In the Stars

by Stacia Deutsch

  I can do this. I tell myself that over and over during the car ride to the party. I can be social. I will have a great time. I’ll talk to people I might not otherwise spend time with and enjoy myself.

  I’m going to this party not just to be with Adam, but to prove that I can fit into his world as smoothly as he seems to fit into mine. Oh, and I’m crossing my fingers that he’s going to ask me to prom. Tonight is my night.

  While they were dressing me up, Tanisha, Jennifer, and Cherise came up with a plan to go to the costume store on Monday evening with their dates. Whether Adam asks me tonight or I ask him tomorrow, we’re set to go to the costume store with them. The thought of wearing Jennifer and Tanisha’s Cinderella dress with my own Prince Charming is so awesome, I have to hold myself back from asking Adam to prom right here in the car.

  As he drives, I find that I’m actually looking forward to the party. I can do this. I really can.

  I wish I wasn’t obsessed with dental hygiene, but along with my love for the stars, this was another “gift” from my mom. She made me brush twice a day and floss every night. What other one-year-old has her own box of floss? I had two teeth and was already looking for food caught between them.

  When we get to the party, I decide that a quick check in the mirror is a good idea. If I’m going to peel myself out of my shell and be social, I need to feel my most confident. Even though I haven’t eaten anything since leaving the apartment, a tooth check and a little more lip gloss will be just the security blanket I need.

  “I’m going to find the rest room,” I tell Adam as he takes my jacket and ushers me into Gavin Masterson’s party.

  “I’ll get us some drinks,” Adam says, wandering off into the crowd.

  The house is packed. It crosses my mind to wonder if Gavin’s parents know that there are hundreds of high school students crammed into every corner of their lovely home. Then I hear the crash of breaking glass from the living room and my fear is confirmed: His parents have no clue.

  I wander upstairs looking for a bathroom. I run into a group of girls who I don’t know. They’re shouting my name and hugging me like we’re all best friends. They’re gushing, reviewing the moment when Adam handed me the victory goggles.

  “Such an awesome swimmer,” one girl tells me.

  “And so hot,” another says.

  I look for an excuse to disappear while they go on and on about how lucky I am to be at the party with Adam. After a few minutes of them goo-ing all over me, I find a place to slip in the word “thanks,” as if I’m somehow responsible for Adam’s magnificent performance at the swim meet, and then rush off, still looking for a mirror.

  This whole fitting-in-with-the-popular-group thing is harder than I expected. I’ll take five in the bathroom to regroup, then go find Adam. After a while, maybe I’ll try again with the gushing girls. I’m hoping there’s more to them than blond hair and belly button rings. It’s going to be my personal mission to find out what.

  While I stand outside the bathroom waiting my turn, a swimmer pal of Adam’s comes and presses an envelope into my hands.

  “Is it from Adam?” I ask, my curiosity piqued. I don’t even know my delivery boy’s name. I think it might be John or James.

  “Nah. Some guy outside gave me twenty dollars to find you,” he tells me.

  The bathroom door opens and even though I’m next in line, I let a girl go in before me. This feels a bit spooky. “Do you know who the guy was?” I ask my messenger.

  “I think he goes to our school, but I’m not sure,” the guy answers with a shrug. “I didn’t see nothin’ but the cash in his hand.” Good thing a crime wasn’t committed. This kid would be a terrible witness. Having earned his money, my delivery boy disappears down the stairs back into the party.

  I quickly rip open the envelope. It’s an invitation. To a bar.

  My initial thought is that I’m not old enough to go to a bar. And unlike many kids at school, I don’t have a fake ID. As I’m thinking this, I see the handwritten note at the bottom of the invitation. In neatly printed blue letters it reads:

  Wristbands will be given to those over the age of 21.

  I note the facts: next Friday night. Eight p.m. A bar called the Holy Grail in a trendy part of Cincinnati called Pleasant Ridge.

  The question is, who wrote it and why? It’s bizarre and I’m a little scared. This is the stuff Hitchcock movies are made of.

  If you think that going to a party at Gavin’s is out of character for me, there’s no way I’ll be going to some bar in Pleasant Ridge by myself next weekend. No chance in hell. When I finally get into the bathroom, I tear up the invitation and throw away the pieces in the trash can. With a quick check of my teeth, I put on my lip gloss, tell myself, “I can do this” one final time, and go back out to the party.

  Adam is standing by the fireplace in the living room talking to Gavin. Whatever glass object I heard break had been cleaned up while I was away. “You were gone a while,” he says. “Everything all right?”

  “I’m fine,” I tell him, struggling to put the mysterious invitation out of my mind and turn my focus to having a good time with my boyfriend. “It’s just so crowded it’s hard to get around.”

  Adam looks down at my leg. “Your ankle okay?” I feel a shot of color hit my checks. He’s so sweet that he still cares about my ankle! No one else ever bothers to ask.

  “Fine,” I repeat, gesturing toward Gavin. “Sorry I interrupted.”

  Gavin’s bleached-blond hair twinkles in the room’s overhead lighting. In elementary school, he was a brunette, then suddenly in seventh grade he became a poster boy for the Big Island of Hawaii. Too bad we live in Ohio.

  “How’s it going, Gavin?” I ask as cheerily as I can.

  “Night just got better,” Gavin replies with a flirtatious wink.

  “Sylvie’s my girl,” Adam tells Gavin, giving him a friendly punch in the gut. “Get your own.” Adam puts his arm around me possessively.

  “But I like yours,” Gavin replies and the two of them laugh.

  I’m not sure whether to laugh, too, or not. I’ve never been the subject of guy talk before, at least not while I was present. I don’t know how to react. I just stand there wondering if I should be flattered or repulsed as the two of them pretend to fight over who gets me.

  The subject switches to the results of tonight’s swim meet. After a few minutes, I put my hand on Adam’s arm. I’m not sure how else to send the message that I no longer want to be standing here with Gavin and that I’d like for us to move on. Those giggling girls are nearby. We could go talk to them instead. See how that goes.

  Adam doesn’t catch my clue. Briefly pausing his conversation with Gavin, Adam hands me a cup of red-colored punch that was sitting on the fireplace mantel, saying, “Oh, I got you some punch.”

  “Thanks.” I take a sip. Not only is it spiked, but it’s so sweet, I cough.

  Adam downs his drink in one gulp, hands me the keys to his car, and says, “You’re the designated driver tonight. I’m getting a beer. Want some more punch?” I look at him sideways. Clearly Adam doesn’t know the punch is spiked.

  “No, thanks,” I reply, setting my drink on the mantel and putting his keys in my purse.

  Adam leans in and gives my earlobe a nibble. He whispers, “Now’s your chance to patch things up with Gavin. I’ll be back in a few minutes. Be nice,” he breathes in my ear before wandering off in the direction of the nearest keg.

  Because Adam asked, I’m going to try my best to be nice. But only because Adam asked. “You swam really well tonight,” I say, unable to think of anything else.

  Gavin accepts my praise, then asks, “Where’s your buddy, Cherise, tonight?”

  “Not here,” I say simply. Keeping the conversation to the basics seems like the way to go.

  “I thought the two of you are stuck together like glue.” There’s a look on Gavin’s face that I don’t like. I avoid his gaze.

  “She’s my friend,” I
tell him. “But we aren’t stuck together.” What is Gavin up to? He’s making it hard to be nice.…

  “I’ve never liked her,” Gavin tosses in as if I asked what he thinks.

  “I don’t really care what you—,” I begin, feeling a surge of emotion rising to the surface. Suddenly, I’m back in fourth grade. Once a bully, always a bully.

  I take a deep breath and reframe my response. “You don’t have to like her,” I say hoping that will end the conversation. “I honestly don’t care.” There. How was that?

  Adam wants me to be nice. For Cherise’s honor, I should argue or kick him in the knee. I’m not going to do either. Tonight, I’m trying to be neutral, like Switzerland.

  I look around for the nearest exit. The front door’s in sight, over Gavin’s right shoulder, about thirty feet away. I’ll grab Adam on the way out. I’m certain he’ll understand.

  “Have you ever wondered why I stole from Cherise in fourth grade and not from you, Sylvie?” Gavin flashes a wicked grin and steps in closer to me, blocking my view of the front door. “Because I liked you. Cherise’s too weird, always has been, but you …” He’s looking down at me with a hungry expression. “I’ve always had a soft place in my heart for you.” My discomfort is growing. “Did you know the swim team’s all about sharing? We share lockers and towels.” He raises his eyebrows as he adds, “All kinds of things.”

  Gavin wobbles as he bends closer to me. I can smell the alcohol on his breath. Steadying himself, he drapes an arm over my shoulder, saying, “You could tutor me in math and I could tutor you in …” He whispers a word that I have never considered saying aloud.

  I try to pull away but he holds me tighter under his arm, pulling me firmly against his side. The hand over my shoulder is now slowly creeping across my shirt. When Adam told me to be nice to him, I don’t imagine that letting Gavin cop a feel was what my boyfriend had in mind.

  I’m about to knee Gavin in the crotch, just like I saw on a self-defense program on TV, when Adam reappears, beer in hand. Gavin straightens up and pulls back his hand, but doesn’t let me go entirely.

  Adam takes one look at the way Gavin’s arm is wrapped around my shoulder and says, “I’m so glad you two are finally getting along.” Adam beams at me. “See? I told you this was a great idea. I knew you could work it out.” Then, very sincerely, he says, “Thanks, Sylvie. I really appreciate your effort.” And as if his thanks weren’t enough, he adds, “My best girl and my best friend are finally on good terms!” Adam looks like a kid who has just gotten the gift he always wanted, a truce between … Wait a second—His what?! His best friend??

  Adam’s glowing like this reconciliation is somehow better than world peace. How am I supposed to tell him I hate Gavin more than ever? I tried to be nice, but his “best friend” came on to me. His best friend is a complete jerk and—

  I can’t tell him. Somehow, despite my warning, Adam and Gavin became friends. Good friends.

  There’s nothing I can think to do or say, so I simply paste a frozen smile on my lips. It’s painful.

  Removing his arm from around me, Gavin tells Adam, “Sylvie and I were talking about sharing.”

  “That’s great!” Adam cheers, then drapes his arm around me in the way that Gavin’s arm just was. “Swim team is all about sharing.”

  “Exactly.” Gavin smiles wolfishly at Adam and then, when he thinks Adam isn’t looking, winks at me. “That’s exactly what I told Sylvie,” he says to Adam while staring at me.

  I’m feeling sick. Will someone remind me why I came to this dumb party? When I’m at school, wearing my own clothes and surrounded by people of my choosing, I have a certain level of confidence. In the name of Yale, I’ve turned down a few come-ons. But here, I’m so out of my element that I can’t even figure out how to respond to a guy like Gavin. I let him treat me poorly and that feels rotten. Even knowing that I did it for Adam still feels icky, especially since I told Adam how much I don’t like Gavin and what he’s all about.

  I should have kicked Gavin in the balls when he first bullied Cherise back in fourth grade. I missed my opportunity then, and I missed it again tonight.

  Now I am ready for Adam to get the message that I want to leave loud and clear. No hand on the arm for me. This time, I really want to leave and I’m going to be direct about it. “Let’s get some air,” I say firmly. I want to get away from Gavin as quickly as I can.

  “Okay.” Adam sets the rest of his beer up on the fireplace, next to my unfinished drink, and takes my hand in his.

  “Outside, huh?” Gavin asks with a tone that implies that we are about to have sex on the front lawn. And then there’s that look that tells me that when I’m done having sex with Adam, Gavin would be interested if I want to come back inside for his turn. “Have fun,” he adds, looking only at me.

  “Oh, we will,” Adam says obviously responding to the innuendo, without noticing Gavin’s lecherous look. He takes my hand and leads me outside.

  I take in the night air and try to forget about what happened with Gavin. It’s not Adam’s fault his friend is such a pig. Gavin has multiple personalities: the cool, jock, swim captain and the evil, lunch money–stealing, girlfriend-grabbing, slimeball. I wish Adam could see Gavin for who he really is.

  Another deep breath and I feel soothed. I’m back under the stars, where I feel most comfortable.

  “I’m glad you came with me tonight,” Adam says, gently pushing a strand of hair off my face and tucking it behind my ear. “I know this isn’t your crowd, so I want you to know how grateful I am.”

  His words, and the way he’s looking at me, give me the resolve I need to shove aside Gavin’s nasty come-on. It’s just me and Adam now. The way it should be.

  He’s going to ask me to prom. Finally. I know it.

  “Will you go to the Spring Fling Prom with me?” he asks without any preamble. I don’t even pretend to be surprised. I immediately say yes.

  I tell him about the costume store and Adam agrees to come along on Monday after swim practice. Then he kisses me to seal the date. We make out for a little while, then feeling exhausted by the whole Gavin thing and the fact that I really don’t want to stay at the party, I tell Adam I want to go home.

  It’s early, not even midnight yet. Since Adam isn’t drunk, I give him back his keys and ask him to get me my coat. “I’ll wait here,” I tell him. I’m pretty sure he’ll go back to the party after driving me home. Adam doesn’t say it, but I get that vibe.

  We kiss one more time on the steps leading up to my building. I allow my lips to slide slightly open. Adam urges my mouth a little wider, teasing my tongue with his.

  I’m going to prom with an amazing guy. He likes math and science and astronomy. He’s going to be a doctor and is an academic overachiever. He can be social with anyone, fits in with everyone. He likes my friends, my father, and most important, me. If I believed in astrology, I’d have to agree with Cherise that Adam’s my diamond guy. It’s as if he was made just for me.

  So why is it that our kisses are never intense or magical or thrilling or amazing? Not that I’m a kissing expert, but something is missing. What can it be?

  Sixteen

  Expect the unexpected.

  www.astrology4stars.com

  I’m so confused, I can’t sleep.

  It’s one in the morning. After tossing and turning for hours, I’ve given up. Grabbing my telescope, I tiptoe past my father’s bedroom door and sneak up to the roof to talk to my mom. I do that sometimes when I feel like I need a little advice.

  The stairs to the roof are between my apartment and the hall-mounted fire extinguisher. In case there’s a fire and people have to get out of the apartment building quickly, the door’s always unlocked, so I’m not surprised to discover it’s already slightly ajar. Someone must have come up to tan earlier and not shut the door all the way.

  As I set up my Hartforde telescope, I’m so deep in thought that when I hear my name softly spoken, I nearly jump out of my skin.<
br />
  “Sylvie?” It’s Tyler.

  I’m so freaked out that I stumble backward. My foot catches the tripod for my telescope and suddenly, the world begins to look as if it’s gone “retrograde,” appearing to move in slow motion.

  I’m falling backward, down toward the hard asphalt of the roof. My body rotates slightly as I tumble. I’m going to scrape my knee for sure. Or my hands, if I try to catch myself. Or maybe both.

  My telescope is tilting the other direction, too far for me to reach. Lens first, it’s moving toward the ground. I know with every fiber in my being that the flip-mirror will shatter. I can’t possibly afford to get a replacement part. Not to mention that whole broken mirror = seven years bad luck stuff. I can’t afford that either.

  All this crosses my brain in the few seconds since Tyler startled me.

  Tyler.

  I look at up him, horrified and expectant. He appears confused. With psychic clarity (Madame Jakarta would be proud) I know what he’s thinking. Tyler’s considering that he has about a millisecond to make a choice and act. Should he save me or save my telescope? What will he do?

  A flick of his wrist and Tyler’s black Zorro cloak is suddenly soaring toward me. His body flings the other way toward my Hartforde. His plan is obvious. I’m supposed to land softly on the cloak, while he snags my precious telescope mid-descent. Tyler Gregory, Man in Black, is attempting to save the day.

  Unfortunately, his cloak lands over my head instead of under my hands.

  “Ouch.” I grimace as my left hip takes the brunt of the fall. At least I didn’t scrape up my hands or knee. But there will be a bruise, a big, juicy, black-and-blue one. I can’t check out the damage to my leg though, because the cloak is over my head. And even if it wasn’t cutting off my vision, I have my eyes closed bracing for the crashing sound of my telescope smashing against the hard rooftop into a gazillion little pieces.

  Nothing. Silence.

  Then Tyler, “Sylvie?! You all right?”

  He pulls the cloak off my head, draping it carefully around my shoulders, to keep me … warm … or safe. Suddenly I’m overwhelmed by the scent of him in the fabric. It’s that woodsy, earthy scent I noticed in the café. Kind of a strange thing to keep noticing, but then again my sense of scent must be enhanced because my eyes are still shut tight.