I put it in my jewelry box. It’s smaller than the palm of my hand, the size of a half-dollar, which Eleanor used to collect. I don’t think the jewelry box is the best place for it. But I’m not sure there are any rules for where to put a stolen star.
I think at least it will help me sleep, and it’s about time to sleep now. I don’t know how it came to be night, but the thing about watching the stars is that you can watch for three minutes or three hours and it feels exactly the same.
Twenty
In the very early morning I think I can hear the star. A pretty buzzing noise, like a mosquito who has mastered the violin.
I check on it, in its box. It glows, winking warmth at me.
I hear something else too. Astrid and Eleanor’s door opening and clicking closed. Slippered feet tiptoeing. Marla’s door opening and closing.
Because of our lifetime of summers spent in this house, I know the sounds of the doors perfectly. Like being able to tell the difference between Mom’s footsteps and Eleanor’s, I know from the squeak and click which door is being opened and who is doing the opening.
I leave my room and wonder if my sisters have the same door-sense that I do. They must, because Marla opens her door before I reach it. Her hair is wild and her eyes are black. I step inside her room.
“You went back in,” I say. Marla’s lips are almost purple. Her skin has lost all the color it had been building from our time on the beach and is nearly translucent. “You look awful.”
“Everything’s okay,” Marla says. Her voice is an unusual register, low and new, like she has a cold. “I’m great. You should go in. You need it. You need to go into Astrid’s closet.” She takes a step or two toward me, and even the way she’s walking doesn’t seem familiar. Her hand touches my elbow, and it’s ice.
“What did you see in there?” I say. I think there are tiny cuts on her hands and forearms. I look at her feet, and they look hurt too.
“Roses,” Marla says. But they obviously aren’t the roses from Astrid’s dioramas. They aren’t the pretty grass-growing roses we saw in Eleanor’s closet. They aren’t even the dehydrated rosebushes from our Massachusetts backyard.
“And thorns?” I say, reaching my forefinger to the torn palm of her hand.
“I guess.”
“What else?”
“Only the roses,” Marla says, like she’s recalling the best dream she’s ever had. The best dream anyone’s ever had. “Black roses covering every inch of the closet. Can you think of anything more beautiful? I was so sad, and that’s what it made for me. I’m going back in, but I wanted to grab a pair of scissors, so I can try to take some of the roses out.”
I don’t like the idea of scissors in Astrid’s closet. I don’t like the idea of Marla in there at all, but especially not with sharp objects that could grow larger and sharper.
Scissors with a mind of their own. I can’t think of anything worse.
I know Marla won’t be able to take anything out of that closet. And Marla knows she wasn’t able to get anything out of Eleanor’s closet.
I could help her, I guess. But I won’t.
“I’ll go in with you later if you make breakfast with me now,” I say. It’s a lie—I have no intention of ever going in that closet again—but I need to distract her. “We can make something special for Mom.”
Marla lights up. She doesn’t snap out of her strange state, but she smiles a more familiar smile.
“She really needs something special,” Marla says. “She’s had such a hard few weeks. I was going to bring her one of the roses, but maybe breakfast is better. She’d love breakfast, I bet.”
It sounds like the kind of thing Dad says when he’s pretending Mom’s not super sick. My stomach lurches, and I don’t know if it makes me a bad daughter, but I would never, ever give my star to Mom. It’s all mine.
We head to the kitchen and I help Marla make pancakes. There’s a basket of freshly picked blueberries on the counter. Probably Eleanor went blueberry picking yesterday with her secret boyfriend. It’s exactly the kind of annoyingly romantic activity I’m sure they’re constantly doing. I throw some of the blueberries into the batter.
Marla does the bacon. She knows how to burn it for Mom and doesn’t mind the fiery-hot oil that spits off the pan when it’s frying.
Marla flips the pancakes and I know they won’t taste as good as if Eleanor or Dad made them.
Eleanor and Astrid come down, still half asleep but smelling bacon and blueberries and butter.
Astrid sits on the counter and eats berries straight from the basket.