Girl Who Read the Stars

by Skylar Dorset

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  Copyright © 2014 by Skylar Dorset

  Cover and internal design © 2015 by Sourcebooks, Inc.

  Cover design by Brittany Vibbert/Sourcebooks, Inc.

  Original series branding by Regina Flath

  Cover images © Digital Vision/Thinkstock, Johan Swanepoel/Thinkstock, La_Corivo/Thinkstock

  Sourcebooks and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks, Inc.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks, Inc.

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Published by Sourcebooks Fire, an imprint of Sourcebooks, Inc.

  P.O. Box 4410, Naperville, Illinois 60567-4410

  (630) 961-3900

  Fax: (630) 961-2168

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  CONTENTS

  Front Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  A Sneak Peek at The Boy With the Hidden Name

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  About the Author

  CHAPTER 1

  I know it is going to be a good school year because Jupiter is moving into my constellation.

  Okay, I know you’re thinking that this sounds stupid, but why is it any stupider than things like four-leaf clovers and lucky pens or “breakfast every day makes you better at tests”? Maybe there’s some scientific truth to that last one, but I think mostly the truth is that you believe it. Really, you’re good at tests if you’re good at tests, or a certain kind of test, and I hate people thinking that just having a bowl of cereal is suddenly going to make you awesome at multiple-choice questions. Multiple-choice questions are the worst. As if the world is ever that black and white.

  Mom says it’s fine that I’m not good at multiple-choice tests. And Mother says she’s okay with it too, but she wants to make sure I’m trying. Mother’s a lawyer, which means she had to pass a bar exam, so she is really good at multiple-choice tests. It’s a good thing we have Mom to balance things out. Mom teaches yoga and does astrology readings. She’s the one who taught me how to read the stars, and how to pay attention to the cycles of the moon and the path of the sun.

  And she’s why I know it is going to be a good school year because Jupiter is moving into my constellation.

  I tell her that as she’s driving me to school, which she’s doing only because it’s the first day. We are doing three-part yoga breaths as we drive, because Mom thinks that you shouldn’t start the day with stale oxygen in your lungs.

  “And positive thinking, Merrow,” she is saying as I exhale all the air out of my lungs and contract my rib cage. “That’s always the key, right?”

  “Jupiter’s in my constellation this year,” I remind her.

  “Good things,” she agrees. “Expansion. Scope. Open horizons.”

  “It’s going to be a good year,” I decide.

  “And that’s the first key to it being a good year!” she crows. “Namaste, kiddo,” she says, and she leans over and kisses my head. “Mother’ll be here to get you at the end of the day.”

  “If she’s too busy, I can take the bus,” I say, gathering up my bag.

  “Not on your first day!” She sounds horrified that I would ever have suggested that.

  I shake my head fondly and get out of the car and take a second to look up toward the high school. It’s old and kind of shabby-looking, although the graffiti has been freshly eliminated from the bricks in honor of the brand-new school year. When it was built, I’m sure it was super grand, with its Ionic columns and all that, and that’s probably why it’s still standing, because, as Mother says, stuff was built to last back then.

  Providence is the kind of city that’s got a ton of private schools that you could go to, but Mother and Mom decided to keep me in public school. The public school isn’t the best in the world, but it’s not the worst, and I’m used to everyone. I wouldn’t say I’m one of those people with tons of friends, but I’m also not one of those people who hates everyone. Mom says it’s a combination of my sun sign (Cancer) and the planets in my twelfth house. I’m just a loner, she says. She always says it proudly because loners, she says, learn to be independent, and independence is always good.

  Anyway, I don’t feel any great dread over the start of another school year, and in fact, I feel more excitement than I have in the past, because this year Jupiter is in my constellation, and I think it’s going to be a great year.

  • • •

  They do homeroom at my school alphabetically, which means it’s boring and predictable and there’s never any chance of a shake-up—of you getting to sit next to someone different from the person you’ve been sitting next to for the past twelve years of your life, since kindergarten. My last name is Rodriguez-Chance, because my mothers didn’t believe in only one of their names carrying on. The school has always treated it as an R name. One year I tried to convince them that Rodriguez was my middle name and I should be in the A-through-F homeroom, just so that I could start my day off with a different group of people. I almost succeeded too. Because they were both my last name, my mothers supported the idea that I should get to be a Chance one year, to make up for all the Rodriguezes I’d already gotten to be, but the school didn’t see it that way.

  So I sit in the M-through-R homeroom, and in front of me is Diana Ramsey, and behind me is nobody. Do you have any idea how boring it is to always be the last of the line? Because it is super boring. And Diana’s a nice enough girl, but she is super serious about everything. She wants to be a doctor, which is awesome, of course, but I am totally bewildered by anyone who is just starting junior year of high school and has any idea about the future. Because I have no idea. I know that Jupiter is in my constellation, and that’s it. I can read the stars and deal a tarot deck, but that doesn’t mean I have any idea what to do with my life.

  And there’s a new person. There is a new person. Diana is sitting at her desk, looking as grave and serious as she usually does, as if homeroom is important to her future medical career. But there are two desks behind her instead of just one, and in the one immediately behind her is a boy, looking bored. Except that he is twiddling a pencil between his fingers, and I think that he’s really not bored; he’s tense and anxious and nervous, because he’s new and it’s his first day, and I almost skip my way over to the desk where the teacher has put up a name car
d for me (yes, like we are in kindergarten). Jupiter is in my constellation. It’s going to be a good year!

  “Hi,” I say brightly as I take my seat.

  He’s cute but not absurdly so. His hair is like wheat fields in Idaho. I’ve never been to Idaho. I think they have wheat, right? Anyway, it’s golden, but not obnoxiously golden, not surfer-boy golden—a nice, earthy golden, wheat fields and sunshine and straw, I think. I didn’t get a good look at his eyes on my way past, but I did notice that he has freckles, and I like freckles. Who doesn’t like freckles on a nose, right?

  His twiddling pencil pauses momentarily before starting back up again. “Hi,” he responds. He doesn’t sound surly, but he doesn’t exactly sound welcoming.

  But he’s nervous, I think. He probably doesn’t know what to do. “I’m Merrow,” I inform him and hope I don’t sound too crazy enthusiastic (even though I am). “I am Merrow Rodriguez-Chance and I am super excited to meet a fellow R last name.”

  The pencil stops again. He twists a bit in his seat so that he can see me better, and I try to think of what he’s going to see. I dyed my hair the colors of the rainbow at the very beginning of the summer, but I haven’t re-dyed it, so the red and blue and purple and green and orange and yellow all start a few inches down, with my natural blond at the roots. I have chosen to do my hair in six knots on my head today. Because why not? And I am wearing my very favorite outfit, my favorite because I like to say it’s a combination of my two mothers: it’s a white button-down shirt and yoga pants. Not going to lie, I look pretty awesome today.

  And his eyes are hazel. I’ve never really met someone with hazel eyes before. I feel like people are always trying to pretend their eyes are hazel, and I look at them and nope, they’re just brown. Nothing wrong with brown eyes, people. Own your brown eyes. But New Boy has genuine hazel eyes. They aren’t brown, and they aren’t green, and they aren’t blue. They are all of them, and it’s impressive.

  He’s kind of impressive, I think, but not in a way that most girls are going to notice, if their current pick for World’s Most Desirable Guy (Tucker Beaton) is any indication.

  New Boy takes me all in and gives me a quizzical sort of smile. He’s got kind of a harsh mouth, actually. Like he’s more used to frowning, or not doing anything at all. The smile flickers across at it and then is gone. I think of what my mom says when we’re doing particularly tricky and painful yoga poses. Make your face soft, she says. New Boy looks like he’s in the middle of a particularly tricky and painful yoga pose, and a soft face complete with a smile would be too much to ask.

  Nervous, I think. Of course. He’s nervous.

  “Okay,” he says, like he doesn’t really know what to make of me.

  Oh. I realize: new. Maybe they didn’t do alphabetical homerooms where he came from. “Sorry, it’s just we always sit in alphabetical order here, so I have been behind Diana for ages. Did you just move here?”

  He looks as if he’s considering the question. “Um,” he says. “Yes.”

  Huh. Apparently I’ve stumped him by asking his basic living arrangements. Oh! I want to hit myself in the forehead. Should have asked him his name first! No wonder he’s confused! “Right!” I exclaim, and he blinks and shifts backward a little. “Wait, I’m going to guess your last name. Is it…Roarke?”

  “It’s not Roarke,” he says. He looks a little bit amused now, although he still looks more like he doesn’t know what to make of me, but that’s okay—that’s a look I’m used to and can work with. He’s still not smiling though. He’s, like, in the middle of pigeon pose or something.

  “Is it Rumford? No, wait, that would put you after me, huh? Hmm.” I look at him and bite my lip and consider. What does he look like? I study the pattern of freckles over his nose and say, “Is it Reading?”

  He blinks and stares at me. “Okay, you…looked at…something.” He glances at his desk, as if his name card was still out, but it isn’t.

  I am also giddy with delighted disbelief over how awesome that was. “Is it really Reading?”

  “Well, we pronounce it like it’s Redding, but yeah, that was pretty damn close. How did you do that?”

  I lean close to him and whisper, “Sometimes I can predict the future.” This close, I could probably count the freckles on his nose.

  He blinks again and says, “Oh,” and I can tell he’s decided I might actually be crazy.

  I lean back and grin. “Only kidding. That was just a lucky guess. I can’t believe I actually got it. So what’s your first name?”

  “Trow,” he says.

  “Oh, it’s nice,” I tell him. “I was worried it’d be something like Herbert.”

  He’s back to looking quizzical again. “Why would you be worried about that?”

  “Parents can do weird things. You know.”

  His mouth is back in its very tight line, not a hint of softness to it now, and I never really got a smile but I’d at least got it to soften a bit. “Yeah,” he agrees. “That’s true.”

  Uh-oh, I think. Hit a nerve there. I pause and try to think of what I should say next. Trow is back to twiddling his pencil.

  “I heard a rumor!” Sophie Quillerton is suddenly next to my desk, as if arriving in a whirlwind of squeals. Sophie does a lot of squealing. She speaks at a pitch that is just below the register that is only heard by dogs. And she has trained the rest of her group to speak at this pitch too. It’s not that I don’t get along with Sophie, because really, I get along with everyone since I don’t see the point of starting fights and anyway shanti shanti shanti and all that (that’s a yoga mantra Mom taught me that’s all about peace). But if I were going to stop being a loner and seek out friends at school, I wouldn’t start with Sophie Quillerton.

  She has appeared, as usual, with her constant entourage of fellow squealing girls. And she is talking, unsurprisingly, to Trow.

  “A rumor there was a new boy.” Sophie finishes her sentence and then sticks out her hand like she’s the World Most Serious Businesswoman. “I’m Sophie.”

  Trow shakes it politely and says his name in response.

  “It’s nice to meet you, Trow. What’s your schedule?”

  There is a moment before Trow says, “Oh God, I don’t remember. Um.” He is turning to the ratty backpack that is slumped on the floor next to him.

  And that’s when our homeroom teacher, Señora Trillo, who I’ve had for Spanish the past two years and will have for Spanish again this year, because things almost never change here, calls homeroom to order.

  She spends forever painstakingly calling the roll, as if she couldn’t just look up and see all of us in our seats.

  When she gets to Trow, she says Reading and he corrects Redding, actually and she says, Oh, have they spelled it wrong? And he says, No, it’s spelled like Reading but said like Redding, and then she says, beaming at me, “Y la última, Señorita Rodriguez-Chance.” So that’s how it’s going to be this year, I think. Usually I get last but not least.

  “Buenos días,” I reply, which makes her laugh like I’m very clever, and I wonder if we’re going to do this every single day.

  I look at the back of Trow’s head in front of me, where his hair is a little tangled instead of neatly combed, and I think that doing this every single day might not be so bad.

  CHAPTER 2

  I teach a yoga class after school most days. I’ve been doing this forever. When I was really little, Mom used to come pick me up at school and then take me to the yoga studio to hang out for a while, until she was done with her day. This was before she owned her own yoga studio, and her boss was always complaining about having a kid around, as if I were a ton of trouble or something, when all I used to do was sit there quietly and watch. You’d think watching things was a crime, the way some people react to you when you watch things.

  Eventually Mom got fed up, and Mother said she should just have h
er own yoga studio. Mom said she has no head for business, and Mother said, That’s why you have me, and so now we have a yoga studio. It’s called Otherworld Yoga. I asked why it was called that once, and Mom said it was because yoga connects us to the other world that’s out there, where we’re truly from. Mom says stuff like that, like we’re aliens or something, but what she means is just that there’s so much more out there than we know.

  I love our yoga studio. It’s in an old house on the East Side of Providence that’s been converted over to businesses. On one side of us is an acupuncturist, and on the other side is a person who makes special herbal teas. Mother says they are good complementary businesses for our yoga studio. Above us is the dermatologist who owns the building, who has an office and also lives up there. I think she doesn’t know what to make of her weird tenants, but she’s nice.

  Once Mom got her own studio, she said I could start teaching if I logged enough hours, and it’s not like I had a whole bunch of better things to do, so I did it, and now I have one after-school class to run four days a week. Sometimes people from school come, and I coach them through downward-facing dogs and stuff, and I think we could be friendlier than we are. They’re nice and welcoming, and sometimes they’ll say they’re going to grab smoothies after class and ask if I want to come. And I always make up some excuse why I can’t go. I don’t know why I’m like this. Why do I curse myself? I could have friends, I just don’t, and I’m mostly okay with that. Does that mean there’s something wrong with me?

  Most of the time when I’m teaching, the only thing I’m thinking about is teaching. That’s the thing about yoga: you’re asking your body to do such funny things so that you can wipe your mind clean. It gives all of your thinking muscles a little break while you work your other muscles. But today when I teach, I’m thinking about Trow Reading and his untidy wheat-colored hair. Trow and I have American literature together and AP U.S. history. Those classes aren’t alphabetically seated, and so Sophie and her pack commandeered Trow to sit with them. And at lunch too, of course. But it’s fine, because I spend lunch meditating.