The Stars Will Shine (3 page)

But even as I say it, I can’t come up with an excuse for why not. It’s not like I have any real friends here. There’s Eleanor, whom I sometimes read next to at a table in the school library at lunch, but she and I have only ever exchanged a few words. I think I told her I liked her backpack once. There’s Collin, whom I sat next to in U.S. History this past year, and whom I usually paired up with when we had to do partnered projects. He hardly ever talked, except strictly about schoolwork, so it worked for me. Then there’s—well, besides Lyle, who is no more—there’s no one else. My brother, Dave, will be starting his senior year at the University of Illinois this next year and is living there for the summer, not that we’ve been close these past years anyway. And my dad and I—well, here’s where we’re at.

“I think it’d be best for you to finish out the summer there, too,” Dad says.

“The summer’s just started—”

“That way you can get to know the area and settle in with Miranda and your cousins.”

My cousins. Dylan and Leah.

The last time I saw them, I was eleven years old and Dylan, who’s my age, hid a caterpillar in my Rice Krispies. I only saw the damn thing when it happened to move beneath the cereal in the very spoonful headed right for my mouth. I want to tell my dad that story just so he knows that Miranda’s parenting style probably isn’t much better. But I don’t. Nothing will change his mind.

“I can’t believe you got into a car with complete strangers. Four frat boys to top it off.”

“They weren’t frat boys.”

“God, Delilah, I thought I taught you better than that.”
You have no idea what all I’ve done, Dad.
“I’m so…disappointed in you.” And he really means it. I can see it in his eyes, in the droop of his shoulders, in the length of his face, in the small shake of his head, and in the way it’s so difficult for him to look directly at me—because he doesn’t want to see just how much of a failure I have become.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper. But those two little words carry so many unsaid ones.
I’m sorry I’m not the daughter you want. I’m sorry I’ve disappointed you. But you’ve disappointed me too, Dad. I wish you’d have been there for me when I needed you most, instead of putting all your time into your job. Why couldn’t you have ever listened to me all those times I tried to talk to you instead of waving me off like the problems of a thirteen-year-old were inconsequential? Why couldn’t you have looked at me then and realized that your little girl was lost and hurt and confused. Maybe if you had, you could’ve put me on the right track, and then maybe now, you wouldn’t feel like you have to send me away.

“I’ll call Miranda tonight,” Dad says. When he removes his hands from my shoulders, I somehow feel heavier. I want to fall to my knees and let the earth take me under, but instead I stand there for two long minutes, staring at nothing.

Chapter Two

Dad forgot to mention that Aunt Miranda and Uncle Jim are some sort of millionaires.

I stare up at the house standing grandly before me, and I feel like I’m on my way to meet with some hoity-toity governess who’s been propositioned to reform me. The house really isn’t all that large, but it looks expensive, complete with an iron-gated entrance, walls of hedge trees ten feet tall, and a tiered stone fountain in the center of the courtyard.

Dad sets my duffel bag down at my feet, and I let my suitcase rest straight up on its wheels. He leans toward my ear.

“Aunt Miranda and Uncle Jim own a vineyard and winery.”

No kidding? And in freakin’ Sonoma Valley, nonetheless. Can you say California wine, anyone? I’m sure Aunt Miranda and Uncle Jim have plenty of bottles just waiting for a tasting. I feel a devious smile curl my lips before I can stop myself.

“You’re only allowed wine if Miranda says you’re allowed,” Dad informs me, reading my expression and knowing full well that the odds of Aunt Miranda allowing me anything of the sort are slim, given my track record.

I scowl. “Yeah, we’ll see.”

I nearly pull my arm out of its socket when I jerk my suitcase forward and lug it up the steps to the front door. Just as I raise my fist for a pissed-off knock, the door swings open and four people—relatives, if they must so be called—stand before me just a step across the threshold, posed like a flawless family. Uncle Jim is dressed in a navy blue suit and has the fakest smile plastered on his face…It almost looks like he’s wearing one of those Halloween masks of a politician’s face. Aunt Miranda stands in a dignified manner, in a red, knee-length dress that accentuates her body in a classy way but that nonetheless has me staring at her chest, wondering why the hell I didn’t inherit the genes for
those
.

My gaze sweeps to Dylan, who has shot up about a foot and half since I last saw him, but maintains a youthful look about his face. He’s wearing dark taupe dress pants, an off-white button-up shirt, and a red tie that hangs just a little too loosely, which has me wondering if it’s his way of defying his parents. What a rebel.

He doesn’t look at me; rather, he stares out over the top of my head, his own head bobbing ever so slightly and his lips subtly moving, pressing and un-pressing together like he’s concentrating on some song in his head. His eyes are darker than I remember, and they’re looking at another place, some other world, right now. I don’t blame him; I don’t want to be here either.

Next to Dylan, and almost two feet shorter, stands his sister Leah. Now eleven, she was only five years old the last time I saw her. Unlike her brother, she’s staring straight at me with bright blue eyes that completely contrast his. She smiles politely, and I suddenly feel as though I’m looking back at myself—proper hair and dress aside—at a girl with no knowledge of how cruel the world can be. I try to smile back at her, but I feel it slip, and I drop my eyes.

Don’t grow up too soon
, I want to tell her, even though I know we all learn the hard way.

“It’s been too long, Charles” Aunt Miranda says to Dad, reaching her hands out to him. He welcomes them in his and crosses the threshold to kiss her cheek.

“Really, it has been,” he agrees. I roll my eyes at how formally, how distantly, they speak to each other, as if they are merely old acquaintances instead of siblings. “How’s your family been? I hear your business is booming.”

Next to Aunt Miranda, Uncle Jim gives a laugh, one that I’m sure is meant to be a hearty laugh, but that comes out much too forced. I can tell my dad tries to stand taller, to lift his chin higher, maybe tries to plant his feet better for the flaunting of wealth and success we know comes next.

“That it is, Charles, that it is,” Uncle Jim rumbles. “We’ll have to take you on a tour of the winery before you leave. Our wines are flying off the shelves. And did Miranda tell you our winery was rated the top in the region for wedding and reunion venues?”

Dad’s smile turns stiffer. “Yes, she did. And I would very much love to check it out, but my flight leaves tonight. I have work early tomorrow morning.” He glances at his watch to emphasize the time constraint.

“Ah, c’mon, Charles,” Uncle Jim says, waving off his excuse as though Dad’s work is surely less significant. “Cancel the flight. You can take the next one back in the morning.” My dad responds with an unenthusiastic grunt.

Aunt Miranda’s smile turns a little tight, and she says, “How about we let our guests inside. What do you say, Jim?”

I grip the handle of my suitcase too tightly and pull it into the foyer, passing through Dylan and Uncle Jim, both of whom hardly move out of the way for me.

“Dylan, why don’t you show Delilah to her room while Dad and I catch up with Charles for a bit,” Aunt Miranda suggests.

Dylan moves past me and starts up the staircase without a word, and I want to say something sarcastic like, “Thanks for helping me with my bags.” But I don’t. I roll my eyes and make a face at him behind his back instead.

After strapping my duffel bag across my chest, I grab hold of the handle of my suitcase with both hands and tug, step by step. The suitcase follows with a
thud, thud, thud
all the way up the stairs. I reach the landing, which looks out over the foyer and is level with a large crystal chandelier that scatters the light elegantly. Dylan leans against the white railing, watching me now with a smirk.

“Eat any caterpillars lately?” he asks. I want to punch him. I can feel my face turn hot, and he laughs at me. “You look like a teapot ready to whistle.”

“I can’t believe I have to deal with you all year,” I snap.

“Right back at you,” he says, pushing off the railing to step in front of me with crossed arms. He dips his head so he can look me right in the eye. “You see, I have a routine here, and I don’t want you messing with it. Especially my senior year of high school.”

“You think I want to? Newsflash asshole: I don’t.” He blinks, looking slightly taken aback by my name calling, but when his lips twitch as if he’s about to laugh again, I talk on so that he doesn’t have a chance. “I don’t want you messing with me as much as you don’t want me messing with you, alright?”

His stare turns more severe. “No tagging along with me and my friends.”

“Gladly,” I reply with a shrug. “No going through my things.”

“Please. Like I want to catch a disease.” He steps forward, voice an octave lower. “No telling my parents where I sneak off to.”

“Only if you don’t tell your parents where
I
sneak off to.” I take a step forward, as well, so we’re nose to nose now.

“No bonding with my little sister.”

“No putting—
whoa
, hold up. What does that even have to do with you?”

He narrows his eyes at me. “You’re not a good influence from what I hear.”

“And you are?”

“It’s debatable.” A muscle in his jaw ticks. “I try to be.”

“Just show me to my room,” I say, annoyed.

Dylan points down the hallway then hooks his hand to the left. “That way.” And then he adds, in a tone that displays great displeasure, “Right next to my room.”

“Joy, we can be best buds.” I take off at a stomp down the hall, and I hear him follow me, but not too closely.

“Don’t even think about rearranging anything in the bathroom,” he calls after me.

“I wouldn’t dream of it!” Jesus, they’ve only got one bathroom up here?

“Because if there are two consistencies in my life,” he continues, as if he hasn’t heard me, “they are the durations of my showers and the durations of my shits—”

“Too much information—”

“And I don’t want you rushing either.”

I turn around and curtsy—“Alright Princess.”—then pick up my speed, wanting nothing more than to reach my new room and collapse onto the bed. I pass by an open door on my right and can’t help the curious glance inside. It’s clearly Dylan’s room. An electric guitar is perched on a stand in the corner, and band posters line the black painted walls. I don’t remember Dylan being all into music—purely because I don’t remember us having anything in common—but then again, that was six years ago.

I push open the door to my room and gasp in horror. Only three words come out next, and they’re not very pretty.

“What. The
. Fuck
.”

Everything is pink—the walls, the bedspread, the bathrobe hanging on a hook by the door. I want to scream and claw my eyes out at the same time. I hear a snicker as Dylan’s heavy steps come up and stop right behind me.

“I told Mom I remembered it being your favorite color.”

I slowly turn and drag my eyes up to his, piercing them into him in a way I hope resembles a dagger slowly penetrating his skin.

It has absolutely no effect on him.

Lips pressed tight, blood vessels in my temples on the verge of bursting, I step into the room and slam the door in his face. First thing tomorrow: paint job. No way will I torture myself for an entire year with the sight of this monstrosity.

I fall backward onto the bed and cover my face with my hands.

It’s another thirty minutes before I hear a soft knock on the door. “What?” I say.

“It’s Dad.” Dad’s voice is hesitant, like maybe he thinks I won’t open the door for him.

Well, he’s goddamn right.

“What do you want?” I ask, turning onto my stomach and planting my face into the puffy pink pillow.

“To say goodbye.”

The moment is there. I feel it in my breath that catches and in the stillness before the belated beat of my heart. And in that brief moment the outside world goes on—the sun flickers through the crack between the curtain shades, and the birds chirp too happily beyond the glass. I could open that door and hug him and tell him that while I don’t understand why he did this to me, I still love him.

But then the moment passes, and I move on, too.

“Bye,” I tell him.

It’s silent on the other side of the door for about twenty seconds, and I wonder if Dad has left. But then he says, “Bye, Delilah,” and I know he’s sad. His voice is small in such a way that his head must be drooping. I feel a jolt through my core, a sudden sickness, but I smother it in the same way I bury my face further into the pillow.