All the Major Constellations (7 page)

“Thanks for showing me this place. It's really pretty.”

“You're welcome,” she said. “Let's pray.”

Andrew was about to object when Laura picked up one of his hands. He wanted to entwine his fingers with hers, but she held his hand in her palms as if it were an injured bird. He felt his body go almost limp, and lowered his head.

Laura began, “Heavenly Father, we ask that you grace Sara—”

“No,” Andrew said, “not Sara.”

Laura dropped his hand. “What?”

“Not Sara, okay? I'm—” He groped for words, hot with shame. “I'm not ready for that.”

Laura tapped her fingertips on her thigh and leaned back. Her honey-colored hair fell all around her shoulders and framed her face. One day in English class Mr. Gonzalez had given
them an article about words in other languages for which there were no direct English translations.
Cafuné
had been Andrew's favorite. It was Brazilian Portuguese for “to tenderly run one's fingers through someone's hair.” Andrew wondered what Laura would do if he tried to
cafuné
her.

“Okay,” she said. “Let's just try something more general.”

“Fine,” Andrew said.

Laura lowered her head, and Andrew followed suit, but this time she did not take his hand. She murmured something, and Andrew leaned closer to her on the pretense of trying to hear her. Or
was
he trying to hear her? He wasn't even sure anymore. He was lost in all the sunlight. What was she saying? The Lord's Prayer? No, it didn't sound like that. He tried to follow along with her, hoping she'd touch him again. He felt like he could relate to bits and snatches of what she was saying. “Our savior . . . sin . . . save us . . . Jesus . . .” He'd heard something like these words before, in movies and books, or from some small corner of his childhood when his mom took them to church on Christmas Eve.

He closed his eyes. Laura's voice faded in and out like a radio station playing his favorite song, only he couldn't quite get the reception because he was in the car and driving away. Driving away with Sara. Going for some ice cream or just driving around for fun and for the meditative calm of the rhythmic wheels on the road. A gently rocking car. Sara in the backseat. Not just in the backseat but strapped in like a baby. Then he realized he was
sitting right next to her. Who was driving? He was too scared to look. His heartbeat was fast, too fast, and he could hear it pounding in his ears. No, not pounding,
fluttering
. The sunlight came in through his lids and settled behind his eyes in spots and waves and jagged flashes. Now his heart seemed to hover in his chest like a hummingbird. He couldn't keep up. He couldn't stay here. He gasped and rose to his feet. Laura opened her eyes and looked at him, her expression both elated and curious.

“I think I'm having a panic attack or something,” he said.

“Andrew?”

He walked away and tried to steady his breathing. It was so bright. He felt like he might faint. He heard Laura's footsteps behind, running to catch up.

“Andrew! Did you . . . ?” She put a hand on Andrew's shoulder. He whirled around and grabbed her. He buried his face in her hair. Her body was stiff, her arms at her sides. Andrew was gripping her so hard that she couldn't have hugged him back if she'd wanted to. They stayed this way for some moments. Slowly, he released her.

They walked back to their neighborhood in near silence. Every once in a while Laura asked Andrew if he was okay.

“It can be frightening the first time,” she said.
Yes, it certainly can,
he thought. Laura asked him if he would come to her house that night. He nodded.
Of course I will.

• • •

Andrew lay on his bed with one hand under his head, the other draped on his stomach. He stared at the ceiling. Becky was asleep on the floor, snoring. That snoring was getting louder, Andrew thought. He should call the vet. Loud snoring in big dogs was bad, wasn't it? He tried to get up but could not. He scratched at his belly button, a nervous gesture that he'd developed when he was little and that his mother detested. Once he'd picked at his belly button until it bled and he'd gotten an infection. He glanced down.
I'm literally navel gazing,
he thought.

He had a strong desire to talk to Sara and Marcia. The two of them would be able to break this down and give him some perspective. They wouldn't mind that Andrew had never told them about his Laura obsession. Besides, who was he kidding? They'd probably guessed by now anyway. Marcia would gently suggest that it might not be altogether ethically sound to pretend to have a religious experience to get into the pants of a naive girl.
Not above board,
Marcia would say, whereas Sara would uncompromisingly be in favor of Andrew doing what it took to get some action.
Whatever, Marcia,
Sara would say.
It would be good for Laura, too. Those superreligious kids get all freaked out about sex. It's not healthy. Next time, Andrew, start twitching like you're having a seizure, then tell Laura that God spoke to you and told you that she should—
And then Marcia would interrupt, her cool brown eyes on his face, her hands covering Sara's mouth, her voice saying,
Unless you actually had a religious experience. Did you, Andrew?

He wasn't sure what had happened to him. He'd never had a religious experience before, or a panic attack, for that matter, unless you counted his shitty nightmares. He felt like whatever had happened to him at Shaman's Point had more to do with his desire for Laura and his grief for Sara. It was all mixed up. It had nothing to do with God. And besides, maybe he'd just been dehydrated or something.

Andrew sat up. Becky stretched and walked over to him. She put her great big head on his leg. There had been some stiffness in her walk lately. The vet's number was programmed into the phone downstairs.
Get up,
he told himself. Becky stood.

“Not you,” he said out loud, rubbing her cheekbones. Andrew had ceased to be surprised by his telepathy with Becky. He got up and walked downstairs. He picked up the phone and thought about calling the hospital. He wasn't allowed to ask about Sara, but he could ask for Marcia, and she would give him an update. An update.
Nothing's changed. Sara's in a coma. If she wakes up at all, she might never walk again, talk again, eat real food again, have sex, fall in love.

Fuck God,
he thought, and slammed the phone down.

THE LIGHTS WERE DIM in the windows of Laura's house. She'd told him to come over at eight. He wondered if her parents had gone out and if they were going to be alone. Then he remembered that Laura had lots of little brothers and sisters. She had older siblings too, who were at college or out of the country. Andrew couldn't keep track of her family—in fact, he'd never really tried. All he knew was that none of them were attractive. Laura was a genetic miracle among them.

As he drew closer to the house he saw that several cars were parked outside on the street. He could hear voices and the sound of laughter. Someone was strumming a guitar. Andrew stopped, rolled his eyes, and gazed heavenward.

“Really?” he said to the sky. There was nothing Andrew hated so much as an acoustic guitar-led sing-along, a rather
inconvenient dislike if you grew up in Vermont. He realized even before he rang the doorbell that this was some of kind of Friday-night youth prayer group jamboree. He had not been prepared for this.

A guy about his age or older answered the door. He was taller than Andrew, who at six two was fairly tall himself. The guy had a friendly smile and a crushing handshake. His fingers seemed to wrap around Andrew's wrist like snakes.

“You must be Andy,” he said.

“Andrew.”

“Nice to meet you. We're so glad you came. I'm John.”

“What's up?” Andrew said.

“Come on in, my brother.” John opened the door wider and gestured for Andrew to enter. John had a large tattoo of a blue cross running down one of his arms. He was muscular, Andrew noted, and his longish blond hair reached just above his shoulders. A born-again surfer dude.

He was led through a small kitchen. The countertops were worn and wooden. There was no food out, but it smelled like tomato sauce and garlic bread. A pile of clean dishes was neatly stacked in the drying rack. Pots, pans, and woven baskets hung from hooks in the ceiling. A cool breeze gently rustled the warm air. As Andrew looked around, he felt a kind of sick longing that made his hands tremble. Not longing for Laura, exactly, but for something else—her kitchen, her dishes.

“You hungry? There's plenty of food left,” John said.

“I ate. Thanks.” Andrew was intrigued. Did that mean that John had been invited to dinner sometime earlier and Andrew had not? Something about John's manner suggested he was overly familiar with the house: guiding Andrew around, showing him where to put his shoes, offering him food. Andrew looked sideways at John and again noted how strong he looked and the easy, athletic grace with which he moved. John reminded him of Brian. Andrew felt himself hardening his heart against this surfer dude Jesus freak with the freakishly large hands.

He followed John into the den, where eight or nine kids about Andrew's age lay draped over the couches and one another. Laura was on the floor. Another girl who Andrew recognized from school was seated above Laura on one of the couches. Laura's head was in this girl's lap. The girl stroked Laura's hair as she chatted with a goateed guy on the couch.

Andrew felt John's hand lightly graze the small of his back, and it made him jump. John smiled at him and then brought his hand up Andrew's back and clapped him on the shoulder.

“Everyone, this is Andrew,” John said.

Andrew was greeted with a chorus of
Hey!
and
What's up?
Laura smiled at him but said nothing. John sat beside her and took up the guitar. The room was dimly lit by a few candles. Beanbags and pillows were scattered about.

“Come sit here, Andrew,” said a guy's voice from a corner of the room. Andrew felt uncomfortable as he walked over. Laura had not yet said anything to him, and he didn't want
to go bounding up to her like an overeager puppy.

“I'm Matt,” the guy said as he stood up to shake Andrew's hand. Matt looked vaguely familiar. He had an androgynous haircut and bright blue eyes. A pretty boy, he might be called, if Andrew thought in such terms, which he generally did not. Matt looked like the kind of pop star who would appeal to shrieking preadolescent girls and their bored suburban mothers. He wore a wooden cross on a leather string around his neck. When Andrew shook hands with him, he felt something sharp in his palm and noticed that Matt wore a large thumb ring with some words inscribed on the metal.

“We're so glad you're here,” Matt said. As he spoke he seemed to give Andrew a sympathetic, meaningful look.

“Oh. Thanks,” Andrew said.

Matt smiled and sat down. Andrew glanced around. He wasn't sure where to sit.

A pretty girl was sitting next to Matt. She inched over, creating a small space between them. As Andrew began to sit down, Matt and the girl each took one of his arms in their hands and pulled, guiding him to the floor. He was more or less squished in between them. The girl shifted around until her leg was draped over his thigh. Matt turned his head toward John and discussed which song to sing next.

“Is that better?” she asked.

“What? Yes, this is fine,” Andrew said. She had a thin body and soft brown eyes, light brown hair, and a very slight overbite.
She rubbed her thumb inside her upper lip as she spoke; perhaps she was self-conscious about her teeth. She wore a blue T-shirt—thin, like her, and the material looked worn. He could see the little threads hanging off her sleeves; he could see the outline of her small breasts.

“I'm Carrie,” she said.

“Andrew.” He extended his hand. She shook it lightly, but her touch lingered a moment.

“You just graduated with Laura?” she asked.

“Yup. Where do you go to school?” She looked too young to have graduated.

“Windham. I'll be a junior, like Matt,” she said.

“Cool. Thinking about college?”

“Not yet.”

“Plenty of time.”

“I'll be going on my mission first. Some kids do it after college, but I'd like to go before.” Now her thumb was back at her mouth. She bit the tip of it and shifted her gaze toward one of the candles on the floor.

“Ah,” Andrew said. He looked toward Laura, who was leafing through some sheet music.

The guitar started strumming with greater purpose, and John hummed a few notes. Matt joined in, trying to get in tune with him. Andrew bristled.
Here it comes,
he thought. Then he felt Carrie's hand and her wet little thumb on his arm.

“I heard you had quite an experience the other day,” she said.

Andrew nodded but didn't speak. He wondered what Laura had told these people. Carrie smiled. She seemed like a good sport. He leaned forward and whispered conspiratorially, “Do I have to sing?”

“No,” she whispered back.

Laura's prayer group started to sing.

In the darkness of the early morn,

You stood against the light.

Behind you, beside me,

It grew bright, it grew bright.

They were all good singers. Laura, whose voice was the most beautiful, was singing quietly, as though not to overwhelm the others. John sang the loudest, tossing his hair and weaving back and forth in time with the music.
What a tool,
Andrew thought. He tried to concentrate on the pleasure of Carrie's thigh on top of his own. He imagined it was Laura sitting next to him.

I close my eyes,

But you're still there

Inside me, beside me.

It's all right, it's all right.

Now Carrie was rocking side to side, her shoulder brushing up against him as she closed her eyes and sang.

Grace me with your love,

Oh, the mercy of your touch.

With her eyes still closed, Carrie took his hand and gripped it tightly.
Well then, this is kind of awesome,
Andrew thought, but it was not Carrie whom he wanted. He was smart enough to realize she didn't want him, either. One thing Andrew prided himself on was his ability to keep his cool around pretty girls and their meaningless flirting. He knew that he'd learned this trick from Sara, who, throughout their friendship, had always flirted with him, touched him, put her head on his shoulder when they studied from the same book, and settled herself into his chest when they watched movies. He knew that the physical intimacy between him and Sara had made him seem pretty cool, thereby easing his passage through high school. She had emboldened his sense of self with her friendship, her affection, her love. Because of Sara, his identity had been transformed from Brian Genter's geeky little brother to that of a quiet, smart guy who was somehow on touchy-feely terms with one of the hottest girls in school.

Beside me, inside me,

An angel in my life, in my life.

What was
up
with these lyrics? But now he was trembling and thinking about Sara. Sara in the cafeteria, flopping down in
between him and Marcia and instantly making them cool. Sara in his car, turning up the music and howling out the window. Sara in her bathroom, half naked, flirtatious, and making him feel attractive and . . . confident. His eyes welled up. The singing grew louder. He covered his face with his hands and tried to control himself. Matt put his arm around Andrew's shoulders, and at first Andrew felt a violent urge to shrug him off. But then Carrie released his hand and encircled his waist with her tiny arm. He leaned back into them both and quietly cried.

• • •

They spent the rest of the evening eating potato chips and singing. Andrew found the songs to be a strange mixture of moving and laughable, but he didn't laugh. The truth was, Andrew felt better than he had in weeks. The candlelight was soft, everyone was nice and much more down-to-earth than he had expected. The only drawback was Laura, who was absorbed with one person or another, never him. Whenever he managed to catch her eye from across the room, she smiled at him, but her smile was a dazzling brightness that lacked any true connection.

The group seemed to be taking a break. They were milling about the house now, getting more soda and breaking off into smaller groups. He stood up to stretch his legs and thought about going outside to get some fresh air. Maybe Laura would like to join him? He looked over at her. She smiled again, but this time she gave
him a slight wink. His heart leaped as he started to walk toward her.

“Do you have a headache?” It was John, who towered above Andrew. “It helps to rub here,” John said. He made small circular movements with his fingers on Andrew's temples. John's hands blocked Andrew's peripheral vision so that Andrew was forced to lock eyes with him.

“I don't have a headache,” Andrew said.

“That's cool, man,” John said as he dropped his hands. “I'm really into alternative therapies. And, you know, sometimes I get a headache after I cry.”

I will hit this guy,
Andrew thought. Instead he glanced away, toward Laura, who was hugging the guy with the goatee.

John followed Andrew's gaze. “That's Seth. He's going to Ghana at the end of the summer.”

“No shit?” Andrew said, raising his eyebrows.

“Yeah, no shit,” John said flatly.

For a moment Andrew felt that the brotherly love pretense was off. Was John a rival for Laura's affections? Was pretty boy Matt? Seth? Were they all bullshitting about Jesus? Or was it real? Or both? It was just too much.

“I have to go,” Andrew said. He made for the door, not stopping to say good-bye to Carrie or even Laura, who had pretty much ignored him all evening anyway and was probably still hugging Goatee Seth.

“Wait, man. Wait. Andy!” John came after him. “Take this,” he said. It was a Bible. “Just take it, no big deal,” John said.
Andrew was about to refuse but stopped at the look in John's eyes. There was something painful in his expression, even tragic. Andrew blinked, and the pained expression was gone. Perhaps he had imagined it. He reached out and took the Bible.

“Thanks,” he said.

“You're welcome,” John said as Andrew slipped out the door.

He walked briskly down the street and tried not to look back. He felt the hairs stand up on the back of his neck. Maybe Laura was peeking at him through the windows.