Chasing Stars (10 page)

“You have some cool tats,” I offer.

“Thanks, I got this one when I was drunk,” he laughs while pointing to a guitar on his chest.

“As long as there are no regrets.” I slide on my gloves.

“Nah, it is not my favorite, but it’s OK,” he shrugs.

Portia and Niki pull chairs and seat next to us. I began the tattooing process.

“Thank you for agreeing to do our tattoo, Will. When we were twelve, we created this kind of bucket list and getting a matching tattoo was on it,” Niki says in her melodious voice.

“Oh, really?” I start with the outline.

“Yeah, man. And this is better than walking through a sea of butterflies,” Tarry laughs.

“Huh?” My hand steadily draws the dragonfly.

“Every winter, about twenty million monarch butterflies travel ten thousand miles, migrating to Michoacán, Mexico, where they hibernate and reproduce,” Niki says.

“And Nillie dragged us there to see it.” Portia rolls her eyes.

Niki sticks her tongue at Portia and continues, “Anyway, there is a mystery surrounding them. Their life span is shorter than the length of the journeys, so they die before returning and teaching the route to newer generation. When it’s time to migrate, the monarchs born in Mexico are leaderless orphans that find their way back to the US or Canada, often returning to the same region occupied by their ancestors.”

“Wow, what are theories of how they find their way back?” I ask.

“They are one of the few creatures with a built-in compass enabling them to orient themselves to their destination without knowledge acquired from an older generation,” Niki explains.

“Nature is surreal,” I add, wiping up the blood on Tarry skin.

“Right? This past February, we went there. It is unbelievable; you can hear them fluttering their wings,” Portia says.

“It was incredible to see them, Will. They are extremely beautiful with short lives dependent upon a delicate balance,” Niki says.

“It is kind of sad that their lives are so short,” Portia replies.

“But they achieve amazing things before dying,” Niki says.

“Yeah, true,” Portia says pensively.

In all honesty, I watch the trio with a bit of awe. Tarry is today’s greatest pop singer, Niki is the daughter of a legendary TV show producer, and Portia is an Oscar-winning actress. However, in my shop talking about butterflies they seem as normal as I am.

I spend the next hour tattooing Tarry. From time to time, I glance at Portia, who is quiet after the butterfly conversation. I continue the tat, listening as Niki continues to relate her full knowledge about the monarch butterfly.

In my mind, I compare Portia to the butterfly. According to Niki, they feed on milkweed, becoming highly poisonous to their predators. Their beautiful wings, colorful and long, are the giveaway of how poisonous they can be.

I wonder if this is my warning sign, if I became her predator I am bound to die from her poisoning. I discard the thought, there is no way she will ever become my prey.

“Shoot me if I ever drink again.” I peek from under the covers.

“I better load my gun,” Niki growls from the other side of my queen bed.

“Seriously, Nillie, my head is about to explode. I need an aspirin, coffee, and three liters of purified water.” I scramble out of the bed.

“I will have all of the above,” Niki prompts, pushing herself to her elbow. “And you are going to tell me all about that kiss.”

“There isn’t much to tell.” I shrug, walking to the kitchen to escape her scrutiny.

My head throbs each time my bare foot thuds on the floor of the apartment. Approaching the kitchen, I sense the glorious aroma of coffee.

“Buenos dias.” My lips turn on a smile, when I see Estela by the sink.

“Buenos dias, señorita Portia.” She rinses a plate and dries her hands. “The usual coffee and orange juice?”

“Yes, please, Estela. For three please, Tarry spent the night over.” I scowl as the sound of each word stabs my skull.

I slide on the barstool at the kitchen island and wait for Estela to prepare the tray. I have known her my whole life. Basically, she raised my father and, in a way, she watched over me the many summers I spent in New York. When she discovered my passion for all things Spanish, she would take me on day trips to the Bronx, where I played with her grandchildren. I still don’t know if Dad ever knew of our escapades.

“What happened, Niña? You don’t look too good.” She hands me a tray, with a bottle of aspirin.

“Bad hangover, Estela,” I grimace.

“Your papa called yesterday, he said he will be here on Monday and wants to have dinner with you,” she says with her thick accent.

“OK, I’ll check my filming schedule, and let him know,” I respond nonchalantly. “Gracias.”

“De nada, mi amor.” She smiles.

As I stumble back to the room, I sigh heavily. Really, I can’t fool anybody. When my father makes himself available, I drop the world and run to him, like an idiot puppy. I resent myself for this, but I can’t help it.

The door to my room is open and I spot Tarry, wearing only boxers, lounging on my side of the bed.

“I come bearing gifts.” I place the tray on the nightstand.

“Cure for the hangover?” Tarry growls.

“Close enough.” I open the drapes of my oversized window, blinking repeatedly as the glare from the midday sun invades the room.

“C’mon.” Niki stuffs a pillow over her face.

I regret opening the shades, but I want to talk to Tarry and he leaves for LA today to begin recording his new album. Tarry and Niki are the only friends I really have, and in the last few years, we don’t see a whole lot of each other. Tarry is always on tour, Niki is busy with Mr. Hateful, her boyfriend, and I am in different locations filming. A moment like this is precious and doesn’t happen often. God, I miss them so much it hurts.

A vast halo of nothingness encompassed my life before they came along. Niki was my first and only girlfriend. I lived in an upscale neighborhood in LA, when Niki moved next door to me. I had just turned four. Her father is a TV show producer, known for being soft-spoken, attentive to details, and a perfectionist. He busies himself producing sitcom hits, and mourning the loss of Niki’s mom. He often tried to be a good dad. He did, but looking at Niki seemed too painful for him. She looks a lot like her mom. To make it up to her, he did everything Niki ever wanted, including allowing her to be friends with me.

By the time, we turned nine, we were inseparable, and that’s when Tarry moved to the house across the street. He hopped aboard a wrecked train, and he wrestled us to take charge. His words not mine. In a way, he sort of did take charge. He guided us in and out of trouble.

Growing up, Tarry lived with both his parents, unusual in LA, but true. However, he was more invisible to them than I was to my parents, which is a shocker. His mom and dad own a major record label. Music is their only and real passion. Once, they forgot Tarry in London, where they have a second home. They noticed his absence somewhere over the Atlantic. So, they got to LA and called the housekeeper to ensure Tarry was taken care of, until they sent for him.

Tarry was six at the time and sat next to his suitcase for hours, waiting for them to come for him until he fell asleep. When he told us, he made a joke out of it, but I saw on his face that the neglect deeply hurt him. The worst part of the story is Tarry’s parents don’t do booze and were sober at the time.

People always assume money grants a free ticket to everywhere. Though we had all the money most people can only think of, we were the rejects of the plastic city of LA, where artificial is the norm and the normal is outdated. For different reasons, the circle of kids that is exclusive to the wealthiest, excluded us. It is hard to pinpoint the moment we became the rejects. Once it happened, the elite society ran away from us every single time we approached. In hindsight, we probably initiated the process by refusing to fit in the proper boxes shaped for us. Call it what you may, but we simply refused to follow the beat of their drums. We were three misfits who complemented each other. Niki was lonely and shy. Tarry was lanky and socially awkward. And me, well, I was the…never mind.

When I say we were raising ourselves, it’s no exaggeration. Well, we had the distant supervision of overpriced nannies. I often wonder how our lives aligned so perfectly and I am happy I will never know life without them.

“Good morning, rock star,” I greet Tarry.

“It’s fucking pop star, Portia,” he corrects me sarcastically. Tarry claims he sold his soul when he signed with his parents, allowing them to turn him into a pop singer. He hates the concept of being a pop star, even though for the last few years, he has had several consecutive number one hits on the pop music charts. Bad boy Tarry has blissfully tried his hardest to damage his reputation, so he can cross over to the world of rock and roll.

I pop two aspirin into my parched mouth, and rinse down with OJ. I hand the pills to Niki and Tarry, and hop on the bed between them.

After swallowing his pills, Tarry lies back and squeezes his eyes shut. I give a side-glance to Niki, and together we straddle Tarry, tickling him. He grabs a pillow, throws it at me, and then tackles Niki. I jump on his back, and he tumbles to the side. Niki and I pin him to the bed.

“Jeez, I surrender,” he raises his hands, and I smile knowing he could easily knock us down. Out of breath and laughing, we sprawl on the bed.

“Remember the time I was so wasted and about to be raped at a night club?” I ask him.

“Of course I remember. It was my first fistfight. I was scared as shit. But the thought of that asshole hurting you, pumped enough adrenaline through my system to defeat an army.”

“I never thanked you,” I say.

“Hey, no need for it. We’ve got each other’s back,” he tells me, turning on his side to face me.

“I know.” I tense, unsure of how to bring out the subject. “That’s why I need to ask you something.”

Niki’s body stiffens too; she knows exactly where I am heading.

Tarry must realize too, because he lies on his back again, and covers his eyes with his arm.

I notice how skinny he is, his muscles are wasting away. Tarry is tall with dirty blonde hair and silver-gray eyes. He used to work out and have the most unbelievable body. Now, his eyes are vacant, his body is skinny, and I see evidence of heroin use on his arms and chest.

“Hell no, Portia,” he hisses. “Let’s not go there. I’m fine. You know damn well I have control over it.”

“No, I don’t know that.” I sit up.

“We’ve always done this shit together—you, Niki and I—and when did I lose control?”

“You are overdoing it and the shit you’re mixing, that’s dangerous, Tarry.”

“Drop it, Portia.” His jaw muscles tighten. “Nillie, you know me,” he says with a clipped tone. “I am the one who always had our shit together. How many times did I get you both out of trouble?”

“I’ll be damned if I don’t see that you are in over your head, Tarry,” Niki replies.

“Fuck.” Tersely, he sits on the edge of the bed with his back toward us.

“I am using more than I should, I’ll tame it a little, all right?” His fingers rake through his hair. I catch the tremor of his hands, and my heart clenches.

“You need intervention, Tarry,” Niki says softly.

“Fuck no.” Like a caged animal, he paces on the room, until finally he settles by the window.

“Spend some time in rehab, Tarry,” Niki suggests.

“Hell no, I’m not going back to rehab,” he moans. “I’ll try fucking quitting on my own. I’ve done it before.” He looks at us, his eyes are deep in pain, but I identify a glimpse of hope in them.

“I don’t want to lose you, Tarry.” I walk to him, and he opens his arms to embrace me.

“You won’t, peaches,” he whispers and kisses my head. “You won’t.” I know he is trying to convince himself more than me.