I think about that from time to time, about how those stars we look at, how they looked at our ancestors. How they’ve been guiding us since we started memorizing their shapes and movements, the way the earth breathes around them year after year. And how it’s so weird that stars are so magical, but Star has none of that inside of her. She’s like a star whose light got muddied somehow. I mean, Star is beautiful and blessed, but I can’t remember the last time she genuinely laughed from her belly. I feel like while I got Mom’s looks, Star got Mom’s heart. And it makes me sad.
9. Star Has a Nemesis and I Didn’t Even Know?
STAR BANGS INTO my room as I’m settling down with my cold, honey-topped pizza and coffee. Breakfast, because what else is there? Gravel and Madam Le Blanc cloaks? Even just waking up, she’s almost too beautiful to look at. “Hey,” she says. “Have you finished editing the beach shoot? They’re supposed to go up by tonight, remember.”
“On it,” I say, minimizing the Empress.
“Wait, what was that?” Star points at my computer screen. “A new art piece? Let me see.”
I pull it back up and keep my sigh as soundless as possible.
“Oh,” Star breathes. “I love it! This one’s my favorite.”
“That’s what you say about all of them.”
“Well, I love them all.” She gives me a side hug. “Thank you for giving up your whole summer for me.”
I stiffen a little, but gradually I lean in. “Sure, Star.”
“Don’t forget,” she says as she leaves. “Beach shoot. Tonight.”
“Got it.”
When she’s gone, I pull the Empress back up. Madam Le Blanc’s cloak company can wait an hour or so.
* * *
Even though my whole ass is tingly, I stay in my chair for another minute after I update the cloak photos to write Tía and tell her about the Beautiful Fools Road Trip. A whole summer stuck in a bus with Star and Star clones, I type. Yay.
I have to wait until all the way after dinner to get a moment to check the tour schedule, since Mom and Star have been on my back on editing away the teeniest tiniest muffin top in a couple of the beach photos. I collapse in bed and pull up the email. “Jesus Flipping Christ,” I mutter.
So I guess this is the fourth annual Fotogram Influencers for Charity Tour. It started as one big charity event in Los Angeles, to raise awareness about drunk driving and provide resources to families whose lives have been destroyed by drunk drivers—something Andro’s always been super passionate about. But somehow, along the way, it’s morphed into a giant-ass road trip. Select influencers are invited to tour the country, meet and greet their followers (or fanatics, in many cases), give speeches on things like “aesthetics” and “believing in your dreams—the Fotogram way,” and sell merchandise (with all profits to go to Families Against Drunk Driving). I can appreciate the charity support, but man, I am so not looking forward to anything else about this trip.
Meet on 6/18 at the Los Angeles Fotogram Fair. Star and Mom are purchasing plane tickets as we speak.
Then, twice a week for eight weeks, there’s music festivals and social media conventions, self-help events, and even a wine and cheese festival. We hit up Las Vegas, Portland, San Antonio, Memphis, and after that, each city starts to look like Blah-blah-blah to me, so I stop reading and start skimming.
Finally! A list of participants. There’s Van Williams. He’s a self-made model who’s terrified of environmental toxins. Has his own essential oils brand called Van I Am. There’s Oak Longsteinson, an amateur free climber. Also, I suspect, constantly high. Chamomila Jones—well, she will keep Star occupied, I guess. They’re already FG besties. Cham is, like Star, a religious model, but her focus is on fitness. Thy body is a temple and all that, so one must offer it juice cleanses and kettlebell workouts.
And next is Belle Brix. Self-taught makeup artist. Reinventor of the glitter cat-eye. And Star hates her for some unknown reason. I make a mental note to myself: Must ask Star more about this later.
Last but not least is my twin sister, Star Fuentez, religious model. Her focus is on purity. That’s why she loves it when I edit her photos to give her an angelic glow, like she’s too good to even consider that penises might exist.
At the way bottom of the list is Merch people: 2. Like, we don’t even get the privilege of names. I wonder if I’ll be Merch Girl all summer, if by August my whole body will be erased and replaced with poached-egg-and-avocado-illustrated tanks, faded photo filters, and bamboo makeup brushes. ’Cause that’s all this tour is going to consist of. I can already taste it, even without reading a tarot spread.
A shriek snaps me out of my melancholy. I step into Star’s room, where’s she’s scowling at her phone.
“Everything okay?” I ask.
She sighs. “I’m trying to move my hair appointment up, but Shauna’s booked within an inch of her life. She’s going to squeeze me in too early tomorrow.”
“Oh, that sucks,” I say halfheartedly. After a beat, I add, “So. Belle Brix, huh?”
Star rolls her eyes.
“No, seriously. What is your beef with Belle Brix?”
Star collapses in the bed. She looks like one of those goddesses in a Renaissance painting, her hair silky and lashes spidery. “Two weeks ago, Belle Brix commented on my laughing-in-front-of-the-barn photos. That I was wearing too much foundation. In fact, her exact words were”—Star pulls up what I’m assuming is a screenshot—“ ‘I could slice a piece of cake from that liquid layer. Tone it down, friend.’ ” She scoffs. “Like I’d dream of being friends with her.”
I bite my lips to keep from laughing.
“Moon!”
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Star. But that’s freaking hilarious.”
“No. No, it’s not. She’s got all the networks to spread nasty rumors about Star Fuentez sneaking foundation. I even trended on Twitter for sixteen minutes!”
“Star, everyone knows you don’t wear makeup. Everyone. It’s your whole thing, your brand, your life. And Belle Brix’s brand is nothing but makeup. She’s probably trying to sell some new sponsored foundation or something.”
“Yeah, well. It still stinks.”
“We’ll avoid her as much as we can.” I pause. “I noticed Oak Longsteinson on the list.” God, saying his name aloud is so weird. How white can a white boy’s name possibly be? But Star has been sending him heart-eyed emoji comments for a full year now.
Star shrugs. “Yeah. I guess.” Her reaction is a lot more anticlimactic than I thought it’d be. She asks, “Have you packed yet?”
“No.”
“Moon. We’re leaving in two days!”
“I’ll be fine, Mother.”
She throws a pillow at me and pulls out her phone. Dismissed.
I leave and plant myself in front of my computer, groaning. FotoDrama isn’t helping me to feel excited about this trip at all. At all. I hope to Zeus I don’t have to hold Star’s head in my lap while she cries, trying to convince her that she’s the fairest of them all.
An email notification dings. Tía. I grin as I read.
Think of the flowers, Moon. Think of the flowers.
10. It Was Fireweed That Made Me Fall in Love with the Whole Wild World
I DIDN’T REALIZE this until we spent half a summer there, but the light in Alaska is wild. Most of the time it’s like dusk. There’s basically a whole hour of legit night, and even that night isn’t quite right. There’s still light blue in the sky, like it was dipped in the turquoise ocean and was reluctant to let go. And then, before you know it, it’s dusk-like once again, for nearly the rest of the day.
Because of all the light, plants grow so big up there. I saw lupine, graped and violet and blue, as tall as my dad. And Queen Anne’s lace, their soft white blooms bigger than my head.
There was one flower that grew about everywhere—tall, its leaves emerald and grasslike, with sunset-pink blooms that gathered in a long cone, opening from the bottom up. I plucked the pe
tals and slid them into my Spanish-English dictionary, the only book I brought for the trip.
“That’s called fireweed,” my dad told me. He said that it was so named because it sprouted up really fast and full anywhere that had just burned. “After London was bombed in World War Two, it sprouted right through the ashes. Big swaths of pink where there had been so much killing and trauma.”
Later on, before leaving, Dad took us to an open market and bought us fireweed honey. When bees drink the fireweed nectar, they make a honey that’s so pale, it looks almost clear. Like water that just decided to become thick and sweet for no reason. Star and I ate spoonfuls of it until the jars were basically licked clean even before we got back home.
I still have those petals in my book. They’re a little faded and you can see the veins of them really clearly, but they remind me of when I fell in love with the world. That’s the moment I realized that anything, that everything, could be holy.
* * *
Star makes us stop at the church on our way to the airport for the father’s blessing. Despite my feelings for the church, I have to admit that St. Joseph’s is beautiful. The walls are built of gray and brown stones the texture of homemade paper, and the stained glass makes me think about pomegranates and strawberries and Granny Smith apples made into light across the floor. I take Star’s photo as Father Luke places his hand on her head. “In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost. May you travel protected. And may you be guided with the love of God.” He smiles at Star and Mom.
“Now Moon,” Mom says. Demands, really.
I furrow my brow. “Mom, I—”
“Now.” And just like that, I’m pushed in front of the father. I’m sure Mom is congratulating herself on behalf of God for whatever sins she’s imagining I’m about to be cleansed of.
Father Luke dips his hand in the holy water. His smile is strained as he mumbles the same prayer. I was his least favorite Communion girl, and he probably sank to his knees and screamed thanks to the Lord when he found out I’d dropped out of confirmation classes—and, thereby, Catholicism.
Mom says she knows Jesus will lead my heart back to the church, but I think I’d rather rip out my heart, place it on a dish, and serve it to Father Luke. To be honest, I think, given the option, Mom would rather that too. If only my bleeding out wouldn’t look so bad to Father Luke, I mean.
A click has me tilting my head toward Star. She smiles, my camera in her hand, no doubt congratulating herself on documenting my big spiritual moment. Probably will post it to all of her thousands and thousands of followers, begging for them to pray for my soul or something. God. I hope she doesn’t. Photos of me get the worst comments.
* * *
I’ve packed ten pairs of leggings, a skirt, sixteen tank tops, eleven wrap sweaters, ballet flats and sandals, and two dresses. My clothes can, when all bunched and rolled up, fit in a large makeup bag. Then there’s my laptop, my sketchbook, my Spanish-English dictionary, and my art pens. That fills up one book bag. My camera equipment goes into an extra-padded canvas tote.
Every-freaking-thing else—the two rolling Coach luggage bags, Victoria’s Secret Pink totes, Kate Spade handbag—that’s all Star. I help her with her luggage, and she exhales with an “Oh, gosh, thank you, Moon” as she heaves one of the larger bags onto my shoulder. I manage a smile even though it feels like I’ve got Michelangelo’s statue of David propped on me while pulling a suitcase that feels like it’s been stuffed with many, many planets.
Mom hands us envelopes. “This is for your food plan, and souvenirs.” She smiles. I want to snatch both cash bundles from her hand, just to see how much more Star got, but I give her a hug instead, making sure not to touch her with anything other than my hands and forearms. “Thanks, Mom. So thoughtful.”
She nods and winces a little, shrinking away from me, digging in her purse for some holy relic. She gets a little teary-eyed as she crosses us with her rosebud rosary. “God bless you.”
“Mom,” I say. “We’re not off to war.”
“Luna,” Star mutters.
“I’m fine, Star,” Mom says, giving me a glare that could cut the pope’s dick right off. “And, Moon? No sex.” She whispers the last word, like the pope is nearby, listening.
I groan, and once again berate myself for telling Mom when I’d lost my virginity. Such a weird term. I gave it away. It was my choice. Not that the wording would’ve made a difference to Mom or the aim of her steak knives.
Mom continues. “I’m not raising any grandbabies. Or sluts.”
The word “slut” settles into my skin like the fangs of serpents. I speak before I can think of stopping myself. “Could you say it a little louder? I’m not sure everyone here knows I’ve had a penis in my vagina.”
A lady next to me smirks. Mom looks like she wants to strangle me with grenades. I can tell she is thinking really hard about how to react. She can’t say what she really wants to because we’re in public and people would think ill of her. She finally settles on “You need to go to confession. This week.”
The woman next to us rolls her eyes in such a way that only I see it. I hide half a smile.
“I doubt they’ll be making any stops at Catholic churches,” Star says.
“I don’t care! I’ll call that Andro—”
“Mom,” Star says calmly, with another hug. “We’ve got to go.”
“Ah. Okay.” Mom wipes her tears again. “May our heavenly Father protect you.”
“From all the penises,” I finish.
“Moon!” Mom’s teeth are starting to get pointy, so I run away before she can see my grin.
Star jogs behind me as I call, “Amen!”
I can’t believe I’m still upright with this whale on my back.
And just like that, we’re off to God knows what. Flowers, I remind myself. Flowers.
* * *
Apparently, FG couldn’t foot business class, which is so considerate of the multibillion-dollar start-up. Star takes the window, because blah-blah-blah claustrophobia, and I’m in the middle, squished by a long-legged man who’s apparently never heard of the concept of personal space.
“What are you, a model?” he asks Star over my head.
Star smiles, but she’s reining it in, thank God. Sometimes she likes to enchant strangers for attention, but I am so not in the mood to sit between her giggles and this guy’s eye-fucking.
“Oh,” Star says. “I’m just a freshman in high school.” Oh my good Gandalf, YES. We graduated a few weeks ago, actually, but this is one of the easiest ways to get grown men off her back. I almost laugh at the look on his face—like he’s been caught shooting heroin with the devil.
“Ah.” He glances at the scar on my collarbone, and his eyes immediately drop to my cleavage.
“Sophomore,” I say.
He clears his throat and pulls out a thick book while angling his legs away from us. I grin at Star. The whole “pretend like you’re fourteen when old dudes get fresh”—that was all her idea, and it works really well about 64 percent of the time.
Star’s got her pillow out and she’s already dozing.
I scoff. “I don’t know why you always need the window if you’re just going to sleep.”
“The window makes you sick.”
“No it doesn’t!” I’ve got Mom’s envelope in my hand, ready for my wallet.
“I thought you got carsick.”
Carsick. That was Mom’s excuse for wanting Star to be up in the passenger’s seat alongside her. But I just say, “That doesn’t translate to plane sick, all right?” I pause, bills in hand. “Star. Why on Middle-earth do I have fifteen hundred dollars?”
She puts a finger to her lips and closes her eyes. “I swear, you are begging to be robbed.”
“That doesn’t answer my question.”
“The meal plan costs fourteen eighty. I guess the rest is for souvenirs.”
“Why does an eight-week meal plan cost fourteen hundred and eighty dollars?” I as
k. “Little Caesars can feed us for a day with their five-dollar Hot-N-Readys.”
Star groans. “The restaurants they made deals with aren’t Little Caesars. They’re nice, Luna. It’s an amazing price, considering.”
I stare at the wad in my wallet. We haven’t had to worry about financial stuff, not since Star made it big. Still, the way Star and Mom throw money around scares me sometimes. Am I the only one who remembers mustard sandwiches and buttered-rice dinners?
“I thought I read we had to sign up for the meal plan online.”
“The PayPal thing wasn’t working for Mom. Andro said we could pay when we got there.”
“You’ve already talked to Andro?”
“No. Mom did.” Star rolls her eyes. “Can I sleep yet?”
“Do you know if the tour bus has a little kitchen or something?”
“How would I?” She pulls on her eye mask. “Good night, Moon.”
Now I’m the one rolling my eyes. It’s two in the afternoon, genius. I pull out my computer and start some research.
11. I Am the Bad Daughter Who Lies and Keeps Secrets
MOM THINKS I’M going to Temple Community College, down the street, so I can continue my unpaid labor of photographing Star. I haven’t told anyone yet, but that was never my plan. I’ve been accepted to Brown, Portland U, and one wild card: Tulane University for their art program. I found out a few months ago I got in, and it took every ounce of willpower to not run through the house throwing fireworks while screaming, “I’m getting the hell out of here!”
One problem. The full ride I got isn’t entirely full, because it doesn’t cover room and board. Technically, I could ask to stay with Tía, but Mom would never speak to me again, and I don’t know if I’m ready to cut ties that hard with her. So I need eight thousand dollars. Or to put down five and work-study the rest.
How Moon Fuentez Fell in Love with the Universe Page 3