Where the Stars Still Shine (20 page)

I put down my fork.

“I’ve had a whole life of not fair,” I say, meeting her eyes. “And then I came here and thought maybe, for once … except everyone just wants more from me than I can give. Greg expects the daughter he’s always imagined. Kat wants slumber parties and double dates. And you—you keep pushing me to be Greek when I’m not even sure what that means yet. Can’t I just be me until I figure it out?”

“Oh, Callista, of cour—”

“Alex accepts me the way I am,” I say. “You have no right to ask this of me.”

“Ordinarily, I would agree.” Yiayoúla touches her hand to her heart. “And if you want the truth, I love the way you told me off just now. You’re a stronger girl than you’ve been given credit for, I think. But … this is not ordinarily. Evgenia doesn’t have much time, and she can’t bear the thought of leaving this world without saying good-bye to her son. And because she is my best friend, I’m going to make it happen.”

“He’ll hate me.”

“Not forever,” she says. “He cares about you for the very same reason you care about him. He’s not going to let that go.”

I think about the transient boys. The ones who didn’t really want me, let alone try to keep me. “That’s not how life works.”

“Of course it is,” she says. “The good ones are the ones who are smart enough to stick around. And despite what the rest of the world thinks it knows about Alex Kosta, he is one of the very best.” I look away and my cheeks grow warm. Yiayoúla reaches across the table and squeezes my hand with her cool fingers. “It will be okay. I promise.”

“I still don’t understand why I need to be a part of this,” I say, as the waitress approaches with our lunches. “I mean, why can’t you just take her down to the tour boat on a Sunday afternoon when he can’t escape?”

“I like the way you think.” Her smile is devious. “If you and I are the conspirators, Alex will blame us, not Evgenia. Yes. We’ll do it this weekend.”

“Great.” There’s no enthusiasm in my voice as I answer, and even less when the waitress sets a plate piled with tentacles on the table in front of me. There is absolutely no way I’m eating
octopus
, even if it tastes like proverbial chicken. “I’m sorry, but I really, really don’t want this.”

The waitress looks to my grandma for approval.

“Box it up,” Yiayoúla says. “I’ll take it home for later. Bring Callista whatever she wants.”

“I, um—I’ll have some hummus, please. And two Cokes.”
The first time I wake up, I’m slumped over the table in the Airstream with my face stuck to a page of the GED study guide. The exam is coming up, and I’m nervous about the math segment because kindergarten addition and a battered old textbook can only carry you so far in life. I’m strong in language arts and social studies, and I’ve managed to reason my way through the science practice questions, but I’m having difficulty solving for
x
.

The next time I wake, it’s three in the morning and my mom slides under the blanket beside me, wrapping her arm around my waist. As I settle back into the comfort of her embrace, my sleepy brain spins her presence into something that feels like a dream. Except her hair is drenched in the scent of cigarettes, and she’s beer-breathy as she whispers through my hair that she loves me, so I know it’s really her.

“Mom, you can’t keep coming here,” I whisper back.

In the stillness between us, I hear a car drive past on the next street over and a distant dog barks once, then again.

“I always wanted hair like yours.” Her voice is soft and hoarse, her tongue thick with alcohol. She strokes my head. “So wild and beautiful.”

“If you get caught, you’ll be sent back to jail.”

“This time will be different,” she says. “You’ll see. We’ll settle somewhere nice. Maybe by the ocean.
Somewhere you can make friends and maybe get a job, or even go to college.”

I roll over to face her. In the dim light, I can see the sadness wedged in the fine lines around her eyes and mouth, so I don’t mention that I already have all those things right here, right now. I press my forehead against hers. “Is there somewhere you can stay … you know, until we leave?”

I don’t know if this is truth or lie, but it feels false in my mouth. Her lips spread into a dreamy smile and my next heartbeat is spiked through with guilt.

“I had a room at a motel with someone I used to know”—she closes her eyes and her words get slow and sleepy—“but that fell through. I’ll find something, though. Don’t worry.”

“Greg is renovating a house over on Chesapeake.” Even as I’m saying it, I know this is a bad idea, but I can’t bear seeing her looking so lost and alone. I don’t want her sleeping in dirty motels with strange men. “There might be construction workers on-site during the day, but you could sleep there until, um—until we’ve got enough money to go.”

She kisses my forehead. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

Her face goes soft with sleep, and it’s here in this moment I’m overcome with love. She can’t handle jail.
She needs to go to that imaginary someplace where she can settle down and not be looking constantly over her shoulder. I think for a while about the money I have stashed in the guitar. I doubt it’s enough to buy even a cheap car, but there is enough for bus fare and some food. If I give it to her, she can leave.

We can leave.

I dream I’m locked in a jail cell with thick iron bars across the front like a cage, at the end of a long gray hallway. The concrete floor is cold under my bare feet, making my toes go numb, and my too-short Hello Kitty nightgown offers no protection from the shivers that shudder through me. In the corner of the cell is the dark form of a person I can’t identify. All I know is that I am afraid
.

At the other end of the hall is a door, and I can hear distant muffled conversation coming from behind it. It’s white noise, a continuous and steady sound that doesn’t waver when I call for help
.

“I don’t belong here!” I shout, wrapping my hands around the bars. “I want to go home.”

The door opens and the chatter grows louder, spilling into the hallway as my grandma comes in. She’s speaking Greek as she walks toward me, but I understand every word
.

“This is your home now, Callista,” she says. “We are your family.”

She morphs into my mother as she continues down the hall, the tap of her footsteps echoing off the smooth, sterile walls. Mom is carrying my guitar case and the brown tweed suitcase I threw away after it broke. Her lips are painted bright red, making her teeth look so white, and she’s wearing the sparkly barrette in her hair that she always says makes her feel like Courtney Love
.

Behind her, the door swings open a second time and the chatter gets louder again for another moment as Alex enters the hall. He’s wearing his old-fashioned dive suit without the bell helmet, and his footsteps boom as his metal shoes meet concrete, the sound bouncing off the walls and hurting my ears
.

“Callie, wait,” he says. “Wait for me.”

Mom stops. When he catches up to her, her arm slithers around his waist and she snuggles up against him
.

“No!” Panic rises up inside me as I realize he thinks she’s me. “I’m here, Alex. I’m right here.”

“I’ve got the money.” Mom lifts the guitar case, indicating she knows where I’ve hidden my stash. “So we can leave whenever you’re ready. Go someplace nice. Maybe Colorado. You can learn to ski.”

“Alex, please.” The words come out as a whimper. A plea. “Don’t leave me.”

Without even looking in my direction, they turn back in the direction of the door. Alex walks out of his heavy boots,
leaving them in the hall. His dive suit falls away, crumpling like a hollow person on the floor
.

They disappear behind the door and I’m alone with my fear. Until I feel Frank’s hand on my shoulder. His smoky breath whispering that he’s going to make me feel so good
.

I wake up the third time when the first light of morning squeezes through the crack below the curtain and warms the back of my eyelids. My cheeks are tight with the dried tears I shed in my sleep. It’s barely seven and my mom is gone again.

I get out of bed and open the closet where I keep my guitar. It’s there. I open the case, remove the instrument, and shake it until the rubber-banded bundle of cash appears behind the strings. My insides go soft with relief and then tighten again with guilt for thinking the worst about my mom. I get annoyed all again when I spy a yellow page, torn from a phone book, with an ad for a pawnshop circled in red. It’s lying on top of the built-in dresser between my hairbrush and a tube of lip balm. I was hoping she’d get my computer back, not make me go buy it.

Joining my dad, Phoebe, and the boys for breakfast is comforting after an unhappy night. The heat from the stove cuts the chill from the air, and Tucker’s nonstop chatter sweeps the darkness like cobwebs from the corners of my brain.

“Big plans for your day off, Cal?” Greg asks.

The pawnshop ad is tucked in the pocket of my jeans. Even though I know I’m going to have to pay for my own computer, I’m getting it back. I pour syrup on my plate of waffles.

“There’s a first-aid class at the Methodist church. I might check that out.” It’s a half-truth. I saw a notice for the lesson in one of the free weekly papers we have on the counter of the shop, but wasn’t planning to attend until after I take the GED exam.

“Good idea.” Greg takes the syrup bottle from me. “I was thinking that tomorrow night we’d go get a pizza—just the two of us—and then go take a look at the house. They’ve made a lot of progress this week. Almost done.”

A bit of waffle stumbles on its way down my throat and I cough, my heart beating in double time at the thought of him finding Mom at the new house. And I realize—I have no way to warn her. I can only hope that she won’t be there when we arrive.

The pawnshop is close enough for me to ride my bike. It’s a hole-in-the-wall kind of place, with a doorbell that sticks on the first of two notes and the dry, burnt-toast smell of old, dusty things. Inside, it’s as if someone erected a building around a yard sale: shelves and aisles overflowing with stereo systems, power tools, televisions, lawn mowers, bicycles, and musical instruments. Handguns and rifles hang on the wall behind a glass counter filled with rows of watches, rings set with a variety of gemstones, and dozens and dozens of gold necklaces. I step over the handle of a leaf blower as I look for the computer aisle, imagining my mom in this place trying to charm the broker into giving her more than he thinks my laptop is worth. She’s always loved places like these. Says they have character.

Obsolete desktop computer models sit beside newer laptops, but as I scan the shelves I don’t see mine. A man comes into the aisle. He’s older, his hair graying at the temples, and he’s liberally doused in the same cologne Frank put on in the morning. By the time he came to my room at night, it was faded and sour, but I remember the way the new scent would linger in the bathroom after he went to work. The memory brings an itch to my feet and I think about leaving. But this man is wearing a polo shirt with the name of the shop stitched on the chest.

“Need help?”

“I, um—I’m looking for a specific laptop.” There’s a tremble in my voice as my heart struggles to calm itself down. “One that would have been brought in about a week ago by a woman with short super-blond hair and”—I gesture at my mouth—“really red lipstick. It’s, um, white—”

“I remember.” He nods. “Sold it. That model always goes quick.”

I’m not surprised the laptop is already gone, but I can’t stop the sinking feeling I get. Greg doesn’t spend much time in the Airstream, but every time he comes out for a little visit, I worry
this
will be the time he notices the computer is missing. I can’t hide it forever. “Could I, um—can I give you a number to call if you get another one?”

The man gives me the “wait a minute” sign with his index finger. “Hang on.”

He goes into the back, leaving me alone with the lingering and unsettling scent of his cologne. Five minutes later, he returns with a white laptop that from the outside looks the same as mine.

“This one’s newer.” He opens the lid. The keyboard is identical, but the track pad doesn’t have a button along the bottom the way mine did. Still, it’s close enough that Greg might not notice. He’d have to sit down to use it to see the difference. “Just came in last night.”

“How much?”

“Two-fifty.”

I press the power button to boot up the computer. The pawnbroker just stands there, and though I don’t look at him, I can feel him watching me. I don’t like it, but I think he’s keeping an eye on his merchandise, rather than on
my
merchandise. The laptop comes to life with a familiar chime. I open all the programs and type out a few nonsense sentences to test the keys: The quick brown fox jumped over the lazy dog. The only thing we have to fear is fear itself. Help, I’m a genie trapped inside this computer! Set me free and I’ll grant you three wishes!

That last one makes him chuckle a little.

I turn off the computer. “Would you take one hundred?”

“Two-fifty. Firm.”

Two hundred and fifty dollars means I won’t have much to spend on Christmas presents, but Mom didn’t leave me much choice. I hand over the cash and he gives me the laptop, the power cord, and a dirty pink neoprene carrying case that I throw in the trash on my way out of the store. Then I feel bad for tossing away a carrying case just because it was dirty. Who have I become that castoffs aren’t good enough for me? I go back to fish it out of the trash, but the pawnbroker is watching, which makes me feel suspicious and stupid, and the broken door chime keeps going off every time I open the door. Finally, with my face as pink with embarrassment as that dirty old laptop case, I just leave.

It’s still early and I have no other plans, so I stash my new computer in the wire basket attached to my bike and ride to the bookstore. The breeze cools both my cheeks and the irritation I’m feeling toward my mom.