The Prettiest Star

by Carter Sickels

  “Lettie said I can have the extra bedroom,” I say. “I need to be with him.”

  He’s looking at the hill of leaves he’s building, not at me. His shoulders lift and fall, his back curves, his arms flex and expand. Shh, shh, shh go the leaves. Then he stops, faces me. The baseball hat hides his eyes.

  “You’re going to live with my mother? And, what, I just stay here?”

  I nod.

  “It’s not right.”

  I brush off my knees and dead petals spill from the creases of my pants. “It’s not like I’m leaving you,” I say. Maybe this is a lie. In our grief, our love has turned in on itself, eating itself alive. “He needs me,” I add, but I don’t know if this is true or not.

  Jess

  When I was little, I traced pictures of ocean creatures from the Life Nature Library books. I liked the way the thin tracing paper felt and sounded, the delicate crinkles, like candy wrappers. I was careful, following the lines with the pointed tips of my colored pencils. Jellyfish, killer whales, dolphins, sea horses, starfish. I didn’t know how to read yet, but I studied the pictures. At the end of the book, they changed to photographs of ships, men with weapons, slaughtered whales. Slabs of hacked-up flesh and blubber. Men standing in gigantic jawbones, like the arches to a church. Rivers of blood. My mother didn’t want me to look. “They’ll give you nightmares,” she said. But I did anyway. I wanted to see everything.

  At my grandmother’s, Andrew and Brian are watching MTV. Sadie curls next to Brian on the sofa. She wants to be around him every second, and gets nervous if he’s out of her sight.

  “Hey, sis.”

  When Brian smiles, it looks creepy—his mouth too big for his face, his eyes bulging. He’s all bone, except for his neck, which is swollen and soft. He sits on the couch under a bundle of afghans and Andrew sits on the edge of the reading chair, bopping his head.

  “I love Whitney.” Andrew shakes his shoulders with the song. “How will I know?” he asks in a high, girly voice, and twirls his hand in the air.

  I don’t know how to interact with Andrew, and I slide by him to sit on the couch next to my brother. I’ve never met anyone like him. He never stops talking, and doesn’t try to hide his gayness at all. My mother calls him flamboyant. Mamaw says eccentric. I wonder if Andrew got beat up in high school.

  “You have practice today?” Brian asks.

  “Yeah.”

  Even though Coach likes us to run together, like soldiers in training, she never says anything to me when I splinter off and go on my own. I get away with it because of my brother. Grownups either ignore me or they act extra nice because they feel sorry for me. When I’m running, I’m so far inside my body, nobody else can see me. It’s different at school—no matter how hard I try, I can’t hide from the stares.

  “We have a meet this weekend.”

  “So, what happens at one of those? You just run and run and run, and people watch?” Andrew asks.

  I nod.

  “Boring,” he sings.

  Brian stares at his own hands, head bent. Sometimes I don’t know if he hears half of what is said. It’s hard to read his expression, except when the pain gets too bad. Then his face turns white as bone and his eyes glaze over. He’s in pain a lot. His legs hurt, his joints. He feels sick to his stomach.

  “I want a popsicle,” Andrew says. “Either of you want one?”

  Brian shakes his head. I don’t want one either. “Where’s Mamaw?” I ask. “And Mom?”

  “Shopping,” Andrew says on his way out of the room.

  “I told them to get out of here.” Brian sounds grumpy. “They’re driving me crazy. Everyone is.”

  There are days when I don’t like to be around him, and this may be one of them—he yells at us, even Mamaw, or he’s snippy. My mother tells me to be patient. “He doesn’t mean to be like that,” she told me one day after he made me cry. “He’s just scared.”

  “They need a break from me too,” Brian says.

  My mother moved into my grandmother’s so she wouldn’t have to keep running back and forth between her house and ours. She promised nothing was wrong between her and my father, but I don’t believe her. She still comes over to clean up or leave a casserole in the fridge, but doesn’t stay long. She asked me if I want to move in to Mamaw’s too, but I don’t want to leave my father alone. And, I don’t know if I can be around Brian every day.

  Cyndi Lauper’s new video comes on, her crazily teased orange hair like a giant sunflower bursting open. The scene changes to a sandy dune, maybe it’s supposed to be Mars, and she’s wearing a headpiece like a chandelier with gold chimes dangling like coins. In her hand she holds a giant pink shell and tells us to call her up if we’re sad.

  “Show me your true colors, Jess,” Brian says, trying to be nice. Then, he grimaces, clutches his stomach. His face suddenly whitens, and the veins in his neck bulge. I don’t know what to do.

  “Are you okay?”

  “Does it look like it?” he gasps. “Get Andrew.” He bends at the waist, still holding his stomach, like he’s trying to hide something. “Go!”

  I’m too slow. As I stand up, the stench is sudden and awful and powerful. Brian looks up at me with horror in his eyes, and I remember the day at the mall with Annie, when he needed a bathroom.

  “Brian,” I start.

  “Get the fuck out!”

  Andrew comes running in. “What’s wrong?”

  There are tears in my brother’s eyes. He holds his stomach, sweating, his skin a bluish white. He’s shit his pants.

  “Tell her to go,” Brian croaks. “Get the fuck out of here!”

  “Come on, honey,” Andrew says. “It’s just an accident, no big deal.”

  Shaking, I follow Andrew into the living room, where he gets out the supplies stored next to Brian’s bed. He snaps on rubber gloves and grabs a box of wet wipes and a towel. I watch from the other room as he helps my brother up.

  “Come on, hon. Let me get you to the toilet.”

  Then I’m running out the back door. I can’t get my breath. I lean against a tree, gagging and shuddering, then press my cheek against the scratchy bark. I breathe in the clean scent of wood. The air is cool and crisp. Above me yellow leaves look like hundreds of birds, heads tucked into their wings, asleep.

  When Brian was in the hospital, I was scared he’d never get to leave. I hated the sound of the machines, the sight of nurses wearing masks, the sharp scent of rubbing alcohol and medicine. I sat in the waiting room and stared at the polished linoleum floor and told myself if he didn’t die, I’d be a better sister, I’d help take care of him, I wouldn’t be ashamed.

  I can’t go back in. I still have my sweatshirt and shorts on from practice, so I just start running. I run along the Buckeye and through town and past the drive-in, which looks even more forgotten and sad. I run until my legs feel like they’re going to burn off. I run until the sun sinks and the sky is a soft lilac. I run until the hurt disappears. I run until my mind goes quiet and it’s just me inside my body: muscle, blood, bone, skin.

  When I get home, the house is dark. My father usually gets home late. I don’t see much of him anymore. Usually, I eat supper over at Mamaw’s, or I’m in my room or watching TV by the time he gets home. I get the house key from under the flower pot and open the door. Underneath my sweatshirt my skin feels chilled and damp, and my legs are red and itchy, like they’ve been stuck with hundreds of thistles. It’s the blood rushing through my body, my muscles and nerves wide awake.

  I flip on the kitchen light, and yelp. A person sits at the table. He turns around—my father with a beer in his hand. He blinks a couple of times like he just woke up.

  “Jess, sorry, didn’t mean to scare you,” he says. He sounds strange, like he’s trying to hold back a bark of laughter. But his eyes look heavy and sad and dazed. I’d like to hear him laugh.

  “I didn’t know you were home,” I say.

  “I just walked in,” he says quickly, in a way that
makes me think he’s lying. How long has he been sitting here staring into the dark? He’s still wearing his work uniform, and his hair is messy like he’s been pulling at it.

  “There’s some of that tuna casserole left,” he says.

  “You want some?”

  He shakes his head no. I get the pan out of the refrigerator and spoon the cold, chunky noodles onto a plate. My father drums his fingers on the table.

  “What did you do today?” he asks, and I realize what is weird about his voice—he’s slurring his words, just a little. He’s drunk.

  “Just went on a long run,” I say.

  “You go over to Mom’s?”

  “For a few minutes.”

  He takes a drink of beer. The microwave beeps, and I take out the warmed casserole.

  “How was Brian?” he asks.

  “Fine.”

  He holds his eyes on me like he wants to have a serious talk. No thank you. The casserole isn’t hot enough, but I eat it anyway, quickly shoveling it in. It’s not just his gray hair making him look old anymore. My father looks frail and uncertain. He starts to say something, then his voice just peters out. I remember watching him with a bucket of water and a sponge, the word FAGGOT looming above him in blood-colored paint. My father, on his knees, scrubbing. He couldn’t make the word go away.

  On my way home from school, Gus pulls up in his pickup and rolls down the window. “Want a ride?”

  I get in. The truck smells like my father’s truck, like motor oil and mud. A picture of Pam and Allie is taped to the glove compartment, and Gus’s leather tool belt, also like my father’s, sits between us. An empty Coke can rolls next to my feet. I miss seeing Gus, and Pam and Allie.

  “How you doing?” he asks, his giant fingers relaxed over the steering wheel.

  “Fine.”

  “I heard you’re doing real good in track.”

  “Cross country. Yeah, pretty good.”

  Gus turns onto our grandmother’s street. I don’t know if he hasn’t come by to see Brian because he’s so angry and disgusted, like Uncle Wayne, or if he’s just scared. One day I overheard Brian ask our mother if he’d ever see Gus again, then he told her, “I don’t care if I do or not.” I don’t believe him.

  “Aren’t you coming in?” I ask.

  “I gotta get home. I’ll come by another day.”

  “You should come in now,” I say. “Brian wants to see you. He asks about you.”

  Gus hesitates. Then he turns the key, and the truck stops shaking. He follows me inside, walking slowly, dragging his big feet.

  My grandmother and mother sit at the kitchen table, and they look up, surprised. “Look who it is,” Mamaw says.

  Gus holds his baseball hat in his hand, like he’s come to pay his respects. “How y’all doing?”

  “Don’t worry about us,” Mamaw says. “You get in there and talk to your cousin.”

  I walk with Gus into the family room. Brian sits in the recliner, an afghan over his lap, staring at the TV. When he sees Gus, his mouth opens but no sound comes out.

  “Hey, cuz,” Gus says, like everything is fine, but he can’t even look at Brian. He’s trying to find a place to put his eyes: his feet, the ball hat crumpled in his big hands, the TV screen.

  Brian watches this eye-dance with amusement. “Well, what took you so long?” he asks.

  “I’ve just been busy—” he stops. “I’m sorry.”

  Brian hands me the remote and tells me to watch what I want. I run through the channels, pretending to care what’s on, but I’m watching the two of them.

  “You still hang out with Josh Clay?”

  Gus’s face goes red. “No.”

  I stop on The Brady Brunch. I’ve seen all of the episodes about a hundred times. This is the one where the family goes to Hawaii, and Bobby finds an ancient idol that causes the family one bad incident after another.

  “I didn’t think you’d be like your dad,” Brian accuses.

  On TV, Greg, wearing the bad luck idol around his neck, surfs the Pacific, and the family, on the beach, watch in horror as a wave takes him down. After a moment, his father, bare-chested and wearing only a tiny pair of blue Bermuda shorts, runs into the ocean to save his oldest son.

  “It’s not like that,” Gus says, his voice thick with tears. “It’s just—” He sputters his words. “It’s not that you’re, you know—”

  “Gay?” Brian says.

  I don’t know if I’ve ever heard him say the word aloud. I can’t even pretend to look at the TV now. I glance back and forth between them.

  “I’m not like my dad. I just—it’s hard to see you, like this,” Gus says. “When we were kids, you were like my hero. You were so tough, and now…I’m sorry.”

  Gus wipes his eyes, and then he’s crying into his hand. Brian and I look at each other. I’ve never seen a man as big as Gus cry.

  “It’s okay, shh,” Brian says.

  Gus sniffles and sucks in deep breaths, and uses the back of his hand to wipe snot from his nose.

  “Why don’t you sit down,” Brian says. “Stay for a little bit.”

  And he does. The three of us watch TV, but I don’t think any of us are really watching. It’s just nice to be in the same room together. We relax, look at the screen. When the theme music comes on during the closing credits and all the Bradys and Alice smile at us and at each other, separate in their blue squares but always together, Gus says he better get going.

  Brian reaches out his hand. “Thanks, Gus,” he says. “Thank you for coming by.”

  I look over, searching for my mother or grandmother. Whoever isn’t staying home with Brian this morning will come—they take turns. My father stands by himself, baseball hat on, hands in jacket pockets. Sparrows and snowbirds hop around in the weeds, pecking at the ground, and other birds sing from the edges of the woods. I always feel wound up before a meet.

  I stretch, jog in place, bend down and touch my toes. It’s a perfect autumn day. Rusty, golden, and red leaves burst from the trees. The air is brisk. My teammates stretch, a few of them talking quietly, still waking up. Today’s meet is at Colby, which has one of the best cross county courses in the district, winding through the woods and fields. Parents linger a little ways out from the start line, a few with lawn chairs. As we run the 3.1 miles, they’ll move to different spots along the way to cheer us on.

  “How is everybody?” Coach Sizemore asks, coffee in hand. She wears gray sweats and a purple Eagles sweatshirt, baseball hat, sunglasses. Coach is tall and strong—big-boned, Mamaw says. Her shoulder-length dark hair is buzzed on the sides and she never wears makeup. Unmarried, she is rumored to be a lesbian. I like her, we all do. She tells us we’re winners even when we’re not and pushes us to go hard. We want to make her proud.

  As she makes her way through the group, giving each of us a little individual pep talk, I’m surprised to see both my mother and grandmother leaving the parking lot. My mother pushes a wheelchair. For a few seconds, I’m confused. Maybe they’ve brought someone with them, one of Mamaw’s friends, or some old relative I’ve forgotten about. Then I know.

  “Hey, Jess, you okay?” Coach asks.

  “What? Yeah.”

  “Listen, now remember to go steady. Keep your pace. You’re good at the kick at the end, but you need to be steady.” She touches my shoulder. “Jess?’

  Then she notices them crossing the field. Her face loosens into an easy smile. “You’ve got fans, that’s awesome. Right?”

  “Yeah, I guess.”

  She bends down to my height, her face in front of mine. “Focus on your run, kiddo. Everything’s going to be just fine. Okay?”

  The girls run first. We line up, and Coach stands on the side, calling out instructions. “Okay, let’s go, be ready now,” she says. I stare straight ahead. The starter pistol cracks, and we’re off. There are nine of us. Four from my team, five on Colby’s. My grandmother and mother scream my name and Brian claps weakly from his wheelchair. Up ahead, my
father stands alone, waving me on.

  We cross the field and move like horses into the golden woods. There are a few girls behind me, and a girl from Colby’s team far in the lead. Our feet hit the ground hard, leaves crunch. The rhythmic thudding is reassuring, like one giant heart beating. Birds call out and flutter from the trees. The air smells sweet like maple syrup and smoky like a wood-stove. The trail winds through red maples and yellow sweetgum, and we leap one by one over a small stream.

  I start to feel a slight cramp in my side and slow down just a touch. I can hear the others breathing all around me. We run through shadows and then come out into a cleared space blazing in light. Some of the crowd has moved, and they’re waiting for us here, cheering. I catch sight of my grandmother, too dressed up for a cross country meet. As I try to pace myself, I hear Coach yelling for us to keep going, don’t stop, let’s go!

  My legs burn, my chest expands. I watch the feet of the girl in front of me. It’s not about winning, Coach tells us. I’ve never come in first place and don’t expect to, but this morning the drive consumes me—I want to reach a point where my body can’t go anymore. I want it to hurt.

  We’re down to the last half mile, and suddenly it’s like I’m running in sand. My feet sink into the ground, and my legs won’t go. My body feels heavy and thick, I can’t find my breath. Then we turn into the woods again, and a switch turns on. My body lightens and speed shoots through me. This is the kick. I’m good at the kick.

  My feet hit the ground, and I stretch my legs, my arms, and glide in front of the girl next to me, then catch up to the next one. I listen to my feet, my heart, my breath. The fans wait at the finish line, cheering louder, and I run harder, leaning forward, propelling myself.

  Coach slaps our palms as we cross over the finish line. I come in behind a few girls, but I’m not last. I want to collapse, my legs turning to mush, all the heat dissipating from my body, but I keep moving. My grandmother, mother, and Brian hoot and holler, and then I see my father. He gives me a thumbs-up.