The Prettiest Star

by Carter Sickels

  I cut algebra and go in the bathroom. I check under the stalls, but nobody else is here. Sometimes, sitting in class, I feel like my body is going to explode. Cross country season is over, and I miss running.

  I lock the door and sit on the toilet. The door is covered in graffiti: hearts, girl names plus boy names. But it’s not all love. There is a sloppy drawing of a penis. And: Theresa Smith is a slut. Tina Marshall is a lez. Ian and Richard are fags. I search for my name, but it’s not here. I’m sure someone has written about me on one of the doors. Kids still give me looks, and sometimes I hear them talking. But nobody has yelled anything or written anything on my locker since my fight with Carrie Driggs. She avoids me.

  The outside bathroom door opens, and I hear a purse opening and closing. Someone hums, the sound of the faucet. Paper towel crank. I wait until I hear the door close before I unlock the hook and step out of the stall.

  But I’m not alone. Brandy White stands at the sink, reapplying lipstick. She watches me in the cracked, splotched mirror. I take a deep breath. I wash my hands. This morning, my mother told me I didn’t have to go to school, but I can’t stay at my grandmother’s all the time—the suspended quiet is too much, all of us just waiting.

  “I heard you beat up Carrie Driggs,” Brandy says.

  The pink liquid soap slides between my palms, and smells like my grandmother. I rinse them with water and reach for a paper towel.

  “I’m glad you did. She’s such a bitch.”

  Brandy offers me her lipstick. I stare at myself in the mirror and color my lips strawberry red.

  “It looks good on you,” she says.

  “Thanks.”

  We look at each other in the mirror.

  “I guess I’ll see you later,” Brandy says to my reflection.

  “See you later,” I say.

  We walk out together, but in the hallway we turn and go in opposite directions.

  After school, I go to my grandmother’s. I’m staying here now with my mother and Annie. The nurse Mabel walks out just as I’m walking in. She’s shriveled and old, with bright white hair and skinny goat-like legs, and never gets tired. She isn’t bothered by Brian or AIDS. She doesn’t wear a mask, or look at him funny. Yesterday a different nurse came by, covered from head to toe, and didn’t say a word to Brian, just dropped off bedding and pads and other supplies. But Mabel talks to him, even when he doesn’t respond.

  “Hey, darling,” she says. “He’s awake.”

  Annie is with him, sitting at the foot of the bed, his socked feet in her hands. She’s wearing a long cable-knit sweater over stretch pants, and she looks up and smiles. “Hey, kiddo.”

  It’s good having Annie here. She knows what to do, and she talks to Brian all the time, even when he doesn’t respond.

  Brian sighs with pleasure as she massages his feet. Then he opens his eyes. You can see the blue veins under his pale skin. He doesn’t do much anymore. He gets short of breath just trying to sit up.

  “Sing to me,” he says.

  Annie opens her mouth and the hairs stand up on my arms. I don’t even hear the words, it’s just the sound of her voice that’s like some kind of magical bird calling from the woods. Soon my grandmother comes in, followed by my mother, and then Andrew. Nobody touches each other, we just stand there around the bed, listening to Annie sing and looking at Brian, his upturned face peering above the nest of covers like a bird’s egg.

  Stars shine from the clear night sky. We stand apart, arms at our sides. I don’t know if I should give him a hug. But he doesn’t move toward me, so I don’t either. Nick and I haven’t talked for at least a month, but today he called and told me he was visiting his dad for the weekend.

  “Hey,” he says.

  “Hey.”

  Most of the leaves have fallen off the trees, and the wind rushes through the naked branches. The cords that used to hook to the speakers dangle from the poles like broken IVs. When the wind blows, they whip around. The movie screen shivers.

  Nick offers me a cigarette.

  “I don’t smoke anymore,” I say.

  “Oh, okay.”

  We walk over to the merry-go-round and our breaths make clouds in the dark. Nick talks about how much he hates school, and I tell him about my fight with Carrie Driggs, which impresses him.

  He puts his arm around me, and leans into kiss me, but I turn away. The air is brisk, the ground cold. I’m trying not to shiver.

  “I don’t want to,” I say.

  “Okay.”

  I don’t know if it’s because of all the time that has passed, or just that we’re different people now. It doesn’t feel bad. Just different. We lie on our backs on the merry-go-round and look up at the stars.

  “I think my brother’s going to die soon,” I say.

  Nick doesn’t know how to respond, but that doesn’t matter—I just wanted to say the words. Last night Annie put her arm around me and said, “Jess, it won’t be long.” I went to sleep trying to recall my best memories of my brother, but I couldn’t remember anything. I wish that he’d been with me when I went to SeaWorld. I would have liked to have had him there beside me when Shamu exploded from the water, for him to witness this massive creature magically leaping into the sky, beautiful and fearsome, the most magnificent thing I’ve ever seen.

  Nick hops off the merry-go-round. “Hold on,” he says.

  At first, he can’t get it going—too many weeds, too much rust. He grips one of the bars and heaves harder, leaning his entire body into it. The merry-go-round creaks, then starts to spin. I stay on my back, not holding onto anything, and look up at the starry sky. Nick runs faster, pushing as hard as he can, and then he hops on and lies down next to me. The merry-go-round goes around and around. I’m dizzy and light-headed, but I keep my eyes wide open, watching the sky like it’s a movie. The stars twirl, like whales diving and breaching, a beautiful blur. I feel so small. Space goes on and on, and the world keeps spinning.

  I was only eight years old when my brother left. He didn’t tell me he was going until the morning of his trip. I remember it was still dark, but not night-time dark. A silvery-purple light fell over the room. I opened my eyes, and there was Brian standing in my doorway. Why was he up so early? I must have known something was wrong—he was already dressed for the day, wearing jeans and a T-shirt, and a denim jacket, his long, scruffy hair hitting the collar.

  “Morning, sleepyhead,” he said, and walked into the shadowy light. He sat next to me, and then I could see his face clearly, the fuzz of his sideburns, his deep-set blue eyes, the familiar lips, nose, forehead. My brother, my hero.

  “Are we going somewhere?” I asked. Maybe to the woods, or maybe he’d take me on a drive. My brother liked adventures.

  He smiled, but it was a small smile, a little bit sad. “I’m going on a trip,” he said.

  “Where?”

  His smile grew. “New York City.”

  A dream place, where people went to be free.

  “When?”

  “Now,” he said.

  “When will you be back?”

  “I won’t be gone long.”

  I wondered if our parents knew. Brian said they did. He told me he’d send me letters. I didn’t understand. I was only eight years old. I remember feeling a tightening in my stomach, a pain, but I didn’t cry. Brian told me he’d be back. He promised.

  “Scoot over,” he said.

  Then he stretched out next to me, and we lay side-by-side. He slid one arm under my head, and I rested there, in the crook of his arm. I felt warm and safe. I remember he had on his brown leather boots, and thinking our mother would be irritated if she knew he was wearing them in bed. We stared at the ceiling. Brian pulled me closer. He smelled like cigarette smoke. He smelled like adventure.

  “Let’s pretend we’re under the ocean,” he said.

  “Should we get under the blankets?”

  “No, let’s just close our eyes.”

  The light behind my eyelids was a d
ark blue. We were under the sea.

  Brian described what we saw. Look at the starfish, he said. Look at the coral, what color is it? Pink, I said. Green, blue. A school of silver tuna headed toward us. Dolphins played and laughed around us. And here came a giant blue whale. We climbed on its back. The whale carried us across the sea.

  When I opened my eyes, the room was orange and bright, and my brother was gone. I thought maybe I’d dreamed it all. But when I went downstairs, I couldn’t find him. I wouldn’t see him again for six long years.

  I keep waiting for everyone to show up to say goodbye, so Mamaw’s house will be loud and full, like it used to be. But there aren’t many visitors, and they don’t all come at once. A few relatives, and a couple of friends of my grandmother’s. They file in quietly to speak to Brian. Most of the time, he’s asleep. Nobody stays long. They talk in hushed tones. Most everyone stands back, spooked to touch him or get too close, but Coach Sizemore went right over to him and put her hand on his head.

  My father doesn’t come over. But a couple of days ago, I looked out the window and saw his pickup parked across the street, in front of Betty Russell’s house. He was just sitting there. Then he lifted his hands to his face. His shoulders shuddered. It was so bizarre that at first I couldn’t comprehend it. My father was crying. He sat there a few more minutes, then wiped his forearm across his face, adjusted his hat, and drove off. I didn’t tell anyone.

  Andrew comes every day. It’s better when he’s here. He and Annie never stop talking, and their chatter makes things feel more normal.

  Today he and Annie went with Mamaw to pick up food from the Dairy Freeze—she refuses to ever step foot in Dot’s again. The food is for us, not Brian, who only eats baby food or Jell-O. My mother is taking a nap, and I’m the only one in the room with him. The house feels big and empty.

  Sometimes, when you talk to Brian, he just smiles and looks out past you. You can’t always tell if he heard you or not. But he seems better right now, like he’s actually here and not drifting into space.

  “Jess.”

  “What?”

  The dreamy, dopey, toothless grin doesn’t leave his face.

  “Help me sit up,” he says.

  “Are you sure?”

  He nods. For the past month, I’ve watched him get smaller and smaller, but still I’m shocked by how little he weighs. I put my arms behind him. He winces, and I stop.

  “It’s okay,” he mutters. “Keep going.”

  Carefully, I help him sit up. I know he’s in pain. A sheen of cold sweat breaks out across his face. It takes all his energy. I’m stronger than him, I weigh more. I fluff the pillows behind him and adjust a blanket over his legs. He gets chilled easily.

  “Open the window,” he says, his voice strained, hardly a whisper.

  The air is cool, and smells like fall. Brian stares at the indigo sky. He taught me there is more than one way of looking at the world.

  Killer whales are the ancient ones. There are some Indian tribes who believed whales possessed spiritual powers, healing sickness and guiding humans to safety. If a person comes into contact with a whale, the person will be transformed. There were some who believed the first humans were actually killer whales who turned into humans when they reached land. Then the whale-human forgot how to get back to the sea. A whale spotted near the shore was said to be looking for his lost land family.

  Others believed killer whales are the souls of humans. They believed killer whales live in a parallel world—as people, deep under the ocean. And when we die, we return to our true selves: we return to the sea. This makes more sense than a heaven in the sky. There is life in the ocean. It’s where we originated, so maybe that’s where we return.

  Nothing transforms, there is no magic. Or, does everything transform? I hesitate, and then reach up and touch my brother’s face. His skin is warm. I don’t pray anymore, but sometimes I dream. Giant, enormous, beautiful bodies. All of us together in the ocean. We die and we swim. I hold my palm to my brother’s cheek, and he looks quietly at something I cannot see.

  Brian

  June 18, 1986

  Listen, I wasn’t always sick or afraid of dying.

  Before all of this, before I owned a camcorder even, before Shawn was sick, before we knew what was in our blood, before so many deaths, I was just living my life. We all were.

  I remember, it was one of the first warm days of the new year, one of those perfect New York days when everyone shakes off the last of the gloomy winter and spills out of offices, apartments, the projects. Shawn met up with Annie and me at our favorite Chinese restaurant. He had just found out that he won a part in a play. Not the lead, but a major part. And, this wasn’t one of the usual artsy, experimental, downtown plays. This was uptown. Not Broadway, but close. He would play a gang leader. Of course that’s what they offer you, how predictably racist, Annie said, and Shawn just shook his finger at her. Girl, you think I don’t know that? What, do you want me to just walk away? Shawn said at least he’d be doing what he loved, and he’d get paid for it. Listen, this is gonna be one complex gang leader, he said, and Annie laughed and said she didn’t doubt it. I didn’t either. When Shawn was on stage, he made people feel. He was good. He slipped into characters easily, shifting the way he stood, or the timbre of his voice, or the wrinkle in his brow. I loved to watch him. No matter what role he took on—gang leader, father, young boy—he never lost the essence of him, a glowing, silvery light that shined off of him.

  We celebrated by ordering too much food. Annie’s father and stepmother, who she despised, had given her birthday money the week before, and I had a good week waiting tables. We planned to spend it all. What the hell were we saving it for? We cracked open our fortune cookies and pulled out the slips of paper and read them aloud. Annie said we had to eat them in order for them to come true. We ate our fortunes. We would be wise and wealthy, we would hold our friends close, and we would follow our dreams.

  When we left the restaurant and stepped into the warm city air, surrounded by noise and lights and strangers, we felt energized and alive, so alive.

  Let’s make a night of it, Shawn said.

  Why not? Annie said.

  Why not, indeed?

  We started at a dive bar in the East Village where the drinks were strong and the music loud, a place frequented by punks and artists and transsexuals and fags, our people. We took a table near the front. Lou Reed on the jukebox. A woman in a sequined shirt dancing by herself. Our cigarette smoke swirled, the ice in our drinks clinked. We made summer plans—Fire Island, concerts, a road trip. We talked about traveling. We’d save money, get our passports, see the world.

  Italy!

  France!

  Iceland!

  We laughed into our drinks. Iceland?

  Shawn, his hand on my thigh, grinned around his cigarette. Think of it, he says, the three of us in some crazy snowy dreamscape, the Northern Lights dancing above us, like being on another planet.

  Fine, fucking Iceland, Annie said. Don’t forget Thailand.

  And Costa Rica.

  And Portugal.

  There was another bar or two, maybe a party or two. Sometime after midnight, we hailed a cab, snorted some lines, and spilled out in front of a club, pupils dilated, bodies buzzing, noses twitching.

  New York, the city of dreams.

  Most of the night is a blur. What I remember: everything is loud and fast and thrilling. What I remember: the three of us dancing, jumping around and twisting our bodies with abandon. The reflections of the disco ball like a million pieces of colored glass. What I remember: Shawn coming up behind me, his sweaty skin sliding against mine, his voice low in my ear, Baby. What I remember: Annie, laughing, pulling me onto the dance floor and spinning me around like I was the girl. What I remember: feeling breathless and joyous and invincible. We loved the city, we loved each other.

  By the time we leave, the sun is up, it’s Sunday morning and people are going to church, and we’re leaving ours.
We walk back to our place. While Annie and I wait in bed, smoking cigarettes, rehashing the night, Shawn busies himself in the kitchen. We hear the pop of a cork. Then, he saunters in, in just his underwear—beautiful, sexy—carrying a tray of mimosas and waffles, the golden squares perfectly holding the warm syrup Shawn has drizzled over them. The windows are open, the pink curtains dance in the breeze. We eat and drink in bed like queens. At some point, we fall asleep, we dream.

  This night, we thought then, was just one of many. This is what life was, and this is what our lives were supposed to be. I didn’t do anything to cause this—none of us did. We were just living. We were young and happy and alive, and nothing could stop us.

  Sharon

  Here we are. Annie and Jess sit on the floor playing the board game Life. Andrew rubs Brian’s feet and hands and never stops talking—stories about work mostly, or he jabbers about fashion and models. He used to make Brian laugh, but now Brian just struggles to breathe. Lettie shuffles around in the kitchen, Patsy Cline croons.

  Mabel the hospice nurse has told us what to expect, but I still don’t want to believe. For now, he sleeps. Shallow breaths, a body of bones. He’s in a hospital bed that a friend of Lettie’s gave us. Next to the bed, a table cluttered with Kleenex, a plastic cup of water, bendy straws.

  Brian’s bony hands twist like hooks in front of his chest. Yellow nails, and feathery fungus sprouting between his fingers. His face is no longer my son’s but the face of the terminally ill, the dying. Giant forehead, hollow cheeks. I stroke his thin hair, dry as straw, falling out in my fingers. His jawline covered in whiskers. Glassy eyes. Loud, labored breaths. When I touch his slight chest, I feel the thud of his heart—the body holding on. He doesn’t want to die, but he doesn’t want to live like this. Annie has not said anything else to me about the pills.