I stiffen at the word pretty, but if Owen notices, he doesn’t let on.
“They flew through the sky together while she pointed out all of her favorite stars. Some were blue and some were green and some were purple, and when she touched them, they flew into her crown.”
“I’ll bet Brother Twin was jealous of that awesomeness.”
“He totally was. Anyway, when her crown was full, they kept flying around for a while, but something weird happened.”
“Brother Twin stole her stars?”
Owen rolls his eyes. “No. He’s not that big of a jerk.”
I snort-laugh.
“Shut up, and let me tell the story!”
“Okay, fine.”
“Anyway,” he says, cracking his knuckles, “stars kept attaching themselves to Sister Twin. Soon, she had a necklace and a bracelet and a belt and shoes and a shirt and it was like she was glowing.”
“Glowing?”
“Yeah, because she’s made of stars. Get it?”
“But if I’m made of stars, then where am I? Where’s the real me?” The questions slip out before I can stop them. I love Owen’s stories and I can’t help but love him even more for trying to distract me, even if he doesn’t know from what. Still, I have to wonder about his story, about the girl buried in stars.
“See, that’s the thing,” Owen says. “When they got home, she was so happy, but when she tried to take off the stars to go to sleep, she couldn’t. The twins thought the stars were just covering her up, but that’s not what was going on.”
“Why not?”
“Because when they thought the stars were sticking to her, really all the loneliness and sadness were falling off. The stars were underneath.”
“Underneath what?” My face turns toward him now, my voice a reverent whisper.
“Everything else. All the bad stuff. She just had to remember who she was underneath everything. She glows—?she’ll always glow. Of course, she needed Brother Twin to help her because he’s awesome.”
I laugh at that, but tears form quickly and slide down my cheeks and into my hair. In the dark, I don’t think Owen can see them, but even if he can, all he does is take my hand as we stare up at the sky.
“It’s you and me, Star Girl,” he says seriously. “Always will be, no matter what.”
I squeeze his hand. “No matter what.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
TUESDAY MORNING ARRIVES hazy and heavy. My mind wakes, but my eyes stay closed, desperate for a few more minutes of oblivion. After Owen fell apart—?after we all did—?the rest of the weekend and all of Monday, the final day of my suspension, was a blur. He never explained his breakdown or why he let me hit him over and over again, not that I really expected him to. But my parents seemed totally freaked out. When he got up off the floor and stumbled wordlessly to his room, they let him go. My mother kept her hands pressed over her mouth, as though she was trying to keep a scream inside. I’m not sure what they thought. What they suspected. I didn’t ask. I was scraped empty. I fell into bed and didn’t wake up until late Sunday afternoon.
When I opened my eyes, my mother was in my room, sitting on my bed and rubbing circles on my back. Neither one of us said anything. She just kept smoothing her palm and fingertips over my shoulders until I fell asleep again. In my dreams, I told her things. Why I’d been so distant for the past three years, why her lack of faith in Hannah felt like a lack of faith in me.
What happened to her daughter in a quiet classroom.
Now my room is empty and I force myself out of bed and into the shower. All the motions of a normal girl with a normal family whose only cares are how much homework she has and college applications and best-friend drama.
But I’m not that girl anymore. She was taken from me a long time ago and I’ll never get her back. But I have to be someone. I have to be some type of girl. I look at myself in the mirror—?the dusting of freckles over my nose, hair wild around my face and falling over my shoulders, a deep darkness under my eyes. The reflection looks right. It looks like me. Exhausted and sad, but still here.
I almost laugh, thinking of all those epitaphs I’ve hunted down in Orange Street Cemetery. What will mine say one day? Such a clichéd thing to wonder, but the question is a fist in my gut.
Mara McHale, Some type of girl
Maybe I’m the type of girl who likes short skirts.
