“That was just Owen.”
“Yeah. It was sort of cute, you know?”
I nod, my mouth suddenly dry.
Hannah rubs at her eyes. “God, it’s like he’s two different people. And I should’ve known. Dammit, I should’ve known.”
“How could you have known this would happen?”
“Well, not this. But he’s a Gemini. I’m a Scorpio. Air and water, two different elements trying to blend. I thought we’d defied the stars, you know? I mean, I know a lot of people think astrology is silly, but I like it. I like the cosmic balance and purpose to it all. And I thought . . . I don’t know what I thought. I thought we worked. Right up until the moment we didn’t.”
“It’s okay that you like astrology, Hannah. I like it too.” I think about Owen’s and my stories on the roof. Twins adventuring in the sky. We’ve never paid much attention to our horoscope or how our sign might influence our lives like Hannah has, but the stars—?the stars have always been a part of us.
“And none of this is your fault,” I say. “Please tell me you know that.”
She nods, fingers pressing into her eyes again.
“I don’t think it’s messed up that you miss him.”
Brother and boy. Family and stranger. Friend and enemy. It is messed up, but not because we’re splitting him apart in our minds. It’s messed up because we have to.
“I can only say that about missing him to you, Mara. So, don’t feel bad, okay? About feeling . . . the way you do about him.”
I find her hand, twining us together and holding on as tightly as I can.
“Thank you,” she says.
“For what?”
“For this.” She holds up our hands and I squeeze her fingers.
“Would you have told anyone?” I ask. “If Charlie hadn’t found you that night?”
She sighs heavily. “I don’t know. I really don’t. A huge part of me thinks I wouldn’t have, even though I know that’s the wrong answer. I should tell, right? It’s a crime and I’ll never be the same because of it. A lot of people will never be the same. My mom keeps telling me I’m so brave, but I’m not. I’m just trying to survive, to get from sunup to sundown. But . . . I never got it before, you know? All the stories I’ve heard other women tell about how much shame there is in being the one it happens to. But there is. There’s this weight of responsibility, of . . . god, I don’t know. Of just existing. Like somehow, if I’d just stopped breathing at some point, everyone would be better off. And I don’t mean that like I want to not exist . . . just like . . . I don’t know. Like I shouldn’t. Like I feel stupid because I do exist. It’s messed up.”
Stupid little bitch echoes inside of me, an old companion, too close and too sharp. And then I can’t help it. Sobs leak out of me, ugly and wet and loud. They reverberate through the empty theater. Hannah props herself on one elbow and I can’t even look at her. I cover my face, shuddering into my palms.
“Mara. What is it?”
I shake my head because this isn’t her burden. She shouldn’t bear the weight of my story—?she has her own, fresher, more raw, more invasive, her abuser’s sister lying right next to her. But there’s that something inside of me—?stardust and silent tears—?reaching out again for that something in her, something we share, something only the two of us in all the world can really understand.
And that’s why everything that happened with Mr. Knoll spills out of me. Not only to gain some comfort, but also to give it.
She doesn’t speak when I’m done. I don’t even think she breathes. The silence is oppressive, so loud I’m about to scream. But then Hannah curls into my side, her arm slung carefully over my stomach. She lays her head on my shoulder and starts humming gently, softly, beautifully. It’s so perfect, water keeps streaming down my face, mingling with the tears I can hear in her own voice. Until this moment, I didn’t realize how much I needed this, just someone to listen.
Soon, I blend my alto voice with her sweet soprano. We hum “Sing Me to Heaven,” an a cappella song our choir performed last year at the spring concert. It’s gorgeous and poetic and sad and powerful. Words form and wrap around the notes and soon we’re sitting up, standing, though I don’t remember getting to my feet. Our fingers wrap around the balcony railing, our voices finding the perfect tones as they fill the abandoned room.
In my heart’s sequestered chambers lie truths stripped of poet’s gloss . . .
The lyrics flow out of us, surreal and too real all at once. The sound is beautiful, our voices perfectly blended until I can’t tell who’s singing melody and who’s harmonizing. Our fingers are knotted together, refusing to part as the emotion of the song—?of unspeakable things—?finds this strange release.
It’s such a serious, sober song, written for perfectly controlled and trained voices, firm whispers and prayers.
Sing me a lullaby, a love song, a requiem . . .
But as Hannah and I sing, our voices grow louder and bolder, smiles lighting across our faces. A few gulps of laughter mixed with tears begin to escape every few notes, and soon our song is anything but reverent.
It’s a battle cry.
