Mom and Dad returned to the hotel room after the romantic dinner, and Bruce asked if we could take a walk on the beach.
It was a clear night but we didn’t recognize any constellations. We were always looking for constellations because stars are individuals in Philadelphia. It’s not like we could look up and see the Big Dipper or Orion or Cassiopeia from anywhere—not even the top of the Liberty Two skyscraper. Not unless there was some sort of blackout, I guess. I wouldn’t know. I’ve never seen a blackout.
Bruce learned about constellations when he was young. He said, “That’s the Big Dipper. Or the bear. Ursa. That’s bear in Latin.” He squinted around the sky as if he’d lost his dog. “I can’t find any others that I know.”
“They’re pretty,” I said.
We sat in the sand near the water and I looked out and saw lights on far out boats.
He said, “If you lie back and look at the whole sky at once, you’ll probably see a shooting star. They happen all the time.”
“People never see shooting stars.”
“That’s because they aren’t looking,” he said. “I’m serious. You’ll see one if you look.”
I lay back and tried to look at the sky all at once, like he said. He was already lying down, so now we were just two siblings lying in the sand in Mexico on a cloudless night trying to see the whole sky and not talking about Mom and Dad getting a divorce.
“Why’s Dad so mad at you?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” Bruce said.
“You know and you think I’m too young to talk about it with me,” I said.
Bruce pointed to the sky and said, “Oh! Look! Did you see that one?”
“Shit,” I said. “I was looking that way.”
“See the whole sky,” he said. “Don’t focus.”
“So why’s Dad so mad at you?”
“Dad was always mad at me,” he said. “I wasn’t the son he wanted.”
“What kind of son did he want?”
“I don’t know.”
I didn’t know shooting stars flew so far and so fast. It seemed to last forever and then disappear as if I were imagining it. I gasped and both Bruce and I pointed to it as it traveled from the right-hand corner of our view to the left—all the way across the sky.
Seeing it with Bruce made it real.
“You didn’t write me any letters,” I said to him. “I liked when you called, but you said you’d write me letters.”
“Yeah. I didn’t know college was going to be so busy. I’ll write you some next year.”
Another shooting star.
Bruce was right. It’s not that hard to see a shooting star. I’d just seen two in under a minute.
“I’m not coming back next summer,” Bruce said. “I’m transferring to another college. Farther away.”
“How far away?”
“All the way,” he said. We both laughed. “Oregon.”
I was relieved. Oregon wasn’t so far. “There are direct flights from Philadelphia to Portland,” I said.
“How do you know so much when you’re ten?”
“I snoop,” I said. “And I listen to you because you’re smart. And Mom and Dad say stuff right in front of me sometimes because they think I’m thinking about My Little Pony, but I don’t really like My Little Pony. And anyway, Salem is the capital of Oregon, not Portland. I’m telling you that so you don’t embarrass yourself.”
“Don’t be a show-off.”
I beat Bruce in the capital game every time we played it. He never learned his capitals or his eleven and twelve times tables because his third-grade teacher only believed in states and multiplication up to ten.
Another shooting star. And another.
“Are we out here because Mom and Dad are having sex or something?” I asked.
“I doubt it.”
“They’re probably fighting or watching TV,” I say.
“Do you want to go back in?”
“I’m a little cold.”
Bruce handed me his sweatshirt. “I worry about you, Sarah.”
Another shooting star, but I only caught a glimpse because I was putting Bruce’s sweatshirt on.
“Growing up around Dad,” he said. “I mean, and the stuff that’s on TV. And the Internet. Not all boys are that bad, okay?”
“Dad’s not bad,” I said.
“Dad is typical,” he said. “I don’t want you to end up with some typical guy.”
“I know the state capitals and the twelve times tables,” I said. “I’m ten. I don’t even want to get married.”
Day Four: over. Day Four: ruined ruins, lied lies, and shooting stars.
Bruce
I don’t sleep. I dream while I’m awake, but my eyes are closed. I am Lichtenstein’s sleeping girl. I am a series of dots. I am my own constellation. Sarah—the big question mark.
I dream about Carmen’s tornadoes. I dream about all the things I’ve ever heard when I stand in random places. I dream about all the things I’ve seen that I wasn’t supposed to see. I dream of nothing and everything all at the same time and they cancel each other out. My dots get all mixed up. I am Lichtenstein’s mixed-up sleeping not-sleeping girl.
And then suddenly, I wake up, the sun is up, I know I slept, my body aches, my head is fuzzy. My room is not a vanilla milk shake. My room is still the ugliest green ever invented.
I remember the sky-blue hand I drew in Rittenhouse Square.