The Chaos of Stars

by Kiersten White

  I wave, climbing onto my bike and peddling away. At the corner light I risk a glance back to see if he’s watching me. He’s sitting, scribbling madly in his notebook. Good. I didn’t want him to be watching me.

  Boys suck.

  Even when they have perfect blue eyes and ridiculously cool trucks. Maybe especially then.

  I punch in the code to the garage, dumping my bike against the wall. Blue, blue, blue. I need to get that color out of my system. I’ll figure out where to—

  I pause, halfway through the door from the garage to the laundry room.

  Something is wrong.

  The now-bare skin at the back of my neck prickles as I stare into the empty house. Sirus is on an LA drive today. Deena is still at work.

  I breathe in deeply, and there, again—something is wrong. Their house always smells vaguely of Tide detergent and the cold salt of the sea, but there’s too much salt now. Salt and . . . chlorine?

  Maybe they had someone here cleaning the pool today and didn’t tell me.

  I walk forward, silently, cautiously. Through the kitchen and into the dining room, where something crunches underfoot. Glass—hundreds of shards of glass. A breeze cuts across me and I look up to see that the sliding glass door to the patio and pool is smashed out, gaping and jagged and open.

  Every sense on alert, I slowly retreat into the kitchen and slide a long, serrated knife out of the block on the counter. Keeping my back to the wall, I creep past the dining room, into the family room. Everything seems in order. TV and electronics still where they ought to be—even Deena’s sleek laptop, just sitting there on the couch.

  I keep going, the only noise wind chimes drifting in from the patio, their cheerful notes at odds with the electric atmosphere inside. I stop dead when I come to the entry.

  The front door is wide open.

  I know—I know—it was closed when I pulled up on my bike not two minutes ago. Whoever was here is gone.

  Or maybe they aren’t. I look up the stairs, only half a flight visible before it turns around a sharp corner. Clutching the knife, I walk up the stairs, each step measured and silent. If they are still here, they know I am, too, because the garage door opened. Hopefully they heard that and ran. But if not . . .

  My breaths come fast, my heartbeat racing. I make it to the landing at the top of the stairs, the second-story hall stretching out in front of me. The first door on my right is already open. I peek around the doorframe and then whip my head back so I can process what I saw. Empty. This is the room that’ll be the baby’s, and there’s nothing in it but a scattering of paint-sample squares and some empty boxes.

  The next door is a closet. I open it, cringing at the squeaky hinges, and stab inward with the knife.

  Nothing.

  Three more rooms. The bathroom, my room, and the master bedroom. The bathroom is easily cleared—thankfully they have a glass shower door rather than a curtain. I creep across the hall to my room, painfully aware of how loud doorknobs click if you don’t open them slowly. I push the door, and—

  Floods.

  The drawers have been pulled out of the dresser and thrown everywhere. There’s a dent in the wall above where one lies smashed and broken on the floor. My clothes are strewn madly about the room. A notebook I had for writing down design ideas has been torn apart, individual sheets scattered among the clothes.

  My suitcase is in the middle of the room, literally ripped open, the pockets sliced and gaping like wounds. My closet door hangs wide open, everything flung out. The whole room smells like the weird combination of scents downstairs, magnified.

  I take one step in and hear more glass cracking underfoot. I lean down to pick up the only picture I brought—a framed shot of my mother and me, on the banks of the Nile, when I was ten. I’d left it in my suitcase, along with the amulets she forced me to bring. Those, too, are underfoot, each snapped in half.

  I don’t—I can’t even—what? Why?

  There’s a noise from downstairs and I whip around, brandishing the knife.

  “Isadora?” Sirus calls, fear in his voice. “Isadora? Are you home?”

  Letting out a breath I’ve been holding for far too long, I close my bedroom door and answer him.

  Deena’s still out on the driveway talking with the police officers. While she found time between cataloging the house for any missing items and watching the police dust for prints to tell me she loves my hair, somehow I don’t think it made the right impression on the law-enforcement end of things. I was interviewed four times, most of the questions revolving around whether I knew anyone who might have done this.

  I know a grand total of three people here that I’m not related to, and somehow I doubt Tyler is the smash-glass-doors-and-destroy-rooms type.

  “Why didn’t you call the police?” Sirus asks, shaking his head as I hold the dustpan for the shards of glass. No prints anywhere; all that’s left now is cleaning up the mess.

  “Didn’t think of it.”

  “Honestly, Isadora, you don’t live in the middle of the desert with a bunch of gods anymore. There are a lot of dangerous people around. You should have left the house immediately.”

  He’s right, of course. It never crossed my mind.

  “If something had happened to you . . . I’m just so glad no one was home.”

  “Do they think it’s someone with a grudge against Deena?” She knows most of the officers who showed up, and she works for the government, after all.

  “She’s never been in criminal prosecuting. The loonies she deals with are usually rich, entitled loonies. They’re the suing type, not the violent type.”

  He still looks uneasy. We all are. Knowing it was that simple for someone to come into the house? Everything feels different now.

  The front door closes, and then Deena walks in and leans against the wall, surveying the broken door with an exhausted expression, hand absently rubbing her stomach. “They think it was someone looking for prescription drugs. You must have scared him off before he could get through all the rooms.”

  “I am the scariest,” I say, dumping another load of shards into the trash with a discordant tinkling.

  “I’ll take over here,” she says. “When we’re done with the glass and get something taped up over the door, I’ll help with your room.”

  “It’s okay. It’s my stuff, I’ll clean it up.”

  “I’m so sorry. Nothing like this has ever happened before.”

  “It’s not your fault,” I say. “Just random, right?” But it feels personal. It feels like chaos caught up to me and let me know it’s here with a vengeance.

  I walk up the stairs and stand on the threshold of my room, staring at the destruction, and I can’t help but shiver, putting my hand on the back of my neck. I pick up the photo in its frame. The crack in the glass runs right between my mother and me.

  Chapter 6

  In the history of mythology in ancient Egypt, Isis is not only the mother of Horus, she’s also occasionally his wife. While deeply disturbing to me, this has less to do with actual relationships and more to do with the balance of power and worship. As Hathor fell out of favor, my mother gladly stepped in and usurped her followers, thereby taking her roles, her domains, and even her husband.

  Eventually the gods settled into their most commonly worshipped forms—in this case, Isis as mother and not wife, and Hathor as very annoyed wife, still angry over the loss of her worshippers and favorite cow-horned headdress.

  Isis has never apologized. More followers meant more worship, more tongues whispering her name, more hearts turned toward her in times of crisis. To a member of a constantly shifting pantheon of gods desperate for relevance, this was worth occasionally stepping in as the ceremonial wife of her favorite son.

  Worship is everything.

  But seriously, gross.

  TUESDAY AFTER FRIDAY’S BREAK-IN IS THE FIRST time I’ve been home alone since then. I wait on the curb in front of Sirus’s house. An unfamiliar car pulls up wi
th an older woman in the driver’s seat. Tyler leans over and waves at me from the passenger seat, so I climb into the back.

  “Thank you so much for the ride,” I say. “Sirus is stuck at the airport with a delayed flight. You saved me.” I’ve actually been out here waiting for an hour. The back door is replaced and a security system installed, but it still feels creepy in there alone.

  “No problem! You can thank my mother, Julie. Or as I like to call her while my clunker’s in the shop, my personal chauffeur.”

  Julie’s just a bit smaller than Tyler, and I realize why all Tyler’s nice clothes look like they were made to fit someone else: they actually were. Her voice sounds almost the same as her daughter’s. “If you keep referring to me as your chauffeur, I’m going to start charging you.”

  “Volunteering does make me the big bucks. It’s about time I started helping out around here. Do you prefer imaginary checks, or imaginary credit cards?”

  “I take nonimaginary dish washing.”

  “Oh, sorry. I’m afraid my dish-washing account got closed for overdrafting.”

  They laugh, teasing each other back and forth, and it feels so easy and comfortable. Which for some reason makes me uncomfortable.

  “So, Isadora. Tyler tells me you’re from Egypt?”

  “Born and raised.”

  “Do you miss it?”

  “Just the desert. And the quiet. There are a lot of people here.”

  “That’s the downside to San Diego. Once you live here, you never want to live anywhere else. Unfortunately everyone else already lives here.” She smiles at me in the rearview mirror. “Would you like to come for dinner sometime?”

  “I’d love to.” I want to know more about Tyler, see what made her as awesome as she is. She’s the best part about working at the museum, and I greedily want to have her in more parts of my life here.

  Tyler holds back a closed fist and it only takes me a few seconds to remember I’m supposed to bump it with my own. “Sweet,” she says. “This means we’ll actually have to make dinner for once, though.”

  “We’ll do something Middle Eastern to make you feel at home,” Tyler’s mom says. I smile, but what they have feels nothing like my home. And it makes me sad.

  When she drops us off, Tyler and I have to practically shove our way into the lobby. It’s the third Tuesday of the month, so the museum is free to San Diego residents. Michelle had mentioned this before, but I had no idea just how seriously San Diegans take Free Museum Day. It’s packed. Tyler and I are working the front desks together, checking IDs. I’m grateful I’m not upstairs—at least I don’t have to worry about watching this many people in the exhibit, or, heaven forbid, the Children’s Discovery Room.

  I haven’t slept well since the break-in. I can’t get the smell out of my room, and it’s giving me constant headaches. This press of people isn’t helping the pain.

  My headache reminds me of last night’s new email from my mother, whom I always associate with pain in my temples. She informed me there is a fifty-dollar-a-day withdrawal limit on my debit card. I hadn’t even taken any money out yet. I’d only started plotting to do it when I had somewhere to go, somewhere she couldn’t find me.

  How did she know? How does she always know?

  “Are you okay?” Tyler shouts from the other side of the lobby.

  I wave a couple through after they show me their driver’s licenses. “I’m peachy,” I say over the crowd. “Why?”

  She shrugs. “I don’t know. You seem . . . tired.”

  A tall guy, late teens, wearing aviator sunglasses and jeans that hang so low on his hips it’s a miracle of gravity they stay on, stands right in front of me. “Hey,” he says with a half grin that I assume is supposed to be sexy but really looks like he has poor facial-muscle control. “What’s your name?”

  “San Diego County driver’s license or pay at the front desk,” I snap. Looking confused, he pulls out his wallet and drops it on the ground. He swears, picks it back up, and walks to a group of friends all snickering in the doorway.

  Tyler laughs. “Okay, you don’t look tired. You look angry.”

  “I look angry?”

  “Only when guys try to hit on you. But you totally work it. You kind of rock angry. If I tried to be angry, I’d just look like I was constipated or something.”

  I shake my head but can’t hold back a smile. “Well, good to know that if I’m unpleasant, at least I look good doing it.”

  “Exactly! The rest of us are forced to be nice by our inferior looks.”

  “Oh, shut up.” But now I’m really grinning. Tyler has that effect on people.

  I feel someone’s eyes on me, and I turn, catching a fleeting glimpse of a very tall, dark figure as he turns the corner and goes up the stairs. Not the sunglasses idiot from before, but some familiarity nags at me even though I didn’t really see him.

  A woman’s already waiting with an ID in front of me. I don’t have time to run down someone who may or may not have been creeping around. We probably just forgot to check his ID. Understandable in this crush of people.

  When will I stop being so nervous and edgy? Last night when I was coming out of the bathroom, Sirus surprised me and I nearly tackled him before I realized he wasn’t some shadowy attacker.

  I shake it off as a short, barrel-chested guy wearing a graphic T-shirt and khaki shorts walks in and folds his arms, glaring as groups of people move in and out around him. His black hair is deliberately messy, and he has chunky glasses. “What does a guy have to do to get some service?”

  Tyler sees him and scowls. “Look, kid, the Children’s Discovery Room closed five minutes ago. You’re just gonna have to go to the park.”

  “The only parking I do is with my girlfriend.” His face breaks into a goofy smile and Tyler laughs her horsey laugh, smacking him in the shoulder as he envelops her in a hug. His nose hits at her chin, and they are such a painfully awkward couple, I think it might be the cutest thing I’ve ever seen.

  The brutality of being temporary hits me like a sandstorm, leaving me raw. They love each other right now, but right now is all they’ll have. We aren’t made for forever, and neither are our relationships.

  Scott (at least I’m assuming this is the elusive Scott; otherwise Tyler has some explaining to do) pretends to bite her neck and then kisses her cheek. “Late lunch/early dinner?”

  “We’re off soon.” Tyler turns him around and points at me. “That’s Isadora.”

  “Ah, the mystical Isadora.” Scott grins and waves at me. “She is tall and scary pretty. You were right. Coming to eat with us?”

  I shrug. “I—”

  “Of course she is.” Tyler shoves him to the side. “Now go play. Some of us are working.”

  “Scary?” I raise an eyebrow at her.

  “Scary pretty. Scary is the modifier, not the descriptor.”

  After twenty minutes our relief finally comes, and Tyler and I stumble out into the brilliant sunshine, done for the day. I take a deep breath, glad to be free of that madhouse. Being around huge groups of people is still weird for me. We took the occasional trip to Cairo and other cities around Egypt, but for the most part my childhood was practically sequestered. It’s like they were grooming me to be a shut-in or something.

  I’m looking forward to when my mom’s shipment of stuff gets here. It was held up in customs, so I’ve been doing regular museum work. At least when all of her crap arrives, I’ll be able to organize and arrange it instead of checking IDs or standing in the Egyptian room and trying to look so aloof and intimidating that people won’t ask me questions and local college guys will quit trying to pick me up.

  I rub my eyes, unused to the brightness after being inside for several hours. But then it hits me—the sunshine! The clouds burned off early today! I tip my head back and close my eyes, luxuriating in the sensation of the sun on my skin.

  “There they are,” Tyler says, pulling my arm. I turn and see Scott, lounging on the steps to the side
of the museum, talking animatedly with . . . Ry. Who is nodding and smiling but still scribbling in his notebook. I haven’t seen him since that ridiculous encounter at the smoothie place.

  “You guys!” Tyler points one long arm straight up. “The sun!”

  “Is that what the strange ball of brilliant light and heat in the place of my beloved clouds is?” Scott asks, scratching his head.

  “And do you know what that means?” Tyler prods.

  “The crops will grow, the children will sing, and the land will rejoice?” I offer.

  “Yes! Also, my skin will burn. Burn, burn, burn. And if I’m going to get a sunburn, I’m going to do it at the beach. Let’s go.”

  I’d planned on hanging out in the park for a couple of hours before Sirus picks me up. I’m in a black faux-leather pencil skirt and a cerulean-blue tank blouse. And my gladiator sandals? Not exactly beachwear.

  “I’ve got clothes in Scott’s car. You can borrow some of my stuff,” Tyler says, reading my mind.

  “I don’t know; I was going to hang out here.” I wonder if Ry is going. And if he is, whether that makes me want to more, or less. Probably less. He still hasn’t looked up from his scribbling.

  “Oh, come on!” Tyler throws her arm around me. “Have you even been to the beach yet?”

  “I rode past it a couple of times, and—”

  “Ha! No! You are still an ocean virgin, and today you lose your virginity!”

  “I have the weirdest girlfriend alive,” Scott muses, staring up at the sky.

  Tyler’s arm locks me into place. “No arguments. You’ve been here two weeks, and all you ever do is work and go home. Come to the beach with us! We’ll get pizza, and play Mock the Worst-Fitting Swimwear, and we can watch the sunset. The sunsets are amazing, and the stars over the ocean—”

  “Stars?” I perk up. She’s right! If the clouds burned off this early, maybe the stars will be out tonight.

  “Yes! Oh, good. I’m so glad you’re coming!” She steers me down the stairs and through a geometric garden, all shaped planters and yellow-and-blue-tiled fountains, to the parking lot. She takes a deep breath and spews out a series of sentences so fast it’s only after she’s in a car with the door locked that I realize she said, “There’s not enough room in Scotty’s car for all of us, so you’ll ride with Ry, okay? See you there!” Scott’s in, too, and they pull out like they’re fleeing the law.