See All the Stars Read online

  “Unload these, and I’ll go out for another round?” he asks. We agree, and he grabs an empty cart.

  For a minute, we make conversation about the holidays as we rinse plates and load them into a big commercial dishwasher. She and her mom have been volunteering here for years. This year they signed up for the last shift of the day because her mom needed to work this morning, and then the morning became the whole day. Abigail shrugs, forever positive. Her mom really loves her job at an advocacy nonprofit for gender-based violence prevention, and all the food Abigail cooked will still be good late tonight. After all, leftovers are the best part of Thanksgiving.

  I tell her about the aunties, about the chocolate pie and pumpkin bread pudding I’ll be returning to when the shift is over. Then, when the small talk evaporates in the air between us and there’s still a second heaping cart to unload, Abigail pauses to look at me.

  “I know you didn’t come here for the community service points.”

  She’s right. Except for the metal shop and a few artistic awards, the activities section of my college apps is pathetically bare. No amount of scrambling now would make up for my lack of initiative over the last three years. I could blame Ret, her blatant disdain for extracurriculars, but the choice was all mine. I devoted the first three years of high school to her, to Jenni and Bex, and eventually to Matthias. Two roads diverged in a yellow wood . . .

  “I wanted to know,” I start, but then I don’t know how to finish. I want to know what really happened between Abigail and Ret over break, what Ret wouldn’t tell me. I want to know how she closed the chapter on Ret so neatly, went on to move through high school completely unscathed. Captain of the Rockette dance line for the Pine Brook Marching Band, surrounded by friends, perpetually cheerful and bright. Perhaps the real question is how she and her mom moved past her father, how she didn’t let the pain he caused define her. As I tie off the first bag of trash and look around for somewhere to put it, it hits me that maybe I’ve answered my own question—Abigail doesn’t let pain define her. Or maybe Ret never had the hold over Abigail that she has over me.

  “I just wanted to ask,” I start again, but then falter. When I still can’t finish, Abigail speaks up.

  “You wanted to ask something about Ret?” she prompts.

  I find the row of garbage bins lined up behind a counter and toss the bag inside. The busser with the tiny glasses returns with another full cart and drops it off with us, exchanging it for the cart we’ve emptied. We have a pretty good system going.

  “I’m not sure what,” I admit when Abigail and I are alone again at the sink. “I think I just want to understand what happened, and how you moved past everything.”

  She chews on the corner of her lip, considering. “Before Ret, my life was one giant push to be perfect. Perfect grades, perfect weight, perfect attendance, perfect volunteer record.” She laughs, seeing the look on my face. “If you think that’s how I am now, you should have known me in middle school. I was obsessed. If I could be perfect, maybe my parents would stop fighting. It was ridiculous; it didn’t even make sense. But I was thirteen, what can I say?”

  “And Ret fit into that how?”

  “She didn’t. That was the whole point. I was so stressed out, and Ret was like an escape route, daring me to break the rules, let go. She was almost like a drug.”

  “Until she wasn’t?”

  “Until being friends with Ret was just another way of trying to be perfect. Her rules, her plans, her dares. It wasn’t freedom; it was just a different cage. When we got back to school, she was on a rampage about this Philly trip I’d missed.” She launches into a classic Ret story: how Ret had devised a weekend escape plan for herself, Jenni, and Abigail, gotten bus tickets and everything, but at the last minute Abigail couldn’t go and the whole thing fell apart. “I felt bad about ditching out, but honestly it wasn’t my biggest problem that week. When school started back up, I was going to explain everything, about moving into the motel, how my mom turned off my phone when my dad wouldn’t stop calling. But Ret just went off about how I’d ruined her entire break. She was all about what I’d done to her, how I’d let her down. She didn’t want to hear my side; she just wanted an apology.”

  “Did you ever tell her?” I ask.

  “I guess I figured she’d hear about my dad eventually. Or not. I know it sounds horrible for me to say this now, but I didn’t need negative people in my life. Moving on wasn’t so hard. I didn’t miss her.”

  We work on our bins silently. Grab, rinse, load. Grab, rinse, load. The dishwasher is almost full. I realize that’s the difference between Abigail and me—moving on wasn’t hard for her. Life without Ret wasn’t something that filled her insides with ash. This afternoon has been nice, but in the end, Abigail doesn’t get what I’m going through at all.

  After a moment, she speaks up again. “I don’t know how to say this exactly, but I’ve seen you down by the river.”

  My head snaps up. “You were spying?”

  “Not on purpose. Sometimes I jog that way. I saw you a few weeks ago, going down the bank at that place where the guardrail’s broken.”

  “You followed me?” I wonder if she heard us talking. What she’s seen. I think about the empty bottles and coffee cups Ret and I haven’t exactly been meticulous about cleaning up. I should bring a trash bag down there soon. Save the planet. Clear away the evidence.

  Abigail tucks a wayward curl behind her ear and looks at me with big, kind eyes. “Not exactly. If you lean over the rail right before the river bends, you can see down to that hollow in the bank. Sometimes when I’m jogging I stop and check, just to see if you’re there. I’m sorry.”

  Heat floods to my cheeks. I put down the plate I’m holding and wipe my hands on my apron. She knows. I should be mad at her for spying, but her face is so open, so filled with concern. Mostly I just feel embarrassed. She’s practically a stranger, and she’s seen me at my weakest. Naked, exposed.

  “It’s not what you think,” I start to say. Me going back to Ret. Even though that’s exactly what it is. “I mean, it’s over now.” And in that moment, I know it’s true. I’ve felt it for days, ever since I left her there that Saturday. I’ll go back to pick up the bottles, do my part. But I’m not going back to her.

  “I’m not judging,” Abigail insists. “I’m not here to tell you to get over it or move on, or anything like that.”

  “But that’s what you did, right?”

  “That was different. I would never compare—”

  “I know.”

  A man and a woman wearing thick rubber gloves come over to run the dishwasher and set about scrubbing the remaining dishes by hand. Abigail is sent off to collect trash bags, and someone directs me toward a vacuum. When I push through the door into the main room, I’m surprised to find it nearly empty. Dinner is over.

  While I vacuum under the tables, I consider my options. Abigail is sweet, but I would never fit in with her crowd of Rockettes and Leadership Council kids. This isn’t about trading Ret for someone new. This is about letting Ret go. About starting to figure out what comes next.

  I finish my chore and check in with Peg. She tells me I can go, wishes me a happy Thanksgiving. I find Abigail in the kitchen before heading out.

  “Thanks for letting me take your mom’s spot today.”

  “Of course,” she says brightly. “If you ever want to volunteer again, just let me know.”

  “Thanks,” I say, knowing I won’t take her up on it. Not that she’s not perfectly nice. Not that I didn’t actually enjoy myself today. It would probably be good for me—not to mention the world—to give back a little more. But if I learned anything today, it’s that Abigail doesn’t hold any magic solutions. I need to focus on figuring things out for myself. What letting go of the past actually looks like.

  I say goodbye to Abigail and get back in my car. On the drive home, I picture the rest of my senior year. It’s not even half over; there’s a little more than six months to g
o. I’ve made it this far on my own, but not really. I may have kept Ret a secret, but she was still there, still mine. Without her, I’ll be totally alone. I grip the wheel until my knuckles go white and wonder if I’ll really go through with it. When I can’t think about Ret anymore, I let my thoughts drift to pumpkin bread pudding. Chocolate pie.

  17

  NOVEMBER, JUNIOR YEAR

  (THEN)

  “Step Up, Center Stage, Stomp the Yard, or Honey?” Bex was sitting cross-legged on the braided rug in Jenni’s TV room, holding court, holding up four DVDs from her massive collection of all things choreographed dance sequence.

  “Shouldn’t we add Magic Mike to that list?” I asked. Three heads turned to stare at me. “What, not refined enough for our tastes?”

  “It’s just we watched that last week,” Bex said.

  “Which you might know if you ever turned up for movie night anymore,” Jenni added, looking up at me from the floor. She looked genuinely kind of hurt. “I made pumpkin chai margaritas last Friday.”

  “Pumpkin chai-mai!” Bex practically sang, clutching Jenni’s wrist, and both girls collapsed into a fit of giggles on the TV room rug. I miss a couple Fridays, and they already have new in-jokes?

  Ret didn’t say anything, just shifted her weight on the couch so her legs pressed sharply into mine. Then she twisted around on the cushions and leaned down to run her fingers through Jenni’s hair.

  I winced. I’d missed two movie nights out of the last four, but I couldn’t help it that Friday was the only time I could feasibly sneak out to go to shows with Matthias. When I received a repeat invitation, I wasn’t about to turn it down. Last week we’d seen Golden Jackal, a new band from Pittsburgh that I thought was kind of meh, but Matthias couldn’t stop talking about their guitarist. Anyway.

  “I brought crack-snakes?” I offered, pulling a giant bag of our favorite sugar-coated gummy worms out of my overnight bag.

  Bex’s eyes lit up. She snatched it from my hand and tore into the plastic. “And all is forgiven. Anyway, I’d be down for watching the sequel if we can find it online.”

  By eight, we’d settled on an all-Channing Tatum double feature of Step Up followed by Magic Mike XXL. I reached across Ret and plucked a slice of aged gouda from the plate on the end table. Jenni had put together one of her characteristically classy appetizer selections. Tonight it was fall vegetable crudités and creamy watercress dip, poached shrimp crostini, and a cheese plate from the international market at Wegmans.

  “Pass one of those shrimp thingies?”

  I picked up the plate and handed it to Ret. She held a tiny toast up to the light.

  “Did you know flamingos turn pink from eating shrimp? Thank Maude that doesn’t happen to us. I would turn shit-green from all the kale Veronica’s been force-feeding me this week. She’s on some kick.”

  Bex narrowed her eyes at Ret and me. “Shh, ladies. Channing and his crew are about to get busted trashing the school. This is critical stuff.”

  Ret’s eyebrows shot up, but before she could say anything, Bex folded forward into a remarkable display of flexibility, blocking Ret out. Somehow, from her position parallel to the floor, her eyes were still fixed on the screen.

  Ret’s mouth hung open for a second, then she popped the shrimp toast onto her tongue and leaned back into the couch. Point Bex; only she had the power to leave Ret speechless.

  I checked my phone, but there were no new messages. Matthias was still working at the restaurant, but he’d be heading over to Sally’s soon. I wasn’t sure what bands he was seeing tonight, just that I hadn’t been invited. Which was totally fine; I owed tonight to the girls. But he’d promised to text me pictures from the show.

  Jenni glanced at me glancing at my phone. “How’s Matty?” she whispered.

  “Just checking the weather,” I whispered back. “It’s freezing in here.”

  I turned off my screen and dug around for a Henley in my bag. Jenni’s house was big and drafty, and even in the little TV room, it was still below optimal sleepover temperature for November. I found my shirt and pulled it on over Ret’s Nirvana tee, which I’d had on loan since freshman year and she was probably never getting back.

  “Ellory Ellory Ellory.” Ret tugged on my sleeve and stage whispered under her breath, all melodrama and spark.

  I raised my eyebrows, angling to avoid another shushing from Bex.

  “Major S-O-S. Kitchen?”

  Jenni’s eyes flickered over us. I’d barely managed to leverage myself back into my friends’ good graces. The last thing I needed was to set Jenni off by monopolizing Ret.

  “I’m sorry,” I mouthed. I gestured for her to come with us, secretly hoping she’d decline. Jenni looked like she was about to push herself up from the floor, but then she shrugged and popped a purple carrot into her mouth. The bright TV light flickered across her face.

  I could still feel her eyes as I grabbed Ret’s hand and pulled her out of the TV room. I shrugged them off. We stumbled through the hall and into the kitchen before Jenni could change her mind. Before Bex could call us out for talking through the first Jenna Dewan-Channing Tatum senior showcase rehearsal. Before I could think too much about what it meant to be Ret’s favorite.

  The kitchen counters were a total mess of cheese wrappers and vegetable peels. I pulled out a chair from the table and sat down. Ret brushed off a section of counter and perched on the edge.

  “So spill. We’re missing the male pirouette action.”

  “Sorry, private debriefing necessary. Jonathan invited me over for Thanksgiving.”

  “Okay, and . . . ?”

  “And?” Ret looked at me like I was bat-shit. “That’s like a major holiday. With his whole freaking family.”

  “So don’t go. Say you’re doing dinner with your mom. Which you probably are anyway?”

  “I already told him how we do Thanksgiving at regular dinnertime in the Johnston household. His Thanksgiving starts at one.”

  “So say you have to help cook.”

  “Ellory May, he knows I do not cook.”

  “Margaret, Jesus. All I’m saying is make something up if you don’t want to go. You’re resourceful. Be resourceful!”

  Ret slid down from the counter and pulled out a chair, then hid her face in her arms at the table.

  “You are so lucky you don’t have to deal with Matty’s family. You do realize you’re getting a total pass in the boyfriend-parent department.”

  Did Ret even hear herself? I would have killed to snag an invite inside the Cole’s home on a regular day, let alone Thanksgiving. I slid my phone out of my pocket and clicked it on. No new messages. “I guess that’s one way to look at it.”

  Ret lifted her head slightly, just enough to stare up at me through a curtain of tousled hair. I put my phone away before she could see. “Trust me, Ellory. This is the end of the world.”

  When there were cracks in Ret’s facade, it was my job to patch her back up again. Under the thick layer of theatrics, she actually seemed to care about Jonathan. And she was definitely going to mess it up if I didn’t nudge her in the right direction. I brushed a piece of hair behind her ear.

  “Let’s make a list.” I went over to the fridge and took the magnetic notepad off the door. “We’ll start with the bad stuff, since that is clearly where your brain is. Cons of going to Thanksgiving at Jonathan Gaines’s house. Go.”

  “For starters, his family is going to think I’m a freak. What am I going to say when they ask what the hell their son sees in me?”

  “They are not going to ask you that. They’re going to be way too stuck-up and polite to ask probing questions. Just leave the black eyeliner and snakeskin stilettos at home, and you’ll be good to go. Next?”

  “I’d have to tell my mom where I’m disappearing for several hours in the middle of the day. She knows I avoid your house with all the aunties like the plague.”

  “Hey, watch it with the aunties. Tell her the truth, what’s the big deal?�
�

  “The big deal is then I’d have to tell her about Jonathan.”

  I could feel my eyebrows arch up. “You mean tell her how serious things are, or tell her that he exists at all?”

  “The second one.”

  “Ret, you’ve been going out since summer. You went to homecoming together!”

  “My mom isn’t one to ‘take an interest.’ You know how she is.”

  It wasn’t really true. Veronica Johnston would have gone ape-shit over every single Jonathan Gaines detail. But Ret liked to punish her mom for not noticing things. She liked to keep secrets.

  I let Ret’s misdiagnosis slide. “This doesn’t have to be such a big deal. Look, pros. First off, Jonathan is totally head-over-heels for you. He wouldn’t have asked otherwise. Second, you get an inside look at an all-American Thanksgiving. I bet they’ll even recite the Pledge of Allegiance or say a prayer about the football game. Third, major girlfriend points with his mom and dad.”

  “I’ll think about it.” Somewhere between the beginning and end of my pros list, Ret had pulled herself back together. All the drama was gone from her face like it had never even been there. She was cool and untouchable. Above it all. She’d go or she wouldn’t, who cared?

  I could hear Bex and Jenni from the TV room, shrieking as the music pitched up through the speakers.

  Ret would go. She cared. She’d tell me about it later, like it was just a good story, like it was no big deal. I watched her spin the black band on her wrist around and around. You are the sun, and I am the moon.

  “We’re missing the critical influence of hip-hop on the contemporary moment in modern ballet,” I said, nonchalant, matching her beat for beat. Ret smiled.

  We slid back into the TV room, collecting sideways glances from the other girls. I sank into the couch cushions and checked my phone again. Maybe the show hadn’t started yet. Maybe he’d let his battery die.

  Ret kicked her legs up on the back of the couch and scarfed some goopy Italian cheese. “This is beyond amazing,” she whispered to Jenni. “You should be, like, what do you call a cheese specialist?”