Where the Stars Still Shine(8)

“Owls say ‘hoot,’ silly.” Tucker cracks up, as if it’s the funniest thing he’s ever heard, and Phoebe suggests they go in the house to check on dinner. He protests, but she scoops him up and carries him off, leaving Greg and me—and a silent Joe, who regards me with owl-size eyes from the safety of his father’s arms—in the trailer.

“So, um—there will be some rules,” Greg says. “Not sure what yet, because—well, when you left you were a tiny girl who slept with an owl and called me Daddy. But I’m sure they’ll be the typical things. Boys, curfews, and”—he gestures toward a laptop sitting on the small dining table—“stuff about porn.”

I nod, dizzy at the idea of having my own computer. I’ve only ever used the computers at public libraries, usually in moments stolen between card-holding patrons. Most librarians were nice about it, but a few would chase me off, questioning why I wasn’t in school. Whenever that happened, I’d hide in the most secluded corner I could find and read. Once in a while, I’d take home a book without checking it out. And if I couldn’t return it to its home library, I’d return it to the next library.

“This is only meant to be your bedroom, Callie,” Greg says. “The rest of the house is yours, too. Don’t feel as if you have to stay out here all the time, okay?”

I nod again, overwhelmed by suddenly having so much when I’ve gone for so long with so little. Overwhelmed at how my life has been turned upside down.

“We’ll probably eat around six,” he says, as he carries Joe out the screen door. He pauses on the step. “You could come join us now, if—”

“I might sleep.”

His smile falters a little, as if he expects me to be excited about bonding with his family when I’ve just lost mine. I’m not ready. “Sure, um—we’ll see you at dinner, then.”

I lie down on top of the bedspread and rest my head on one of the pillows. The white pillowcase is cool against my cheek and smells faintly of bleach. I feel bad for crying on Phoebe’s clean laundry, but I can’t stop the tears. I cry until my whole body hurts and then cry until I fall asleep.

The door clicks softly as he comes into my room. I pinch my eyes shut so tight I can feel my lashes against the tops of my cheeks and hope that if he thinks I’m asleep, he’ll go away. The edge of the bed sags and the mattress conspires with him, shifting me in his direction. He lifts my Hello Kitty nightgown, his fingers seeking secret places. His breath is tangy from whatever he and Mom were drinking in the kitchen as he whispers, “Doesn’t that feel nice?” My own fingers have curiously touched those places and it made me feel tingly, but his fingers are thick and rough-skinned. It doesn’t feel nice, but I don’t say anything. I hold my breath, taking tiny sips of air, and try not to cry. Because if I cry, he’ll cuddle me against him, the tiny hairs under his lip prickling my skin as he kisses my damp cheek, and tell me I’m his special girl. As if someone other than him has made me cry. This time I wait until he’s gone before I curl up into my smallest self and sob.

I wake, slick with sweat and tears, wondering where I am. There’s no sticky vinyl couch beneath me, no incessant tick-tick-tick of the broken clock, and the dust swirling in the fading light coming through the window beside me is not my dust. Not my window.

“Mom?” My voice cracks.

She doesn’t answer. Of course she doesn’t answer. I’m alone.

Greg said there is no hot water, but I take a cold shower anyway, trying to scrub off the phantom feel of Frank’s fingers. He was one of Mom’s boyfriends, the one we lived with for almost a year in Oregon. The one who said our special time together needed to be a secret because she would be jealous. She would hate me, he said. The terror of losing her love made the promise for me. And even though I was eight—old enough to understand that special shouldn’t feel bad—I let him keep putting his hands on me. Even now I can feel them. And no amount of scrubbing can wash away the shame.

When I finish my shower, I put my clothes back on and cross the small lawn. The sun is fading and light shines out through the windows, making the house appear warm and safe. My nightmare recedes as I let myself in through the back door. The kitchen is fragrant with meat and spices I can’t identify. Mom isn’t big on cooking, and my skills haven’t evolved much beyond macaroni and cheese from a box. Sometimes I’ll add a can of tuna and she calls it gourmet.

Tucker and Joe are building with LEGO bricks on the living-room floor, while Greg’s laptop is propped open on the coffee table. Curled in the corner of the couch, Phoebe watches the evening news.

I’m not sure what to do. Should I go join them? Announce myself? Make a noise?

Before I have the chance to decide, Greg looks up from his computer screen, his smile as wide as I think a smile can be. “Hey, Callie. Hungry?”

The nightmare has left my stomach queasy. “A little.”

“Phoebe made pastitsio,” he says. “Have you tried it?”

“I don’t think so.”

“It resembles lasagna, but it’s far superior because it’s Greek.”

Phoebe shakes her head, but a smile tugs at her lips. “Not this again.”

“What?” Greg pivots to look at her. “It’s true. Not only is Greece the birthplace of philosophy and political science and—”