“I can’t let you stay with your father,” she starts, her voice calm but resolute.
“Mom—” I interject, but she stops me, holding up a hand.
“Let me finish. I can’t let you stay here. Your father is going to have to make some tough choices. But, if Savannah’s parents are okay with you staying for the summer, and you promise to check in with me weekly, we can talk about you staying.”
It’s on the tip of my tongue to argue. I don’t need to compromise, and I definitely won’t be staying with Sav. But, if this is what helps her sleep at night, so be it.
“Fine.”
Ten minutes later, I’m in my bedroom, throwing off my graduation gown. I pluck the music box off my nightstand, the one from the movie Anastasia. It was my favorite as a kid, and my dad bought an exact replica. I watch Anastasia and her father, Nicholas, dance around in a circle to the tune of “Once Upon a December”. Once upon a December, a father loved his little girl so much, he bought her a beautiful music box from her favorite movie and set it under the tree for Christmas morning. Now, that father may as well be dead.
Once the arguing starts, I dig my headphones out of the drawer of my bedside table to drown out my parents’ fighting. Mom broke the news to my dad. She told him, in so many words, that he needed to check himself into rehab or we’d be leaving, and she’d cut him off completely. Of course, she knew what his answer would be. That’s why the tickets are already booked.
I stare up at the strand of lights I hung in my new, albeit much smaller, room as I listen to a playlist created specifically for times like these. I don’t get more than two songs in before I hear knocking at my door a second before it opens, revealing Savvy. Savannah is here. In my house. Standing in my doorway.
“Wow.” She laughs, taking in the room that’s a shoebox compared to the one at my old house. “I guess the rumors were true.”
“What are you doing here?” I try to keep my tone even, like it doesn’t faze me in the slightest to have her here, seeing how we’re living.
“Drew told us all that you moved out here, but I had to come see for myself. He told me about your dad’s new…hobby, too.”
I’m shocked into silence. Drew told her? Why would he do that? Hurt ripples through me.
“All this time, you’ve acted like you’re so much better than everyone, when in reality…” she trails off, taking in my downgraded bedroom. “My, how the mighty have fallen.”
“Fallen, huh?” I give a spiteful laugh. “That’s funny, because you’re still trying to compete with me with everything from boys to pom. It doesn’t matter how far I’ve fallen. You’ll always be second best.” I hate myself a little more for my petty words, but I know I hit my intended target when her spine straightens and her mouth pinches shut. I caught her and Ethan hooking up behind my back last year. The sad thing is, I didn’t even care about Ethan. It gave me an out. And to say I wasn’t surprised that Sav stooped that low would be an understatement.
“Not once everyone finds out,” she says, threatening me. I can’t help but laugh in her face.
“High school is over, Sav. Get a new plan.”
“Oh, I have a plan,” she says smugly, pointing at herself. “It’s called college, which is more than I can say for some people.”
That one rolls right off my back. I was livid when my mom first informed me that we couldn’t afford for me to take my spot at Berkeley. But the more I thought about it, the more I liked the idea of taking a year off. College is the last thing on my mind right now. Look at how well that worked out for my parents. As cliché as it sounds, I want to figure out who I am this summer. My parents were both powerful and hugely successful, but I don’t ever remember a time when I wanted that for myself. I played the game. I got good grades. I was the best at everything. The top of my class. Captain of the pom squad. Because that was what was expected of me. That was my role.
Then, my dad started his love affair with pills, and my perfect identity—the one I worked so hard to attain—didn’t matter. Nothing mattered. Everything revolved around his addiction. My mother stopped caring about things like birthdays or dance concerts or holidays. I stopped being a good friend, and my friends weren’t exactly concerned or overly patient with me. Except Drew. I could always count on him. Until now.
“You have fun with that. Did you need something else?”
“Nope.” She smirks triumphantly. “I got what I came here for.” She takes one last look around with her nose turned up in the air before showing herself out.
I pick up my phone, debating on whether or not I want to confront Drew, but I toss it back onto my bed. I’m too drained to deal with any more drama. I mentally go through the short list of people I could potentially stay with this summer and come up with a grand total of zero. I guess this means I’m going to New York.
I walk over to my closet, slide open the door that houses my meager collection of clothes, shoes, and purses. I sold most of it to be able to maintain the lifestyle I was accustomed to, but there were some things I just couldn’t part with. Like the jacket I stole from Sebastian that night. I’ve kept it tucked in the back of my closet, never once considering throwing it away, like I claimed. Not even when I thought he was responsible for breaking into our hotel room. Pushing the hangers out of the way, I run my fingers down the cool leather sleeve and bring it to my nose. I don’t think I’ll ever tire of this smell. It’s funny how a scent can trigger such an emotional response. Leather will always remind me of carnivals and breaking and entering with boys on motorcycles and how it felt to be alive.
Dropping the sleeve, I reach onto the top shelf, feeling around for my old Jimmy Choo shoebox where I hide my cash and everything that means anything to me. This box is my ticket out of here this summer. I never dip into it unless I have an emergency. And right now, money for a cab ride qualifies as such. Just as I’m pulling it down, my bedroom door flies open. I drop the shoebox, the music box falling to the carpet with a thud, and I whirl around to see my dad standing in my doorway. The green and gold music box rolls on the carpet, coming to a stop between us.
“Oh,” he says, seeming taken aback, eyeing the music box. Does he remember the day he gave it to me? Does he remember when we danced to the music, me standing on top of his feet? “I thought you left with your friend.” His hair is greasy, like he can’t be bothered with basic self-care like showering, and his complexion is pallid. This man is a far cry from the one who raised me. This man is a stranger wearing my father’s face.
“Are you okay?” I ask, trying to keep the accusation out of my tone. If he thought I was gone, what is he doing in my room?
“Yeah,” he says with forced ease, waving me off. “Do you have a few bucks? I’ll pay you back when the bank opens.” He seems agitated. Desperate.
“No,” I lie, surreptitiously angling my body to hide the box behind me. At first, I had trouble denying him. How do you say no to your own father? And he made sure to lay the guilt trip on thick, blaming me for his injury, making it even harder. But, I learned my lesson. Unlike my mother, I’m not going to help him ruin his life. Pretty soon, there won’t be anything left to ruin. “What do you need it for?”
His face contorts with anger, making him almost unrecognizable. There was a time when I was my father’s whole world. Now, I’m just another person standing in the way of him and his one true love. Pills. Making him angry is an easy feat these days. It doesn’t take much to set him off. I try not to take it personally. “What are you, my mother?” he spits.
“No, but you are my father. Or have you forgotten?” Denying him is one thing, but seeing him like this? Sick, desperate, and dependent? I’ll never get used to it, no matter how detached I tell myself I am.
“Oh, I remember, all right,” he says in a way that tells me he would rather forget that fact.
I turn my back on him, literally and figuratively, to keep him from seeing the tears welling in my eyes. “I have nothing for you.”
I hear
the door slam, and he mutters something that sounds a lot like spoiled bitch. I sniff, pressing my palms to my eyes, before bending over to retrieve my box. I take out enough cash for a cab and a little extra to spend before I secure the lid. I stand on my tiptoes, shoving it as far back as I can, sticking one of my useless throw pillows in front of it for good measure.
I’m going to the carnival.
IT’S AN ODD FEELING, KNOWING you’re going to die. I might not know exactly when or exactly how, but I can almost guarantee two things: I won’t see twenty-five, and when I do go out, it will be in some catastrophic way. A fire. A car accident. Maybe I’ll get struck by lightning. It’s my curse to bear, and I’ve known it for as long as I can remember.
We all have—Eros, Tres, Lathan, and me. We’re doomed to die young. Just like our fathers and their fathers before them. Very few of the men in our family have lived to be over twenty-five. Some aren’t even lucky enough to make it out of the womb. Or maybe we’re the unlucky ones. You could chalk it up to our line of work—most of us were stuntmen or daredevils in some capacity—but how much tragedy can surround one family before people start to realize there’s something else going on there? Curse or coincidence?
We each cope in our own way. Eros lives every day like it’s his last—fucking and loving and riding. Lathan drinks to forget his days are numbered, and Tres…well, Tres chooses to ignore it. As if that will somehow change our fate. As for me, I’m resigned to the fact my life will end before it ever really begins. I’ll keep tucking away cash to take care of my mom and grandmother once I’m gone, and in the meantime, I get to do what I love, searching for a thrill the only way I know how.
The four of us don’t live by societal norms. As kids, we vowed not to be reckless like our fathers. We wouldn’t get married or have kids. No one left to pay for sins they didn’t commit. We abstain from committed relationships, opting to keep things casual, but that’s more of an unspoken rule. What’s the point if we’re all going to be dead soon? All we have is each other. We used to joke about different ways we could all go out together in a blaze of glory so none of us would have to live without the other. I realize now that’s probably not what most twelve-year-old kids think about.
“Seb!” Eros pounds against the side of the bunkhouse, which is essentially a glorified trailer fitted with four bunks, a small kitchen, and a bathroom, but it’s home for the summer months. “Let’s roll!” A second later, I hear Randy Jessup announce my name, followed by a loud applause.
My hands are braced against the sink, head bowed, cigarette between my lips. I pinch the filter, taking one last drag, letting the smoke cloud my reflection before flicking it into the sink and dousing it with water.
It’s showtime.
I’m on autopilot, posing for photos next to women who don’t seem to mind the fact that I’m sweaty as fuck, scribbling a sloppy signature onto pads of paper, photos, and whatever else is thrust in front of me. I feel a sense of déjà vu that has me pausing mid-autograph. I look up, the cap to someone’s Sharpie between my teeth, searching for what, I don’t know. And that’s when I see her. High, blonde ponytail. Skintight, pale pink dress with jacket tied around her waist—just like the last time I saw her—long, tanned legs, and white tennis shoes. Evan.
She looks so fucking pure, and she was, I think, when I first met her. I can still remember how she trembled against me. The smell of her skin. The way I got hard as a fucking rock when she was pressed against me on the back of my bike. The way her eyes widened after I kissed her. Her brand of innocence doesn’t come along every day.
Imagine my disappointment when I found out she was underage. And again, a year later, when she had somehow morphed from this innocent angel looking for a thrill to a stuck-up brat who thought the world revolved around her.
I knew I’d see her here. Knew she wouldn’t be able to resist. In fact, I was counting on it. Took her long enough. Tomorrow’s the last day here, then we’re heading out for the northern part of the route.
I feel a hand press up against my crotch, snapping me out of my trance. I look down to see some chick peering up at me with what I’m sure she thinks is a seductive expression as she casually gropes me through my jeans, using the pushy crowd as an excuse to rub up on me. I’ve seen her around. She works at the Sugar Shack.
“Oops.” She smiles. “Accident.”
I give her an apathetic stare until she realizes I’m not interested and puts a couple inches of space between us.
“Come on, Liz. There are children present,” Eros chides from my right as he signs some chick’s tits. The irony of his statement and what he’s doing is lost on him. “But if you’re dead set on molesting someone, I’ll be in my trailer in ten.”
“My name is Destiny,” she says with a comically confused expression plastered to her made-up face.
I chuckle, shaking my head. Liz is short for Lizard. As in Lot Lizard. Every carnival has ’em. The girls who sleep their way through every carny who breathes in their direction. They’re especially drawn to us. For some reason, it seems we’re more sought-after because we’re not actually with the carnival. Our show is contracted by them, we travel together, and we even have some family who works for them, but we’re a separate entity.
“Right. Destiny,” Eros says, eyeing her long legs in her cut-off denim skirt.
I make quick work of signing everything before I make my way to the trailer, Eros falling in line beside me.
“Saw Jailbait out there,” he says, watching me closely to gauge my reaction. “You were right.”
“When am I not right?”
“How’d you know she’d come?”
I shrug. “It was just a hunch.” I did have a gut feeling that it wasn’t the last I’d see of her, but it was more than that. She’s drawn to the carnival, for some godforsaken reason. Girls like her see the bright and shiny exterior, but if she bothered to peel back the layers, she’d see the dirt and grime. It’s all an illusion.
“Speak of the devil.”
I follow his gaze to find Evan leaning up against our trailer, her bottom lip trapped between her teeth.
“Hi,” she says, drawing a pattern in the dirt with her tennis shoe.
“What up, Jailbait?” Eros says, walking up to ruffle her hair like they’re old friends and he’s not at all surprised by her presence before grabbing a beer out of the cooler next to her. He cracks the can open and takes a chug as he stands between us, his eyes ping-ponging back and forth between Evan and me as the awkward silence stretches. “Oh. Right. I’m gonna go…over there.”
Subtle.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, breaking the silence.
“I don’t know.”
I bob my head. “Something you want to get off your chest?”
She rolls her eyes. There she is. “I believe you,” she says reluctantly, as if she’s bestowing me some grand courtesy.
“Lucky me. Now I’ll be able to sleep at night. That all?” I flip open the cooler lid, plucking myself a beer from the mostly-melted ice before I sit in one of our folding chairs.
Evan’s mouth pops open. “Are you serious? How can you blame me for not believing you?”
“Because I fucking told you I didn’t. That might be your first clue.”
“No, my first clue was that our hotel was broken into the night my room key disappeared after I dropped my purse. After you helped me pick it up. The very same night you went to jail and blame me for it.”
“First of all, that was your fault—” I start, but she cuts me off.
“My parents tracked my phone,” she snaps, frustration bleeding through every word. Didn’t know that part, but it doesn’t change anything.
“Second of all, you think I’d risk more jail time by robbing your rich daddy? Pass.”
“I said I believe you,” she grits through clenched teeth. Show me your claws, Princess.
“How gracious of you.”
“You know what, never mind. It was stupid to
come here.”
“You’re probably right about that.”
“Fuck you.”
“Okay. You eighteen yet?” I throw back just to get under her skin.
“We’re done here.”
“Oh, I’m just getting started.”
She pushes off the side of the trailer and starts to walk away, but Eros is on his way back over and intercepts her before she gets too far. “Whoa, slow down, killer. You’re leaving me already?” He casually slings an arm around her shoulders, like they’re old friends, leading her back this way.
Evan’s arms are folded across her chest, but I see the way her body relaxes, and the way a small, reluctant smile tries to break free even as she shakes her head. Eros has that way about him. He makes everyone feel at ease. A surge of something rolls through me in a wave. If I cared to dissect the foreign feeling, I’d say it feels a lot like…jealousy.
“I can’t leave you two alone for five minutes.” Eros looks at me. “Cage is already down. Not sure where they ran off to.” He drags another folding chair over. “Evan, sit.”
“I’m not a dog,” she says indignantly, her crossed arms pushing her perky tits together.
“Just sit down,” he insists. After hesitating for a few seconds, she stiffly lowers herself into the chair, her spine ramrod straight, legs clamped together. I lift one foot to rest my ankle on my knee, taking a long swig of my beer as I hold her gaze.
“There. That wasn’t so hard. Beer?” Eros asks. Evan surprises me when she jerks her head in a nod. Eros grabs two more cans and tosses one to her before he closes the lid to the cooler and uses it as a seat.
“You’re not old enough to drink that.”
“Who’s going to tell on me?” Evan looks me in the eye as she pops it open, bringing it to her pouty lips. My dick twitches at the sight.
“You want to tell me why you’re really here?”
“It’s a free country,” she says, avoiding a real answer.
Rewrite the Stars Page 6