See All the Stars Page 5

“Right. Well, Dave was out for the count, so I started talking to Jonathan. I always thought he was a total snooze, but there’s something beneath the surface. I’m going to unpeel every single layer.”

  “I’ve told you everything about Matthias!” I blurted. I couldn’t help it. She was under my skin, pulsing, jabbing. “What the hell, Ret?”

  She tossed back her hair, the fine strands of her bob flying up in the air, then falling right back in place. I’d been kept in the dark. I’d let my anger bubble to the surface. Bex was right: I’d hurt her, so she’d hurt me.

  Ret examined my face, doing the math. An eye for an eye, a heart for a heart. Then, her face softened. “We’re not like you and Matty,” she said. “We’re just hanging out.” She jumped off the swing and settled in the grass. “Two roads diverged in the wood, and I—”

  I sank down next to her. We were Ret & Ellory again. Secrets buzzing in the air between us.

  “I took the one across stark, wind-swept moors to Heathcliff’s farmhouse manor.”

  Ret smiled, satisfied. I leaned my shoulder into her shoulder; her skin was impossibly cool in the summer heat.

  “That didn’t look like just hanging out before,” I said. “He seems cool. And he’s basically a male model.”

  Ret cracked a grin. “Let’s be real, Ellory. Guys like Jonathan Gaines may slum it with girls like me for a few weeks over the summer, but he’ll be sexting with some wide-eyed freshman by the first week of school, promise. You know the type. Homecoming potential. Prime candidate for dinner with Mom and Dad.”

  I blew a stream of air slowly through my lips and leaned back in the grass. Ret was needy, and cruel, and a giant pain in my ass. But I loved her. “All I’m saying is don’t count yourself out. You’re Ret Freaking Johnston.”

  She laughed and tossed back her head. “I’m Ret Freaking Johnston!” she yelled at the top of her lungs. A sea of heads turned to stare, and Ret threw her arms around me, pulling me down, and then we were rolling, laughing, feeling the bright glow of a million eyes on us, curious, jealous.

  And then Ret was off, her pleather skirt and ribbed tank top flashing across the lawn to the trampoline, where Jonathan was taking his turn launching himself into the air, looking every inch an ad for designer jeans against the backdrop of a perfect summer sky. I had won Ret back. I was released.

  * * *

  At nine, when the community fireworks lit up the almost-darkness, I held hands with Matthias at the top of the hill in the far back of Jenni’s yard while bursts of white and blue and red flashed and faded over our heads. His hand was warm and dry. A half-empty beer dangled from his other hand, and his breath was hot and thick. I offered to drive home, and he nuzzled his head into my neck.

  I glanced over at Jonathan and Ret, sitting a little ways to our left. Ret caught my gaze, blew me a kiss. I shouldn’t have ditched you at Dave’s party. I’ll be better. I am already better.

  I turned back to Matthias, felt his breath slow down against my skin. He was falling asleep. The bottle slipped out of his hand, then rolled down the hill, the beer soaking the grass. I eased us back on the lawn, and he burrowed into my side. I burrowed back. His skin radiated a steady, soft heat even after the air was cool, even in the complete, after-fireworks dark.

  6

  SEPTEMBER, SENIOR YEAR

  (NOW)

  I forget to grab my Spanish book before homeroom, so I have to make an unscheduled stop by my locker after second. It’s a detour from my meticulously planned daily route. Three weeks into the semester, I may as well have a Marauder’s Map of the school—minus all the magical stuff. I know which hallways are safe between which classes, which bathrooms I can never use, and exactly how early I have to pull into the parking lot each morning to guarantee a clear path to my locker before homeroom. But today I messed up, and all bets are off.

  I breathe in, and I can feel the air knocking against the cavity inside me, tearing loose big flakes of ash. I weigh the pros and cons as I duck out of physics the instant the bell rings. I could just go to class and hope someone will take pity and let me share their book. But with my luck, Señora Martinez will have us doing exercises from the text all period. I’ve been struggling as it is. Showing up without my book invites attention, which is the last thing I want.

  I turn left down the hall, making a beeline for the closest stairwell, the one that will take me up one flight directly to my locker. It’s a stairwell I never use, that on any other day, I’d avoid like the plague. It’s been two weeks, and I still haven’t taken Ret up on her invitation. Come find me. Her eyes follow me in English—she hasn’t given up. But the halls are mine. As long as I stick to my route, there’s no Ret, no Jenni, no Bex to find me. No Matthias either.

  I stand in front of the stairwell door. I tell myself I’m just running upstairs to my locker. This is not a big, dramatic thing. There’s no showdown coming, no screaming match, no repeat of last spring. Dr. Marsha is right; I need to stop fixating on things I can’t possibly change.

  I steel myself and push through the heavy door. A steady stream of kids rushes up and down the stairs, but no one notices me. I take the stairs two at a time. The sooner I’m out of here, the better. If I don’t get it together, I’m going to be late to class.

  After years of French, I’m the only senior in first-year Spanish. I fed my parents some line about diversifying my language skills until I almost believed it. But they caved pretty fast. The truth is, they’re terrified of pushing me too hard. Would two AP classes be too big a strain for Ellory? Would it push her back into dicey territory? Could it be a trigger? It’s a series of questions they never would have considered asking a year ago. Of course I would take two APs in my senior year. Some kids take five. Of course I could handle it. Now, they’re all about treading lightly. Considering my mental state.

  My French is pretty good. I always planned to take it all the way through. I might still sign up for the AP test in the spring. But this year is all about making new plans. AP French was not an option. Not given everyone else who’s in that class. My former friends. Reconsider, redirect. Living through senior year at Pine Brook is one thing. Facing them is another.

  So Spanish it is, with all the Pine Brook freshmen. I like the freshmen. They have short memories.

  I get to the top of the stairs and reach toward the door, but before I can push it open, three sophomore girls shove past me onto the landing. One brushes against my sleeve, and I flinch. “What’s her deal?” I hear her ask her friends. She starts down the stairs, and my eyes follow her hand as it runs down the railing. The wood shines with a fresh coat of glossy, white paint. Everything used to be pink in this stairwell, the color of poached salmon. It was pretty tasteless, but now it looks like the stairway to heaven, or a mental institution, depending on your frame of mind.

  Clearly, I’m in no frame of mind to hang out here.

  The sophomore’s words reverberate inside my head. What’s her deal? That’s the question on everyone’s mind—if I indulge the voice that says everyone is talking about me, pitying me, dissecting my every move. I can’t believe she came back. The other voice says that no one feels anything close to pity. Not after what she did. I’m not sure which voice is worse.

  I shut them both out and force my feet to march into the hall. Get the book, get to class, get it together. I haven’t gone more than two steps before I see her leaning against my locker. Dark curls floating down to frame round, rouged cheeks. Books hugged to her chest, nails painted seashell pink. All curves and bounce and sugar and spice.

  Abigail Lin, leaning against the wall. Against my locker. What the hell is she doing here?

  I know I should be working on separating the past from the present. But Abigail was never even my past. She was Ret’s.

  I dart back into the stairwell and grab my phone from my bag, pretend to check for new posts on the Instagram account I don’t have. Buy myself a minute to think. I’ve hardly spoken to Abigail since eighth grade, and even then,
our paths barely crossed. But I knew of her. Before Bex, before me, there was Abigail.

  And then over winter break our last year of middle school, Ret froze Abigail out. When we came back in January, it was impossible not to know about it. Did you hear? I heard Ret dropped Abigail. I heard Abigail couldn’t take it anymore. Take what, exactly? You know.

  Years later, all I knew for sure was that Abigail had crossed Ret in some unforgivable way. Whatever shape her betrayal had taken, Ret took it personally. Even well into high school, she refused to talk about Abigail, to acknowledge her existence. And I knew better than to ask.

  Abigail’s a senior now, like the rest of us, but I can’t stop seeing her face the day she broke down in the girls’ locker room after that winter break. I’d never really understood how Abigail fit in with the other girls. They were vintage shops and punk rock; she was Taylor Swift and Teen Vogue. Peach-berry lipstick and too much rouge. But Ret saw something in her, like she saw something in the rest of us.

  Until she didn’t anymore. That day in the locker room, Abigail just lost it. I can still see her collapsing into the mouth of the little gym locker, then sliding down to the concrete floor, red faced, her makeup streaming, her mouth stretched wide into these ugly, gulping sobs. In that moment, she didn’t look trendy or flawless or lucky. She just looked like a vulnerable girl who couldn’t hack it without her friends. Without Ret. I felt bad for her, but I was embarrassed for her too. We all were. No one said anything. We just left her there, alone and half dressed in gym shorts and a tank top while we finished changing and filed into the gymnasium.

  When I slipped quietly into Abigail’s place freshman year, I swore I’d never end up like her. Can you define irony?

  I peek through the small window in the stairway door, craning to get a better look. She’s still there. Alone. Not talking to anyone, not doing anything. Just leaning against my locker door.

  Because we’re the same now. Because she feels sorry for me. Because she thinks she has something to say. I may not be ready to go back to Ret, but I’m not ready to seek solace in Abigail either.

  The first bell rings for third period. Thirty seconds until the second bell. I’m going to be late. Two senior guys I barely know push through the door, on their way upstairs, and I move out of the way, flattening myself back against the wall.

  “Don’t trip, Holland!” One of the guys, broad forehead to match his broad shoulders, steps forward to intentionally bodycheck me into the wall. My shoulder hits brick.

  His just slightly smaller, no less Neanderthalian buddy holds up his hand for a high five. Bigger slams his open palm against Smaller’s skin, and they disappear up the stairs, howling.

  No one checks to see if I’m okay. The second bell rings.

  I rub my shoulder and blink back the tears stinging my eyes. I will not cry in school. I stare down at my phone, my shield, my defense until the stairway is empty. Then I take a deep breath and peek back out through the window at my locker. Abigail is gone.

  I dash into the hallway and spin the dial for my combination fast, too fast. I’m now officially late to Spanish. I get my locker open on the second try and grab my book. I’m about to slam the door shut and make a run for it when something white on the locker floor, balanced right on top of my gym bag and a practically rust-free carburetor I found on a recent scavenging trip, catches my eye. It’s a piece of notebook paper, folded into a careful triangle. I reach down and pick it up; my name is printed on one side in neat block letters. It’s handwriting I haven’t seen in months, but I’d recognize it anywhere.

  Has everyone been haunting my locker today?

  I close the door and slide down the wall until I’m crouched over, butt resting on my heels. I’m already late to Spanish, what’s another minute? I shouldn’t even read it; I should just throw the note away. But I can’t help myself. I unfold the triangle and my eyes skim across the words. I was so selfish. It’s an apology of sorts, an explanation that doesn’t really explain much of anything. If anyone is to blame, blame me.

  I shove the note into my backpack, force myself to stand back up. Don’t worry. I already do. Then I hurry down the hall, toward the farthest set of stairs, the ones that will take me to verb conjugations and mindless freshmen chatter and a perfectly boring present I can lose myself in for a while.

  7

  JULY, SOPHOMORE SUMMER

  (THEN)

  The restaurant where Matthias spent thirty hours a week in the summer was a casual, sixty-seat modern Thai joint wedged between a gastro pub famous for its tabletop mini-kegs and a take-out pizza window on the East Shore’s small restaurant row. Jenni gave it a solid B plus, which was a decently high mark from the culinary queen.

  It had been open for a couple years now, but somehow I’d never been inside, until tonight. I waited while Matthias locked the back door and flicked on the lights, illuminating the very shiny and very still kitchen.

  “It’s like a ghost town in here,” I said. “I feel like we’re trespassing.”

  “Nah, come on.” He took my hand, and we slipped between the stove and prep stations. The kitchen was small and clean and filled with banged-up appliances and worn metal surfaces. Most importantly, it was closed. Tonight, it was only me and Matthias Cole. Tonight I was a VIP, but I couldn’t shake the feeling we were being watched. It was Monday, the kitchen’s off night, but I looked over my shoulder, just in case.

  “Live a little, Bonnie Parker.” Matthias pulled me toward him. Bar soap. Cigarettes and mint. Then his hands were around my waist, spinning me in a circle. My skirt billowed out into a wave of blue and green as I twirled faster, faster. I was beautiful, dangerous. In glorious Technicolor.

  A minute later, I collapsed back against a worktable, dizzy and gasping for breath. We were Ellory & Matthias. Bonnie & Clyde. When I could stand up straight again, I patted the imaginary holsters at my hips and cocked my head to the side. “Bang bang.”

  He grinned and I grinned back. We were outlaws together. Nothing in the whole world could compete with what we had. His hands on my waist, twirling me. My hair flying out like yellow streamers around a maypole. The green flecks in his eyes flashing like marble glass, signaling yes, yes, yes.

  In that moment, I swear the whole world was yes.

  “Ellory Holland, consider this your official backstage tour. Sauté, Grill, Fry, Veg. And this is my station.” He led me across the kitchen, guiding me to a small segment of counter toward the front. His hand on the small of my back. His voice in my ear. “Garde-manger.”

  “You’re the guard of eating?”

  “Well, that’s the literal translation. Don’t you take French?”

  “I think culinary vocab is a little too advanced for French Two. I’ll take it up with Madame Clement in the fall.”

  He grinned again, quick and bright. “It basically means the pantry. It’s the station for salads and cold apps. Someday they’ll move me up to Fish or Grill, but for now it’s rice paper spring rolls and green papaya salad.”

  “Sounds good to me.”

  “It will be. Here.” He dragged a chair from the dining room in through the kitchen doors. “You sit, I’ll cook.”

  “I can help,” I offered. Not that my culinary skills extended much beyond grilled cheese, but it was weird just sitting there. Even if it was my birthday—sweet and spicy seventeen.

  “Actually, yeah.” He motioned behind me toward a wall shelf with an ancient boom box and a stack of CDs. “See if you can find us something decent to listen to.”

  While I sorted through the stack of cracked jewel cases, he began arranging his station. Little metal tubs appeared from below the counter, which were soon joined by plastic squeeze bottles and an assortment of produce and chilled, precooked shrimp and chicken from the walk-in refrigerator. Proteins, according to Matthias. Veg. Kitchen-speak.

  “Aren’t you even a little bit worried we’ll get caught?”

  “I’m not messing with anyone else’s stuff. We’re go
od.” He spread four rice paper wrappers on the cutting board in front of him and began to fill them with thin strips of cucumber and carrot. “Unless Joel swings by to check his email, in which case we’re totally screwed.”

  My eyes were wide, my feet poised to run. I was not a model outlaw.

  “I’m just playing with you.” He turned around long enough to snap a white dish towel at my back, then returned to his wrappers and shrimp.

  Once I checked my nerves and let myself relax into the rhythm of the kitchen, it was pretty freaking cool to be there—back in the restaurant’s heart while the dining room was dark and silent. It was fun watching Matthias work. Sexy. It made me think about Jenni’s ex, who played bass in a really terrible prog rock band. When they were dating, Jenni went to every show. She was always talking about how sexy it was to see him onstage. How he was in his element. How he was more himself. I never got it. I couldn’t get past the fact that I really hated the music, but Jenni thought Mark was so talented. I mean, maybe he was. That’s not the point. The point was that I got it now. Watching Matthias move deftly around the kitchen, not questioning, not thinking, just doing. It didn’t matter that he was preparing more than he was actually cooking. Or that I hadn’t even tasted the food. He was clearly talented. Confident. Sexy.

  “Your first course, Miss Holland.” He turned away from his station to set two small plates on the counter beside my chair. “Rice paper spring rolls with two dipping sauces: spicy plum on the left and sweet chili-carrot on the right. Did you find anything?”

  “Yeah.” I closed the boom box lid and pressed play. “Prince. A diamond among lumps of coal. Your coworkers have weird taste.”

  “Excellent choice. You’ve passed with flying colors.”

  “I didn’t realize this was a test.” I narrowed my eyes, slightly annoyed, slightly proud that I had proven myself in some critical way.

  “Hardly. Most of these CDs are junk someone’s parents didn’t want anymore or shit that didn’t move in a summer of 2010 garage sale. There are only three acceptable albums in the Fit to Be Thai’ed collection: Prince, 1999, now playing. Talking Heads, Speaking in Tongues. And KMFDM, Symbols.”