Bring Down the Stars

by Scott, Emma

  Weston didn’t smile, but he didn’t give Connor the finger again either.

  Connor turned to me. “Want something to drink? Lemonade?”

  “That’d be great, thanks,” I said.

  He leaned around. “Ruby?”

  “Please.”

  I reached for my little pocketbook. “Here, let me…”

  “I got it,” he said. “Sit tight. We have some time before Wes races again.” He started to rise, then sat again. “Before I let one more second go by, I want to say you look really pretty today.”

  A warmth spread through my chest. “Thank you.”

  He stepped over us to the stairs and headed down, waving at someone to his right, pausing to talk to someone on the left. This part of the bleachers wasn’t even half full for these prelim races—maybe sixty spectators—but Connor seemed to know everyone.

  Ruby leaned into me. “I need to tell you something, Auts.”

  “What?”

  “You are sooo pretty today.”

  I shoved her off. “Shut up.”

  “That boy has moves on top of moves.”

  “You think it’s all an act?”

  “No, but he’s like one of those track guys—he’s put in a lot of training, honing his craft.”

  “He’s sweet,” I said.

  “He’s definitely the most popular guy here.” Ruby jerked her chin down to the field. “Can’t say the same for Wes.”

  Weston was off by himself again, sipping from a water cup and watching the next event—the 800-meters.

  “So maybe he’s an introvert,” I said. “No crime in that.”

  “Says the reformed introvert. By the way, I’m so proud of you. I mean, two social events in two weekends. That’s a record right there.”

  I laughed and leaned back on my elbows, turning my face to the sun, trusting my layers of sunblock. A cool breeze took the edge off the heat. Connor came back with lemonade and popcorn. We talked easily, laughed a lot and overall, the day couldn’t have been more perfect.

  The track crew finished setting up for the 110-meter hurdles and Weston lined up with nine other racers.

  Connor leaned in close to me, his outstretched arm pointing to Weston in the outside lane, closest to us. The scent of his cologne filled my nose and his stubble brushed my cheek.

  “Watch him,” Connor said, his voice low and gruff. “Most hurdlers take four steps between each hurdle, but a few can take only three. Wes takes three, which gives him an even bigger advantage.”

  I turned my head slightly. Connor’s chin nearly touched mine, and our eyes met. This close, the green facets were stark and clear. His gaze moved from my eyes to my mouth. My heart pounded at his pure masculine perfection and my heartache for Mark suddenly seemed to belong to another person.

  The moment broke apart by the announcer telling the racers to take their marks. Connor smiled faintly and we both turned our attention to the field.

  “Let’s go, Wes!” he bellowed.

  The racers lined up, crouched, and took off with the gun.

  “You see it?” Connor said excitedly. “He takes three steps…”

  I tried to count but Weston was so fast. His legs a windmill blur before unfolding to take the hurdle. Left leg stretched, the right tucked under him, landing each time with perfect grace into the next three steps. He never once broke rhythm. Other hurdlers knocked the fences down, but Weston cleared every one and won the race. I didn’t have to look at the time to know it was at least a half-second faster than the second-place finisher.

  Ruby, Connor and I cheered, and then Connor leaned into me again.

  “Three steps. He’s unbeatable.”

  His smile was infectious and the way his eyes held mine…

  Slow down. You just had your heart broken and you’re already climbing back onto the ledge, contemplating another jump.

  I gave myself a shake. This was precisely why I should have stayed home. I couldn’t do casual. With his popularity and arsenal of moves, Connor probably didn’t want any kind of serious relationship.

  And my romantic heart didn’t want anything less.

  I returned Connor’s smile and faced forward. The rest of the afternoon, I did my best to keep our conversation floating along surface topics: music, majors, and college life. But with every one of Connor’s smiles, every laugh, every casual touch, I felt the pull that whispered for me to take the jump—that the fall was exhilarating. But I remembered all too well how hard and unforgiving the ground could be.

  Weston

  My third and final race was the 4x400-meter baton relay. Coach Braun always had me run anchor for the simple fact - I won races. Which also happened to be the only reason my teammates were still talking to me. Fine by me. I wasn’t there to make friends. I was there to win.

  The 4x400 began, and as the baton was passed once, then twice, I took my place on the track for the last leg. We had about twenty seconds before our teammates rounded the curve for the final stretch, and a cloud of nervous tension hung over us. We all craned our necks to look over our shoulders, arms stretched back for the baton, reaching and ready, praying to the gods we wouldn’t drop it.

  “Hey,” I said to the Tufts runner in the lane on my right, a guy I’d run against for two years. “Hey, Jacobs.”

  Todd Jacobs—lanky and dark-haired—glanced at me quickly, scowled. “Fantastic. Another season with the Amherst Asshole. Just what I always wanted.”

  “Do you like my uniform?” I asked.

  The third-leg runners were rounding the curve. The anchors started taking half steps. Jacobs’ gaze darted to me, then back to his approaching teammate.

  “Huh?”

  “I said, do you like my uniform?”

  “Ignore him,” said Hayes Jones, a runner from Wesleyan on my left, his dark eyes on the track behind him. “He’s just trying to rile you.”

  “What about you, Jones?” I asked. “Do you like my uniform?”

  “Fuck off, Turner.”

  We were all jogging now, arms reaching as our teammates closed in, their own arms out long.

  “It’s a great uniform,” I said, running faster now as my teammate, Doug Bonham, stretched to hand off the baton. “Hold on, I’ll show you what it looks like from behind.”

  I felt the baton hit my palm, wrapped my fingers around it and took off. Within seconds, I’d left Hayes, Jacobs, and the other runners in my rearview.

  As I ran, I called upon reserves of energy in my legs and reignited the smoldering embers of pain in my memory. Anger at my asshole father. Anger at myself for not being able to leave him in my dust too. Anger that I still cared… I would turn it all into a fucking victory if it killed me.

  That anger burned hot, and I pushed my body hard. Muscles screaming, lungs burning, stomach tightening in a thousand knots. I ran as if the rest of the racers were on my ass and not ten meters behind me, and crossed the finish line a good four seconds ahead of anyone else.

  Win confirmed, I dropped the baton, slow-jogged to the nearest trashcan, and puked on the mound of empty paper water cups inside.

  My post-race ritual: the carb-unload.

  “Nice win, Wes,” Coach Braun said when I straightened and wiped my mouth with the back of my hand. He pressed a cup of water at me and patted my shoulder. “You good?”

  I nodded, still catching my breath. He opened his mouth to say something, maybe offer some advice, but opted for a clap on the back and leaving me alone. He’d learned in my freshman year that I showed up when he needed me to show up and I ran what he told me to run. But no one was allowed in my head.

  The other racers paced to cool down, hands on hips and catching their breath as we waited for the times to post.

  “You know what, Turner?” Hayes panted, his hands on his knees. “I’d admire you…if you weren’t such a prick.”

  “Some day,” Jacobs said, between sucking breaths. “He’s going…to get his. I just hope I’m around to see it.”

  I shrugged
them off. I’d won. That’s all that mattered. And as I did after every won race, I waited for joy or elation to hit me.

  It didn’t.

  It never did.

  Instead, I indulged my other post-race ritual, one I’d had since Sinclair Prep. While the other runners were intent on the scoreboard, my eyes scanned the bleachers for him.

  Pathetic and futile and yet I couldn’t help it.

  Give it up, Sock Boy. He’s not here, and he never will be.

  My wandering gaze found Autumn sitting with Connor. His dark head and her flaming red hair close together. Just talking? Or was he sneaking a kiss? I doubted it. Connor was pretty good at reading women, and probably knew Autumn wouldn’t tolerate a move like that without an official first date.

  A smile ghosted my lips. You can steal all the high-fives and hugs you want, but you have to earn a kiss from her.

  The meet ended, and Amherst—thanks to me—destroyed the other teams. But even without my points, we had a deep roster of talent. The Mammoths were going to have a good year.

  I walked past where the Tufts crew packed up their duffels. “See you next month, Jacobs,” I said with a wave.

  “Suck it, Turner,” he snapped back.

  Friends and family trickled onto the field now, and I braced myself as Connor and Autumn approached.

  She came. Sure, so she could see Connor. Because she wanted to see him. But still, she came.

  Connor and I clasped hands and he tried to give me a hug.

  “Get off,” I said. “I stink and I’m not done puking.”

  Connor laughed and ruffled my hair instead. “You kicked ass. But you and your puking. Maybe an antacid before the race?”

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” I muttered.

  “That relay was incredible,” Autumn said, her eyes and smile wide. “All three races were incredible. You were amazing to watch. Congrats.”

  She moved toward me and I took a step back, conscious of my breath. Her smile faltered. Hurt flickered across her eyes and I scrambled to think of a gracious reply to her compliment but came up empty.

  Strike one.

  Autumn retreated, and she said to no one in particular, “Look at Ruby.”

  Ruby was over by the Wesleyan team, chatting up Hayes Jones. Both of them laughing with familiarity, as if they’d met in kindergarten.

  “She’s really good at that,” Autumn said. “Meeting new people? I get butterflies at the thought of walking up to a stranger and starting a conversation.”

  “But walking up to strangers in libraries and trashing their capitalist propaganda is no problem,” I said.

  “I did not— shut up.” Laughing, she started to give me a shove. I was soaked with sweat and stepped back again, out of range. Her laughter died off, leaving that same hurt in its wake.

  Strike two, idiot.

  Autumn glanced at her watch, then looked up at Connor. “So…I had a great time. I’m glad I came. Thanks for the lemonade.”

  “That was nothing,” he said. “How about dinner?”

  I flinched. Christ, not like that, dummy. You can’t ask her on a first date like she’s any old nail and you’re the sledgehammer.

  Autumn adjusted her bag. “Oh, thank you, but I—”

  “There’s a great Thai place down the road,” Connor said. “Ever been to Boko 6?”

  Of course she had. There were only ten restaurants in town. I walked away, hands on my hips as if I were still winded, but really, I needed to get away from Connor’s ham-fisted invitation. Autumn needed a light touch and romance. A few seconds ago I couldn’t manage a “thank you,” but I suddenly knew exactly how I’d ask her to go out with me.

  Have you been to the Emily Dickinson Museum? Maybe we could check it out, then try to cheer ourselves up over coffee after.

  Would you like to have dinner with me at the Rostand? Or just drinks. Even if it’s only for a glass of water, I need you to see the sunset from the top deck.

  Have you been to the Orchard Hill Observatory? We could bring a picnic up there at dusk and watch the stars come out…

  But it looked as if Connor was doing just fine after all. He had his phone out and appeared to be plugging in Autumn’s number.

  Strike three. I’m out.

  I must not have been recovered from the race, because the urge to puke came over me again.

  Ruby joined them, stuffing her own phone in her back pocket. A few more words exchanged, and then the girls headed off across the field. But after a few steps, Autumn turned back and waved at me.

  “Bye, Weston. Congratulations on your wins.”

  “Yep,” I said, and Connor joined me to watch them go. In the falling twilight, Autumn’s hair was gold and fire, falling down her back in long curls. I stared until Connor elbowed my side.

  “Digits secured,” he said. “But man, that girl makes you work for it. I’m not even guaranteed a date.”

  I glanced at him as we walked to where my duffel lay on the grass in my team’s huddle. “No?”

  “She keeps telling me how busy she is, and has a double-major, and who knows what else,” Connor said. “She gave me her number but then said, ‘We’ll see.’ What does that mean?”

  “It means, dumbass, she’s going to wait to see what you do with it. What you say when you ask her out. How you ask.”

  Connor frowned. “I already asked her out.”

  “And she didn’t say yes.” I pulled on my track pants and sweatshirt. “She’s not a Netflix-and-chill. She wants romance.”

  He narrowed his eyes at me. “How do you know?”

  “She told me. But I think she likes you,” I added.

  “She does?” His eager smile melted into a grin. “Yeah, I think she does.”

  “She might,” I said. “But you should know…”

  “Should know what?”

  I scrubbed my chin. “I think she’s been burned recently, so take it easy, okay?”

  “Did she tell you that, too?”

  “No. Just a hunch.”

  Connor slapped me in the middle of the back. “Look at you, giving me woman advice. I think your racing wins are going straight to your head.”

  “Yeah,” I muttered. “That must be it.”

  I rummaged through my bag for my phone and found a voice message from Ma sent this morning.

  Hey baby boy, I just wanted to wish you luck today at your races. You take all that God-given talent and go kick some ass, okay?

  I turned my face away from Connor to conceal a small smile. Miranda Turner had her own way with words.

  I heard her puff a cigarette and exhale.

  Oh, and did I tell you? Your genius sister, Kimberly, dropped her phone in the toilet. How many times I tell her to get off that damn thing while she’s in the mirror putting on her makeup? Too much makeup, by the way. She’s getting bad skin, but does she listen to me? God forbid. So that’s a few hundred bucks I don’t have. Down the toilet. Literally.

  She cackled her loud, infectious laugh, which degenerated into a barking cough.

  But honestly, things is tight enough and I know Paul would help but I’m trying not to start down that road already, you know? Oh jeez, I haven’t told you about Paul! I met him at the salon while he was waiting for his sister to get done, and we hit it off. His name is Paul Winfield and he’s not like nobody I been with. Just you wait ‘til you meet him. Come back home, baby, first chance you get, okay? You can meet him and maybe talk some sense into your sister’s empty head.

  Love you. Felicia sends her love too. Be good, but not too good, and give that sweet Connor a kiss on the cheek for me, you hear? Okay, love you, baby boy. Bye.

  I turned back around, dropped the phone in my bag and hoisted it onto my shoulder. “Sorry. Miranda had some things to say.”

  “How is she?”

  “Okay,” I said, as we headed off the track. “Money’s tight, as usual. She’s seeing some new guy, as usual.”

  “Could be good,” Connor said, scrolling hi
s phone as we walked.

  “If he’s like any of her other boyfriends, he’s going to bum what he can off her and she’s got nothing to bum.” I gazed around at the sprawling grounds of Amherst, green and gold in the dusky light, while my mother was cramped in that tiny apartment in Southie. “I should get a job.”

  “You have no time for a job. That’s why you have a scholarship.”

  “I could squeeze it in,” I said, mentally trying to figure out where. Hoping for an early graduation, I’d loaded up my schedule with as many classes as my counselor would let me take. Between course work and track, my days were packed. “I could work a nightshift somewhere.”

  “And be too tired to study or run,” Connor said, putting his phone away. “Dude, why not try for the big show? The Olympics? You’re so fucking fast. You’d get in, easy.”

  “Because training for the Olympics isn’t cheap and it’s a full-time job. I’d need a coach. And there’re no guarantees. One snapped ligament and my career is over. I wouldn’t be any good to Ma.”

  “My parents are always there, you know,” Connor said in a low voice.

  I swallowed down the bitterness, because I knew. “Anyway, Ma wants me to come to Boston and meet this new guy, Paul, but I’m not in a fucking hurry to meet the latest bum who’s probably leeching off her, just like every other guy she hooks up with.”

  “If they’re still together at Thanksgiving, you can meet him then.”

  “That works.”

  Every year, the Drakes invited my sisters and my mother—with her cigarettes and too-loud laugh—to Thanksgiving dinner at their gigantic row house. Every year, my mother drank too much, no matter how many times I told her to take it easy. They’d call a car for her—a sedan, not an Uber—to take her home, with Mrs. Drake making sure Ma had a week’s worth of leftovers with her and an invitation to Christmas Eve dinner a few weeks later.

  The Drakes were good people.

  “It would be awesome if things were good with me and Autumn by then,” Connor said. “And I know what you’re going to say, but I like her. She’s beautiful. And super smart.”

  “Did you guys talk a lot at the meet?” I asked.