? ? ?
Later that night, I walk out on the porch and stare up at the black sky. Everything feels eerily familiar. It wasn’t that long ago that this was our porch. Tate and I would spend almost every night counting the stars outside before bed.
? ? ?
“Why are there stars, Sissy?” Tate whispers, like she thinks we’ll get in trouble.
We’re rocking slowly in the glider on the porch. The sky is dark and there are only a few stars in the sky. It’s March, which normally would be cold, but it’s in the sixties. Of course, next week it’ll be in the thirties.
“Well, they’re burning balls of gas that were produced back in . . . .” I start to waver on my answer, realizing I don’t really know the rest of the story.
I can make it up.
“Gas?” she laughs. “Like Daddy’s?”
I laugh too. “Not quite the same, I don’t think,” I say. “See, the stars are really old. Sometimes they even burn up. Did you know the sun is a star?”
Her brown eyes light up and she hikes herself up on her knees to look closer at the sky. I’m afraid she’s going to fall off the swing, so I stop swaying it. “Really?”
“Yep. And someday it’s going to burn out . . . I probably shouldn’t say that.”
Her face drops and she curls up into herself. “You mean there won’t be a sun anymore?” her voice squeaks.
I struggle to come up with an answer that won’t scare her. “Yeah, but it won’t happen for a while. You won’t be alive for it. I don’t think.”
God, I’m terrible at this.
“It’s okay,” she says placing her tiny hand on my arm. “You tried.”
I laugh at her. “You’re too smart,” I say, still laughing. “You know, there’ve been people who have walked on the moon. They’re called astronauts.”
She sits up higher and lifts her chin. “I know. I learnt about them at school.”
“Hey, you two. It’s past someone’s bedtime,” Mom says in her sing-song voice.
“Guess she means me,” I say.
Tate lets out a giggle that quickly turns into a groan. “I wanna stay up with you.”
I lean over and whisper in her ear, “I’ll sneak you in some lemonade before you go to sleep.”
She grins up at me, hops down from the swing, and runs up to Mom and gives her a hug. “The sun’s going to burn up, but hopefully it’ll happen when we’re dead. NightIloveyou.” She lets Mom go and runs inside.
Mom looks over at me, shaking her head.
“What? She asked what stars were.”
“For the love of God, just lie to her next time. I’m still fixing the whole boogeyman fiasco you caused.” She gives me her patented Mom-glare and laughs.
I laugh with her.
? ? ?
It’s cold again. It’s not in the sixties anymore. The laughter builds up in me like a scream. I grab hold of the porch railing and watch my breath make smoke in the air. I almost wish the sun would burn up; then we all could die and I wouldn’t have to do it myself. I close my eyes and see Tate’s little brown eyes staring up at me and her smile with her one crooked tooth, and Mom trying every night to get her to go to bed, not knowing I sneak in there after she tucks her in and we talk until she sleeps.
I lower my head and watch my tears drip onto the white wood.
11
25 Days
I open my history book to study the War of 1812. I don’t remember anything I’ve learned in the last couple days. Colter hasn’t talked to me again, and Jackson keeps asking me why Colter wanted my number. I have to keep lying. Dean’s ignoring me worse than before. I haven’t even gotten my customary nod in Sociology class. I’ve become obsessed with wanting to talk to him.
My phone beeps. My heart freezes until I realize it’s a text. Jackson.
J: We’re going out tonight
E: Busy, find someone else
J: No I’m at your door
E: Then leave
J: Listen chica, you’re going
I laugh. No matter what I do, I can’t get rid of Jackson. That pang of guilt tumbles inside me again. I brush it away. I just have to humor him.
E: Be down in five
J: Make it ten. Brush your hair and put on some lipstick
E: Five
J: TEN
E: FIVE.
I run a brush through my hair and slap some of my mom’s mascara and lipstick on.
Jackson’s waiting in his car, a beat-up silver Ford Taurus, otherwise known as the ugliest car on the planet. I slide into the front seat and turn the radio station from country to my favorite eighties station. “Where we going?”
He turns it back to some twangy country song. “A party.”
I shove the door open a crack and try to slither away. He grabs my arm and pulls me back in. “Stop it. You’re going. We need to get you out of that house. You’re alone too much.”
He puts the car in drive and we head down Capital Avenue.
“So?” I say.
“So. I just . . . I don’t think you should be alone tonight.”
“Why?”
He groans. “I just don’t. Listen, Janie’s having a party.”