Miss Meteor

by Tehlor Kay Mejia

  We all laugh, but then I look outside, and then back at Junior. “Not anymore, Champ.”

  “Shut up,” he mumbles. “The Dark Side can’t take me that easily.”

  “Leave a trail of breadcrumbs just in case you get lost. I’ll find you.”

  His eyes sparkle at me. I mean, they really do. It might just be Chelsea Gardener’s taillights in front of us, but I choose to believe we brought some space magic back with us from the crater instead.

  When Junior finally gets out, he takes a little of my impulsive bravery with him. Lita is still in the back seat, and I turn around.

  “Come sit with me?” I ask, hoping it sounds winning and not awkward. But she hesitates.

  “I don’t want to ruin tonight,” she says. “Maybe we should just go to the party.”

  I take a deep breath, because there’s only one thing I can say to change her mind, but once I say it, I know there’s no turning back.

  “We need to talk about seventh grade.”

  Lita climbs into the front seat, her eyes wide as dinner plates. Chelsea and her taillights are gone, but Lita’s eyes still sparkle.

  Magic, I tell myself, hoping there’s enough of it to bring us through this in one piece. Because she’s right. Tonight has been perfect. Which means I have even more to lose.

  “I wasn’t ready,” I say, and she opens her mouth, but I hold up a hand. “You’ll get a turn, I swear, but I have to get this out.”

  She closes her mouth again, but she doesn’t look away.

  “I wasn’t ready. But I think . . . I finally am. I mean, I stood next to Kendra Kendall today and wasn’t even scared. I told Junior not to go with the Hair Ponies. I can do this, I think. I think I can finally do it.”

  True to her word, Lita doesn’t interrupt, even though I’m talking more to myself than her at this point. She lets me have a moment to gather my scattered thoughts.

  “Allison Davis,” I say finally. “Fourth grade. You probably know this, but Royce called us lesbos on the bus and Allison wouldn’t talk to me anymore. That’s why Kendra calls me Ring Pop.”

  The words are this horrible, painful, cathartic mess, but Lita just lets them come. She doesn’t even say whether or not she knew, whether her interest in snails on the ground and cactus birthdays over the gossip of her peers protected her from it or not.

  “It got worse and worse,” I say, my voice catching, pushing past it. “People were so mean, and they weren’t letting it go, and I knew you were supposed to tell your best friend how you felt when stuff like that was happening, but I couldn’t. I just couldn’t. I wasn’t ready, and I wasn’t okay, and I couldn’t talk to you, and it made me feel like something was broken in me.”

  Lita’s eyes are so wide, and I TAKE a big, shaky breath.

  “Like I couldn’t be your best friend,” I say. “Because I was so afraid. Because . . . I think they were right. I mean, I like boys . . . but I think I like girls too.”

  Have you ever come up from the bottom of the ocean in scuba gear after ditching your weight belt? Okay, neither have I, but I think it probably feels like this.

  “Chicky,” Lita says, her eyes shining. “I never would have asked you to talk about that before you were ready. Never, ever, ever.” It’s her turn to take a deep breath. “And I’m so glad you told me that, but I would have waited a million years for you to be ready. A hundred million.”

  I’m crying for real now, what Fresa calls “ugly crying.” I take Lita’s hand on the center console, and I don’t cover my face. I want her to see me right now. She’s earned it a hundred million times over.

  “I know,” I say. “But I felt like such a bad friend keeping it from you and—”

  “Royce and his friends called me alien,” Lita says, like it just burst out of her. “They . . . pushed me down . . . they yelled it over and over. I can’t . . .” The tears spill over here, and she wipes them away. “I still can’t talk about it all the way. So I know about secrets. And not being ready.” She stops, because she’s crying too. Only on her I’d never call it ugly crying. It’s more like her sadness has reached terminal velocity.

  “I didn’t know,” I say, a whisper between us in the car as the windows around us fog up with our laughing and crying and confessions. “Lita, I’m so sorry. I never would have . . . I didn’t . . .”

  She hugs me. I mean, really hugs me. Squeezing me as tight as she can, her cheek pressed against mine, her shooting star pjs smelling like the peppermint tea Bruja Lupe makes when Lita has a stomachache.

  There’s a glint in her eye that’s not just tears, or taillights, or magic now. It’s something a little sharper. It’s the kind of look that got us out of bed one night to TP the Hudson family’s house because Lita heard they gave their cat away when they moved.

  Animals are part of the family, she’d said as she threw roll after roll.

  That look used to terrify me, but tonight I’m not even sure it’s enough.

  “I’m going to win this pageant,” she says. “For the scared girls we used to be.”

  The scared girls we used to be. It’s the perfect thing to say.

  “But first we have to go to a party,” I say.

  “Right.” The Pontiac Space Station touches down. “The party.”

  When we open the doors, the boys are still standing there waiting for us, and it feels like it’s been a hundred years, but it’s only been about ten minutes. And everything is different, but it’s better. It’s so much better.

  “Everyone okay?” Junior asks, and I think about how we must look ridiculous, tear streaked and smiling and glinting with determination all at once.

  I look at Lita. She looks at me.

  “We’re at a party,” she answers, and it’s perfect.

  “I say,” says Cole. “No turning back now.”

  So we don’t.

  The four of us stand shoulder to shoulder, like explorers about to discover a new territory and claim it in the name of weird misfits everywhere.

  “One small step for man . . . ,” Junior says, and we walk across the lawn together.

  Inside, my first thought is that I need to find somewhere to hide. These are the people I’ve been running from my whole life. But I’m with the recently crowned regional cornhole king, a jock who has been high-fived three times since we got through the door, and a girl who just might be the most talked about Miss Meteor contestant in fifty years.

  Maybe things are changing.

  “Okay,” Lita says, rubbing her hands together, eyes narrowed like she’s about to attempt a gymnastic floor routine. “What do we do?”

  “It’s just a party,” Cole says with a shrug, slinging his good arm around her shoulder. “Just do whatever you’d . . .” He trails off then, as we look at him with identically blank expressions.

  “Oh, wow, none of you have ever been to a party, have you?”

  The blank looks persist.

  “Okay come on, let’s do a lap.”

  We follow Cole like very determined ducklings, getting the lay of the land. He gives us casual tips as we go, and I like him even more for not being condescending about it. I collect them like items for the lost and found at Selena’s.

  Don’t stay in one place too long.

  Always have something in your hand.

  It’s okay to pretend to see someone you know to get out of an annoying conversation.

  But when Lita stops for the fifth time (this time to look at the Bradley family photo album) I can tell Cole is torn, and I pull him aside. He’s not the only one with tips to hand out tonight.

  “Mostly, you just go with it,” I tell him.

  “Sorry?”

  I nod at Lita. “She’s never gonna stay where you put her, she’s never gonna do what you expect. You’re never, ever gonna be able to predict what’s next.”

  The way he smiles, like I’m instructing him on the care of something precious, tells me I’m right about him. The way he feels about her. The way he probably always ha
s.

  “But there’s something about just going with it,” I say, smiling at her affectionately as she shows Royce’s naked baby photos to Amy Perkins. “You usually end up somewhere even better than you thought you would.”

  “Thanks, Chicky,” he says, and we both flinch as Lita leans in close to an enormous decorative vase.

  “Go ahead,” I say, patting him on the arm in a way I hope isn’t as awkward as it feels. He surprises me by taking my arm and pulling me into a hug that, even with only one arm, is warm and safe in a way that tells me I can do this, I can trust him with my favorite person in this world.

  Besides, with the air finally clear between us, I can give Lita and Cole this night. Lita and I will have a billion more.

  “Looks like you won’t be bored, either,” Cole says with a meaningful eyebrow raise at Junior, who’s trying not to look like he’s waiting for me.

  “Shut up,” I mutter, but I can’t help the smile that spreads slow like honey across my face. It’s not a small thing, this camaraderie between Cole and me. It’s just a little something more I always let Royce and Kendra keep me from. A little something more I’m taking back.

  “Come on, Champ,” I say, leaving Cole behind to slap Junior on the back. “Let’s get into some trouble.”

  In the kitchen, there are a few people hanging around the beer pong table, and it gives me an idea. When you’re on an alien planet, it’s polite to show appreciation for their customs, right? And telling Lita everything, finally, has made me bold in a way I didn’t think I’d ever be.

  Bold enough for this. Maybe bold enough for anything.

  “What are you doing?” Junior asks, as I grab two empty beer bottles and take them to the sink, filling them with water.

  “Something I learned from Fresa,” I say, which makes his eyebrows shoot up in alarm. “Here.” I hand him one of the bottles, ignoring his utterly puzzled expression and turning back toward the game table.

  “Hey, can I get in on this?” I ask, and two girls with long blond ponytails laugh.

  “You?” one of them asks, and I shrug off my jacket.

  “You?” Junior asks.

  “Me.”

  They get out of the way, leaving me to face one of the lesser jocks. He’s visibly drunk, swaying from foot to foot, his gaze hazy and unfocused on my face.

  “Fill ’em up,” I say, brandishing my beer bottle and giving Junior a shadow of a wink.

  He’s looking at me like he’s never seen me before, and I kind of like it.

  Just like Fresa said, no one notices I’m using water. They’re all too drunk. So I throw three balls, getting more precise as I get a feel for the distance while my opponent loses coordination by the second. The blond girls are looking at me differently too.

  “Last cup,” I say, with four still sitting in front of me.

  My final shot is a dagger, and Junior cheers the loudest of all.

  The drunk jock stumbles off, swearing at his shoes. I stand on the chair one of the blond girls has just vacated and say in a voice that would make Cereza proud:

  “And now! As the reigning queen of this table!” People are starting to stare. “I, Chicky Quintanilla, challenge hometown hero Junior Cortes to a game of no limits beer pong.” I look at him, and my stomach flips over when he smiles. “Right here, right now,” I say, only to him.

  The room is quiet, like it’s holding its breath. They’re all waiting to see what’s going to happen next. I’m on a chair, in the middle of a popular kids’ rager, everyone is looking at me, and I’m okay. In fact, I’m better than okay.

  “I accept your challenge,” he says formally, reaching up to help me down off the chair. I ignore his hand, hopping down to land hard on both feet in front of him.

  “Fill ’em up.”

  Lita

  IT IS THE happiest and saddest thing all at once, Chicky and I having each other back. It’s like the perfect fall weather day in Meteor, the one we only get once or twice in October, the one you have to make the most of because it never lasts before it gets hot again or cold for the winter.

  Only worse. About one-thousand, eight-hundred, twenty-five times worse.

  Because I’ve missed her in a way I had to ignore for every cactus birthday party, every time I’ve avoided Selena’s when she was on shift, every time I saw her in the hallways, towering over me and half the girls in our grade.

  I’ve missed her, and she’s missed me, and we have each other back just in time for me to turn back into the stardust I used to be.

  I push away the thought of my glimmering stomach and back. Tonight we are friends, and tonight I am on this Earth, and tonight Chicky told me something she’s been working up to for so long. Something that’s part of her, something that’s hers.

  Everything I noticed but didn’t ask her about when we were younger. Her checking out a girl’s jean skirt or a guy’s hair. She’s claimed it. Even if people like Kendra have made it unsafe to declare it, she has claimed it.

  It dulls the places in me that ache when I think about the years we lost.

  So does seeing Chicky with Junior, pretending to focus on throwing a ball into red plastic cups.

  Even when Meteor lets me go, she will have Junior. She will have the friendship that’s held between them for years, and the new thing growing out of it.

  And she’ll have Cole, who will probably understand the things she just told me better than any other straight guy in Meteor.

  My eyelids feel damp and scratchy thinking about asking him to do this for me, to be a brother to Chicky, because I won’t be here to be her fourth sister.

  I should tell him about the stardust, about the sky taking me back. About how I had a chance if I had really done Miss Meteor right, but I lost it.

  But as soon as I think of telling him about me vanishing into the night sky, my heart deflates, like the sad foil balloons they keep replacing around town, stars and Saturns and comets losing their helium and slumping toward the dirt.

  I can feel him behind me, and I reach back for his hand. This feels like a world I will get lost in if I don’t hold onto him.

  Then a breath of flowery perfume hits me at the same time a French-manicured hand grabs my arm.

  Sara, the pageant contestant who wore her aunt’s vintage swimsuit.

  She greets me with, “There you are!”

  “Why are you talking to me?” I ask. “I’m the embarrassment of the Fiftieth-Anniversary Pageant.”

  “What are you talking about?” she asks.

  “Did you not hear about my talent?”

  She blows air through her lips, a pfft sound. “I would watch that ten more times over bleach-blond Dorothy Gale over there.”

  Her making fun of Kendra is so unexpected that I let her pull me out of the crowd in the living room and toward the hall.

  We pass two boys from school yelling into each other’s faces.

  “It’s Meteorite,” one says. “Just ask my dad.”

  Even the festival signs don’t agree. Half say Meteor, half Meteorite. And nobody but me ever wants to talk about the science behind the debate. No one can agree whether the town is named for the meteor as it streaked through the sky, or the meteorite it became when it struck the Earth.

  Even the census paperwork here is inconsistent; we have to combine the recorded populations of “Meteor, New Mexico” and “Meteorite, New Mexico” to figure out how many people actually live here.

  Should I bring up the science with these two? Break up a fight, make conversation, and maybe even impress a fellow contestant all at once?

  “Your dad just wants a run at mayor,” the second one says. “He’d call the town Hershey Bar if it helped him suck up to the city council.”

  “There’s already a town called Hershey Bar, you dolt.”

  “Dolt? Did you get that one from your dad too?”

  Yeah, the science may be beyond these two and their blood alcohol levels. They look like they’re about to throw pretzel sticks at ea
ch other.

  “Come on.” Sara pulls me along. “We’re late.”

  “Late to what?” I ask.

  She opens the second door on the left. “Nobody told you?” She leads me into a bedroom that smells like perfume and Aqua Net and newly varnished nails.

  Seven or eight pageant girls sit on the jacket-covered bed and sofa cushions thrown on the floor. The light from the bedside lamp shows the glitter in their hair and on their eyelids.

  “Is this some kind of a secret pageant event?” I ask.

  “You could say that,” a girl with her hair in a messy bun says. She’s pouring from dark-glass bottles into shot glasses, so slowly that the different-color layers stay separate.

  “Secret from the ringers, anyway,” another girl says, this one with nails painted like the night sky, silver glitter on deep-blue polish.

  “What are you wearing?” a girl with hair bright as pennies asks. “Did someone bring you here against your will?”

  “No, I wanted to.” I pull my pajama top closed over my tank top. “He just came in my bedroom window.”

  “He?” Sara nudges my shoulder.

  “You have a he?” another girl asks.

  “The guy with the broken arm,” the one with the outer-space fingernails asks. “You all need to pay attention.”

  “Wait,” I say. “After the talent competition, you all don’t think I’m . . .”

  They blink at me.

  “A loser?” I ask.

  They chime in with a chorus of hell no and so you had stage fright, it happens to all of us and I bet the judges thought you were adorable.

  “And now,” the redhead says, “we have a quorum.”

  “A quorum for what?” I ask as she pulls me down onto a sofa cushion next to her.

  “Ladies”—the redhead hands us each a shot—“I call to order this year’s gathering of the First Timers’ Club!”

  “What?” I look at Sara.

  “We’re making a new Miss Meteor tradition,” she says. “This pageant is so crowded with girls whose mothers or sisters or aunts ruled the competition that those of us who are the first in our families to enter are gathering together for a little liquid courage.”