Unlit Star

by Lindy Zart

  My knees go weak. Part of me, a part that is growing on a daily basis, wants to scream: Take me already! But I don't. I haven't reached that desperation quite yet, but if he keeps talking like this and kissing me like he has been, it'll happen. One day soon.

  "Do it."

  He rubs his nose up and down my neck, his breath warm against my skin. "Oh, I will."

  "The papers. School. You know what I mean," I reply raggedly.

  He drops his hands from me and steps away. "I will. Same time you register for school. They'll make exceptions for you, you know they will. We can do it together." He crosses his fingers. "We'll be like this at college."

  "No."

  Frustration twists his features. "I don't understand what your aversion to college is. Is this because of school? It won't be like that, you know it won't."

  "It's not about that!" I turn my back to him, forcing my lungs to expand as I fight to breathe. I feel like crying. It was easy to say I didn't want to continue my education when I didn't see the point of it. But I do now. I may have shown Rivers a different way to look at things, but he sure as hell has done the same for me too. I am grateful to him for it, but at the same time, I wish I could continue on in my bubble of rigidity.

  His hand moves to my shoulder, lingering there. "Then what is it about?"

  "I can't tell you."

  He spins me around. "Why not?"

  "It's personal." I avoid his eyes as I tell him this line of bull shit. It is personal, but that doesn't justify me shutting him out.

  His eyes narrow. "It's personal? I've shown you every part of me I could, every part of me I have, whether I wanted to or not—parts of me I didn't even know I had, and you won't even tell me why you won't go to school in the fall?"

  "Rivers—" I start.

  "Look at my face," he demands. He leans close to me, making his features unavoidable. "Look at the scars. You're the only one—" he breaks off, inhaling. His lips press together. "You're the only one who's never flinched when they looked at them, who never got that look of pity in their eyes as they gazed at me—you're the only one that's touched them, kissed them, acted like they are something good, or even nothing at all, when everyone else has acted like they are something bad.

  "Even my mom has this sad look on her face every time she looks at me. I can't stand it. And you, the girl I never would have considered as anything special, mean more to me than—than...anything. More than anything," he breathes. "I have told you so much, so many things, and you won't even tell me this one thing."

  He's right.

  His eyes are lit up with emotion and I am being filleted with the backlash of it as the blackness of conviction trickles from him to me, knowing everything he has said is true. I rub my face, wondering if I can pull another bit of courage out of me. Do it. Do it for him.

  I drop my hands, realizing that, yes, I can. I can do this for him. I slowly nod. "Okay. If you get your GED and get registered for school, I'll sign up for classes too." My heart is pounding in my chest, both in fear and excitement.

  "We'll do it together," he says it, but there is a question in his eyes that makes makes me want to cry. He's asking about our future—if we have one.

  "Yes," I whisper, knowing I will try my hardest to make it so.

  The happiness he aims at me in his beaming smile makes my pulse trip and my stomach roll. He grabs me, giving me a hard kiss, and releases me so fast I stumble back. "I'll call now." He strides from the room, the limp barely noticeable.

  I heave a heavy sigh, my shoulders slumping. Don't make a liar out of yourself, Delilah.

  I PROMISED RIVERS A NEW flavor of ice cream to try every time we went through a pint of the stuff. I think I may have started him down a destructive path of ice cream consumption. Today the selection is cookies and cream. I peruse the frozen glass for it, unaware of the presence behind me until she purposely bumps into me. I turn, holding a sigh in. Riley stares at me, her pretty features and well-groomed appearance unable to hide the animosity she feels for me. It radiates from her in waves of detestation. I think it's because of Rivers, but I also think it's because of our shared past.

  “What's going on with you and Rivers?”

  I say, “Nothing,” and turn away. That word, which is the equivalent of emptiness, holds all the weight of insurmountable heartache. Nothing is so much.

  She grabs my arm and squeezes. “What are you doing? You don't really think he likes you, do you?”

  I pull my arm out of her grasp. “So what if I did and so what if he does?”

  Her face scrunches up, twisting her beauty into something ugly. “He doesn't. He couldn't possibly like you.”

  “Why?”

  She laughs. “Are you for real? I mean, do you really not see? Look at you. Your hair is all a mess and your nose is pierced. You wear ridiculous clothes and you have a smartass mouth. You've never been popular. You don't even have any friends. You never have. Why would Rivers like you?”

  “You're wrong.”

  Something in my tone must scare her, because she flinches and takes a step back, but not enough to make her shut up. “I'm wrong? You're a joke. He's just using you. He'll use you for the summer, or however long it takes him to get better, and then he'll leave you like you were nothing. Like you are. You're nothing.”

  Her words hurt, because they're true, in a way—not that she knows that. This, whatever this is, it won't last. It can't. Whether Rivers wants our association to be temporary or not, it is. All of this will become nothing one day and I will fade from his memories like I had never been a part of him, his world, or anything to do with him. I'll be gone, like a fizzled out spark. Knowing this makes my heart hurt in ways I never thought it could. It won't even matter if he wants it to happen or not; it just will—because there is no outrunning the inevitable.

  Taking a deep breath, I decide to say what I have to say and then I'll try to forget her, what she ever was to me, and what she is now to me. “We used to be friends,” I say in a low voice.

  She looks around us, as though to assure herself no one heard my words. My mouth tightens in disgust for her. “Shut up,” she says in a strained voice.

  I take a step toward her. “We used to be friends,” I say in a louder voice. “You were just as unpopular as me, or maybe I was as unpopular as you. Either way, it never mattered. It never mattered to me because all I cared about was that we were friends. I know why you stopped being my friend. I felt bad for you at first, and then I felt angry, and now...now I just feel exhausted by it all. News flash, Riley—you aren't perfect. No one is. Stop trying to act like you are.”

  “You're jealous.” The sound of her voice is weak, so like the girl herself. She doesn't have to be. That's the most frustrating thing of all. She doesn't have to be the way she is and yet she thinks she does.

  “Jealous? Of you? The girl so obsessed with her looks she has to make herself puke every time she eats?” Her eyes shift around as she checks for witnesses. She still doesn't get it. No one cares.

  “No,” I continue. “I'm not jealous of you. I never have been.” I take another step toward her. “And when I caught you doing that, part of me felt sick. I wanted to help you. I would have helped you. You didn't let me. Instead you pretended we had never been friends. And when you stopped talking to me, I was sad and confused.” Another step. “And when you turned everyone against me, I hated you. And when you relentlessly picked on me every day because I knew a secret about you, a secret you didn't want anyone to know, not even your best friend, I felt sorry for you. But jealous? Not. Once.” We're at the wall now, Riley's back pressed against it.

  "You don't know what you're talking about." Her voice is heavy.

  "I think I do."

  "You don't know what it's like—you can't imagine—"

  "Come off it," I scoff. "We all have issues. We all have shit happen to us we wish didn't. We all want to be a certain way we don't know how to be. Part of life is accepting who you are and being okay wi
th it, instead of trying to change yourself."

  “I just wanted to be pretty,” she whispers, staring at me with wounded eyes.

  “You already were,” I tell her, swallowing thickly.

  Her eyes lower, covering her shame and remorse from mine. Seconds pass, becoming minutes, and still she won't raise her head. I suppose there are no words. I exhale slowly, stepping back, saddened by it all. And this is what we have come to. Once best friends, then enemies, and now we can't even think of anything to say to each other to reduce the pain of all the years spent hurting one another. Because it wasn't just her. Sure, she started it every time, but I fought back with words and more. I could have ignored it. I could have tried to talk to her. Instead I let her go, I stepped away, and watched her turn into something I loathed.

  "You've changed," she finally says.

  I nod, my chest painfully tight. "Yeah. So have you."

  She blinks her eyes, and I pretend I don't see the tears in them. "I had to. I thought I had to for Rivers, but..." She glances at me, the pain of being replaced in someone's heart evident in the darkening of her eyes. "I realized I had to for me," she ends quietly.

  I nod again, not sure what to say. I hesitate, and then tell her, "You're more important than anyone else. Try to remember that."

  "I'm better now," she tells me in a small voice. I don't know if she is telling the truth or not, but for her sake, I hope she is.

  "I'm glad."

  I turn to go, pausing as she says, “I know why he was drawn to you. I understand even.” I don't speak, watching out the window at the traffic zipping up and down the street. Her voice cracks as she says, “I needed him to need me. You don't. It's messed up, but...I always kind of envied that about you. You were never afraid to be yourself. I was nothing but afraid.”

  My eyelids slowly close. I inhale deeply, and walk from the store, leaving a piece of my childhood with Riley.

  A collage of memories bombard me as I drive to Rivers' home. The first day of kindergarten when Riley smiled at me, her long brown hair in a braid. I thought she was so pretty with her big blue eyes and soft hair. I especially loved her pink flowered dress. I smiled back and we played on the swings together, seeing who could pump their legs the highest. First grade was a bad year for me. I was only six, but I learned a lot about life and death that year. I can't pretend it didn't change me, because it did. She made me a picture every day for a month. I still have them somewhere in a folder.

  Fast forward to second grade when her cat died. She stayed over at my house and my mom made us hot chocolate. We spent the night watching movies and she cried as I rubbed her back. Third grade we fought over a boy for two weeks until we realized we liked each other better than we liked him. Fourth grade, a girl named Avery moved to our school and Riley started to hang out with her as well as me. We were rotated.

  It was the end of sixth grade when I caught her with her finger down her throat. At first I didn't understand what I was seeing, but I understood her guilt and fury. Eventually, I understood why she stopped talking to me that summer. And when seventh grade started, I was the school pariah. I even realized why she felt it was necessary to attack me. I had seen her greatest weakness. I had seen that she was flawed just as much as the rest of us. I knew her biggest secret. Maybe she thought by belittling and ridiculing me, that if I ever did tell anyone what I saw, no one would believe it. It was such a shame, such a waste. It was also clear she never really knew me, not like a best friend should.

  I never would have told. I never have.

  When I get back to the house, it is like a mountain has broken into pieces from my shoulders and fallen down my back. In the removal of Riley from me, I am raw, shattered, but I am also lighter.

  "Funny thing happened at the store," I tell him, watching his back muscles flex and lengthen as he tosses a football in the air and catches it.

  He turns to face me, juggling the ball from hand to hand as he waits.

  "I forgot the ice cream."

  His eyes drop to my empty hands. "I see that. That's sort of unusual, right? Wasn't that the whole purpose of going to the store?"

  I wince. "Yeah. I got distracted."

  The sudden stillness of his body strikes me as odd. "By what?"

  Frowning, I toss the car keys toward him. He catches them, his stance and expression not changing. "What do you think I got distracted by?" I ask slowly. Did Riley call him or something? Why would she? What would the point of that be? Unless it was to try to wedge a gap between us. If so, I will have to hunt her down and punch her in her pretty face.

  He shrugs. "I don't know." He turns toward the garage, entering through the side door. The garage door rambles up, showing a tense Rivers. "You want to drive the car into the driveway? I need to wash it." His tone is curt and he won't look at me, which I don't like, but what sets me off is when he chucks the car keys back at me without even glancing my way.

  I let them drop to the pavement and cross my arms. "You have two seconds to tell me what is going on."

  He snorts, snapping the band of his white athletic shorts as he walks farther into the garage. Kneeling beside a shelving unit, he grabs cleaning supplies and walks back into the sunlight, raising an eyebrow at me. "Are you going to move the car or do I need to?"

  Hot anger scorches my veins and I charge him, wrapping my arms around his waist and taking him down without much effort. I think his surprise worked in my favor.

  He grunts upon impact. "Damn it, Bana! What the hell was that for?"

  I climb over the top of him and glare down at him with my palms digging into his warm chest. "You tell me what your attitude is for, right now, or I quit."

  Wariness creeps into his eyes, but it doesn't remove the belligerence from his expression. "You wouldn't."

  "I so would."

  "You need this job. You need the money. What about your Amtrak trip?"

  "I'll work for my mom. She pays better anyway."

  "She does not."

  "Okay, so you're right, but at least I wouldn't have to deal with your grumpy ass."

  He scowls up at me. Only when I do not budge nor speak another word, does he sigh, closing his eyes. "Jeff Monroe works there. I thought—I thought maybe you'd seen him and talked to him or something," he mutters.

  I sit back, becoming blatantly aware of how my body is straddling his, and digest what I just heard. Part of me wants to laugh, part of me wants to demand what is wrong with him, and the other part of me—is smiling. He opens one eye and closes it again. I push against his chest until he looks at me.

  "Are you jealous?"

  "No," he snaps.

  I lean down, bringing my face inches from his. His lips turn down and I kiss the frown away. "You just made my day," I tell him.

  "Glad my stupidity entertains you." His hands rise up to loosely clasp my waist. "You should have tried out for football. That tackle was lethal."

  I grin. "Are we going to wash your car or stay like this all day?"

  "I'm okay with us like this. Wait—are you going to wear your swim suit?"

  "I could be persuaded."

  He practically shoves me off of him. "No time for lying around. We've got a car to wash. I'll get you—I mean, the car—sudded up." A twinkle of mischief enters his eyes as he slowly smirks.

  I don't mention my encounter with Riley. It has nothing to do with him, not really, and in the letting go of it, I am happier. We end up just as soapy and wet as the car, but we laugh and joke around as we spend the afternoon outside. Again, I am reminded of how the simple things are the best things, and that certain people make the difference between being alone and being lonely—and that Rivers fills me with vitality.

  I TOOK A FEW HOURS off in the morning, deciding I needed to dye my hair again since the red was fading out. While at the salon, I did something really crazy and went with what the beautician determined was probably the closest shade to my natural hair color, adding some faint blonde highlights throughout to add contrast. A
nd then...I did something completely nutso and had a spray-on tan done. I let the sun-bathed masses get to me—I conformed. My skin glows a creamy shade of bronze like it has never glowed before. I feel prettier, brighter, my eyes more enhanced with the color of my face.

  I feel like all the other people whose skin tans instead of burning.

  Monica called just as I was leaving, and although I was glad to talk to her, the news she gave me put a layer of sorrow on my time with Rivers. Thomas' mother passed away—that alone being sad enough news—and they are returning in two days. I realize nothing can ever truly go back to the way it was, nor would I want it to, but once they are back, it cannot continue on as it has either.

  I smile when I see his long frame sprawled out, stomach down, on a blanket on the wood deck, the sight of him enough to make all my dreary thoughts dissipate. Rivers loves the sun and the sun loves him back, turning his skin an attractive shade of copper as the days go by.

  “Are you going to sleep out here too?”

  "It isn't like we haven't before." He looks up from the book in his hands and stares. “What did you do to your hair?”

  I am unusually nervous as I finger a layered lock of chocolate brown hair, stopping beside him. “I dyed it back to my natural color. Or as close as the beautician could get it.”

  "And did you sit under a heating lamp while you were there too?"

  I splay my fingers wide, liking the color they have never been able to wear before. "I did a spray-on tan. I wanted to know what it felt like to be like all you people who get some color in the summer."

  "And? What's the consensus?"

  I shrug. "It's fun."

  “Fun, huh?" He pauses. "I like it."

  My face heats up and I swallow. “Thanks.”

  He rolls onto his back, letting the book fall from his fingers to the blanket he lies on. “But I liked you pale too. Anyway, really. You're sort of like a chameleon. You're always changing. Your hair, your clothes, your image. Most people are trying to be like someone else, but you seem to be fighting to be known only as you. But how do you know who you really are, if you're always trying to be different from everyone else?”