Unlit Star (3 page)

I suppose in answer to my mother's question about why I find myself lying under the stars whenever I am able to, surrounded by earthy beauty, my response would be simple. I fist my hands around silky strands of grass and close my eyes. It's so obvious, to me at least. Only within the arms of nature, am I truly free.

ANOTHER DAY, ANOTHER SET OF closed curtains to open. Monica is out on errands, Thomas is wherever Thomas works, I'm assuming, and Rivers is glaring at me from the doorway of his bedroom. It's not as much fun opening his curtains when he's watching me do it. I do it anyway, revealing the fiery light, the green of the trees that brag of life, and the calming, motionless blue sky. Why would he want to keep all of that beauty out of his room?

I pretend I don't notice him, humming to myself as I grab the laundry basket of clean clothes by the dresser. It's not my job to fold and put his clothes away, nor would I feel comfortable doing it if it were. The thought of touching Rivers' boxer briefs—I only know he wears those because there's a pair of white and black striped ones staring at me from the top of the basket—makes my face warm and my breaths come a little faster. Weird.

I set the basket on the chest next to the dresser so he doesn't have to lean down so far to get the clothes out of it. Not that he'll appreciate it or anything. Maybe his mom will just do it for him anyway. I think everything he's ever had was either handed to him or came effortlessly to him—good grades, sports, good looks, girlfriends—he never had to work really hard at any of those things and yet he always excelled.

Or so it seemed.

The hand that clutches the door frame is white and there is stiffness to his body from the strain of trying to stand straight with uncooperative limbs. He wants so badly to be normal. I can tell. I see it every time he struggles to walk a short distance. I see it every time his eyes look through me and into the person he used to be. That's all he's seeing—his past he can never get back to. There is so much pain in his face, a lot of it physical, a lot of it mental.

I open my mouth to say something—I don't know what—but the look he slices my way halts any words from coming out. It was dismissive, cold, and vague at the same time. It was sort of eerie, and the chill that sweeps over my spine supports that assessment. Rivers is lost. I walk by him, my face forward, my eyes on the stairs in the foyer beyond, and I wonder how someone as lost as he is, can ever get back to themselves. And then I think, maybe it isn't about getting back to himself, but about moving forward and finding a new version of himself. I wonder who is going to help him out with that and then I get a mental image of me raising my hand.

Muttering to myself, I grab my tote bag and walk out the front door. I think it was settled the first time I saw him after his accident, actually. Me, the girl with no friends, yet who has the heart that wants to save everyone. Makes a lot of sense. The sunshine targets my pale skin and the hot air heats me as I hook a leg over my bike and pedal away. A warm breeze, scented with lilacs, caresses my face, and the strong brown limbs of trees sway with it. I smile, taking it all in. Some compulsion has me turn my head to see if the curtains of Rivers' room will once again be closed like I figure they will be, and my breath hiccups when I find they are not only open, but also that Rivers is standing on the other side of the window. It's creepy how intensely he's watching me, or something near me anyway. What has finally caught his attention enough to give him a small tug back into this world?

ICE CREAM SHOPPE IS THE
place to be for ice cream lovers in the summer. I may have an addiction, but I am not admitting it to anyone. All flavors appeal to me, but as peanut butter is my first love—above ice cream even—I usually get a 'Peanut Butter and Chocolate Chunk Frozen Avalanche'. I fight the sunshine as I inhale my large melting cup of euphoria, eyes trained on the railroad tracks across the road. I could watch trains all day and night.

Although faint and faraway, I can even hear them from my house and they lull me to sleep at night. It has been ten minutes since the last one blared its way across the tracks. Most towns no longer use them as a prominent source of transporting goods, but Prairie du Chien seems to cling to that bit of the country's past. I find the town all the more appealing because of it.

The umbrella hovering over the table I am sitting at offers minimal shade and I am melting along with my ice cream. Perpetually pale-skinned, I have to lather myself in a layer of sunscreen every time I'm outside, or I burn. It gets to be quite tedious slathering the lotion on whenever I have the urge to go outside—which is often. I carry a bottle with me at all times 'cause I'm cool like that.

Chunks of choppy red hair have fallen out of my short ponytail and frame my face. The white tank top I'm wearing is damp with perspiration and my legs are sticking to the bench in an uncomfortably intimate way. “You love summer,” I remind myself.

“Look, she's talking to herself. Probably because she doesn't have any friends.”

I roll my eyes at the familiar voice and turn to face the Evil Duo. “You're exactly right. The selection around here
is
pretty poor.”

Avery is a shorter, curvier clone of Riley. They both have wavy brown hair, blue eyes, small features, and dress in clothes at prices unavailable in Prairie du Chien, Wisconsin. I don't understand
why
they would want to pay more for clothes, but then, I was never part of their crowd, so I don't know these things. Today Avery is dressed in a red sundress and Riley is in a white one. Whereas Riley looks slim and ethereal in hers, Avery looks plump and doll-like.

Eyes narrowing, she starts to say something else when Riley interrupts in a soft voice, “Leave her alone, Av.”

Confusion pulls her mouth down, and I have to think I have a similar look on my face.

“Come on, let's go,” Riley says, giving her friend's arm a tug.

I take a deep breath once they are speeding off in Riley's black Jeep with their hair floating behind them in ripples of silky brown. Something cold drips onto my knee and I realize it's my ice cream, forgotten in my raised spoon. I do not understand what just happened and that bothers me. The lines are supposed to be clear: Riley is a cruel bitch and I dislike her in a thoroughly therapeutic way. What does she think she's doing, melding black and white together like she is? And
why
? Maybe the whole Rivers scenario has softened her.

Right. No one
ever
really changes, do they? Not if they don't want to and not if they can help it. I'm no different. I
like
me. I like that I voice my opinions and I like that I am honest. I like that I know who I am and I am confident with that person. I like my funky hair and my mismatched clothes. I don't care what others think and I don't care if people like me or not. I will not change, not for anyone. I suppose that makes me as bullheaded as the rest of the world, and an easy target for ridicule. So be it.

At least I'm not a heartless wench.

I drop my empty cup in a garbage can, wipe my sticky hands on a napkin, and pop my ear buds in, beginning my mile-long trek home. 'Love Don't Die' by The Fray thumps through the wires. I have determined that music makes everything better, even this walk through air so humid that each time I breathe in it feels like I am inhaling steam. My feet criss-cross and I slide to the right, a smile on my face as I dance my way home. Vehicles speed by on the highway and I only hope I make someone else smile as I bust a move.

I feel the ground vibrate before I hear or see it, and I pause on the sidewalk beside the massive locomotive. It shoots by in greens and oranges, graffiti and logos flashing by. The horn is loud and vibrates through my teeth. I whoop and pump my fist in the air, grinning as the monster machine roars by. It's impossibly strong, and looks indestructible. I wonder if I could be sucked under it if I stood too close, the wind pulling at me even as I gaze at it. An image of Rivers being sucked under his dad's boat clouds my brain and I frown, shaking the mental picture away. It follows me, though, and I keep thinking about how scared he must have been, and how much it had to have hurt. I rub the chilled flesh of my arms and hurry my pace.

Something tugs at me as I pass by the road that leads to the Young house—probably that stupid bleeding heart of mine that makes me care about others, even if they don't deserve it. The list is long and includes everyone, really, that has ever had something bad happen to them. Whether I like them or not, I empathize with them. One word: Riley. It's ridiculous.

As I am thinking it's too bad I can't just listen to my brain instead of the beating organ inside my chest, I veer to the right and head down Winne Court. Most of the houses are large and newer on this street; a collage of whites, reds, browns, and blues. Everyone knows just by looking at them that the owners have money. The exteriors are pristine and the lawns are well-kept—no patches of dirt are allowed in these yards. Each tree and shrub is strategically placed for optimal visual enhancement. It's sterile, unnatural. I prefer a disorganized lawn of flowers, trees, and bushes to add character. I'm all about character.

I live in one of the poorer sections of town, more in the lower middle class instead of upper, like here. Not that the flowers around my home can't compete with any shown here—they so can. Flowers are my mother's life and even if there is no other beauty found on our street, there is the majesty of her blossoms to pretty it up. But whereas the yards around here are perfect and orderly, ours is like a super-sized floral bouquet. Janet Bana's motto is this: Flowers make everything beautiful. In keeping with that belief, she plants perennials in the yards of those who will allow her to, and she sets flower baskets on the doorsteps of those who will not.

I agree that flowers are pretty and everything, but I think they hide what is ugly more than make everything beautiful, if that makes sense. The ugliness is still there, merely muted. Sort of like laughter to hide tears, kisses to snuff out doubt, holding something close to make yourself believe it will never go away—you know,
delusions
. And I know why she's planted so much recurring life into the lawn surrounding our house. She's not just trying to cover up the ugliness—she's trying to pretend it doesn't exist.

My footsteps slow as the two-story white house with plum accents comes into view. It has a colonial feel to it, strong and simple with pillars that frame a small porch. Red, pink, and white flowers that I water five days a week line the sidewalk up to the house, and green bushes reside before the house. So far I haven't killed any of the plants or flowers inside or outside of the house, so I consider that a plus.

In the two weeks that I have worked for the Young family, I have seen Mr. Young a total of one time. I usually get to the house around eight in the morning and stay until four. I realize some working people wouldn't be home during those hours of the day, but I get the sense that he is gone a lot more than he is around. Call it the disillusioned look in Monica's eyes as she speaks about her husband, or the emptiness of his touch on any part of the house. I see pieces of Rivers and Monica in her sweatshirt tossed over the back of a couch, a book I've witnessed Rivers reading left out on an end table, the scent of his deodorant or the smell of her perfume, but Thomas Young? Where is he?

Thinking these things, it makes sense that he is the one that answers the door at my knock. Tall and rangy in build, his hair is black and thick, his eyes dark, and the slant of his mouth is thin, showing how often he
doesn't
smile. Rivers is a slightly shorter, more muscular version of him, though his lips are fuller like his mom's and the shape of his eyes are reminiscent of hers as well. He also doesn't make me apprehensive like his father does. I'm not sure why I am so uncomfortable around him—maybe it's the unfriendly, I-am-better-than-you, angle of his face.

His Native American heritage is plain to see in his features and coloring; which I know because his son did a report on it in eighth grade. I remember this mostly because I was jealous that he was one half Native American, and one half German—whereas I, on the other hand, am a mixed breed of who knows what. My report was inconclusive due to the fact that I stopped at four nationalities instead of continuing on—which are Irish, Norwegian, German, and English. Apparently I am snobbish while drinking, tell Ole and Lena jokes, and have a bad temper. Who knew?

“Hello.” There is a quizzical cast to his face, like he cannot fathom what one such as I am doing on his front step. Dressed in red swimming trunks and a sleeveless gray shirt, it's a good guess he is either about to get into some kind of body of water or just got out.

“Hey.” I nod.

“Can I help you?”

“I clean your house.”

“It's Saturday.”

“Yep.” I rock back on my heels. “Hence why I am not cleaning your house today. So...is your wife home?”

He opens the door farther as he turns away, but I catch the suspicious cast to his eyes before they are hidden from me. He is wondering what I am up to, and he is positive I
am
up to something. “Yes. I was on my way out. She's in the sun room. I'm assuming you know where that is.”

“I clean it.”

“So you know where it is.”

My eyelids lower a little as I say slowly, “Yeah.” That was implied when I said I clean the room. If I didn't clean it, I wouldn't know where it is.