Binary Star (15 page)

What kind of farm was it? I ask.

A dairy farm.

Gross, John says.

My coworker looks at me.

We’re vegan, I explain.

Oh, sorry. I didn’t realize. I grew up on a farm, I could never be vegan.

Did your father send a lot of cows to slaughter when they stopped giving milk? John asks.

Excuse me?

Did you feel bad separating the calves from their mothers
when they were only a few days old? Did they scream until their throats bled?

I don’t understand.

Do you miss bearing witness to the millions of tons of greenhouse gases cattle fart into our atmosphere every year?

I’m going to go.

Please don’t, I say.

I don’t know what his deal is. I didn’t mean to offend you.

You didn’t.

My deal is that I don’t believe in enslaving non-human animals and damaging the environment so that you can butter the bread on your grilled cheese sandwich.

Okay, I’m leaving.

John, stop, I say.

He looks at me.

No, I’ll go. You two have fun.

John leaves. We sit in silence.

I’m sorry. I should probably go talk to him.

Happy birthday.

Write this down.

– In the case of a double-degenerate explosion, nothing of either white dwarf will remain.

Stand. Go to your partner. Don’t wait.

I walk in a circle around the room. I look into the face of each student. I have eaten nothing since the day before yesterday evening. I carry a leaking black Starbucks Venti coffee in my hand because last night I read that the Grande has four times the amount of caffeine as a Red Bull, so I thought I’d do better.

Remember this:

– The two stars orbit tightly. Some say they’re magnetic.

Take your partner’s hands. Orbit so tightly, there is nothing between you. Make sure your breath is foul and she smells it.

– They will orbit so tightly, they are not even aware of the force that binds them.

Squeeze your partner’s hands until both of you are numb.

– There is no telling who leads and who follows. Neither. It’s as if they’re compelled.

Look your partner in the eye. Say
I love you.
Lie if you have to. Don’t even know why.

– They orbit until they come close enough to collide.

Bash your partner in the head.

Do it hard. There should be nothing left.

Grind his brains into the carpet.

That’s right, let it out. Use your heel. Use your nails.

Remember that time he spit on you? Now’s your chance to get back at him.

Really let him feel it. Be cruel. Merciless. Petty.

Now tell him you love him.

Tell him you’ll die if he leaves you.

After school, I sit in my car in the parking lot. I smoke a cigarette even though that’s illegal within 1,000 feet of a school. I leave the windows closed. I listen to but don’t hear the static coming from my speakers on B-103. I bite all my fingernails off one after the other but don’t realize it until I’m done.

My mentor’s crotch appears in the passenger window, in my periphery. His khaki Dockers bunch like he has a short, flaccid dick. I roll the window down.

His face appears at crotch-level.

Want to talk?

Not really.

Can we talk anyway?

I unlock the doors and he climbs inside. He moves the seat back and adjusts his pants. He closes the door.

You don’t have a thyroid disease.

I keep my eyes on the steering wheel. I don’t say anything.

I don’t know what’s going on with you, but whatever it is, I think you need to see a doctor. That’s just my opinion, but I hope you know that I wouldn’t have shared it if I didn’t think you needed to hear it.

I appreciate your concern.

Do you really?

I drag the rest of my cigarette down to the filter and open the window and toss it out. I wave my hand back and forth in front of my face, clearing the smoke.

Listen, I don’t really want to say this, but I don’t think you should come back to the school until you deal with whatever this is. I don’t know if it’s drugs or whatever—

It’s not drugs.

Or whatever it is. It’s destructive, and I think you need help. You’re a great teacher, but some of the kids have noticed. I can’t have that in my classroom, and you know that. I can put you in touch with—

No, thank you.

Well… I guess that’s all, then.

I feel him looking at me as I start the car and light another cigarette. He gets out and shuts the door, and leans down in the window.

You can call me anytime.

John oversleeps his flight at the end of August. We pull into the airport parking lot and see it taking off. The next flight to Chicago doesn’t leave until tomorrow, unless he wants to buy a new ticket from a different airline. Unless his parents want to buy him another ticket.

I shook and shook him. I called his name and left and came back and shook him some more. I begged. The sun rose.

I lifted his head from the sheets.

We watch the plane until it disappears, then leave the airport and come back the next morning, early. We pass Cadillac,
Hummer, and Lexus dealerships, Baptist and Catholic churches, bail bondsmen, Best Buy and Home Depot, all of them grey.

We have to be sad about his leaving all over again. I’m upset. John is sadder than he was yesterday.

What’s Behind Bieber’s Bad Behavior?

I’m crying but I’m not sure why. It’s not for John.

Can you please not be mad at me? he says.

I’m not mad.

I won’t see you for a month, at least.

I’m not mad.

If you say so.

Something is wrong with me.

He opens his messenger bag and pulls out a notebook.

I didn’t know you kept a notebook.

I want to show you something.

All of the pages are covered in microscopically small writing. He’s left no white space at all. In the corners of some, he’s drawn little pen-and-ink sketches. He turns to a page near the back.

I found this.

He hands me a glossy photograph he’s torn out of a magazine. The edges are rough. He had a hard time tearing it cleanly. In it, a mid-sized house is nestled perfectly into the upper branches of a mature oak. The forest around the house is darkening but a warm yellow glow lights up the windows.

This is beautiful.

I want to live there with you.

Are you buying a tree house?

Not now, someday. When we’ve done everything in life that we want to do. This is the world I want to live in.

A woman’s silhouette is visible in a floor-to-ceiling kitchen window. She seems to be looking down at the photographer. I squint, trying to make out her expression, but it’s hidden in shadow.

He takes the picture back.

Wait, can I keep it?

Really?

Yeah. I want it.

I put it in my glove compartment.

You’re going to miss your flight.

We walk across the bleached parking lot to the small steel building. Its windows reflect the late morning sun like balls of fire.

I hand John his suitcase. He sets it between us, and kisses me over it.

I don’t want to wait long to see you.

You won’t. We’ll find a way.

Be good.

I’m always good.

He takes off.

Like a boat through water, moving celestial objects make ripples in the curvature of space-time.

I’m late for my Starbucks shift. There’s no reason; I just didn’t arrive on time. I’m in a fog. I haven’t slept since John left. I feel that I’m entering a new phase of sickness. I’ve lost interest in sleep altogether; at four a.m., I realize it’s four a.m. Still, I’m not tired.

I’m exhausted.

Each night, I stay on the Internet until I feel the paper-thin light of dawn fingering its way through the curtains. I read stories about stars. I read reviews of diet pills. I scroll through endless Tumblr pages of women thinner than I am. Endless Instagram pages. Google image searches. I look at them and look at my body and look at them and get up and look in the mirror. I walk toward the mirror and away. I turn around.

I make a revolution.

I twist into one position after another. I lie on the floor and stretch. I make curves, stand, and turn.

Truth is a permanent revolution.

I’m covered in bruises.

My boss is here. We go about the day as usual. Every hour, I make a new carafe. I clean the bathroom. I am always on the schedule to do this. I unload shipments of Chicken BLT Salad Sandwiches, Turkey Havarti Sandwiches, Chonga Bagels, 8-Grain Rolls, Almond Cookies, Apple Fritters, Blueberry Oat Bars and Scones.

I talk to the regular customers. They like me but seem not to be as exuberant today.

I drink as many free cups of coffee as I want, which is six, so far.

I take frequent cigarette breaks. In the August heat, I sweat through my requisite white collared shirt. My skin is moist and I wipe off the sweat with my apron, then drop it into my lap.

I blow smoke into its folds.

John texts me.

Do we have everything we need?

I have it all. I’m ready.

This is going to be big.

Truth is in constant revision; truth can only approximate reality. I say this like a mantra.

Truth is a vision — say it.

I don’t believe that John believes.

As I’m putting my apron back on, my boss comes outside.

Leave the apron inside when you smoke.

I wasn’t wearing it.

You’re blowing smoke on it.

I wasn’t.

You were. I just watched you through the window.

He lets the door close behind him and crosses his arms. I’ve never liked my boss.

I was aiming it that way, I say.

Would you agree that this is not working out?

Would I agree?

You working here.

Oh, I knew what you meant.

He sits down at a plastic table and invites me to join him. Two of our regular customers walk past us. They wave. I wave back.

People have told me you’re giving free coffee to customers.

Just my boyfriend, one time.

They say you’ve been doing it a lot.

Not true.

Regardless, one time is too much.

I wipe the sweat from my face with the end of my apron. Inside, my coworkers talk and look at us.

Enough to fire someone?

There are other things, he says.

Like what?

It’s probably best not to say. I think you know, anyway.

Hunger burns and rises in my chest.

Are you firing me?

I think it’s probably best.

I’m on fire.

I look at the courthouse. Men and women in suits step lightly as needles into its marble entrance.

Do you know that Starbucks uses almost a million gallons of milk every year? I say.

I did not know that.

Fuck you. Did you know that the Cinnamon Chip Scone has more calories in it than a Quarter Pounder With Cheese?

He looks away.

That’s fucking disgusting, I say. You self-righteous prick. You’re a terrorist who works at a fast food restaurant.

I stand and take off my apron and throw it in his face.

Have fun cleaning the bathroom, shithead.

Two possible scenarios exist for the expulsion of a star from a binary system.

In the first, a member of the system explodes in a supernova, kicking the other member out.

In the second, a binary system collides with a third star, changing the stars’ velocities.

This change in velocity causes a member to gather energy and escape as a runaway.

Its matter points back to its former association. We can trace its origin.

It’s been less than a month. John calls me fifteen minutes before his flight is supposed to leave Chicago to tell me he’s not on the plane. I’m sitting on the hood of my car in the Walgreens parking lot, reading a
Star Magazine.
My trunk is full of combustibles, wire cutters, black clothing, bleach.

Dog is dead, he says.

No.

She chewed through my Ativan. I don’t know how she found it.

John, I’m so sorry. Jesus, fuck. At least you know she didn’t suffer.

I thought I left it in the cabinet. She puked all over the bed.

I’m so sorry.

I listen to him cry for a long time. Two girls cross the parking lot carrying bottles of Coke and bags of Skittles. They climb into a red Jaguar and the radio comes on at full volume with the engine, shaking the air.

John’s still crying.

Where is she now?

She’s here. I just found her.

Just now?

Just now, he says.

Like, how long ago?

Ten minutes.

Burn.

I don’t get it. You were supposed to be at the airport hours ago. Were you sleeping before then?

He doesn’t answer. I feel angry. I listen to him cry. I try to feel pity but I can’t.

You’re an animal. I’m an animal.

I can’t do this, I say.

Yes, you can. Show me you’re with me. He blows his nose.

You lied.

About what?

Loving me.

Dog is dead.

You killed her.

Excuse me?

Murderer.

That’s not fair.

Burn. We’re through.

What do you mean?

Fuck you.

Are you breaking up with me?

This is over.

Can’t this wait?

I don’t love you.

My dog is dead. I doubt your commitment.

You should. I’m alone and I like it.

You’re crazy.

You deserve what you’ve done.

You don’t know me.

Who are you? I can’t be with a dog killer. She needed you and you killed her.

You deserve to be alone. You’re fucked.

Don’t call me anymore. I don’t know you.

I can’t believe this.

This will blow up in your face.

It already has.

Hi, Mom.

Can I talk to you for a minute?

I got my grades. They’re not as good as last semester’s.

I’ve been going through some personal things.

I’ve ascended.

I don’t have an appetite. Sleep. Or friends.

I’m very lonely.