Made of Stars (2 page)

When we all retreat to bed for the night—Ash and me to our rooms upstairs, Dad to his converted room downstairs because navigating the steps is still impossible, even with as much progress as he’s made—I take a few minutes to call my girlfriend, Rachael. It’s the first time we’ve been apart for this long in the year we’ve been dating, and while I’m enjoying the space, I did promise I would touch base with her.

She sounds happy to hear from me, but this time of night, I know she’ll be knee-deep in homework and studying and won’t have time for me.

“I’m sorry, Hunter. You really need to call earlier in the day. Can we talk later?”

“Sure. Sorry for interrupting.”

“It’s okay. Why don’t you call back in the morning? I miss you.”

“Yep. Miss you.” I do miss her, but I can’t say that I would trade being here for seeing her. Rachael hadn’t even wanted me to come to Dad’s and argued with me on it for weeks. It’s still a sore spot for me. This? Coming here? It was
important
, and Rachael, Mom, and her boyfriend…they all dug their heels in and thought of any reason why I shouldn’t go. Why getting into college
right now
was more important.

After hanging up, I change clothes before collapsing into bed. My first order of business after getting here the other day was to tear down the old movie and band posters that were so outdated it hurt.

The only decorations I did leave up were the glow-in-the-dark stars on my ceiling. It was a summer-long project where Dad and I laid out a map of constellations and went to town, until an entire night sky stretched from corner to corner. I couldn’t bear to take them down. Something about tracing their familiar patterns is still soothing as I lie alone, brain moving too fast and too loud to think properly.

They remind me of the times Ash, Chance, and I laid out on the back deck and watched the sky. Chance had a story for every constellation I pointed out. Ash used to love Orion, because the three stars that formed his belt were the only ones she could spot all on her own. Chance, though, went for the more elusive Draco.

He loved the stars, and he loved dragons. Draco was the perfect combination. He said his mom had taken him to a planetarium once when he was little. He’d fallen in love with the night sky right then and there.

I think about everything I’ve wanted to say to Chance over the last few years. The letters I wanted to write but had nowhere to send them. I wanted to ask him about school, about what he wanted to do after graduating, about maybe even coming to visit me at my place sometime. I wanted him to know how important he was. Not just to me, but to Ash and Dad. And about how there were a few years there where things got rough for me and what got me through was knowing, come summer, I would get to see him again.

I search out the Draco pattern on my ceiling. Chance would lay his head on my stomach while Ash laid on his, and he would twirl her long hair around his fingers as he told us the stories about Draco. Something with dragons and knights and princesses, maybe with witches and ghosts thrown in for good measure. I can’t remember the exact story, but I fall asleep to the sound of his voice murmuring secrets and fairy tales in my head.

Ashlin

This is the first time I’ve seen Dad since he’s been able to walk on his own again.

It’s kind of a miracle, if you ask me. After being shot, he was told by the doctors that he wouldn’t get out of a wheelchair again. Last time I was here, Isobel—a nurse turned family friend who lives down the street—had to assist him with everything from getting dressed to going to the bathroom.

I think it killed him a little inside to need that kind of help.

He went from being an easygoing and smiley guy to withdrawn and mopey. Mom says it was natural for him to be depressed, and I still see the shadow of that depression hanging over him, but I’m sure he’ll cheer up having Hunter and me around for the winter while the two of us decide what colleges we’re going to apply to next fall. He wanted us to come out even while he was hurt. Swore up and down he could handle it. But both our moms jumped at the excuse to not let us visit; my mom because she never got over Dad and being
the other woman
, and Hunter’s mom because, without Hunter there, she actually has to take care of the house on her own.

I can tell Dad is enjoying the freedom of being mobile again, even if he needs a cane. But there’s plenty around the house that Dad can’t do no matter how hard he tries. He can’t scale a ladder anymore, can’t haul boxes or move furniture. Isobel does a lot more than she ought to do, but she shouldn’t have to. Not while we’re here.

Hunter and I throw ourselves fully into cleaning, fixing, and organizing. Dad sits by anxiously as we go through the attic and drag down old boxes of clothes, photos, knickknacks, and paperwork. Eventually, he relaxes when he realizes we aren’t going to throw away anything important.

We also take his truck a few miles up the road and food shop. Easier for Hunt and me to get the errands done in a quarter of the time it would take Dad to do it, and an hour later we’re home with the truck bed full of grocery bags. When Hunt notices Dad staring at us as we put stuff away, he asks, “What?”

Dad shakes his head. “Nothing. Just not sure when the two of you got so grown-up, is all.”

Hunter and I exchange looks and shrug. Back home, I never willingly did this kind of stuff, because Mom only made me do it out of her own laziness. Hunter was in charge of a lot around his house, so maybe he’s more used to it. But I see him smile a little before he turns away. He’s used to doing it but maybe not used to getting any appreciation for it.

When we’re done, Dad has his face in the newspaper and a cup of coffee in hand. Before we can wander off, he slides a piece of paper across the table. On it is an address I don’t recognize, and Dad says, “Drive safe.”

We don’t need to ask where and how he got it. Probably don’t even need to say thank you. (Dad only grunts in response when we do.) We pull up directions on my phone, yank our shoes back on, and run out the door.

Hunter drives because I hate the truck. Too used to Mom’s tiny Jetta back home. The snow has let up, but the roads are still slick and tricky. My phone navigation tells us the address isn’t more than a ten-minute drive, but it’s in the complete opposite direction of anywhere we’ve ever gone. Once we turn off Pearson Street, the trees become denser, darker, and the road is rocky and uncared for, and eventually dead-ends into a cul-de-sac. We almost miss the narrow entryway into a mobile home park, barely visible through the trees.

For a brief second, as Hunt parks the truck inside the unofficial entrance, I think this has to be a mistake. Chance used to talk about his house, about how big the windows were and how much he hated it, because anyone could come peeking inside while his parents were away. But his room was upstairs, so at least the peekers wouldn’t see
his
stuff and think to break in. They had a big basement with a ping-pong table, and a pool in the backyard. He’d tell us it was too bad his parents wouldn’t let him bring anyone over, because Hunter and I would
totally
love his house.

This place is nothing like what Chance described.

There aren’t more than eight mobile homes and a handful of trailers near the back. They’re spaced out, huddled against the line of trees like they’re trying to get as far away from one another as possible. At first glance, the whole place seems abandoned. Except I spot a couple cars parked here and there, and someone is looking through her curtains at us before yanking them closed again. Not abandoned, then. Just…

Hunter and I exchange looks and get out of the truck.

“Address?” Hunt asks.

“6015 Stoneman Drive.” I shove the phone into my coat pocket. I don’t say anything about how wrong this feels, and neither does he. The questions lay between us, but we don’t have the courage to ask. Would Chance really lie about something like this? Did he think we would care if he didn’t live in some big fancy house? It’s not like we live in a mansion. My and Mom’s place in California is nice, but Hunter, Carol, and Boyfriend Bob live in a two-bedroom apartment. Maybe Chance moved. It’s always a possibility. Maybe his parents lost their jobs and had to get rid of the house.

“You know,” I mumble, “I think the creek runs up this way. I bet that’s how Chance ended up at our place to begin with.”

“Following the water.” Hunter pockets his hands as we walk down the road.

Some of the homes are in better shape than others. Chance’s is somewhere in the middle of the niceness scale; the roof isn’t crumbling or caving in, and it doesn’t have windows knocked out, but it’s in dire need of a fresh coat of paint, and the porch steps creak dangerously. Off to the left is a rusted, crooked swing set that probably hasn’t seen a butt on its seat in a decade. There’s an old gray truck parked out front.

Hunter knocks on the flimsy screen door. I linger at his side, scanning the porch. They seriously need to spray down the collection of cobwebs they have going on. This place gives me the creeps. I’m not sure I would have had the nerve to get out of the truck without Hunter by my side.

A few minutes pass where no one answers, and my heart sinks.

“What if this isn’t the right place?” I whisper. “What if Dad was wrong?”

“Stop worrying. I’m sure it’s the right place.” Hunt takes a deep breath and knocks again, louder. Finally, we hear footsteps inside, and the front door swings open.

The woman staring at us from behind the screen looks a lot older than my own mom but not old enough to be someone’s grandmother. Her hair is short and choppy, like she cuts it herself, and her face is gaunt and tired. She’s wearing a gray men’s bathrobe over a nightgown and pink slippers that have seen better days.

She frowns. “Can I help you?”

Hunter hesitates. He’s never been a talker, so I step forward. “Hi. Sorry to bother you. We’re looking for Chance?”

The lady pushes open the screen door, causing us both to move back while she steps out onto the dirty welcome mat. This woman
has
to be related to Chance, a mother or maybe an aunt. There’s no way anyone in the world unrelated to him has eyes that green. At one point in time, I think she must’ve been really pretty. Now, she looks kind of…worn.

“What do you want with Chance?” she asks, holding the screen open with her hip, a cigarette dangling from her fingers.

“We’re friends of his. I’m Ashlin Jackson. This is my brother, Hunter.” Technically, I’m not a Jackson. Hunter got Dad’s last name, but I’m Ashlin Carmichael. But if Chance told his family about us, he would have referred to us as
the Jacksons.
“We were in town and thought we’d stop by to see him.” I offer out my gloved hand. The woman looks at it for a long moment before taking it, though there isn’t an ounce of warmth in the gesture; she’s just going through the motions.

From behind her, a gruff voice calls, “Who is it, Tabby?”

Possibly-Chance’s-Mom takes a drag off her cigarette, casting a glance over her shoulder as someone—Chance’s dad?—fills the doorway behind her. “Some of Chance’s friends.”

The man is broad-shouldered and stone-faced, with a jaw that hasn’t seen a razor in a few days. The harsh downturn of his mouth makes it impossible for me to imagine him ever smiling the way Chance does. There are grease stains on his shirt. Overall, he is not the sort of guy I’d want to meet in a dark alley. “He isn’t here.”

I try not to let my expression fall. “Do you know when he’ll be back?”

“How the fuck would I know? Kid takes off without any consideration for telling us what he’s up to.” With that, Mr. Harvey turns and retreats back into the house.

Mrs. Harvey seems to relax with his absence and takes a drag off her cigarette. Her expression is only mildly apologetic. “He goes off and does his own thing, you see. I’ll let him know you stopped by, Ashley.”

“Ashlin,” Hunter corrects. Mrs. Harvey gives him a hollow smile.

“Right, yes. Bye now.”

She steps back into the house and closes the door. The screen makes an obnoxious metallic sound when it clangs shut.

Hunter

What kind of parent says, “I don’t know” when you ask where her kid is? My mom would have a heart attack if I left without disclosing every detail of where I’d be, for how long, and who I’d be with. Maybe it’s because Dad
doesn’t
always drill us about where we’re going that I make the effort to let him know anyway, just in case. Especially since it’s his truck we’re using most of the time.

The next two weeks, Ash and I mostly hang out near the house. We gut our bedrooms (and Dad’s new one, for that matter) in order to redecorate, and both of us just…wait for Chance to come knocking at the door.

He doesn’t.

We also head to the creek every couple of days to wander up and down the banks, Ash taking pictures of anything and everything like she’s done ever since Dad bought her a camera when she was ten. We’ve been hit with a weird wave of…not heat, but I guess “less cold”? It hasn’t snowed in more than a week, and it’s not the right temperature for the creek to be iced over. It bubbles and rumbles quietly, occasionally dislodging some of the dirtied snow off the shore and carrying it along for the ride.

Ash makes me nervous every time she creeps down the bank and tries to get a picture of this. I’ve already caught her by the back of her coat once to keep her from slipping. At one point, I turn away, distracted by birds in the trees, and Ash lets out a soft curse that startles me into whipping around, ready to snatch her away from the edge if she’s falling.

Instead, she gives me a frown and a pout, holding out her camera. “My memory card is full. Can you run inside and switch it out for me?”

My shoulders slump. I take the camera, give her a withering look, and retreat to the house. It takes me no time to find the memory card she wants; I was lying on her bed last night, reading, while she had it in her computer to empty it out. I switch the cards, pocket the camera, and head back outside. Just as I’m hitting the back porch—