Unlit Star (8 page)

BY THE TIME I HAVE all of my daily chores done, it is close to four in the afternoon. I haven't seen or heard anything from Rivers since the lunchtime fiasco, and that's okay. He messes up my good vibe. I purse my lips as I shake my head, not understanding his way of thinking.

Quickly changing out of my clothes, I slip on my two-piece, the neon green of it clashing with my dyed red hair as I study myself in the full-length mirror. The overhead light catches the silver stud in my nose, causing it to shine for an instant. My skin is ghastly pale, but there is nothing to be done about it. I touch the spattering of freckles on my nose and turn away, folding my clothes and putting them on top of my tote bag. Phone, sunglasses, sunscreen, and yellow beach towel in hand, I head to my form of liquid heaven.

The sun is relentless under the cloudless sky and I squint against it, thinking of an upside down ocean of calm waters. The humidity isn't bad today and a warm breeze rustles my hair. From my position, I can see the surrounding houses, trees, and parts of varying streets, and yet I feel separate from it all—untouchable. Summer makes me feel free, like there are endless possibilities and the future can hold anything I want it to. Tomorrow is a whole new chance to do something great. I feel the curve of my lips and know a smirk of contentment covers them.

Setting my stuff down on the bench at the far end of the deck, I walk to the edge of the pool and raise my hands above my head. I bend my knees, and push off into a dive, the water sluicing on either side of me in smooth lines. My arms stroke the lukewarm liquid as I balance my breathing with my movements. Time escapes me as I become part of the water, the laps melding into a dizzying line of back and forth.

An awareness tickles the back of my neck and I shoot to a standing position, my heart pounding as I work on steadying my breathing. I look to the chair normally occupied by Rivers, surprised to find it empty. Instead he sits on the bench with his hands clasped together and his arms resting on his knees. The intensity of his gaze singes me, but it only lasts a brief moment before it is replaced by nothingness. How can he so effectively wipe all emotion from his eyes within the span of an instant?
Practice
, a voice tells me.

I wonder if I should say something, but I am kind of tired of never being acknowledged, so I don't. I go back to swimming, feeling his eyes on me the whole time. It's strange that I find it comforting in a way and I wonder if he gathers comfort from watching me as well. Ludicrous, and yet the brand of his eyes is unwavering the entirety of my swim.

Hours later I am freshly showered and clad in a neon yellow with pink stars tank top and gray shorts, ready for some lounging. I like to be active, but I also like to do absolutely nothing and vegetate just as much. I designated the sun room as my bedroom for the duration of my stay. One, because the couch is comfy. Two, because Monica asked me to. And three, because this room is alive with the sun.

Odd that there are two of us in this house and we are both acting like there is only one—Rivers keeping to his room and me letting him. I wonder if that's how he usually spends his days, just listening to music and watching television, segregated from others by his choice. How boring. I mean, yeah, I keep to myself, but I'm not brooding as I do it.

I'm flipping through the channels on the television when my phone rings with 'Man On The Moon' by R.E.M. I pick it up, asking, “How's everything going?”

The sigh is heavy. “As well as expected. How are things there?”

“Perfect.”

“Don't exaggerate, Delilah. I know my son.”

I twirl a lock of hair around my finger. “I was trying to make you feel better. Not too bad, actually. Rivers has been in his room most of the day.”

“I'm not surprised.” Monica pauses. “He called a little bit ago.”

“Oh?” I can just imagine all the nice things he had to say about me.

“Yeah.” Her tone sounds perplexed as she continues, “He brought up the ice cream.”

I drop my hand. “Oh. Was that off limits?”

“No, no, of course not. It's just...did he eat some of it?”

“Yes,” I answer with furrowed brows. The amount of attention presently being placed on the ice cream consumption is definitely puzzling to me.

“That's so odd,” she mutters to herself.

“That he brought it up to you or that he ate it? It seems kind of strange that that was his reasoning for calling you, definitely. Is he worried about calories or something? Maybe he wanted you to tell him to build the ice fort back up so he stays out of it. It was totally his idea to eat it,” I hurriedly add.

“Rivers doesn't like ice cream.”

I search my brain to remember whether I did, in fact, actually see him raise a spoon of ice cream to his mouth and swallow it. Yes. I did. Why didn't he tell me he doesn't like ice cream? Why did he get himself a bowl and a spoon? Why did he
eat
it? It isn't like he's sensitive to my feelings or anything. What purpose did any of that have?

“He must have decided he does.”

Her response is slow and not completely confident. “Right. I'll call again tomorrow. And Delilah?”

“Yes?”

“Whatever you're doing, keep doing it.”

I don't want to take credit for something I haven't even done, but I say, “Yeah, okay.”

After getting off the phone with Monica, I give my mom a quick call to assure her I am still alive and unharmed, then find a movie on the television to watch. As the minutes turn into hours and night descends upon the sky outside like a dark blanket with specs of light in the form of stars, my brain continually tries to wrap around what Monica told me. It doesn't make any sense. Why would he eat something he doesn't even like, and why would he tell his mother about it too?

Obviously he didn't bring up his fall in the bathroom or what I am sure he considers bullying. Why would he do that? Bring up the ice cream and not the other stuff? I get him not bringing up his fall, because he probably views that as a sign of weakness, but me forcing the curtains open in his room, what about
that
? That's the first thing I would have thought he'd bring up to his mom as a reason to get rid of me. He has a growing list of ammunition to use against me and he hasn't used any of it.

Why?

MY EYELIDS FLY OPEN AND I stare at a ceiling blackened by night as I fight to remember where I am and what woke me up. I sit up and look out the windows, realizing I am in the Young house instead of my own. The moon is bathing the night with a faint glow. I hold still, waiting. Nothing moves outside other than bushes and tree leaves in the wind. The only sound in the room is the ticking of a clock, marking off the seconds of time, but I know that isn't what forced me from sleep. I'm about to lie back down when I hear the sound again.

I vault to my feet and from the room, thinking,
What now?

Without hesitating, I fling open Rivers' bedroom door. He's writhing on the bed, his back raised as he cries out. The sound is harsh, broken. I flip the light switch up to see if he is in actual pain or in the grasp of a nightmare, my eyes stinging from the sudden light. His eyes are closed, his features twisted in a grimace, and a layer of sweat is covering his face and chest. I watch him struggle, feeling helpless. I don't know what to do. I don't want to make it worse by trying to drag him from a world only he can see, but I also can't leave him like this.

I step back from the bed and bite my lip. “Rivers?
Rivers
. Rivers, wake up.” I know it's probably not the best idea because he could unintentionally and unknowingly hit me in his sleep, but I can't stand to see him like this any longer, so I step closer. I scan his taut body and rest my eyes on his hands bunched around the blankets of his bed, minutely reassured that they aren't swinging in the air. I'm thinking a punch received from him would be painful, even while in the clutches of slumber.

Placing my cool palm against his hot forehead, I lean close to his ear and speak soothingly, “Rivers, you're okay. You're okay now. I'm here and you're okay. It's just a dream. It can't hurt you. Wake up, Rivers. It's okay to wake up.” For a moment I don't think it's doing any good, but as I continue to talk to him, my words slowly reach him through the blackness of his mind and he settles down.

I give nonsensical details about myself as I kneel beside the bed, taking in the loosening of his muscles, the way his fingers begin to unclench, his breathing evening out. “Have you ever noticed how many different colors of green are in a single strand of grass? There are all these lighter greens that meld into darker ones, even hints of yellow within them. It's amazing. The most beautiful things in the world are right in front of us in the beauty of the actual world. If I had any form of creativity with a paintbrush, I'd try to paint a field of grass and flowers. Sadly, I cannot even draw stick figures.” His fingers relax against the bed.

“My favorite color is a rainbow. In the fifth grade, Mrs. Williams asked us all to come to the front of the room and state what our favorite color was and why. You were in her class too. Do you remember that day? I got up there and said what my favorite color was. She told me not to be silly, that I had to pick
one
color, and I told her I couldn't, and I wouldn't, because I loved all the colors, and I especially loved all of the colors found in a rainbow.

"She sent me to the principal's office for being insubordinate. I painted my hair in stripes of yellow, orange, red, green, purple, and blue the next day. She hated me from that moment on. Also, my mom threw a fit when she tried to clean it from my hair. It took weeks for all the colors to be completely gone.

“I thought about trying out for choir freshman year. I love to sing. I'm not saying I'm good at it, but I love it. I didn't try out, and not because I was nervous or scared, but because singing is something I treasure, and I didn't want it to somehow be used against me in a negative way. What if I wasn't good enough? What if I was mediocre compared to everyone else? What if people made fun of me just to make fun of me? I didn't want the joy of it to get lost in sharing it with others, or to have it taken away from me by knowing I'm not any good at it. I don't even know if that makes sense. Probably not.

“I feel bad for bugs. I mean, I don't want them swarming me or biting me or anything, but I understand them. I understand how they're judged a lot of the time on the way they look. People don't like ugly things. People don't like things they don't understand. I know what that's like. I've been disliked just because of how I look for a long time—because I chose to dress differently from everyone else. Because I like stuff that doesn't necessarily match or go together, because I didn't want to be like all the other kids. Why try to be like someone else when our individuality is what makes us us?

"I could have let myself get bitter over it, but I really just feel sorry for people like that. I suppose it used to upset me, but the longer it went on, the more immune to it I became. I decided I was above all of that petty shit, although at times, I did lower myself down to respond to situations when I probably should have ignored them. The whole high school scene is bizarre, if you really think about it. Kids are mean, everyone is struggling to find their identity, social status is your
life
. If you aren't good at sports, you suck. If you aren't popular, you might as well fade into the woodwork. People...” I trail off as I notice how still he is.

I look up and meet his unflinching gaze. It's black, unfathomable. I feel like I could get sucked into his dark eyes and become wrapped in him.

“People like I used to be,” he says in a rough voice.

I lean back on my heels, letting my hand fall away from his face. “I didn't say that.”

“You didn't have to.”

Slowly standing, I push down wayward strands of my hair as I become aware of what I must look like. My hair is a wreck on a good day and I can't imagine what it looks like now. I catch his eyes going up and down my body and face like a warm touch. I self-consciously cross my arms.

“Are you okay now?”

He doesn't answer, turning his face forward.

“All right then.” I head for the door.

“Stay.” Softly spoken, raw with emotion—this one word has the power to halt my steps.