels like such a big deal.”

  “I know. I’m sorry. It’s not. I just…”

  “Stop apologizing! And stop trying so hard. It’s not life or death. Sometimes, you just have to chill.” She turns around and makes crazy bug eyes at me like she’s being silly to lighten the mood. “You’re still hot. It’s fine. Take a chill pill.”

  But isn’t it all life and death?

  I pull on my jeans and move into the front seat, and turn on the car.

  “No, don’t. Not yet,” she says. “I want to stay here for a bit.”

  She puts her feet up on the dash and slips a broken cigarette from a pocket somewhere. I didn’t even know she smokes. I open my mouth, but before I can protest her lighting up in my father’s car, she drags at it unlit, inhaling deeply, and says, “See? Chill. I quit months ago. I’m not an idiot, dude,” before blowing invisible smoke out the rolled-down window.

  “I didn’t say you were, Sarah. I don’t think it either.”

  “I know, Alden. We’re good.” She takes another fake drag and says, “And, really, don’t feel bad. About what happened. It’s nothing. Seriously. But you’re going to have to learn how to chill. One of these days, you’re going to have to learn how to fake it and chill.”

  Day 6—Late Afternoon

  There’s the sound of a rolling cart, then a soft knock on my door before it opens. Sister Agnes Teresa appears, the swish of her robes sounding as she makes her way into my room.

  “Ah, in bed, I see. How novel! In the middle of a perfectly good Saturday afternoon.”

  “Well, I don’t know about perfectly good. There’s sort of a monsoon outside, no?”

  “Nonsense,” she says, waving me off, then wheels the cart to the far side of my bed. She opens the shades and bends to extract a box from the cart’s lower shelf. “A perfectly good day for a board game.” I roll my eyes, but I sit up and swing my legs over the side of the bed. “Well at least you’re dressed,” she says, eyeing my T-shirt and jeans. “You had some plan to conquer this day after all. Has something derailed it?”

  “My mother. Bearing gifts.” I nod toward the narrow closet, and Sister Agnes Teresa glances at the primary-colored easel stashed off to its side.

  “I see. Do you finger-paint?” She chuckles at her own joke.

  “That’s about my speed right now, isn’t it?” I say, joining her in laughing. “So this”—I walk over and tap the lid of the box—“should be right up my alley too, right?” She smiles, so I add, “And, I’m taking your chair. I’m pretty sure that other one is jinxed.”

  She sits across from me, adjusts her positioning. “Take whatever advantage you feel you might need, Mr. Alden.”

  She puts the box on the table. Chutes and Ladders, with its gaggle of cavorting cartoon kids sliding down pink slides, stares up at me. I must snort because she says, “Do you have an issue with the offering?”

  “No. Of course not.”

  “Well, good. Because I know it may appear simple, but you’d be surprised. There’s a lot to be learned from Chutes and Ladders. People underestimate the lessons that abound within the four cardboard corners of this box. Just like in life itself, we’re constantly clawing and stretching and climbing in pursuit of life’s sweet and just rewards. Our prizes, you know? Cute cats and cookies and blue ribbons and bouquets. But just when we think we have a foothold, when we’ve mowed the lawn so we’re clearly going to get to go to the circus, we take one step too few or too many, and bam! We hit that chute and go falling, falling, falling, irretrievably down.”

  “I see what you’re doing here—”

  She interrupts, holds up a finger, and says, “Or do we?” so I let her continue on with her soliloquy. “And sure, you can forget the cats and the cookies and the circus. We both know I’m not actually talking about those. Go ahead. Sub them out. Cats for love, or cookies for a job or a college acceptance, a circus for whatever kind of success. Because we both know, whether we’ve yet to experience it or not, that for every ladder to love, there is that inevitable chute to loss. And the ladder to health and happiness eventually meets up with a chute that takes you right back down there to death. No matter what we may do to avoid it.

  “For excitement, there is lethargy; for wealth, the risk of losing it all, going bankrupt, you see? But we play the game anyway. What else is there to do? So, we roll the dice and keep hoping.”

  She unfolds the board, raises an eyebrow, and holds out the dice to me. “Go on. Home-team advantage. I’ll let you go first.”

  “I did get out of bed earlier, so you know,” I say, shaking the dice. “I made some big commitment in my head. You know, take a walk, get some fresh air, act human? Don’t be a wuss or a loser.”

  She nods. “Sounds like an ideal start.”

  I spill the dice onto the board and she chuckles. I’ve rolled a 1 and a 2, which puts my guy at 3, on a square that has nothing. No chute or ladder, no drawing, no person, no nothing.

  “Don’t fret. Baby steps, right?” she says, but she smiles like she’s more than a little pleased, then shamelessly rolls a 4 and gets a ladder up to square 14.

  I roll a 5 and get nothing again, and by the time I’m at square 13, she’s at square 84, and I’m full-out laughing. And for every chute I hit after that, and slide down, I laugh harder. I can’t help it. The whole thing is hilarious and I can’t stop laughing for a change.

  Maybe it’s because it’s a mindless task, some childish board game that takes my mind off everything but silly nothingness. Or maybe it’s because of how optimistic and nice and funny she is, this dwarf penguin nun, in the face of all the fucked-up shit that’s wrong with her, but for the first time in days I feel hopeful. Because if she can be happy and light, then maybe I can find a way to get back there, too.

  * * *

  On Monday, I’m intentionally late, so Sarah’s already at the table working when I get to Tarantoli’s room. We haven’t spoken all weekend, not since I dropped her off Saturday after our humiliating date.

  I keep thinking about what happened, and about Sarah telling me to “fake it and chill.” Well, fine. If that’s what she wants, I can do that. Pretend I don’t give a shit about it all. I haven’t called. I haven’t texted. And, now I’m purposely late to class, with no time to talk.

  This is me, Klee Alden, faking it. Chilling. I’m just here at Northhollow biding my time.

  I walk to the back of the room and retrieve my portfolio from the cubbies, and slide it onto our table. The handle with the tape—KLEE HAS WOOD—dangles like a sad, pathetic lie.

  Sarah keeps her head down, working on some new piece she calls Waves. It’s pretty basic. For the past week Tarantoli has had us working on tessellations, Escher-like designs that explore the division of a perspective, dimension, and plane. It’s not my usual style, but it wouldn’t be a bad thing to show SMFA I’ve got range.

  I unzip my portfolio and slide out the piece I started, but it sucks, so I pull out a fresh piece of paper. As soon as I do, Sarah reaches across and writes in the corner:

  U MAD?

  My eyes meet hers.

  NO, I scrawl back.
WHY?

  PLAYING HARD TO GET?

  Ha, as if.

  NO. BROODING, I write instead.

  She cracks a smile at that one, which makes me smile, too.

  WHY?

  I shrug. I FEEL DUMB.

  DON’T, she writes. DON’T.

  WHY NOT?

  She bites her pencil like she’s thinking hard, then finally writes, BECAUSE I SAY SO.

  We both look at that, and I roll my eyes, and she whispers, “Okay fine, be that way,” and she scratches that out and writes,

  BECAUSE YOU ARE THE REAL DEAL.

  WEEK TWO

  Day 8—Morning

  On Monday morning reality hits, and a heavy hopelessness descends in the form of my mother hovering in the doorway of Dr. Alvarez’s office.

  Her features are in shadows, her blond hair illuminated at the edges like expensive gold thread. Likewise, the threads of her Chanel jacket catch bits of light complementing her hair. Her bracelets jangle. Is she coming from a meeting? Why does it always seem like she’s dressed to impress?

  “… My dearest M … You are perfection…”

  My stomach roils and bile rises into my throat. Did I say she could come today and forget? I don’t know what I was thinking.

  Yes, I do. Guilt. When she called again. Or, false hope, maybe. Or it was the medication talking. Or maybe I was still high off my first Chutes and Ladders win.

  Dr. Alvarez looks at me for information, her expression changing quickly to concern.

  “Your mother said you were expecting her? That you said it was okay if she came in?” She gives me a half smile, half grimace, as if to say, “Now that she’s here, how bad can it be?”

  Bad, Dr. Alvarez. Bad.

  I can’t stop the images from coming.

  “My dearest A … My good man…”

  “Klee?”

  “I shouldn’t print these, but I want to carry your words…”

  I lift my head from where I’ve lowered it onto the throw pillow in my lap and stare at my mother in the doorway.

  “Do you want me to go? I can leave.” I hear the tears in her voice. Her arms hang helplessly at her sides. She looks to Dr. Alvarez, then away.

  I want to believe her. I want to believe that her upset isn’t an act, but she’s lied about so much already.

  Dr. Alvarez opens the drawer to her left, rummages around, and tosses a yellow stress ball next to me on the couch. “That’s up to Klee,” she says.

  I sit up, and roll the ball in my fingers. “The chief danger in life is that we take too many precautions.”—Alfred Adler.

  My eyes shift to Dr. Alvarez, and she asks, “What say you, Klee? Do you want to try to discuss some things, or do you need another day?”

  I need many more days. I need a century.

  “No. Let’s get it over with,” I say.

  “Come in, Mrs. Alden. Sit. We’ll talk for a bit. See how we do. If Klee needs more time, we’ll adjourn. It’s flexible, how we do things in here. Whatever is best for him, you understand?”

  My mother nods and steps in. Her features reappear. Her lip trembles and she gives me this apologetic look. No, not apologetic. Expectant. Like she’s hoping for something I can’t give.

  I don’t get up. I have nothing to offer at this point.

  She sits on the other end of the couch, her leather bag perched on one knee, her thin fingers clutched around it.

  “Would you like some water?” Dr. Alvarez asks.

  “Yes, please.” My mother reaches out, and her gold bracelets jangle. She uncaps the bottle and sips.

  Jangle, jangle, jangle.

  Every move, every sound is exaggerated.

  My mother puts the bottle down, takes off her jacket, folding it perfectly over the arm of the couch.

  Jangle. Jangle.

  “Forgive me,” Dr. Alvarez says, “this office is always warm. It’s the forced heat. I keep requesting a humidifier to counter it. If we’d had a warmer week, they’d have turned off the heat altogether. Any day now. It’s much more manageable in the spring.”

  My mother nods, fidgeting, and drinks some more water. Dr. Alvarez seems more uncomfortable than usual. She pulls her clipboard to her lap, waits patiently for my mother to say something.

  My mother drinks again. A drop of water from the mouth of the bottle lands on her cream silk blouse and spreads outward in a darkening circle. I wonder vaguely if it will ruin it. A minor chute against her many, many ladders.

  She recaps the bottle and twists it in her lap. Finally, she turns and looks at me. I don’t know if it’s for show or not, but her eyes are filled with tears.

  “Klee, honey, it kills me to see you here.” I close my eyes, and she says, “Dr. Alvarez, please, I don’t know what I’ve done. I just want to help.”

  But I don’t want her help. I want my father. I want Sarah. I let Sarah crawl toward me on her knees.

  Wait! No. Not that day.

  That day got messed up.

  Not that one. Not now. Not with my mother here.

  * * *

  We’re doing it again, but this time I’m lasting.

  Sarah feels amazing, and I’m lasting.

  I think the condom I bought is actually helping. We move in rhythm, in sync, until she whispers my name, and squeezes my back before relaxing quietly beneath me.

  Only then do I let myself go, too.

  She brushes back my hair and kisses my forehead. I feel giddy. Happy. Happy because I made Sarah feel good.

  I get up and go flush the condom, grabbing my jeans, to pull them on in case her mother gets home. We’re in the basement, and her mother’s filling in on someone else’s weekend shift.

  “Nice abs,” she says, lowering herself onto the floor and crawling over. She sits on her knees, looks up at me with her gorgeous blue eyes that I can never get enough of, and runs her hands up the length of my torso. “You’re skinny, so I didn’t realize how much you must work out.” She moves her hands back down my stomach and over the front of my boxers.

  If she wants to, I can go again.

  “No so much,” I say. “I do crunches. But there’s a lot you don’t know about me, Sarah Wood.”

  I glance down my thin frame and feel myself disappear. All I can see is my father. In his striped pajama pants. In his sunny studio. Painting.

  I have the same build as he did. I’m staring down at myself but keep seeing my father.

  “Okay. So tell me.”

  “Tell you what?” I flinch, reeling, slammed by how badly I’m missing him.

  “Never mind.” She laughs, goes down on all fours again, and crawls toward me. She’s still in just her panties.

  She sings softly, words to a vaguely familiar old song I know she likes because she plays it on her phone.

  “Every cloud must have a silver lining…”

  She watches me intently, her long black eyelashes batting up at me, and I’m trying to focus, to concentrate.

  “Wait until the sun shines through

  Smile my honey dear

  While I kiss away each tear…”

  I’m trying to smile, and I’m sure that I’ve managed, that I’m smiling, but I can’t clear my father from my brain.

  “Or else I shall be melancholy too.”

  “Klee…?”

  And I’m crying.

  Jesus. For some dumb-ass reason, I’m crying.

  I don’t mean to. I don’t want to be.

  I hate myself for letting it happen.

  Maybe it’s something in her voice, how lilting and beautiful it is, or maybe it’s the lyrics, or maybe it’s because despite trying not to, I already love her so much. And love is trouble. Love is broken and wrong. The people we love don’t stick around.

  Whatever the reason, Sarah is naked, and singing, and I’m the motherfucking asshole who is crying.

  I hate myself for it.

  Sarah sits back and looks at me.

  I swipe at my eyes and say, “Don’t stop, please. I’m
just moved by how pretty your voice is.”

  But she gets up, pulls on her clothes, and walks back to the couch where she left the remote, and turns on the TV, putting the volume up loud.

  I should leave. I should just go home and never come back. But I don’t want to leave us like this.

  I sit on the couch and pull myself together. Fuck me, but I pull myself together.

  We watch Family Feud. That’s what’s on, so we watch it. We watch until the Cutler Family wins. When it’s over, I reach out and take Sarah’s hand, but she slips her fingers out of mine and says, “I’m sorry, Klee. I told you I like you, and I do. I like you a lot. But, I don’t know…” She shakes her head, eyes looking so, so sad.

  “Are you breaking up with me?”

  She turns and stares at me, says, “What? No. God, no.” But she shakes her head again and wraps her arms to her chest. “I just think you want more from me than I’m ever going to be able to give.”

  Day 8—Afternoon

  “What about you, Martin?”

  Sarah is gone.

  My mother is gone.

  Dr. Alvarez is gone.

  I’m sitting in group therapy with Sabrina and Martin.

  I’m not sure how I got myself to come here, but I know this: If I’m going to get better, and get out, I need to step things up around here.

  In addition to the group leader, Dr. Howe, there’s me, Martin and Sabrina, and one other kid about my age. He looks older, but I’m pretty sure this place only goes to eighteen. Maybe it’s the shaved head that makes him seem older. He’s big, too, like a weightlifter. A tattoo of a swastika sticks out from his T-shirt’s white sleeve.

  Great. Just great. These are my people now. These are the assholes I’m here with.

  His name tag—there was one waiting for me, too, when Nurse Carole walked me down—reads EUGENE in perfect block letters. He’s taken a marker and crossed out EU, leaving just GENE. Hard to blame him. Who gives you a name like Eugene?

  Eugene. He must be the one Martin called Euclid. No wonder Martin got it confused.

  Gene sits with his chair tipped, teetering on its back two legs, hands clasped behind his head. He wears a look that makes it clear he’s not all that interested in talking to anyone. I’m with him, but still.