I clench my jaw. “You sure haven’t acted like it. All I ever wanted from you was one thing—just one. I wanted you to be proud of me. Like you’re proud of Cal and Chloe. I just…” I squeeze my eyes closed, trying to stop the tears. I hate crying, but I can’t stop. “I just wanted—wanted you to love me, too.”
I put my face into the crook of my elbow, stifling my sobs. The mascara and glitter and all the good things from the con rub off onto my skin, leaving wet streaks.
When I finally manage to look up, Catherine’s blue eyes are glittering in the foyer light. She doesn’t respond for a long moment.
Finally, she tilts her head, smiling like she’s trying to be gentle. “I’ve tried to love you, sweetie, but you make it so hard.”
My sobs catch in my throat.
“Your obsession isn’t healthy,” she says briskly. “It wasn’t healthy for your father either, living in a world of make-believe. That’s all he ever did. That’s all he ever was. It was only ever you, and him, and Starfield. And I hate how much you are like him.”
My arm drops away and I stare at her, trying to see the lie behind the cream makeup and dark mascara, but her lips are set in a thin line and her eyes are dark, and I don’t think she’s lying.
“There were just so many things I wanted to change about him,” she says. “And you.”
“Change? To what?” I ask, my mouth running before I can stop it. “To the perfect daughter? To some cookie-cutter version of you? To someone you think is acceptable and worthy of your love? Why do I have to prove to you that I’m worthy?”
“Danielle, I only want what’s best for you—”
“No, you want what’s best for you!” I snap, my voice rising. “You never wanted me, admit it! I’m a burden. After Dad died, that’s all I was. And if you hate me for being like him, fine, but I’m the best parts of my father. He raised me to fight for what I believe in and to be a good person—and he raised me to see the best in other people!” My voice is so loud, it’s cracking. “But I let you trample over all the good things he gave me. But not today—today at the con, for the first time I felt like I belonged somewhere. And that’s more than I’ve ever felt here! In my own parents’ house! The one you’re selling!”
Her eyes narrow. “Starfield isn’t real, Danielle. The sooner you learn that, the better off you’ll be.”
Of course it’s not real. I know it’s not real. It’s just as fake as the Styrofoam props they use and the cardboard sets and the tinny laser sounds and the ice cream machines they try to disguise as “data cores”—I know it’s all fake. But those characters—Carmindor, Princess Amara, Euci, and even the Nox King—they were my friends when everyone in the real world passed around rumors behind my back, called me weird, shoved me into lockers, and baited me into thinking I was beautiful only to push me away just before we kissed. They never abandoned me. They were loyal, honorable, caring, and smart.
But I realize that trying to explain Starfield to Catherine is like trying to explain the sky to an anglerfish. Because she’s none of those things, and never will be.
“Now you will go upstairs and take off that ridiculous outfit,” she commands. I turn to leave, defeated, but Catherine isn’t finished.
“And,” she says, “you will give me your phone.”
I freeze.
“Danielle!”
I reach for the phone in my jacket pocket. For a brief, crazy moment, I imagine that dream I had of me and Franco. Setting off west, never looking back. I knew it was just a dream, because this house can’t move and without it I’m not sure who I would be. This was the last place I belonged, and I don’t even belong here anymore, and soon it won’t even be my home. I won’t belong anywhere.
But if I have nowhere to go, what’s the use in fighting?
Like ripping off a Band-Aid, I hand her my phone. Her manicured fingers curl around it. “Good. Now go to your room.”
Tears come back before I can stop them and I take the stairs two at a time. Catherine doesn’t come after me. I’m not worth the energy, and there’s really nothing left for her to take. In my room, I press my forehead against the door and squeeze my eyes tight.
I can’t take this anymore. I have to leave—now. But I don’t have my phone. I can’t call Sage and tell her what happened.
And Carmindor…In the end even he knew I was no one worth talking to.
When Darien called me ah’blena I almost thought it was him. That Darien Freeman was my Carmindor. But it couldn’t be. The universe can’t be that cruel. And Darien, like Carmindor, wouldn’t talk to a nobody.
I clutch my dad’s jacket and sink to the carpet, crying into the costume harder than ever. Because now the glowing constellations above me just look like fake glow-in-the-dark stars. And the coat just smells like sweat. And the house, old and creaky, is just cold. And the living room will never be waltzed in again.
That is why this universe is impossible: because all the good things are impossible to keep. The universe always takes them away.
TURNS OUT, CHARLESTON ISN’T THE EASIEST place to go hunting for a food truck.
“I think this’s it,” I say, and tap the back of Lonny’s seat. He pulls onto the side of the road. I think he’s relieved. We’ve already been to three other food trucks before someone—at a shrimp and grits truck—had an inkling about where we might find one that’s orange and yellow.
“Oh, you’re lookin’ for the Pumpkin,” the older woman had said, rubbing her greasy hands on an apron that read G.R.I.T.S.: GIRLS RAISED IN THE SOUTH. “I think that old girl’s somewhere over by the market today. That way,” she pointed in the opposite direction—Kings Street, apparently—and gave us directions.
Travel tip: if you’re visiting Charleston, know where you’re going ahead of time. There are so many one-way streets, once you go down the wrong way you’ll never want to drive in this town again. After nearly grilling a baby stroller and double tapping a marathon runner, we finally found an orange and yellow truck parked at the far side of the market toward one of the touristy piers.
Lonny flicks on the hazard lights. “I can wait,” he says. “Or come with.”
“I think I got this.”
“You sure?” he rumbles, looking at me through the rearview mirror.
“Unless you want to come,” I say. “For moral support?”
“I’m good, boss.”
“Real pal you are. I’ll call you when I need you.” I get out of the car and watch Lonny pull away before I make my way over to the Magic Pumpkin. It’s horrendously orange. You can see it a mile away, which is probably the point. Its entire body is painted to look like a pumpkin, with yellows and reds and blacks highlighting the drawn-on curves and ridges. A girl with bright teal hair leans against the counter, and my heart leaps when I recognize her—the same girl Elle drove away with.
“We’re all out of fritters today,” she says as I get close, without looking up from her magazine.
“I wasn’t coming for the fritters.”
“Well, I hope you aren’t coming for the sweet potato fries either. Because we’re out of those too.”