In Sight of Stars(75)

“Okay.”

I walk out of earshot and call home. The whole time, I can feel Sarah watching. After I let my mother know I need a few more minutes, I shove my phone back in my pocket and return to Sarah. She’s still on the guardrail, but I don’t join her. I need to protect myself right now.

“Anyway, I’m really sorry, Klee. I know I probably shouldn’t have come here. I know I should leave you alone. But, I feel bad, and I … I’ve been thinking a lot about it, and just really needed to explain. I do love you. I think I was trying to push you away…”

“Sarah, don’t. Please.” I shake my head, the tears welling in her eyes make mine well up, too. And, I don’t want to do this. I don’t want an explanation. I’ve thought about the reasons a hundred times.

It was both our faults. What’s done is done. An explanation doesn’t matter now. Maybe it won’t ever. In the meantime, whatever she has to say won’t change anything. I need to focus and get better. I need to get my portfolio done and handed in. And, I need to leave for Boston at the end of summer. She’s been right about that all along.

I am leaving Northhollow. With or without her, in a few short months. No matter what.

So, what I want most right now is what I already have from her: to know that she cares. And she must. Because she’s already here.

“Let’s talk about something else,” I say, finally sitting next to her. “I have fifteen minutes before I have to head home. But only something stupid and unimportant. We need to make a pact,” I say, “and, in case you forgot, you kind of suck at pacts.”

She turns to me and smiles.

So, we do. We talk. Not so much about us, but about other things, like Tarantoli’s class, and senior prank plans, and the soccer camp her brother wants to go to this summer. Eventually, I tell her a little about Dr. Alvarez and Sister Agnes Teresa, and even Martin and Sabrina. Not by name, though—what you do and say in the Ape Can stays confidential.

Last, I tell her some of the stuff about my mother, and that I was wrong about her. But I don’t tell her about my father. It’s too soon, too raw, and anyway, he’s not here to tell his side of the story. So for now, it stays with us, just Mom and me, deep and safe in the abyssal zone. But one day soon, it will be time to let it out, let it float up and exist, and become part of the bright night sky.

I think about Armond, again, and worry for him. What became of him after my father died? I didn’t see him at the funeral. Maybe one day down the road, when I’m sure about everything, I’ll look him up and see if he’s still at the gallery. Check in. Share some stories about my dad.

Maybe one day my paintings will hang on his wall. Now, wouldn’t that be something?

But for now, all of that is in the future and way too big to wrap my head around. Right now I want to stay focused on smaller things.

Before I go, we talk more about the things that don’t really matter at all. About teachers and new movies we want to see, and whether last spring was as rainy as this one. I think about the bowls in Dr. Alvarez’s clearing, filling with rainwater, bits of life—acorns and flower petals—floating.

And, while we talk more about nothing, the tensions ease up a little between us, so that, sitting here, by her side, I don’t feel particularly hurt or broken or fucked-up or angry. I just feel quiet and satisfied to be here on this planet, intact.

Satisfied to watch the edge of the sun slip away, disappearing below the gentle lull of the waterline.

And happy to watch the sky go from dusk to dark, and for the stars to come out, and the moon to rise up, illuminating the long, inky vein of the Hudson, from here all the way to the city.





Acknowledgments

I don’t know where my stories come from, or, really, how I write them. They are bits of magic, wrapped in luck, wrapped in endless hours staring at a screen. They begin without outline, and often take many years to write and revise, only to be put away, and dusted off again, and only when the right person is ready to find value in them.

I am beyond grateful that that right person continues to be my extraordinary editor, Vicki Lame. She sees something faintly shimmering in my messy words, and believes that, pushed, I am capable of revealing them to be stars.

In addition to Vicki, I am so lucky and honored to be with St. Martin’s Press and Wednesday Books, and grateful for the work you all do there to get the story from manuscript to beautiful book, from beautiful book to shelves, from shelves to readers’ hands. With special thanks to Sara Goodman, Jessica Preeg (whose manuscript-love notes mean more than she will ever know), Karen Masnica, D J Smyter, Brant Janeway, Janna Dokos, Elizabeth Curione, Cynthia Merman (thank you, too, for the tiny love-note gems interspersed with your skilled copyedits), James Iacobelli (oh, my cover!!), Anna Gorovoy (thank you for the scribbles…), and the amazing people in academic: Peter Jansen, Talia Sherer, and Anne Spieth, who get my books into one of the most important places: schools around the country!

But even before Vicki, and St. Martin’s Press and Wednesday Books, there were many sets of eyes, helpful feedback, and rungs on the proverbial ladder up to finishing and selling a good book.

To my early BETA readers who gave valuable feedback: Jeff Fielder, Terry Turner, and Wendy Watts Scalfaro; to my later BETA readers who did the same: Jordyn Dees, Eden Wirth, and Dr. Barbara Kanal; and my most steadfast BETA readers who read more times than I can count, giving me constant encouragement, honest criticism, and fresh insight each time (lather, rinse, repeat): Annmarie Kearney Wood, Jessie Grembos, Jane Small, and my mother, Ginger, who said, “make it more of a painting.” I only hope it is one fraction as beautiful as the paintings she makes come to life.