Starstruck (15 page)

A
FTER MY MOM LEAVES
with Evie for the hospital, I go downstairs to the bakery. Christian is sitting there, reading
Doctor Faustus,
another literary epic I’d rather pull out my own fingernails than read. Of course nobody in this weather is thinking about eating baked items; they’re all inside, in their air-conditioning, sucking down iced drinks. “My mom wanted me to tell you she’ll pay you tomorrow,” I say.

He doesn’t look up from his book, as if
Doctor Faustus
is so riveting he can’t tear himself away from it. “All right.”

“And can you close up? I’ll help.”

He raises an eyebrow. “I saw her speeding away. What’s up?”

“She’s taking Evie to the hospital. She’s got a—”

“Fever,” he finishes, then smiles with satisfaction at my surprised face. “There’s been a lot of that mysterious illness going around, I bet.”

“Not a lot,” I say softly. “Just a couple of people. What? Don’t tell me you think this has to do with Wish, too.”

He nods smugly, getting on my nerves. Next he’ll be blaming Wish for his acne. “The ancient Italians believed that the stars were responsible for our health. The word ‘influenza’ comes from the belief that the stars influenced a person, making them feel ill.”

“But that’s crap,” I say, seething. “All right, I concede that maybe Wish is doing that Luminati stuff, worshipping the stars or whatever. But just because he is doesn’t mean he made my sister sick. It’s probably just heatstroke. It’s really hot out.”

“You’re right, it could be heatstroke. From the heat that your boyfriend caused. Just like the storm. Everything is connected,” he says.

“He …,” I start, my cheeks flaring. “But what about you? You did it last night, too. Maybe you caused this.”

“No. I didn’t do it for long enough. And I did it the right way.”

“So you’re the pro and Wish is a dabbler. Okay.”

“Basically. Are you afraid of losing him?”

“No, I’m—” I stop. I don’t know what I’m afraid of. Maybe it’s that if he went through all this trouble to make himself look good to others, it must be because he thinks looks are that important. “Maybe.”

“But don’t you get it? That’s a small price to pay, considering …”

Something catches in his face at that moment, as if a bad memory flashes through his mind. His jaw tenses and he exhales slowly, and then he shakes his head as if to shake away whatever was bothering him. I wait for him to complete his sentence but he just stands there, blank, the conversation forgotten.

“Considering …?” I prompt.

He blinks and looks around, as if he’s surprised by his surroundings. As if he’s been someplace else entirely. “Considering what you could lose,” he says softly, eyes trailing back to his book.

I stare at him for a moment. “You lost something?”

He doesn’t look up, doesn’t answer. And I don’t think it’s wise to press the issue, so I start to walk away.

“My girlfriend,” he mumbles, still not looking up.

“Your … what?” I ask, my mouth hanging open. The girlfriend who asked too many questions. The one who I reminded him of. The one who I thought dumped him. “Are you saying she … died?”

His eyes narrow. “Do you think I meant that I just misplaced her?” Then he sighs, and his voice is barely a whisper. “She had a fever, too.”

A
T NIGHT, I’M ALL ALONE
. I lie in bed, on top of the sheets, with all the windows open. There’s a little breeze from the ocean but it’s not enough. Thunder rumbles in the distance, and over the bay, lightning slashes the sky. Another storm. Another chapter in the most erratic week of weather this island has ever seen, which just happens to coincide with Wish’s return to Cellar Bay.

Every so often, my computer pings with an IM. I know they’re from Wish. Nobody else ever messages me. The first ones go something like this:

Crabs were gr8 2-nite!

Hey.

U there?

Hello?

U there? Msg me when you get in.

Did I do something wrong?

After a while, I stop checking. I just don’t feel like it. Soon the phone starts ringing. He’s finally given up on the computer and is now trying to call me. Persistent little bugger. I lie in bed, staring at the shadows moving across the boot on the ceiling. The storms … the heat … now Evie … If what Christian said is true, if he lost his girlfriend because of the fever, then Evie is in serious trouble. If Wish is responsible for it … How selfish can a person be?

No, no, he’s not some all-powerful being. He’s just Wish. Wish the Boy Scout. He’s just human.

And all humans make mistakes. I think about what Evie said. Sure, she was delirious, but it made sense. Erica was practically foaming at the mouth over Wish. Of course if I was out of the way and alcohol was involved, she’d try something. And Wish is a Boy Scout, but he has hormones, like any other guy.

He never would have gotten involved with the Luminati if he hadn’t at some point become as looks-obsessed as everyone else in the world. And he still must be, if he’s still practicing their rituals. Any way you slice it, he’s not the guy I knew all those years ago. He’s different. And maybe a whole lot worse.

Something hits the side of my window. At first I think that it’s my imagination, that I’m so distraught over losing the old days I’m hallucinating that Wish is at my window, but then I hear it again. And when I scoot to the end of my bed and look out, there he is, standing in the old flower bed, between two azalea bushes. He winds up like a baseball pitcher, then launches another pebble at the side of the house and whispers, “How long has it been since I’ve done this?”

I can’t help smiling. There are a thousand little dings in the white paint of the shutters outside my bedroom. The stretch of yard between my house and Melinda’s is nothing but tiny white pebbles that glisten in the moonlight, so I imagine he’d have enough ammunition to last him the next hundred years. “I’m the only one home. You can come up.”

“Nah. You come down.”

I look down. I’m wearing a hot pink T-shirt that says “Cutie” across the front. Perfect, if I were three. My mom got it for me on clearance at Wal-Mart and was so proud of it; she’s probably the only person in the world who still believes that word describes me. But it’s dark, and I don’t feel like changing.

When I get down there, he smacks his leg. “Your house still has the most vicious mosquitoes.”

“Thanks for inviting me to be a part of their next meal,” I say as something skirts across my neck, giving me the shivers. Or maybe that’s because he’s looking at me, and in the yellow glow of the streetlight, he’s breathtaking. It’s moments like this that lead me to believe that Christian is telling the truth. Is it possible for anyone to look this beautiful naturally?

“I was messaging you,” he says as we sit side by side on the ledge outside the bakery’s display window. “I didn’t know if you were home.”

“Then why’d you come over here?”

“You looked pretty weird when I dropped you off today. I thought you were mad at me.”

“I don’t know. Should I be? Is it true about you and Erica?”

I’ve caught him off guard. “What?”

“Evie told me that while I was passed out, you and Erica …”

“We … what?” He rakes his hands through his hair. “Oh, God. Really?” Then he mutters, “This is such a mess. I’m a walking train wreck. It follows me everywhere I go. I can’t escape it.”

“Um … what are we talking about?”

He rubs his eyes tiredly. His laugh is bitter. “Erica’s always been a spotlight stealer. Remember those horrible dances at the country club my parents belonged to?”

I nod, remembering the one I went to. The one during which I was locked in the dark bathroom and he had to rescue me.

“She’d always try to create some sort of drama. And she doesn’t care who she hurts in the process. Spiking the punch, locking you in the bathroom, she—”

“She did that?” I ask, incredulous.

“Of course. She and her friends. I knew right away that it was them. And you know that reputation she has? It’s all made up. All the guys she’s supposedly been with … none of them can actually admit to being with her. Sure, they’d like to, but it’s all a bunch of crap.”

“You mean, that rumor about her making out with that guy … with her shirt off …”

He nods. “I think she started that one herself. Also, she’s one of those people who talks just to hear the sound of their voice, whether or not she has anything important to say. And she usually doesn’t.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. I mean, come on, have you ever visited her Facebook page? She updates her status so much because she’s so high on herself, she actually thinks people care what she had for lunch. I was so upset that day to think that she was rubbing off on you. Don’t let her. Okay?”

I nod slowly. “So it was a lie, about you and her?”

“Hell yeah. Who do you think I am? I have standards.” His voice is low. “Gwen, people are going to say things to you about me. About the way I act. But don’t believe them. It’s not true. You know me. You know me better than anyone. Right?”

“I guess.”

“No, look at me,” he says. I try to meet his eyes but I can’t get any higher than his chin, since he’s so serious. “You do.”

I nod. “Okay.”

He looks up at the dark apartment. “Speaking of your sister, where is she? And your mom?”

“Evie’s sick. Really sick. She has a fever.”

“A fever?”

I look at his face, ready to gauge his expression. “Do you know anything about that?”

And I see it, in the second he averts his eyes from mine: a momentary flash of guilt, or fear, or something. Something not right. “What do you mean?”

At that moment, I know. I know that everything Christian has said is true. I know because this is the boy I spent years and years with, sharing just about everything two kids could share, from germs to stories to desserts to fears. And he, without a doubt, is afraid. Afraid of something. I spend a full minute staring him down. “Tell me,” I urge. “If she dies …”

He opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. Finally, he says, “Why would I?”

I guess I do know him. And I know that while he may be telling the truth about Erica, he’s lying about this. “Please stop,” I tell him. “Please. You can stop it. I can help you.”

He lets out a nervous laugh. “Stop what?”

So this is the way he’s going to play it. Selfish, conceited, superficial, not the Wish I knew. “I’m really tired,” I say. “Can we talk tomorrow?”

“I thought maybe … I was going for a walk on the beach. Look at the stars. Want to come? Play a rousing game of Gone with the Wind?”

I shake my head. It was the stars, the stars and him, that got us into this mess. “Sorry.”

He starts to say something, but then nods and heads for his truck. “All right. Sleep tight.”

As I trudge upstairs, feeling like someone beat the crap out of me, the phone rings. I run to answer it and it’s my mom, giving me the update on Evie. She says that she’s stable and that she’ll be leaving her there overnight and coming home to get me.

“Get me?” I ask.

“Yeah, hon. There’s a big storm coming. I just saw it on the Weather Channel.”

“Huh?” I say, flipping on the television. There, just like before, is a cheery blond weather girl chattering on about another surprise storm that just reversed direction and is heading our way. On the map, it looks like a huge swirling mass of white clouds is about to swallow all of South Jersey. “Oh.”

“This one is bigger than the last one.”

I stare at the screen, motionless. Wish, Wish, Wish … what are you doing? “You’re not going to … You don’t mean we’re going to evacuate?”

“Evacuate? Never. I can’t very well leave you alone on the island during the storm. And I don’t want to leave Evie, either. So I’m going to come and get you, and bring you to the hospital. Okeydokey?”

I say goodbye to her and I hear a rapping on the door. Between the lace curtains, I see Christian’s dreads. For once, I’m glad to see him. “Hey,” he says when I open the door; then his eyes trail to my pink shirt. “Cutie.”

I try to slam the door in his face but he holds it open. “There’s a big storm headed this way.”

I let go of the door and bury my face in my hands. “And Wish caused it!” I sob, crumpling like a used tissue. “He’s in total denial about the whole thing!”

He stands there, stiff. “Um. I just … I knew you were alone. I wanted to see if you were okay.”

“Does this look okay?” I ask, leaving him in the open door and flopping down on the sofa. Then I quickly realize I am acting like a drama queen in front of a guy I don’t even know that well, and sit up. “No. I guess I am fine. How are you?”

He looks confused. “Do you need anything?”

I shake my head. “My mom’s coming back to pick me up and take me to the hospital,” I say. “She doesn’t want to leave Evie all by herself in the hospital and she doesn’t want me to be here alone during the storm. So I guess I’m okay.”

He nods, then makes a move to leave.

“Your girlfriend …,” I say softly. “You said she had a fever? Like Evie? How did she get it?”

He comes inside and sits down on the sofa beside me. “Yeah. We dated for a year, even before I found out about the Luminati. She didn’t like it. She didn’t understand why I had to be a part of it. I tried to get her to do it with me, but she said that it was stupid. That if someone didn’t love her as she was, it was their problem, not hers. But she spent a lot of time with me, and she was a really tiny girl … and somehow just being near me, she got a fever. I never saw her. She got sick, her parents took her to the hospital, but by the time I found out what was going on, she was dead.”

“That’s horrible,” I say. “I’m sorry.”

“I spent a long time beating myself up over it. Then I convinced my mom to send me back here, to live with Grams. I needed new scenery. I thought it would help me to forget the Luminati. Forget her.” He shakes out his dreads and laughs. “Little did I know …”

“Sorry,” I say, watching the big white blob of weather on the television slowly inching forward, preparing to swallow the coast. “But I’m glad you were here to warn me. Not that it’s doing much good. I finally got up the nerve to ask him about it and he denied it. I don’t know what else to do. What would you do?”

He doesn’t even think. “Break up with him.”

My eyes narrow.

“He’s clearly an idiot.”

“How can you say that? You were Luminati, too.”

“I didn’t mean just because he’s Luminati.”

So he probably means because he’s dating me. Jerk. I smack him on the shoulder. He gives me an innocent “what did I say?” look, but by then I’m dragging him toward the door by the hood of his jacket. “Go home.” Finally, he stops digging his heels into the floor, shrugs, and obeys.

When Christian leaves, I think about the old days with Wish. How easy things were with him. I think about how we used to tell each other everything, and sometimes we didn’t even have to. We’d just know. But this is clearly not the old Wish, because I have no idea what he’s thinking. Why he won’t just trust me. And when I think about that, I begin to cry. A few tears become sobs. Soon I’m curled in a ball on my bed, weeping and shaking with every noisy breath. Nobody is around to hear me, so I let go, and the tears fall all over my pillow and sheets until they’re soaked. After a bit, with the first raindrops lulling me off, I fall asleep.

Soon I’m dreaming of storms and being close to Wish but unable to reach out and touch him. Every step takes me farther from him. I stretch my fingers out and grab him and his skin is so hot he bursts into flame, and begins to scream in agony. It turns into this long, low, dull moan, like that of a person whose life is slowly being drained away. It goes on and on, buzzing in my ears until my head begins to throb. When my eyes flicker open, I don’t know where I am, what time it is. It might be only a few minutes later, or a few hours. My neck aches from being pressed against the headboard of my bed at an odd angle, which tells me I must have been in that position for a long time. But how long?

I try to sit up and I realize that though the dream has ended, though Wish is gone, his moan is still humming in my ears. It’s not him, after all. It’s actually the firehouse siren on the other side of the island. It blares, rising and falling, and though it’s usually so loud it makes me cringe, the rain is pounding loudly enough against the roof to nearly drown it out.

“Mom?” I call out.

No answer. Instead, something crashes inside the house. I jump to my feet in the darkness, jarred into action. What is going on?

I stumble across my room and flick the light switch a few times, but nothing happens. We must have lost power. The wind tears through the curtains, whistling fiercely. I fight it to close the window, and at the same time a bolt of lightning flashes and a boom of thunder crashes, throwing me back to the bed.

Lights flash outside, on the road. I crawl to the window and peek over the ledge. A line of three or four cars is slowly making its way through the rain, toward the bridge. The cars cut through the rushing water, and in the headlights, I see it’s already spilling over the curbs.