Among The Stars

by Robin Banks

  Still, people’s enthusiasm is contagious. The best part of it is that a bunch of people are planning a bunch of parties. So many parties are planned, in fact, that people have been arguing over who’s getting what date. I intend to do precisely fuck-all about it beyond turning up and enjoying myself. It may sound selfish, but I don’t fancy getting into a fight over my right to entertain people.

  I don’t fancy getting into any fights at all, in fact. Everything Tom said about having a quiet life has sunk in. It all makes sense. I like it here, and for me getting on with the people around me is important. Some of the people here have a bit of an odd outlook about some stuff, but I can’t change that. I don’t have the right to try, I guess. I can live with it or I can rail against it, but that’s how it is.

  I’ve been a bit concerned about the fallout of the Meena thing. I really don’t want to give her the time of day anymore. I don’t think it’s going to be a huge problem with her, because it’s not as if she ever seemed to appreciate the effort I was making, but people have gotten used to pairing us up in their heads. Getting them over that may be an issue. If they peg me as the bad person in this I could be in for a rough patch. It would be ironic if people resented me for allegedly breaking up with a girl I’ve hardly exchanged ten sentences with. Then again, way things have gone up to now, it wouldn’t surprise me in the least.

  I had it totally wrong. First time I get to the café with Tom and blank Meena out – blank her back, to be precise – nobody seems to bat an eyelid. I don’t know what the official version of what went on at the girls’ bunks is, but apparently it’s good enough for them to finally put the Meena affair to rest. I’m torn between being annoyed that it ever was an issue and being relieved that it’s over now.

  During our first show, as we’re waiting backstage to hand over the animals, Reza comes over to us. She looks up at me with that fearsome scowl of hers and blurts out “I heard about what Meena said. I missed it when it happened, or I’d have slapped her one then and there. I think she’s a really poor excuse for a human being and you shouldn’t let her upset you.” Then she just throws herself upwards and kisses me square on the chin before I have a chance to register what the hell is going on.

  I still don’t know what you’re supposed to do or say when girls you barely know kiss you without any warning, particularly girls who are not only older than you, but fully capable of snapping you in several pieces without breaking a sweat. I just stand there, waiting for a clue or for my brain to unclog. That must be the right response somehow, because she beams me a smile, calls me a sweetie, and goes off to join the rest of the herd.

  Tom shakes his head at me. “How do you do it?”

  “I have no idea. Seriously.”

  “My girl cozies up to some rich so-and-so and nobody cares. You have a ten-second argument with your imaginary girlfriend and people are putting up bunting to cheer you up. It defies all understanding.”

  “Can you imagine what would happen if my real life was half as interesting as the stuff people are making up?”

  “No. You couldn’t cope with it. Your head would explode.”

  The first party takes place the same night, right after the last show. One of the older artists is celebrating his belated birthday. He had a party on the ship on the way in, but that wasn’t swanky enough for him. Tom’s friends are going, so Tom is going, so I go. I don’t expect to be catered for or anything like that. I don’t really know these people and I don’t think they owe me anything. I’m not disappointed. The artist in question gives me the kind of look one might give a foot fungus, but carries on hanging out with his friends and doesn’t turf me, so I’m happy enough.

  His daughter, on the other hand, latches onto me, gushing out her feelings about the Meena thing. I’ve learnt that denial just fuels the flames and I don’t have much to say on the subject, so I shut up and pretend to listen. Once she’s finished waffling she abandons me to my fate.

  By then everyone I know has buggered off somewhere else, and I have no idea where. I figure I’m going to finish my drink and make my way home, but before I get a chance a guy comes and stands next to me. I recognize him as the juggler from the show, though it takes me a while. His face looks oddly droopy. I’m guessing he’s had a few too many.

  In a conspiratorial tone, he slurs “That will never happen, you know? They wouldn’t allow it. Plus she’s only fourteen.”

  “What?”

  “The girl. She may be all over you, but she’s only fourteen, and her parents would never allow it. Wouldn’t make any difference if she was older, really.”

  “I don’t know what you’re on about.” Meena was never all over me, she’s seventeen, and her parents are dead. Alya told me. That’s partly why Alya picked her: Meena had the least to lose and the most to gain. Then it lands on me that he’s talking about the kid who just spoke to me. Gods. Is every social interaction about mating around here?

  “Ok. Thank you for your advice.” I figure that might shut him up. I’m wrong.

  “You need to sort yourself out. Need to better yourself. And those people won’t help you any.”

  “What people?”

  “Those two you work with. The Russian has been in circus most of his life and never made it into the show. Now he never will, the state he’s in. And that woman did everything backwards. Going from being in an act to shoveling shit? Who does that? And she lives like a gypsy.”

  “I think her house is pretty cool.”

  “What house? She lives in an ATR. Only fucking gypsies do that. If Mr. Jameson did things properly, he wouldn’t allow that kind of shit. Makes us all look bad.”

  “Oh?” I don’t know what else to say, but apparently that’s not a problem, because he just carries on.

  “You want to make it here, make anything out of yourself, you need to get in the show, get a proper wagon, and sort yourself out.”

  “I don’t think I’d want to be in the show. I don’t have anything I could do and I don’t like people looking at me.”

  “You just need to learn an act. Find someone who will teach you, someone who needs a guy like you.”

  “But I’d still not like people looking at me.”

  “Why are you here, then?”

  I’m not going to tell him the truth about that. “Seemed like a good bet. And I like my job.”

  That makes him angry and I don’t know why. “In the old days, someone like me wouldn’t even say hello to someone like you,” he growls. “You would be beneath my notice. We had standards. Now everyone’s mixing with everyone. But that doesn’t make it right.” He stumbles off muttering to himself.

  I think I’ve had about enough of this party, so I leave. The walk back to my bunk takes me past Alya’s ATR. The door is ajar and there’s music coming out. I try to walk past, but the music is too haunting and my feet get stuck in it. A man and a guitar are talking to each other, and what they are saying is as beautiful as it is mournful. I listen to the end of the song before I realize what I’m doing, by which time it’s too late.

  “Luke? I’ll copy it for you tomorrow, if you want it.” Alya’s voice sounds odd through the gap in her door.

  “Yes, please. Sorry. How the hell did you know it was me?”

  “Laika. She has a special song she sings for you.”

  “Laika sings?”

  As soon as I say her name, her nose pokes out of the gap and slides the door open. She streaks out of the ATR and weaves around my legs until I give up and pet her.

  “She makes little squeaky noises when someone she really likes is nearby. She only does it for a handful of people, so you should be honored. Now she’ll try to convince you that she’s not being a bad girl, that she thought you called her out. Don’t let her.”

  “I’ve already lost that battle. I never stood a chance.”

  “Outsmarted by a dog?”

  “Don’t even try to pretend you’re surprised.”

  Alya peers out of her open door. “Wh
at are you doing back here, anyway? The party’s still in full swing, by the sounds of it.”

  “I had all the fun I could stand. What about you? You never even went.”

  “I was there. I made the appropriate noises of appreciation at the host, made sure the powers that be marked my presence, and then I fucked off home.”

  “Party not good enough for you?”

  “Just not in a party mood.”

  “That’d be me all the time. I still try.”

  “Well, I’m not in the mood to do that, either.”

  She doesn’t look good. She hardly ever does, lately. There are dark marks under her eyes, her face gets more pinched every day, and her body hangs limply whenever she’s not moving. I think I know what it’s about: this started after Anteia. I know Tom reckons that I should leave her to it, because I can’t perk her up and she can drag me down, but she’s my friend and I don’t like to see her like this.

  I can’t tell her that, though. It’s not how we do things. Instead I sit myself in her doorway and let Laika be the reason I’m here. Laika doesn’t care why she’s getting cuddled, so it’s all good.

  “That song you were playing was something else.”

  “Yeah,” she croaks. “The whole album’s great. You’ll love it. Kolya will, too. Just don’t play it at me, ok?”

  “Where did you find it?” I realize as soon as the words leave my mouth that it’s a ridiculous question and that I already know the answer.

  “Anteia.”

  So much for cheering Alya up. Laika stops contorting herself around me, leans hard against my legs and rests her head on my knees.

  “I think I broke your dog.”

  “She’s fine. She’s very sensitive to people’s moods, is all. You’re sad, so she’s sad for you.”

  “I don’t want her to be sad. And I really don’t want her to be sad because of me.”

  “Neither do I. But you can’t lie to her. The only way of fixing this is to stop being sad.”

  “It’s not as easy as flicking a switch.”

  “No shit, kid.” She comes out and sits in the doorway with me. Laika turns her eyes and ears in her direction, but doesn’t budge. “So, what made you sad?”

  “The party, a little bit.”

  “What the hell happened?”

  “Nothing major. A bunch of people ignored me and the juggler guy gave me a lecture about how I need to better myself.”

  “Oh. That’s nice of him.”

  “I don’t know if they have a problem with who I am or what I do.”

  “Probably both. You’re doing a job they like to despise and it doesn’t bother you. And you’re not sufficiently deferential.”

  “I might try if I knew what that meant.”

  “Nah, you wouldn’t. Not your style. You don’t suck up to the artist. You don’t act like you’re less of a person than them.”

  “And that’s what they want me to do?”

  “It’s part of it. You also don’t talk down to the boys. You treat everyone the same.”

  “So?”

  “So that’s not how it should be. You’re supposed to recognize the artists’ superiority. Or at least the workers’ inferiority. You don’t. You just see a job that needs doing and the people who do it. I like that about you.”

  “Guy reckons I should try and get in the show. I don’t want to do that.”

  “Then don’t do it. Nobody’s making you. It may do you good, though. Personally and socially.”

  “I don’t like people looking at me.”

  “That’s why it may do you good personally. Get you used to that. Maybe even get you to enjoy it.”

  “I doubt it. What about you, anyway? You’re not in the show. Or Kolya.”

  “Kolya doesn’t look right for the show, and he doesn’t care. He never did. He’s perfectly happy doing what he’s doing. He’s not perfectly happy in general, mind you, but he loves his work. I never wanted to be in the show. It was always a means to an end for me. Now that I don’t have to, I’m much happier. I’m not much for getting looked at, either.”

  “But you’re telling me I should be.”

  “Just because I fuck shit up doesn’t mean that I want you to fuck it up, too.”

  “That makes sense. I think.”

  As soon as we stop talking, her face and body go slack. Laika makes a noise in her throat and moves to put her face in Alya’s lap.

  Alya strokes her head while murmuring “I’m sorry, my girl. My best girl. This is so damn unfair on you.”

  “What would it take to fix it?”

  “A time machine.” She takes a deep breath and holds it so long I think she’s going to pop. “I don’t suppose you’d like to have her for the night?”

  “Eh? What?”

  “She’d be happier with you. You could play guitar for her and she’d look at you like you’re the only person in the world. She wouldn’t have to worry about anything.”

  “I think she’d rather be with you.”

  “Normally, yeah. Way I’ve been, I don’t think I’m good for her.”

  “But is she good for you?”

  “Always. But I don’t have the right to bring her down. I don’t have the right to bring you down, either.”

  “Wouldn’t you miss her?”

  “Of course. Terribly. But that’s not what’s important.”

  “It’s important enough to me.”

  “Kid, your priorities are all screwed up. She’s the innocent party here.”

  “Will you shut it already? Kicking yourself when you’re down isn’t much of a spectator sport.”

  “Harsh.”

  “Called for. So you’re upset, right? It’s not as if you don’t have a reason for feeling like that. This may sound totally wild, but how about you try and cheer yourself up? You know, like you’d do for Kolya, Laika, and pretty much anybody else? If I was all cut up, you wouldn’t lock me in my bunk, make me work all hours, and take my fucking dog away from me.”

  “You don’t have a dog.”

  “I know that. I was talking about what you do to yourself. If you treated me like you treat yourself, I’d not want anything to do with you.”

  “Gods. Don’t hold it all in. Say it like you see it.”

  “I didn’t know we were trading bullshit. I can do that, if you want. You’re a terrible person, you deserve what you got, you should make sure you drag this misery on as long as you can, and your dog hates you.”

  “Get out of my head, before I start charging you rent.” She’s looking pissed off now. That seems an improvement.

  “So what are you going to do now?”

  “I’m going to walk my damn dog round to that damn party, have a damn drink or three, and act like everything is bearable until I convince myself that it is or it’s time to go to sleep. How’s that for you?”

  “I couldn’t care less. I’m off to bed. Work day tomorrow.”

  “You’re a detestable child, you know that?”

  “But I’m right.”

  “You can be both things.”

  2.

  I’ve never been much of a morning person until we got here. I still don’t enjoy getting woken up by the clanging of the life support alarm, but I’m starting not to mind getting out of bed. Mornings here are just lovely. On Anteia we had to start work when it was still dark. On Semele the mornings were bright but chilly. Here when we get up it’s warm enough to be comfy outside and the primary is level with the horizon, casting a bright, silver light instead of the harsh gold that bakes me later on in the day. It’s quiet, too. We start work well before everyone, apart from the boy who turns on the life support. Tom resents that, but I love it. I like some time without people.

  I’ve taken to having my breakfast sitting in my doorway. I like to watch the light change and feel my skin warm up. I’m enjoying my first cup of coffee when I spot an ATR rolling up towards our back tunnel. It’s a fleet one, which is odd for this time of day. I’ve got nothing better to d
o, so I keep watching.

  When the ATR doors open, I’m underwhelmed. It’s just the two clowns coming back to the show. I guess they must have spent the night out on the town. That’s nice for them, I guess, but I really don’t give enough of a fuck, so I go back to focusing on how damn pretty this morning is and how great my coffee smells.

  When they walk past me, I smile and nod at them. Apparently that’s not the right thing to do, because the man turns around and starts screaming in my face.

  “Look at the state of you! Sort yourself out!”

  I don’t have much to say in response, so I don’t say anything. That’s not the right thing to do either, because he starts screaming even louder.

  “You look like a tramp! You live like a tramp! What’s the public going to think if they see you like that? They’ll think we’re all a bunch of gypsies!”

  I try responding to that. “Show isn’t on for over eight hours.”

  That doesn’t go down well. The guy gets even louder.

  “Cut your damn hair! Get some proper clothes! Take your shit inside!”

  He’s getting a bit too close to me for my taste, but I’ve got a cup of hot coffee in my hand and my knife by my feet. He’s heavier than me, but he’s older and slower, so I’m not all that concerned. If it goes down, I can deal with it. I’d rather not be getting into a scrap, though, so I stay very still and wait to see what he’s gonna do next. It could go either way, I reckon. Then Alya’s voice emerges from her ATR.

  “Simon? Is there any particular reason why you’re screaming the place down? Hate to break it to you, but it’s a bit early for this.”

  He turns and starts to flap his arms and scream at her. “Look at the state of him! You want to get your boys sorted out! Just because you have no standards, it doesn’t give you the right to make us all look like shit!”

  “Simon, I don’t know what you’re seeing. All I can see from here is a worker in overalls having a cup of coffee. Quietly. Which strikes me as the right way of being this early in the day.”