In the Stars

by Stacia Deutsch

  The only visible non-black on his body is that earring I gave him for Christmas. The silver shines out from all that dark, winks at me as Tyler crosses to the booth. I watch him make his way toward me. Tyler’s a bit taller than me and has these really long legs. He doesn’t need many steps to get to where I am. Actually, he’s quite graceful. Tyler would never have dropped a flask and cut his leg. He’s cool and calm, and his moves appear deliberate.

  Tyler doesn’t bother to sit across from me like a normal person. Instead he slides into the booth next to me, pushing me over, and snakes the menu out of my hands. Good thing I’d already looked at it. Not that either of us need it. The Corner Café’s menu has never changed.

  “Cherise’s running late,” he tells me. “She said she tried texting, but your phone must be off.” I actually forgot it at home by accident. “So she asked me to hurry over and hang with you until she can get here. I figured, why not? I wasn’t doing anything else.” He shrugs. “We’re supposed to order her a cheese sandwich.” With mustard, no mayo. Lettuce, no tomato. On rye, not white. Chips, not slaw. And a diet Coke. I know the routine. Then again, so does Dotty.

  “Where is Cherise?” I ask as Dotty hustles off to grab Tyler a glass of water, giving him exactly one minute to think about what he wants to eat.

  “She had to return something to Nathan Feldman,” Tyler replies. “His cousin’s getting bar mitzvahed next week and he needed it back.”

  I nod. Since Nathan never says anything to Cherise, at least nothing of consequence, she’ll thrust the pointer at him, he’ll probably mutter his thanks for a second, and then she’ll be on her way. I check my watch: 11:50. I won’t have to spend more than ten minutes with the Prince of Darkness—if I’m lucky.

  Sitting here with Tyler today is the opposite experience from being here with Adam. Only the booth is the same. I’m not going to check my teeth. I don’t care if I have bad breath. My tongue is not tied in knots. And when Dotty returns, pad and pencil poised at the ready, I order my favorite antidate lunch—the messy, saucy, yummy spaghetti.

  Tyler orders a burger and coffee. I didn’t know he liked coffee. I almost laugh when he orders it black—of course.

  We tell Dotty about Cherise’s sandwich, then shoot the breeze while waiting for the food to arrive.

  He asks about my classes. I ask about his band. Tyler has been playing keyboard for the same band since junior high. None of the other guys go to our high school; they all met in soccer league. When they discovered that they all hated soccer, they dropped the team to form the band. It’s called Silent Knight.

  I’ve actually never seen Silent Knight play. If they played somewhere real, like somewhere other than in Tyler’s friend’s basement, maybe Cherise and I would go to support them. Then again, maybe not. I’m not sure, but since it’s never happened, we’ve never had to decide whether to go or stay home instead.

  I have a theory that Tyler’s whole alternative rock band thing started as a jab at his parents, who paid for years and years of classical piano training, hoping he might attend Juilliard. Cherise told me that after graduation, instead of going to college, Tyler and his band are heading to New York City to try to get a record deal. The Gregory parents’ college dreams have all fallen on Cherise.

  I hate to break it to them, but even though Cherise has applied to the University of Cincinnati she really doesn’t want to go there. She has AmeriCorps dreams. She’s even filled out the application. Cherise’s just not brave enough to tell her rents. Yet.

  “So,” Tyler says after a lengthy pause in the conversation. “I have a question for you.”

  “All right,” I say. “Shoot.” There’s none of the anticipation I felt last night when Adam said the same six-word phrase.

  “What do you want?” he asks.

  “Want?” I repeat. “Oh. That’s simple. To go to Yale and study astronomy,” I reply, squinting at him, eyebrows drawn together. Not my most attractive look, but I’m baffled. What the hell is he asking? Everyone knows that astronomy at Yale has been my dream. Even people who don’t know me well know about the science scholarship. It’s all I’ve focused on for as long as I can recall.

  “Dig deeper,” he tells me as Dotty refills his coffee cup. “Really, Sylvie. What is it that you truly want, more than anything else?”

  Tyler is staring at me so hard, I find myself turning away uncomfortably from his intensely inquisitive gaze.

  Suddenly, I feel defensive. Why should I have to explain my personal decisions to Tyler? I mean, astronomy’s what I’ve always wanted. Haven’t I lived my life in pursuit of that goal? Isn’t it obvious to everyone? Yale’s one of the best schools in the country. To get what I want, that’s where I have to be.

  “I mean, are you sure that’s what you want?” he asks.

  “Positive,” I tell him. “If you have to ask, then you don’t know me at all.”

  “It’s not about if I know you,” he says with a curt nod. “This is about if you know you.”

  I was wrong. Tyler’s not Darth Vader. He’s Yoda. “Thanks, but I’ve got my life meticulously planned out.” It’s my nice way of saying “Take your pop psychology and back off.” And he does. I’ve unintentionally, yet effectively, ended our conversation.

  After a few minutes of uncomfortable silence, the food arrives. Dotty sets Cherise’s sandwich on the table in front of where Cherise should be sitting. I check my watch again. She’s half an hour late. What could possibly be taking her so long to return the dumb pointer and get her butt over here? I don’t have anything left to say to Tyler.

  Or maybe, I do.

  “Why do you wear only black?” I ask, taking the focus off my own discomfort.

  “Ask Cherise,” is his reply. Tyler maintains that calm air about him as he deflects my question and takes a bite of his burger. Juice runs down his chin. He dabs it off with a napkin. For some bizarre reason, the maneuver makes me think of vampires.

  “Hey,” I complain. “I answered your question. You could give me the same consideration.”

  “You didn’t answer,” he responds. “Not really.”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “No, you didn’t.”

  “Yes—” I stop. This argument is completely juvenile. That and, now when I think about it, really really think about it, I suppose that I didn’t give him a very good answer. What do I want?

  Astronomy and Yale, right?

  I suppose I’ve never considered the possibility that there was anywhere I’d rather go or anything I’d rather be doing after high school. Just like I assume he intended, Tyler’s pushed me to think about my reasons for pursuing what I’ve always thought were my dreams. And the truth is, I don’t really know why Yale or why astronomy.

  I’ve always said that I’m going to follow in my mother’s footsteps. Nothing more, no deeper thoughts about the whole thing. But I suppose that constantly repeating that Yale is my lifelong dream simply doesn’t feel like enough of an answer.

  Since I can’t verbalize a comfortable or complete answer to Tyler, I let the question I asked him drop.

  I take a few bites of my food. The conversation with Tyler has pretty much ended. Where, oh, where is Cherise? I have never spent this much time (we are going on twenty minutes now) alone with Tyler.

  Tyler seems to be completely at ease, forcing me to wonder why I’m the only one who is fazed by the awkward silence between us. After a couple more bites of burger, he leans across me, and I mean over, across, and practically through me, to stick a nickel in the jukebox on the table by the wall.

  I’ve been here a million times and have never put a coin in one of those jukeboxes. I didn’t know they worked.

  His whole body is stretched over me. I inhale and pull back into the booth cushion so that our bodies don’t touch. I can’t help but notice that he actually smells nice. Kind of woodsy, earthy, and clean. (Don’t you dare tell Cherise that I thought that. I’ll deny it till the day I die.) I’m surprised at the way he smells.
I suppose I expected … I actually don’t know what I expected.

  Tyler puts his nickel in the jukebox and very, very slowly (or so it seems) moves back to his own part of the bench seat.

  I can’t even remember what I was doing a second before he leaned over me. Oh yeah, it’s all coming back to me, Tyler and I were sitting in pregnant silence, eating and waiting for Cherise to get here. I lift my water glass to my lips, but stop midsip.

  Wait a second. I love this song!

  It’s an old Elvis Presley tune called “Stuck on You,” and it’s got this happy, upbeat, fast tempo. I heard it in a movie a few years ago and I’ve loved it ever since. I even have the original album. I bought it on eBay the same day I first heard the tune.

  “This is a great song.” I break our silence with my compliment of his choice.

  “Yeah.” He relaxes back, leans fully into the booth cushion, and closes his eyes. Oddly, it’s not awkward anymore. The mood has morphed from a horrible we’ve-run-out-of-things-to-say quiet into a comfortable silence.

  While the music plays, I take a few more bites of my spaghetti. Drink some more water. There is no pressure to say anything and I don’t really feel like talking. Apparently, neither does Tyler. He’s still leaning his head back against the booth, imitating the piano parts with his fingers on the Formica tabletop.

  When the song’s over, so’s the mood. It’s awkward again.

  “When are you going to answer my question, Sylvie?” Tyler asks as he pops the last bite of burger into his mouth.

  “I’ll answer yours when you answer mine,” is my reply.

  “You drive a hard bargain,” he says with a throaty chuckle. I think this is the first time I’ve heard Tyler laugh. Ever.

  He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a twenty-dollar bill. “Tell Cherise I stayed as long as I could,” Tyler says. He slides the money toward me. “I gotta go. Lunch is on me.” Tyler slips out of the booth with the same graceful determination he had when he slid in. He gets his cloak from the hook near the front of the café and drapes it back over his shoulders. Then, right before he leaves, he turns to face me.

  He’s completely across the restaurant, but I can see his facial features clearly. By reading his lips, I hear him as plainly as though he were still crammed in next to me.

  “You should figure out what you want,” he tells me. Then adds, “I know exactly what I desire.” And then, Tyler is gone.

  Ten

  Today will pass in an overwhelming blur. Give yourself time to breathe.

  www.astrology4stars.com

  “I’m sorry I’m late,” Cherise practically skids into the booth. She’s out of breath. “I ran the whole way here.” Looking around, she asks, “Where’s Tyler? Didn’t he come to tell you I was late? I’m going to kill him.…”

  “Cherise,” I interrupt, “Tyler just left. I’m surprised you didn’t pass him on the street.”

  “Oh,” Cherise says with a giggle. She pokes at the bread on her sandwich. “Thanks for ordering for me, but I’m stuffed. Couldn’t eat another bite.” Cherise, talking a million miles per second, explains that she was waylaid at the Feldmans’ by Nathan’s mother shoving an empty plate into her unsuspecting hands. Sunday is family brunch day at the Feldmans’.

  “It’s no big deal,” I respond. “Tyler paid. I’ll take the sandwich home.” If Cherise isn’t going to eat it, my father will.

  “You should have seen it, Sylvie.” Cherise pushes the plate with the cheese sandwich to the edge of the table. That’s our signal for Dotty to wrap it up to go. “There were twenty people crammed into a tiny living room. Grandparents, cousins, aunts, and uncles. All related to Nathan. I swear there was enough food for a small nation. They even had fresh-squeezed orange juice,” Cherise tells me with complete awe.

  Cherise’s family events consist of four people: her parents, her brother, and her. She has an aunt in Florida somewhere, but no one talks about her. I think she might be in rehab.

  My family is two people: my father and me. My grandparents are all deceased. Both my parents were only children. In my house, it’s a family reunion whenever we’re both home.

  I briefly wonder what it would be like at the Feldmans’ on a Sunday morning. Chaotic, I bet. A bit of a pain, too. Maybe annoying, irritating, and embarrassing, depending on what they talk about. I feel a pang of jealousy and sorrow that I’ll never know that kind of chaos and embarrassment. Maybe, if I ever get married, I’ll have five kids to build up the Townsend family tree.

  But first I need a date to the prom. I start to tell Cherise about how the stars have failed her, when she interrupts. Clearly she isn’t ready to focus on me yet. Her head is still at the Feldmans’.

  “Did you know Nathan’s involved in a Jewish social action group that’s working to end the genocide in Darfur?”

  “Did Nathan tell you this?” I ask, struggling to recall if I’ve ever heard Nathan’s voice. All I can remember are muttered phrases, not actual words.

  “Of course not! Nathan didn’t say anything,” she says, laughing. “His mom told me about it. Nathan goes to meetings twice a week after school at their temple. They write letters, send informative mailings, work with the press, and contact politicians.” She’s completely jazzed about Nathan’s life. I’m waiting, somewhat impatiently, for a break in her word flow, to tell her about mine.

  “The best part is, the group was given permission to send one person to New York for the summer to work at the United Nations and lobby the Human Rights Council.” Cherise’s hands are fluttering, she’s so excited about her story. “Nathan was selected,” she says, voice rising. “Unanimously!”

  Clearly, Nathan must be able to talk, and eloquently, too, when Cherise isn’t around.

  I was right about that whole family thing. Imagine Nathan’s embarrassment as his mother brags on and on about his success to the one girl Nathan wishes he could speak with but can’t seem to. It’s heartwarming and humiliating at the same time.

  I smile at the thought. I can’t wait to someday torture my own children in a similar fashion!

  “Nathan’s going to make a difference in the world,” Cherise says firmly. “I can feel it in my bones.” Cherise punctuates her prophecy by pulling the straw out of her Coke and taking a long sip from the side of the glass.

  This is my opening. Not only is her mouth busy doing something else, but she has just made a prediction, using bones instead of stars, but a prediction nonetheless.

  “Cherise,” I say. “Can we back up one prediction?”

  “What?” she asks, then grins as she gets it. “Oh yeah. I must have had carb overload on the bagels! I totally forgot to ask how your date went last night! Did he ask you to the dance?”

  “The date was fine,” I say realistically. “But Adam asked me to a party, not the prom.”

  “Very interesting.” Cherise downs the rest of her Coke, then calls for Marco, the busboy, politely asking him to remove our dirty dishes. Once the table is clear, Cherise reaches in her bag and … surprise (not!) … pulls out my astrological chart.

  Since she returned the pointer to Nathan, Cherise is using her finger to indicate areas on the pizza drawing. “Here’s Jupiter,” she says, half to me, half to herself. “And my math is obviously accurate.”

  “Obviously,” I echo.

  She clicks her tongue as she considers what went awry.

  “This indicates your love interest.” She nods and points at one section of her chart. “And here’s his question. Well.” She looks up at me. “I suppose the question could have been about the party and not the dance.”

  “You said it was an important question.” I’m cautiously trying to point out that for the first time, she might be wrong.

  Cherise isn’t biting.

  “Well,” she says, “he did ask you a question and it was in a familiar place.” She waves her arms around the café, indicating not only the restaurant but also the booth. “So I wasn’t that far off.”

 
“But Cherise, the party’s at Gavin Masterson’s house,” I say with a sigh. “Look, I’ve upheld my part of the deal. I agreed to go out with Adam last night and I’m game on giving the relationship a chance, just like I promised I would, but do I really have to go to Gavin’s with him?” I drop my shoulders. “Let’s pretend for a second that I believed in true love. I can’t actually believe that my soul mate would take me to Gavin Masterson’s.”

  Cherise thinks about this for a minute. “I think it makes sense that he asked you to Gavin’s.” She takes a long look at my chart before asking, “When’s Adam’s birthday?”

  Strangely, I know. When he was escorting me to photography class on Thursday, he mentioned that he turned eighteen on Valentine’s Day. Cherise is going to love that, isn’t she?

  I quickly mumble February 14th, hoping she doesn’t make the holiday connection. But she does, of course.

  “Valentine’s Day!” she exclaims. “What an amazing coincidence! He’s an Aquarius and Aquarius is in your Fifth House.”

  Cherise asks me for a pen. I wish I didn’t have one, but I do. I always do. In times like these, it can be a real nuisance to be as highly organized as I am.

  Cherise jots down some notes on a napkin. She descends into silent thought for a few more minutes, then says, “I believe that the reason he asked you to Gavin’s party instead of the Spring Fling Prom is on account of synastry.”

  “Is that a real word?” I ask with a half-snicker. “I had a perfect score on my SAT verbal and I’ve never heard of synastry.”

  “Look it up, brainiac.” She smiles. “Synastry is the comparison of two people’s solar charts.”

  Oh, please. Why can’t Cherise finally admit that astrology’s bunk and let us move on? I won’t rub it in. I swear. I’d just let the whole thing drop. I’d even continue to go out with Adam because he’s a good guy. If he asked me to the prom, great. If not, maybe I’d ask him.

  “Hang on,” Cherise cuts into her synastry lesson. “Don’t you dare even consider asking Adam to the dance yourself.”