In Sight of Stars(9)
I move my tongue around and glance at the table. The note is there, and I still taste the chocolate in my teeth.
Not a hallucination, then.
Maybe I’m stabilizing. I do feel a little more like me.
Is that a good or a bad thing?
I roll my head to the side and stare out the window. The tree branches sway in a breeze, their shadowed silhouettes dappled cave paintings that play across the canvas of the shades. I sit up and search for the yellow dinosaur, but he’s beyond the scope of my view.
Something else I notice now, too: There are no strings or cables on the shades. They lift and lower by touch. The better not to hang ourselves with.
A salmon-colored breakfast tray sits on the bedside table next to the note and the empty Yodels wrapper. A too-sweet syrupy smell emanates from under its lid.
What day is it? I count forward from Saturday trying to keep track. Wednesday, I think. Already Wednesday.
I swing my legs over the side of my bed, walk to the window, and look out. In the far corner of the courtyard, the yellow excavator hulks, neck extended high, but digger slack-jawed, saw teeth down. A brachiosaurus, time-traveled through history to get here. Just me and a dinosaur, in this place where we don’t belong.
But, I do belong, don’t I? I did what I did, so I must.
I move my hand to the bandaged itch that’s my ear.
Who am I kidding? Of course I belong here.
Beneath the excavator, a trench is being dug. Across from that rests a giant spool of thick black cable.
I’m overwhelmed by the urge to walk outside, climb up into the excavator’s cab, and push all its gears and levers, making its jaws plunge down and bite into earth, bringing up chunks of concrete, dirt, and sand.
It occurs to me that I don’t know if I’m allowed to leave this place at all, even for a walk. I have no idea what the rules are. I’ve just been plodding around like some crazier-than-fuck zombie, numb from the shoulders up.
This is my life now. This is what I have to look forward to.
Except, deep inside, I don’t believe it. I know I’m not crazy.
At least I don’t think I am.
I stare past the brachiosaurus to the grassy courtyard, to the trees starting to show off their purple-red buds. Technically it’s spring, and it’s bright and sunny outside. I should get dressed and walk out of here, prove to myself I can. Do something normal for a change.
The thought slams me hard: I’m not normal. When is the last time I felt like I was? Was it with Sarah, or not since my father died?
But I did, right? There was a time when I felt happy and normal. I want to go back there, back a year ago—more—back to my city, my home. Back to when I had friends, and had fun.
Back with Cleto and Dan.
*
“Where’d you find this place?” Dan asks. “It’s a chick magnet!”
Dan is hyper, per usual, talking too much, and messing up metaphors. Hopping up and down like an idiot. Fake IDs or not, he’s going to get us kicked out before we get in. We’ve been on this line for an hour, and we’re finally getting close to the door.
“Take it down a notch,” Cleto says, putting a hand on Dan’s shoulder. “I told y’all my cousin works here. But you need to let me do the talking when we get up there. He ain’t gonna let us in if you act like a fool.” Dan shuts up. He would never listen to me that fast, but he listens to Cleto. Cleto has this power over people. “Y’all need to chill. I know I’m asking a lot of you assclowns. But humor me. Try to seem like you’ve done this before. Not like you never set foot in no bar.” To prove his chillness, Cleto pulls a water bottle from his jacket pocket and swigs some down. It’s vodka, not water, we know. But he drinks it down easy, which is part of his charm.
“Don’t look at me,” I say, holding my hand out for a swig. “I’m just standing here.”
Cleto nods. “Right, be like Alden, here. Nice and cool.” He hands me the bottle. I take a sip, alcohol burning my throat as I pass it on to Dan.
“Aye, aye, Captain,” Dan says. “I’m cool. Swear. Thanks for getting us into this place.”
“We ain’t in no place yet,” Cleto says. “That’s the point I’m trying to impress upon y’all.”
The place, for the record, is some new kitsch bar down on Sullivan Street called Hi-Ho Silvers! that is frequented by everyone from ironically Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle T-shirt-clad biker dudes, to stuffed-shirt Wall Street types who want to prove they’re something other than that, to the hottest college girls from nearby Cooper Union and NYU. Cleto’s cousin said it got popular because Taylor Swift and some of her friends came in one night. We don’t usually go for the trendy places, but then again, we don’t usually go for the bar scene at all since the fake IDs are a pretty new acquisition. We’re not even sure they’ll fly. So knowing someone who can put a good word in for us is key. And, according to Cleto, despite the physical heft of the very intimidating bouncers at the door, they’re pretty lax about checking IDs.
“So long as you have one,” Cleto had told us, “my cousin says he’ll make sure we get in. It ain’t like they gonna be quizzing y’all, just don’t act like no jackasses.”
Dan still seems nervous. I am, too. I don’t exactly feel like getting kicked to the curb in front of a bunch of people, including girls who may or may not be Taylor Swift’s friends. But junior year has been crushing us with its months of SATs, AP exams, and college visits, and we just need to blow off some steam.