“So what’s that then?” I point to the ceiling. The seven perfectly placed stars onhisceiling.
“There were leftovers,” he lies— and I watch him start to squirm.
“That you just happened to place up there in the shape of the Little Dipper?” I call him out.
“I don’t know.” His eyes flicker to it, “Maybe I just did it subconsciously.”
“Likely.” I scowl.
“Rhea,” he huffs, “why were you in here?”
I stare at him, his eyes raking down my body, and I realize that I’m only wearing my underwear, and an oversized tank top longing for the trash bin that barely covers my thighs. I cross my arms over my chest and try to make myself less exposed. Brighton sits up in bed, pulling the sheets around his waist, and waits for an answer.
“You were sleepwalking again,” I say.
“Daisy…” He moves out of bed.
“She’s okay,” I say, a tiny lie because I never checked. But she hadn’t left her room in the time it’d taken me to fall asleep…
“Are you?” he asks next, and I nod.
“I couldn’t wake you up, so I put you back in bed and… I guess I fell asleep, too,” I admit, leaving out the part where he practically cried for me to stay.He’s got the Little Dipper on his ceiling. He’s past the point of shame, Rhea.
“Right.” He shifts beside his bed in his thin pajama pants, and I try to keep my eyes on the wall behind his head. “I’m sorry.”
“Does it usually happenthismuch?” I dare to ask.
“It’s never happened with her home,” he admits. “It’s this time of the year… it…”
“You can tell me, I’ve heard it all,” I say, and it’s true. Dad used to wake us up in the middle of the night to tell us horror stories.
He shakes his head. “No. It’s not for anyone to hear. I just… need a break.” He inhales a large breath that sounds painful. “I need to get out of the city.”
“Okay.” I’m not sure what to say because he feels so scattered compared to how controlled he usually is about everything.
“Usually I go alone, but Daisy is here for two weeks, and you’re here…” he says, trying to work out what he wants to do.
“I can watch Daisy. We can—”
“No, Rhea. I mean…” He swallows. “You can come. I want you to come.” He cuts me off, steadies his thoughts and his body with a huff and tries again. “Do you want to go camping this weekend?”
“Camping?” I swallow hard. “I—”
“It’ll be fun,” he says. “I swear.” He promises, but I’m not ready for his quiet plea, “I need it. Please.”
I hate camping. The outdoors and I are mortal enemies, Brighton. This is a terrible fucking idea.His demeanor shifts so fast it’s hard to say no, to tell him that I can’t help him with this. My eyes flicker to the ceiling.He’s been helping you since you got here.It’s one thing, camping can’t be that bad…
“Sure,” I say, and hope I don’t regret it.
“It’s my favorite art teacher!” Sunday bursts in, sliding into the quiet classroom. The few kids who usually spend lunch in here are gone today. School’s almost over—no one wants to be inside, and I don’t blame them.
“I’m the only art teacher you know, Sunny.” I take my bag from her and pull it open. She always stops at my favorite sushi place and brings tempura veg with Boone’s dipping sauce—sealed in the tiny container she never forgets. “I’m starving,” I say, inhaling fryer oil straight into my soul.
“We haven’t done this in a while. I was excited when you texted.” Sunday sets up her spot and pulls a chair over from a student desk in her pink overalls and beige baby T. “You said you wanted to talk?”
Yeah. Your brother. And how you’re going to kill me.
“We had lunch like four days ago,” I laugh, and she shrugs.
