Starry Eyes

by Jenn Bennett

  “Because it will break up their marriage,” I whisper. “I can’t do that to my mom. It would kill her.”

  Lennon doesn’t respond. Just studies my eyes.

  “You cannot say anything to my mom,” I plead. “And until I figure out what to do, you need to tell your moms to keep quiet about it too.”

  “I can’t control what they say to your mom. If you recall, they were once all friends. Come to think of it, so were the two of us, before you decided moving up the social ladder was more important.”

  “What?” That’s not how things went down. He ditched me.

  “Frankly, I’m surprised you’d risk being seen in public talking to me,” he says. “Every second you’re near me, your hit points drop. Better watch it, or your life meter’s going to drop to zero.”

  “I don’t even know what that means.”

  “That’s because you’ve been hanging around with Reagan effing Reid for too long.”

  “Says the boy who sits home alone with a bunch of snakes.”

  “Hey, you would know, spymaster general.”

  I press my forehead again the screen. “I already told you, that was a mistake.”

  His dark eyes are centimeters from mine. “Was it?”

  “Huge.”

  “If you say so.”

  “Enormous.”

  “I’m flattered.”

  “I . . .” Wait. What are we talking about?

  His smile is slow and cocky.

  I pull back from the screen. My ears suddenly feel like someone’s holding a blowtorch up to my head. Tugging the curling ends of my bob, I try to cover the telltale redness, wishing it away before the blush spreads down my neck.

  “Screw this,” I say. “I was going to apologize for my dad’s behavior, but now I might be glad he bit your head off. I hope you have to get a rabies shot.”

  “Am I the bat or Ozzy? Because if your dad was doing the biting, technically he’d have to get the rabies shot.”

  “I hate you so much.”

  “You know,” he says after huffing out a single, sarcastic chuckle, “I genuinely felt bad for you. I really did, for all of two seconds. Guess I was an idiot, because I can see now that nothing’s changed. You’re still the same cold-as-ice girl. You’re just like him. You know that, right? More concerned with appearances than anything real. Maybe lying runs in your blood.”

  Chaotic emotions bubble up. Embarrassment. Pain. And something else I can’t identify. Anger. That must be what it is, because without warning, my eyes sting with unshed tears.

  Don’t you dare cry in front of him, I tell myself.

  “Zorie,” he says, voice low and rough. “I . . .”

  He doesn’t finish, and it doesn’t matter. I don’t care what Lennon Mackenzie thinks. Not now, and not ever.

  “I thought I could come in here and talk reasonably with you,” I say, using the calmest, most professional voice I can muster as I step farther away from the cage. “But I guess I was wrong. All I ask is that if you and your parents have any respect for my mother—”

  “Zorie—”

  I raise my voice to talk over him. “—that you’ll stay out of her business and let me handle it. If anyone’s going to destroy her life, it should be me, not some stranger who doesn’t care about her.”

  And with that, I walk out of the store.

  Tomorrow can’t come soon enough.

  6

  * * *

  “You have everything?” Mom asks, testing the weight of my backpack. It’s almost ten in the morning, and Reagan’s supposed to pick me up in a few minutes. I stopped by the clinic to tell my parents goodbye. “Good lord, this is heavy.”

  “That’s my portable telescope and camera.” Who knew ten pounds could be so heavy? It takes up a lot of space in the pack, so I’ve got one of the tents Reagan bought stuffed in the bottom, a compressed sleeping bag, clothes neatly rolled to save space, a couple of energy bars, peanut butter cups, and some chocolate-covered espresso beans—you know, all the major food groups.

  I also may have brought a grid-lined journal. Just a small one. And a few gel pens.

  “You have the emergency cash I gave you?”

  I pat the pocket of my purple plaid shorts. They match my purple Converse, which match my purple eyeglass frames. Did I mention the glittery purple nail polish? I’m killing it. Someone should pay me to look this sharp. One modeling contract, pronto.

  “Portable cell phone charger?”

  “In my pack,” I lie. It’s an older model that weighs a ton, and in the battle of heavy versus heavy, my telescope and camera won. Besides, they’ll have electricity at the glamping compound. I can just plug my phone in.

  Mom inspects my arms. “Hive cream?”

  “Yes, I’ve got the stinky homeopathic cream. Where’s Dad? I need to leave soon.”

  “Dan!” she calls out to the back rooms, cupping her hands around her mouth. Then she turns back to me. “He’s rushing to head out to the bank. I tried to get an increase on the clinic’s credit card, and they say our credit score is too low because we’re overextended. Which is crazy, because that’s our only credit account, and I paid off your father’s car loan last year. There must be some mistake. He’ll get it sorted out. Oh, there you are,” she says as he jogs into the reception area, keys in hand.

  And toward the front door.

  “I’ll be back in a jiff,” he says, keys in hand.

  “Dan, Zorie’s leaving for her camping trip,” Mom says, sounding as exasperated as I feel.

  He turns around and blinks at me, and apparently is just now noticing my backpack. “Of course,” he says, smoothly covering up his faux pas with a charming smile. “Excited to spend time with the Reid daughter?”

  “Reagan,” I say.

  “Reagan,” he repeats. More smiling. He turns to my mom and says, “Everything checked out at the campsite, right? The girls will be safe there?”

  “They have security and everything,” Mom says. “I told you, remember? Mrs. Reid talked to the owner, and they’re going to pay special attention to their group.”

  “Right, right,” Dad murmurs, nodding enthusiastically. Then he smiles at me, starts to extend his arms as if he might hug me—which is weird, because we don’t normally do that anymore—and then changes his mind and pats me on the head. “Have a great time, kiddo. Stay in touch with Joy and take your pepper spray in case there are any boys with roaming hands.”

  There will be boys, and I certainly hope there will be roaming hands. But no way am I telling him that, so I just laugh, and it sounds as hollow as his smile looks.

  He nods stiffly, and it’s awkward. “Gotta get to the bank. See you when you get back,” he says, and before I can answer, he’s jogging out the front door.

  When he’s gone, I vent at Mom. “Hello! I’m leaving for an entire week. Does he realize this?”

  She holds up a hand in shared exasperation. “He knows. I told him I could take care of the bank on my lunch break, but he insisted it had to be now. He’s just—”

  “Stressed,” I say, resigned. “Yeah.”

  And what’s up with this credit thing at the bank? That sounds fishy. Or maybe I’m just suspicious of everything my dad touches.

  “Hey, forget him. I’m right here,” she says, holding my face in her hands. “And I’m going to miss you like crazy. I will also worry every day, so please call or text to check in when you can.”

  “Spotty cell service,” I remind her. We read warnings about it on the glamping compound’s website.

  She nods. “If I don’t hear from you, I won’t alert state troopers. Not unless you aren’t standing here in front of me at noon next Friday. In one piece, I might add.”

  “Don’t know about one piece, but I’ll be here. Reagan’s got to be back for some presemester orientation thing for her cross-country team,” I remind her. “Speaking of, I’d better get outside. Need to stay on schedule.”

  She grasps my arm to peer at my watch
and winces at the time. “Crap. I need to get the room ready for my first appointment.”

  Good, because I really want to get out there alone before Joy decides to walk me outside and greet Reagan. Like my father, she’s still under the illusion that this is a girls-only trip, and I’d like to keep it that way.

  “I changed my mind. Don’t go.” She hugs me extra hard and then clings dramatically.

  “Mom,” I say, laughing. “You’re unbalancing my life force.”

  “Have I told you how much I love you?”

  “Not today. But you did buy me turkey jerky, and if that’s not a token of affection, I don’t know what is.”

  “I love you, sweet thing.”

  “Love you back,” I tell her.

  When she finally lets me go, I lift my heavy backpack onto one arm and salute her goodbye.

  “Don’t forget to feed Andromeda at dinner,” I remind her. That’s usually my job; Mom feeds her in the morning.

  “I won’t,” she assures me as I’m opening the door. “You don’t pee on your shoes and try not to provoke any bears.”

  “If I see a bear, I’ll pass out from fear, so he’ll just think I’m dead.”

  “That seems reasonable. And, Zorie?”

  “Yes?”

  “Don’t be cautious, be careful. Have a good time, okay?”

  I give her a confident nod and head outside.

  It’s a perfect summer day. Not too hot, not too cool. Pretty blue sky. I’m feeling a weird mix of anxiety and anticipation as I lug my backpack toward a striped no-parking space in front of the curb.

  No sign of Reagan yet, so I decide to do one last practice run on my backpack. I tried it on when it was empty, but now that it’s full, I’m forced to squat in order to lift it and am struggling to get it on both shoulders. When I finally manage it, I wobble clumsily and nearly topple over backward. How am I supposed to hike a dirt trail with this thing? Feels like an overweight sloth is clinging to my neck. Maybe if I secure the strap that buckles around my waist . . .

  “You’ve got it packed wrong,” someone calls out.

  I turn around slowly, in case I actually do fall over—which is a real possibility, not kidding—and it takes me exactly one second to spot the voice’s owner: black Converse high-tops, black jeans with artfully ripped holes in both knees, and a T-shirt with a heart inside an X-ray skeletal chest.

  Lennon is sitting on the hood of his hearse, which is parked a few yards away in one of the public spaces in the middle of our cul-de-sac. “You’re supposed to pack the heavy stuff in the center, near your back. Let your hips carry the weight, not your shoulders. When it’s packed right, you won’t be the Leaning Tower of Pisa.”

  “I’m not . . .” I shift my feet and lean forward slightly, barely preventing a bodily avalanche. Dammit.

  Lennon’s smile is slow and annoying. He’s wearing jet-black sunglasses, so I can’t see his eyes. Double annoying. Why is he even talking to me? Didn’t I tell him I hated him yesterday?

  “What do you have in there?” he asks. “Gold bricks?”

  “My telescope.”

  “You fit Nancy Grace Roman inside that pack?”

  I’m shocked he remembers. “No, the portable one.”

  “Ah. Well, it’s packed wrong.”

  “And I should trust you because you’re such an expert on backpacking,” I say irritably.

  He leans back on both hands and lifts his face to the sun. “Actually, I kind of am.”

  “Since when?”

  “Since forever. I backpacked with my moms in Europe when I was thirteen—”

  Oh, yeah. I forgot about that. “But that was in hostels.”

  “And campgrounds.”

  Right.

  “And three times this year. Three? Wait, maybe four,” he says, more to himself than me. He shrugs a shoulder lightly. “One of them doesn’t count, but anyway.”

  “You went to Europe this year?” I say, surprised.

  “No, I backpacked here in California. My parents gave me a national park pass for Christmas and took me camping in Death Valley over spring break. I even took a wilderness survival course.”

  Does not compute. This isn’t Lennon at all. The boy I knew didn’t spend time outdoors. I mean, sure, we technically spent most of our time together outside on all those walks, but that was here in the city. Before I can make sense of this new development in Lennon, Man of Mystery, he speaks up again.

  “I can help you repack if you want,” he says, still looking up at the sky, where misty trails of morning fog are drifting back out to the Bay, silver streaks against bright blue.

  Lennon Mackenzie with his hands on my private stuff? I don’t think so, buddy.

  “No, thanks.” I let the pack’s straps slide down my arms until it’s back on the ground. And then, in an attempt to shut him up, I add, “My ride should be here any second.”

  “Yeah, I just got a text.”

  Huh? Wait just one stinking second.

  Backpack advice. Camping in Death Valley. Spotted hanging out with Brett . . .

  Oh, no. Oh no, no, no.

  This is not Brett’s new bromance. This is not the “guy” who’s leading us to a secret off-trail waterfall in the Sierras. It can’t be! Reagan knows I avoid him. She doesn’t know why, exactly, but she should have told me. Why didn’t she tell me? There must be some mistake.

  Panic fires through my limbs as a dark blue SUV whips into the parking lot. Lennon casually jumps from the hood of his car, landing lightly on his feet. He bends to pick up something out of sight, near the front wheel. When he stands back up, he’s pulling a red backpack onto one shoulder. The top outer pocket is covered with vintage punk-rock buttons and retro national parks patches. A foam bedroll is neatly secured to its bottom.

  Holy hell.

  Blaring electronic dance music, the blue SUV skids as it brakes between us, and then Reagan’s light brown head pops up from the driver’s door. “Glamping time, bitches!” she shouts merrily over the stereo. “Packs go up top in the cargo container. Let’s hustle.”

  My mind can’t form a coherent thought. I know I’m staring stupidly as Brett lurches out of the SUV to clap Lennon soundly on the shoulder. “Lennon, my boy,” he says, voice full of joy. “That shirt is sick! I love it. Come on, I’ll help you get the cargo box open. The latch is screwed up.” Brett notices me for the first time.

  My stomach flips over.

  You know how people say they are blinded by love? That’s what happens to me when I see Brett. He looks like a celebrity, all tanned legs and sandy brown curls, a face too perfect for a mortal high school boy. And don’t get me started on his teeth. They are insanely perfect. I never knew teeth could be so attractive.

  He flashes me those million-dollar teeth in a dazzling grin. “Zorie. Still rocking that sexy scientist vibe,” he says, pointing finger guns at my glasses while making a zinging noise. Then he waves me closer for a hug. “Bring it on in, girl. Haven’t seen you in forever.”

  Oh, wow. I’m overwhelmed by the spicy scent of aftershave. He smells a little like my dad, which is a weird thing to think. Shut up, brain! This is all Lennon’s fault for surprising me. His presence is throwing me off my game. And now Brett lets me go, so I wasted the entire two-second hug with the boy of my dreams thinking about (A) my dad and (B) the boy of my nightmares. Terrific.

  “What you been up to this summer?” Brett asks lightly.

  Say something. Do not blow this. “You know, working.”

  Working? That’s the best I could come up with? I work twice a week at the clinic for a few hours, so why am I making it sound like I’m slaving over a paycheck at a real job? I want a do-over, but Brett’s attention has shifted to the task of opening the big plastic cargo carrier attached to the SUV’s roof rack. Meanwhile, Lennon is looking back at me—nay, full-on staring—and I can’t tell what he’s thinking because of those stupid sunglasses, but it feels judgmental.

  Is this really happening? Len
non is coming with us?

  Brett pops open the cargo carrier and helps Lennon lift his pack inside, nestling it in among several others. Lennon gestures silently with one hand and a tilt of his head, offering to help me lift my pack. I try to do it myself, and end up having to let Lennon and Brett boost it up. Which is humiliating.

  “Hey,” I say in greeting to Kendrick Taylor, closing the door as I get settled in my seat.

  Kendrick’s family owns a successful winery that’s lauded in the press for being one of the best vineyards in Sonoma County. Since he goes to private school in Melita, I’ve only met him once, when Reagan hauled me to a party.

  “Zorie, right?” he says, squinting one eye closed. In a chambray button-down and khaki shorts that contrast pleasantly with his dark brown skin, he’s better-looking than I remembered, and has a friendly, confident demeanor.

  A tall girl with long, sun-streaked hair leans around the front passenger seat. Summer Valentino. If you crave gossip about anyone in school, she knows it. And even though her grades were so bad that technically she should have had to repeat eleventh grade, she’s on the yearbook committee and the online school newspaper—which apparently saved her.

  “Zorie’s into astrology,” Summer tells Kendrick.

  “Astronomy,” I correct.

  “D’oh!” she says, smiling. “I always get those mixed up. Which one is the horoscopes?”

  “Astrology,” Kendrick enunciates, pretending to give her a slap on the head, which she ducks with a silly grin.

  Brett speaks up from behind me and introduces Kendrick to Lennon.

  “This is my boy,” Brett tells Kendrick, roughly shaking Lennon’s shoulder. “This kid is wild. Right, John Lennon?”

  Lennon’s sitting behind Kendrick, so I can see him better than Brett. “If you say so,” Lennon deadpans.

  “Is that really your name?” Kendrick asks.

  “Minus the John,” Lennon says. “But Brett never lets that stop him.”

  If I didn’t know better, I might wonder if this is a jab. But Brett just laughs as if it’s the funniest joke in the world.

  Um, okay. What is going on here?

  “Lennon’s father is Adam Ahmed from Orphans of the State,” Summer supplies. “They opened for Green Day a million years ago. His dad was that Egyptian-American drummer dude.”