The Brightest Star in a Constellati... - Chapter 18: Chapter 18

☆ Evan ☆
Through the gap in my door, the sound of Elaine singing filters into my room. I stand against the wall, giving her space. She's quiet enough that I can barely hear her—that nothing disturbs her as she thrums along to the beat of a song on her playlist. By now, I recognize it as Castle of Glass from Linkin Park.
My phone lights up with a text from Claire, letting me know that she's here to pick me up. I unlock my phone, debating whether I should suggest meeting her outside, but she sends another message first. I have cookies!
And I thought she was kidding. Grumbling, I tell her she can come into the apartment. Not that I don't want her here; having Claire around is a buffer, like I'm floating in a bubble on the verge of popping. But it's also very different from what I'm used to, and for some reason, I don't like watching Claire stand in my living room, looking around and taking pity on me.
I unlock the door and inch it open; Elaine's singing extinguishes like a flame in the wind. The living room is unoccupied, as Randall and Carolyn left this morning, off to run errands and play pretend.
"Hello!" Claire's chipper voice carries through the hallway, and she skips into the living room with a glowing smile on her face. The waning light drowns her in a halo as she sets the Tupperware on the countertop. A line of silver glitter flecks her eyelids, her ponytail held by a vermilion ribbon, the cloth bouncing as she moves. "These are not for us. We have a game today. It's taking all of my restraint not to have one."
"Come on, Cee. Do you really think I care about your self-imposed rules?" I reach for a cookie. Some things are sacred—and sacrificing cookies is frankly ridiculous. I much prefer sanity.
Claire's hand flicks out to stop me. "We need to win this game, Evan. It's between the panthers and the bears, and for once, we have a fair shot. Please don't throw it out the window for the sake of yourself. I want to get to semi-finals, personally."
"A feat we haven't accomplished since 1953, or some shit," I comment. Claire laughs humourlessly, and this time she lets me snatch a snack. The cookies are still warm as I bite into it—the edges crunch, and the inside dissolves in my mouth. "Did you make these? They're really good."
Claire's gaze turns bashful. "I got my parents to help with them. Oh, and I should tell you they're coming to the game."
I hang around Claire's parents more than the opposite. It's not like they hate me—there's just a perpetual misunderstanding between us. Mr. and Mrs. Lethbridge suffer from what I like to call the too-much-money problem. On one occasion, Mrs. Lethbridge earnestly mentioned their yearly trip out of the country in passing and asked me if I had ever been. She took my confusion as a joke and fell into shocked silence as she realized it wasn't.
I don't get a chance to protest. Elaine creeps out of her room. She sidesteps the floorboard that creaks, jumping over it like she's playing an invisible game of hopscotch. "Did I hear cookies!"
Claire offers her some. She evaluates Elaine's outfit, and her pair of mismatched socks—one a vivid crimson with watermelons, the other a forest green with flowers.
"I like your pyjamas," Claire says in her best neutral tone.
Pensive, Elaine gobbles her cookies and then asks, "When's your game?"
"Oh, how could I forget! We'd better get going." Claire checks her phone, her lock screen flashing for a brief second.
A picture of us from tenth grade, during spirit week. The heatwave was so intense it melted the paint on her cheeks, which she'd smeared across the bridge of my nose, marking us both with a bright glitter that didn't wash off for a week. I'm not looking at the camera; Claire called me over and snapped the picture while I was turning towards her. But there's a smile on my face, one that matches the happiness of Claire's. Her eyes are shining like there's nobody else in the world.
I wonder what happened to that. The feeling that we were both marble statues. To feel made for one another, formed by the same hand. That we could destroy each other, but chose not to. I wonder if it was meant to last. In my experience, it doesn't. What kind of fire can burn eternally, anyway?
"Do you want to come with us?" Claire asks Elaine.
"Nope, I'm good." Elaine skips back into her hiding place the same way that she came, risking a glance back at me with the glint in her eyes that tells me she's judging me.
I consider admitting everything, but I force myself to swallow the urge. "I'll meet you outside. I have to make sure she's okay to stay here alone."
Claire nods and exits. I grab a water bottle from the fridge. On my way out of the apartment, I swipe a cookie.
"Bye, Ellie!"
Her muffled voice laughs. Through the thin wall, she shouts: "Don't forget to win!"
I dash out to meet Claire, sliding into the passenger seat. Holding my water bottle, I try to place it into the cup holder in the centre console. But it doesn't fit; the outer edge of my bottle is too wide. It scrapes against the cup holder as I hit it against the console repeatedly and Claire bats my hand away. I settle for keeping it in my lap as we drive away.
☆ ☽ ☆
The bleachers are sparse, populated only by the huddled group of students. I recognize some of them as Claire's friends, who shriek and wave their hands when I scan the rows. Near the front, the Lethbridge's nurse a cup of coffee each, whispering amongst themselves.
Claire nudges me. "Do you think your parents hate me?" she whispers.
I roll my eyes. Randall and Carolyn are absent, and my phone is in the locker room. I expect an apology text is waiting for me, left without a response.
"No, they adore you." Which is true. I grit my teeth as Coach gathers the team into a huddle. He explains the strategy for the game, but my attention is distracted by the person near the front of the stands. She's bent over a clipboard, scanning the group quietly. I'm not sure if Claire has noticed it yet, so I nudge her side and tilt my head towards the recruiter.
Claire shuffles in the opposite direction, her ponytail swishing as she says, "Don't distract me, I'm—"
"Cee, there's—" I start to interrupt her, but she glares at me. I shut my mouth and refocus on the game as we spread out across the field.
I watch the game unfold from my position as a defence. Our goalie, Jasmine, keeps the net protected while Claire forges a path to obtain the ball. It bounces between the panthers and the opposing team, a battle to make progress. The ball rolls halfway across the field, and Claire weaves through the opposition to get there.
Her jersey flutters, and she passes the striker, intercepting the ball. Kicking it towards her teammate, he swerves and moves it back away from me.
As he zooms towards the net, the defence angle themselves on either side. Claire comes in from the sidelines and shouts for him to pass it. She takes control of the ball, touching it toward the defence—diagonal Cruyff—which allows Claire to get ahead of them. The scored goal comes soon afterward.
I avert my gaze back at the stands. A few feet away from Mr. Lethbridge, Randall takes his seat, hesitantly searching for me. I lift my hand in the air to signal to him.
A lot of things are impossible. Some say the impossible is the end of the world, or for others—finding a career in sports. I'm supposed to trust the team. That was part of morale, and why Coach keeps encouraging me to come to practice and give it every piece of effort that I have.
But getting the attention of a scout was my version of impossible. Claire tries more than I do, but despite the countless goals she scores, the way she throws herself into the games like nothing else exists, she is overlooked.
Games pass by quickly, and before I know it, the score is tied. Claire reconvenes with the goalie and me, her face beaded with sweat. She chugs her Gatorade and squeezes my hand. "Ready?"
"For?" I question.
She grins and sprints back into position. The opposing goalie punts the ball across the field. It lands in the grass near a player, who dribbles it closer to Jasmine. She braces herself at the same time I do.
Claire cuts through the grass to insert herself in front of me. My view of the ball wanes for a moment that seems to slow down the passage of time. She huffs and sidesteps; the other team passes the ball sidelong. Taking aim for the net, two of our teammates attempt to tackle him. It falls through, giving Claire an opportunity to grab the ball. She's behind me now, and her smile conveys a promise.
If she kicks the ball in my direction, she's forfeiting the control over to me. Wasting her opportunity to show off in front of the scout. And I can tell Coach is watching with bated breath, hoping that she doesn't do it. Waste her shot. Waste it for me, again.
Claire moves to kick the ball; I shake my head. The window for her to pass it evaporates as quickly as it appeared. She presses her lips into a line and charges forward, skirting near the sidelines to transport the ball away from our net. On the stands, her friends let out a weak cheer.
I wonder when I'm getting out of Carolyn's grasp. When my weeks are going to stop blurring together, and when she's going to attend a game. She was the person who wanted me to go, and yet she never shows up. There's irony in it. How no matter what I say, no matter how many times I've tried to wriggle out of it, I always end up back where I started. It feels like I'm a puppet on a string, doomed to follow her demands.
One of these days, I'm going to get close enough to slide through the strings and snip myself free.
After the game, Claire heads to the locker room. I hang back with her friends—Sebastian is among them, although he doesn't acknowledge my presence. Willow, who's on student council, chatters away with him, her bubbly voice filling the lull.
I stand up and move next to Randall. His hands rest on his knees as he watches the field—or rather, the scout. She's still writing on her clipboard, her phone held to her ear. Every now and then, she mutters into the receiver and listens intently to whatever's on the other end.
"Where's mom?" I ask him.
I have to chew on the words a bit before saying them. It's the same reasoning I have for calling Randall my stepdad, even if I've never said it to his face. It's all the same to me. It's the same reason for wanting shoes with brand names and begging for the keys to borrow his car. Maybe it might erase the gaps. Maybe it might turn us into an amalgamation of a family that is at least one-fourteenth normal.
"She's out," Randall responds. "Downtown."
As if that clarifies it.
Claire returns eventually, once she's changed and freshened up. A dusting of eyeshadow graces her eyelids, and when she leans over to hug me, I smell her perfume. It's a hint too strong; pure lavender essence that she bought to be eco-friendly. "Thank you," she whispers in my ear before she pulls away.
I understand immediately. She's referring to the game.
Louder, she says, "Are you busy?"
Randall slaps his knee and stands. "I'm afraid so. I have to get back home. I leave for work in a few hours. It's a long drive to North Sydney on a bus. But it was nice seeing you play, Claire. You're very talented."
She beams, but there's sadness underlying in her expression. Handing me my book bag, she peels herself off of me and hops down to the field, joining Willow.
I head back to the car with Randall. Neither of us says a word on the drive back to the apartment. When we reach the parking lot, he pulls out a pen from the console. "Can I ask you something?"
I shrug. Randall continues, "Why are you quitting?"
"I'm tired of it." I really need to stop lying. "I wanted to quit when I was a kid, remember?"
He nods. "Your mother was convinced it was just a phase."
It wasn't. I tried and tried to get her to agree with me. To no avail. I was ten; Elaine had just turned seven. Back then, Carolyn had the habit of taking her to the music store—Long & McQuade—and I would have given anything to go with her. That was more enticing than spending my afternoon kicking a soccer ball at the brick wall of the school. But she wouldn't let me. She had my life planned out, and it didn't include that.
Randall brought me along once. We had pulled into the city when his phone rang. It was Carolyn. Where the hell are you? she'd demanded. He told her he was out. Again. And an argument ensued. I sat in the car and stared out the window, into the reflective glass of the music store. I couldn't see inside. I looked so small. Randall told me we had to go back, so we did. We never tried again. Nothing would be normal after that, not that it ever had been.
I stay silent as Randall signs my permission slip and hands it back to me. "I'm sorry."
"Yeah." I shut the door behind me and fold the paper back into squares. I've done this so many times that the shape is ingrained into the page, as if it could be torn in half and disintegrate into shredded pieces.
My chest constricts as I enter the apartment. Carolyn is home, and she's sitting at the table, with her back against a chair, her eyes boring into the doorway. I take my shoes off without looking at her.
"Did you win?"
I honestly didn't care enough to check, but I'm pretty sure we lost. "No. Claire scored a goal, though."
Her scowl deepens. She points to the tray of cookies on the table. A few of them have disappeared into the nether. Crumbs cover the plastic. "She made these, I'm assuming."
Randall enters the apartment, nearly crashing into me. He places a hand against the wall to steady himself while he unties his laces. If I weren't here, and if I didn't know better, it would seem mundane. It would look like we're on a constant loop. Every week would be the exact same, with no deviation. Wake up. Go to school. Go to practice. Come home. Repeat.
But we are not figurines, as much as Carolyn wants us to be.
"Yeah," I answer, "it's a gift for you. She thought you might like them."
Carolyn picks up the Tupperware and walks to the garbage can. "A gift? What, does she think we can't afford food?"
"Carolyn—" Randall starts, but the sound of his protests only makes her angrier. Her face turns a ghastly shade of violet as she turns the plate of cookies upside down.
"We don't need a rich girl's pity," she says and looks directly at me. "You tell her we don't need any more gifts. Do you understand me? I don't want my children eating that crap."
"I understand." I nod, and the strings around my neck tighten.