“Carsen? That’s a fairly common name.”
“Wheatley. Carsen Wheatley.”
I scrunch my nose, thinking, trying to figure out where I’ve heard it before. It does sound vaguely familiar, but I can’t connect it to anything significant. Shrugging, I say, “Sorry. No dice.”
Jase drops his head to the table, sighing. “Dammit, E. I swear, you live in a bubble sometimes.”
“Will you just tell me what your problem with him is? This is getting tiring. I clearly have no idea who he is, so, enlighten me, oh wise one.”
Although he doesn’t lift his head, I know he rolls his eyes as he groans. “Don’t freak out, but…”
“But what?”
“He killed his mother.”
A glass shatters. A stuttered breath is inhaled.
My eyes shoot to the end of table in time to see Carsen whirling around and sprinting through the swinging doors leading to the kitchen. I hear crashing and banging and shouting.
Then, it’s silent.
2
Elliott
“What the hell is wrong with you!” I seethe. “Do you even know if that’s true, or are you merely spouting off random crap you’ve heard?”
“I… I…” he fumbles, caught in his misstep.
I slam my hand down on the table. “Dammit, Jase!” Shaking my head at him, I say, “I thought you were better than that.”
“I am!”
“It doesn’t seem that way to me.”
I fish around in the purse I always keep strapped around my torso until I find my small wallet. I throw down enough cash to cover the meal I never received and a good tip for my best friend being an asshole, then grab my basket full of laundry and make my way from the booth.
“E!” Jase calls as he realizes I intend to leave. “Elliott!”
I ignore him, pushing open the glass door and stepping out into what’s already turning into a sticky heat. I trudge back across the street toward the laundromat, stomping the entire way.
“Elliott! Come on! Wait up!”
I peek back over my shoulder to find Jase chasing after me. I speed up my pace, too pissed off to want to talk to him right now.
Jase isn’t this guy, the one to jump to conclusions, the one to be a complete dick to a total stranger. He’s always been polite, inclusive, nice—at least that’s how I thought he was. We recently ended our second year at UMass together, and up until a few months ago, he’s been the same Jase I’ve always known. Too often now he’s losing his temper, with me and others. He’s grown grouchy, and sometimes downright rude. He’s never been invested in rumormongering before, but here he is talking about a kid who maybe murdered his mother…in front of him!
It’s not my Jase, and it makes me miss him.
When he grabs hold of my arm, I know it’s too late. He’s caught up.
Dammit. Why does my best friend have to be a cross-country superstar runner?
“You make it incredibly hard to run away from you when you’re being a dick, you know.”
He shifts in front of me, halting my steps. I try to dodge around him but he’s too quick. Annoyed, I drop the basket I’m holding, cross my arms over my chest, and glare at him.
“Move, Jase.”
“No. You’re being irrational right now.”
“Like hell I am! You’re contributing to small-town gossip about a kid who’s probably innocent.”
“Probably innocent? Seriously, how can you be so fucking blind to all of this?”
I flinch at his words; rarely does Jase ever cuss. In fact, he’s typically the one telling me to watch my mouth. To hear something so strong come from his mouth is disheartening.
“Look, E, I’m not saying this crap just because. I’m saying it because it’s fact.”
“If it’s fact, then why isn’t he in jail?”
His brows slant inward, jaw goes hard. His entire stance becomes rigid. “Why are you defending him?” Jase’s words sound like they’ve been dipped in poison.
“I’m not defending him, Jase. I’m looking at this sensibly. I don’t know the guy. How can I defend him? Actually, I seem to recall flipping him off less than half an hour ago.”
He steps closer into me. “Exactly, so why are you trying so hard to convince me he’s innocent?”
“Why are you trying so hard to convince me he isn’t?” I argue, stepping up to his challenging demeanor. If the basket weren’t between us at our feet, we’d be nose to nose right now.
Jase huffs, his nostrils flaring with the action. I roll my eyes at his anger and bend down, grabbing my laundry from the sidewalk. Surprisingly, he lets me step around him this time.
“Call me when you’re done being a jackass!” I call over my shoulder.
Taking long strides, I hurry my way to my car before he decides to chase me down again. Jase and I hardly ever fight; in fact, I think we’ve had about four arguments our entire friendship.
Guess we can add a fifth one to that now.
Annoyance tinged with confusion pours from me as I unlock my sedan and throw my clothes into the back seat. I try to ignore the little voice in the back of my head nagging at me to not walk away during a fight, but I’m frustrated with Jase’s behavior. This is so unlike him, and I know he hurt that Carsen guy’s feelings. The dude all but fled from the diner the moment those words left Jase’s mouth.
I pull out onto the street, heading toward my parents’ house. Passing by Jase, who’s still standing where I abandoned him, I ignore his attempt to flag me down.
During the short drive back home, the smallest ounce of curiosity flitters through me at what Jase said about Carsen, but I squash it before it can get far. I will not contribute to gossip of any sort. If I want information, I will get it from the source, but I don’t want information. I want to forget about the shitty fight I had with Jase and forget about how much he seems to be changing.
I park my car along the shoulder in front of our modern two-story house. I can hear music filtering outside through the open windows, and I smile. Mom’s playing an old record again, and through the open curtains, I see she’s dancing along to the music.
Reaching into the back seat, I grab my basket of laundry and hustle my way into the house.
“Mom! Dad! I’m home!”
I drop my clothes by the door and make my way into the kitchen, drawing to a stop once I see the scene in front of me. Dad has a broom kicked sideways as he runs his fingers down the wooden stem like a guitar. Mom’s shimmying her hips back and forth with her apron covering her pajamas. The smell of Reuben sandwiches fills the air and makes my mouth water. Maybe it’s a good thing I walked out on lunch; Reubens are my favorite.
“You have some sick skills, Dad.”
Startled, he almost drops the broom. “Damn, kid, warn an old man next time you try to sneak up on him.”
“I shouted when I walked in the door. Besides, warning you would defeat the purpose of sneaking, if I was.”
“Oh please, like I can hear you over the soothing sounds of Bob Seger’s ‘Hollywood Nights’.”
“Soothing? Is that what this is called?”
He points a finger at me. “I will ground you.”
“Bring it on, old man. I’m too old to be grounded.”
“You still live here, dear,” my mother reminds me as she begins making another sandwich.
“Aha! That means I can ground you. You’re on thin ice.”
“You’re not grounding her, Nigel—unless she did something illegal.” My mother grabs her chest and gasps. “Oh Lord, did you do something illegal, Elliott Marie? Again?”
“That snowball was an accident! I wasn’t aiming for the window; I was aiming for that asshole Jase. He moves too fast. Also, I was nine!”
My dad looks over at my mom with a frown. “I told you we should have sent her off to juvie when we had the chance, Kaye. Not only is she a vagrant with a criminal past, but she’s now turned into”—audible gulp—“a potty mouth!”
My mother’s eyes begin to fill with tears. “Where did we go wrong, Nigel? Where!”
They embrace and pretend to cry into each other’s arms, throwing out soothing words and repeatedly saying, “I only wanted a good kid!” They think they’re a comedy duo.
I turn up the melodramatics and throw myself into one of the chairs surrounding the overcrowded square dinner table. “Why couldn’t I have normal parents?”
“Oh you do, dear,” my mother says, smacking a kiss to my father’s cheek, her love for him shining bright in her eyes before she turns back to the sandwiches like she didn’t put on an Oscar-worthy performance only seconds ago. “Now, where did you run off to this morning?”
“Hung out at the laundromat with Jase.”
My father peeks his head out from behind the pantry door. “Is our washer and dryer broken?” He turns to my mom. “Do I need to grab my tool belt?”
Mom scoffs. “As if you could actually fix something, Nigel. No, the washer and dryer work fine as far as I know.”
“It gets me out of the house. I need a break from you weirdos sometimes. Plus, Fish had his crap in there and I was not going to fold his underwear.”
Dad makes a face. “You don’t fold underwear, Elliott. That’s just weird.”
I shrug. “Whatever. I met Jase there and we hung out. We tried to go to lunch but he had a dick attack and I stormed out.”
My mom glances up from putting sandwiches together and catches my eye. A small frown, this time real, appears. “You stormed out? On Jase? What happened?”
“I have no clue,” I say, throwing my hands up in defeat. “He was fine and then he wasn’t.”
Dad grabs a beer from the fridge, skirting the stern look Mom gives him since it’s barely noon, and sits opposite me at the table. “Between fine and wasn’t, what happened?”
“Him? Me? Frowny Face Boy?”
“Frowny Face Boy? What sort of people are you hanging out with?”
“I’m not. He’s a guy I saw at the diner.”
“Vern’s? Did you already eat lunch then? I have one sandwich left to make but I can save the mixings for tomorrow or later.”
“No.” I grimace. “I left before our food came out. I’m starving.”
Mom scoops the sizzling concoction from the pan and places it on the plate already loaded down with six other Reubens. “You turned down food? Are you sick, child? You never turn down food.”
She’s not kidding. I love food, especially when it’s smothered in nacho cheese sauce. Someone could dip cotton candy in it and I bet you ten bucks I’d still eat it. It’s a sickness, really.
“I didn’t turn it down per se. I left before it came out.”
“Why the rush?”
“Well…”
“Does this have to do with that sad kid?”
“He wasn’t sad, Dad. At least I don’t think he was…I don’t know.” I tap my finger to my chin, trying to find the right word. “Burdened? Yeah, he seemed laden with something heavy. It was beyond sadness. It was almost like that’s who he is.” I reach forward and grab the salt shaker from the center of table. Dumping out a small pile, I begin to swirl it around, writing random words and drawing small pictures. “Does that make sense at all?”
“Who was this guy?” my dad asks.
My fingers hesitate over the salt drawings for only a moment while I debate telling him Carsen’s name. I’m worried my parents will have the same reaction Jase did, and I don’t think Carsen deserves that. There was something troubled about him, but not in a menacing, murder-your-own-mother sort of way.
“Carsen?”
“Huh?”
Dad nods toward the salt pile. I glance down, seeing that I unconsciously wrote out Carsen’s name.
“Is that his name?”
“Yeah,” I answer, almost in a whisper. “Carsen Wheatley.”
I’ve never seen my parents react so noisily and quietly all at the same time. Mom’s head whips up and her eyes clash with my father’s. Their conversation is loud and severe, yet they don’t utter one word.
“What?”
“Nothing,” Dad says without delay.
Looking between him and my mother, I say, “That wasn’t a ‘nothing’ look. What’s wrong? Have you heard of him too?”
“Too?”
“Yeah, Jase had a few choice words to say about him in front of him. It’s why I left. He was being cruel, and I wasn’t having any of it. So, I bailed.”
“What did he say?” Mom asks.
I narrow my eyes. A feeling creeps in, one that tells me they already know what Jase said but want to hear it again. For some reason, I don’t like that they could think Carsen could be capable of this. I don’t even know the kid, but I swear, I didn’t get that vibe from him in the slightest.
“I think you both already know,” I tell her, returning my attention to the salt pile.
They must exchange another silent conversation because it’s quiet for too long.
Finally, Dad says, “We do.”
“But we don’t contribute to gossip. I think you know that well enough by now, Elliott.”
“That’s what I told Jase too.”
“We all know that what we’ve heard is horrible and grisly, but we won’t form opinions on it until we know the facts. You’re on your own to pass judgment on Mr. Wheatley.”
What we’ve heard? Jase didn’t give details about Carsen—not that I would have let him. Allegedly killing your own mother is horrid, but apparently there are darker details than that. Curiosity rears its ugly head again, urging me to find out what those details are, but I don’t want to ask my parents for them.
Google was invented for a reason.
“I’m proud of you for handling what Jase said with such honor. It’s disappointing to hear he’d spread things around like that. It doesn’t seem very Jase-like.”
“Jase doesn’t seem very Jase-like lately.”
“Are you two having problems?” Dad asks in a protective manner.
“Simmer down, Daddy-o. It’s nothing we can’t handle…I hope.”
“Yes, because tacking on ‘I hope’ makes it sound so promising.” My older brother Fish comes shuffling into the kitchen looking like he only just rolled out of bed. To be fair, he probably did. It’s past noon now, but Fish doesn’t have an early morning alarm to wake him up—other than Mom—since he’s currently unemployed and not going to school.
“Fish, so nice of you to join us this afternoon.”
“It’s afternoon already? Damn. I slept forever.”
“You went to bed at four yesterday. Are you sick? Come here,” Mom presses. “Let me feel your head.”
Fish rolls his hazel eyes and scratches at his messy head of hair. “I’m good, Ma. Just tired.”
“From working? No, wait. It’s the schoolwork, right?” I tease.
“Elliott…” Mom warns. “Don’t start.”
“Fine, but Fish, you’re a bum. Go get a job.”
“I’m trying, Smelliott. Not all of us can stroll into a bowling alley and get hired on the spot because we have boobs.”
“That is so gross! Uncle Bryan was the one who interviewed me.”
“Fish, stop being sexist,” Dad says. “Your sister earned that job because she was qualified for it. You don’t get jobs because you don’t apply for them. Maybe start there?”
“Are you saying I need a job then? Ma?”
Dad sighs and takes a swig of his beer. The talk of Fish getting a job has been a point of contention these last few weeks. It’s not that Fish is lazy or doesn’t want to work, it’s that he was involved in a serious car accident about two months ago and now refuses to drive. As a result, he spends most of his time at home sleeping. Even when someone else is driving, it’s a hardship to get him into the car. The fear of wrecking again overwhelms and spins out into an anxiety attack. He’s even deferred his last year of college because of everything, and that’s not Fish. He’s always been very motivated and in charge of hi
s life. Now the fear controls him.
“You’ll drive when you’re ready, Fish. We understand,” Mom tells him, stressing the ‘we’, wanting to show that she and Dad are a united front in this decision. Dad thinks Fish simply needs to try harder to get past it. Mom’s giving him all the space he needs. It’s one of the few times they’ve disagreed on their parenting style.
“Are those sandwiches ready, Kaye?”
“Yes, dear. Come grab one. I’m not making your plate.”
“As if I’d let you ruin my lunch with your girl cooties.”
Mom raises a brow and stares my father down while grabbing a Reuben without looking. She lifts it to her mouth and licks it right across the entire surface. I hoot with laughter while Fish grins.
“Joke’s on you—that one is Fish’s.”
“Hey! No way! I’d basically be kissing Mom.”
Dad pins my brother with a serious gaze. “Fish, you came from your mom’s vagina. I don’t think you two can get any closer than that.”
Fish covers his ears, screaming, “Ewww!”
“Fish came from Mom’s where? That’s gross!”
We all freeze as Erik comes skidding into the kitchen, a look of horror on his face. Mom’s stare mirrors his because he’s covered in streaks of mud.
“Just be thankful you didn’t come from there too, kiddo. You’re so lucky these people aren’t your blood.”
“I mean, it’d be nice, but not if it meant that,” Erik says as he strolls farther into the kitchen as if he doesn’t look like a walking disaster right now. He takes the sandwich Mom licked and loads it onto his plate. All of us try to contain our laughter as he grabs a handful of the fresh mixed veggies Mom has out on the counter and adds them to the mix. “Thanks for lunch, Mom.”
With a smile, he moves to his spot at the table and takes a bite right before we all manage to fall apart at the same time.
“What?” he questions through his mouthful of food.
“Nothing!” Mom hollers before anyone can let Erik in on the secret. He’d force her to make another sandwich, and I’m certain that’s the last thing she wants to do right now.
Erik’s always been fickle with his food. Even when my parents adopted him at two, he had his issues. He can’t have his food touching and he always has to have something green on his plate—no matter what. I’ve even witnessed Mom using green food coloring on some of his dishes, anything to appease him. Those have always been his two big stipulations, so we accommodate him. He doesn’t make a fuss about what he eats, only how he eats it.
We Are the Stars Page 2
