The Brightest Star in a Constellati... - Chapter 32: Chapter 32

☆ Evan ☆
The cursor of my phone screen blinks at me like the flash of a turn signal. The white screen taunts me with its endless emptiness. I finished my worksheet for English class ten minutes ago, and since then I've been trying to catch up on lost time.
I start with my message history, and once that is over, I categorize my contact names and switch them back to normal. It doesn't take long, so I move to scroll through the website where Peter posts for his blog.
The sign-up screen is blank, the same way my mind is blank. Fog blankets the classroom windows, stretching across the sky like a mountain range. I try to come up with a decent username.
Never, I type. Like my name backwards. Never odd or even. I hit backspace over the final word and replace it with my name. There we go. That's more like it.
With my account created, I send a follow request to a couple of blogs before I land back on Peter's. While logged in, I have the option to access more of his posts that weren't available to me before. I scroll back in time to the recently published entry for facts at midnight: L'arbre de Ténéré (Téréré tree) once considered the most isolated tree on Earth, as it was the only one for 400 kilometres, and the last of a group of trees that grew in the desert, was knocked down by a truck driver in 1973 presumed to be drunk.
A suggestion of related tags pops up when I hover over his username, so I click on those too. My homepage fills with information, and over the course of the class, I search for all the unfamiliar terms. I learn about what the pin Lexa was wearing means—a gender identity that is not defined by traditional roles—among other words I've never seen before, like asexual and bisexual.
My phone lights up. It's the group chat, (now including Dina, who was added while I was away) which Nicole has renamed for the third time this week.
[AC Group Chat: "Houston we have a problem" except it's the lesser-known Canadian version where they say "Calgary we have a difficulty"]
Nicole:
ok
what do we think of AC t-shirts
Jay:
How much of a nerd do you think I am
Nicole:
what if I made one especially for you?
Pierre:
Big word for Nickel.
Nicole:
oh my god, he made a typo.
I love you very much please never stop being yourself <3
Pierre:
Oh my god, she's using punctuation. I am shocked.
Nicole:
Try me. (-:
This is my idea
She sends the group chat a PNG file. It's a t-shirt coloured in dusky blue, designed with the words Astronomy Club around Saturn's rings. Jay's specialized shirt has a different phrase; Local Loser.
Jay:
You're not making me wear that
Evan:
I would
Nicole:
yeah because you're cool
this is for my final project btw
Lexa:
How dare you remind me about exams
Dina:
unfair!
Jay:
Why are you studying now? Just cram the night before like the rest of us
Pierre:
It's a three-step process.
Lexa:
Explain
Pierre:
Step one: Start studying. Promptly get distracted by any number of outside factors.
Step two: Forget about studying for at least a week.
Step three: Freak out because exams are approaching. Go back to studying again.
It honestly should not work as well as it does.
Nicole:
what step are we on now
Pierre:
I started the first step this morning.
Predictably, it isn't going well.
Dina:
Would studying in a group help?
Evan:
We're all taking different classes though
Pierre:
You know, I've never understood that. Teaching a concept to someone else is the highest form of learning.
Nicole:
how are the forms of learning ranked exactly
like do you level up?
Pierre:
I give up.
The bell finally rings, and I decide to head down to the library. I push through the double doors and the air whooshes as it opens. A row of computer screens stays on the side, across from sections of books stacked to the ceiling. Round tables are spaced between the sections.
Peter hides in the back of the quiet room; I sling my bag over my shoulder and walk over to him. He sets his calculus textbook on the desk and flips past the cover page sporting an orange ombre background with a photo of a Ferris wheel, (which seems much preferable to math) and opens his notebook.
"Hey," I greet, sliding into an empty chair next to him.
He pushes at his glasses with his index—even though they don't seem to have slipped down—and replies, "Are you just here to distract me?"
"Am I distracting?" I grin, swinging my legs on top of the nearest seat. The natural light sheds onto the bookshelves, and it's peaceful in the sound of keyboards clicking and printers chugging along.
He shrugs. "If you're going to sit there and stare at me, then yes. However, if you want to read my flashcards and quiz me on them..." He turns the notebook towards me and I scan its contents. The letters of his writing are small and curled in certain areas, with arrows pointing over the page accompanied by underlined reminders in the margin. Each class is marked by its own colour.
I read them over while he studies, and we fall into a steady pace. Now and then, I fire a question in his direction on a different subject. "Okay, what's the most abundant buffer... system?"
"Protein," he answers and glances back at his page. "We're back to chemistry now?"
"I think so." (It's something about pH and acid-base balancing, maybe.) I set the flashcards back on the table and my elbows go along with it. My head steadies against the rounded wooden edge.
I take out my notes and plop them onto the table. My pencil taps against my arm as I consider where to begin. My hands have a mind of their own—leading me to draw the outline of a face. I don't get far before I scribble over it, covering the image in a thick layer of graphite.
Sighing, I tuck my chin so that I'm staring at the floor. A crumpled ball of paper pinwheels across the floor, circling with a pile of dust. I drift off into a drowsy, half-awake nap. It doesn't last long, as I'm jolted back into awareness a few minutes later. I move to check the time on my phone when Peter tosses his notebook away from him and sighs. He pushes a finger underneath his glasses and folds into himself.
I don't move, mostly because I'm not sure if he knows I'm awake. If he knows—but I don't want to intrude. I'm cornered in an empty room. With no way out except to shift my position, I notice that Peter's face has changed. He looks spaced out, like he's not staring at his textbook anymore, but beyond it.
"Hey," I say, (for what seems to be the hundredth time). "Are you...?" My sentence doesn't complete itself. It's foolish to say 'okay' when I know he isn't.
I stick my hands on his notebook, then get to my feet. "Peter," I murmur.
His head snaps to my face. "It's... um, I'm going to take a break. Right now." He moves past me, disappearing behind the shelves of books.
I check my phone; it's been forty minutes since he started studying. His backpack is still hooked around his chair, his pencil resting against the page on a problem left unfinished.
A minute cools away like sand slipping through my clasped fingers. I return to my drawing, restarting from the beginning. Two minutes come too quickly afterward. The shape of a face froths back to life, and this time I trace the outline. I shade the base from the top down, starting with the forehead. It's difficult to pinpoint Peter's expressions from memory.
I don't think he's coming back. I scoop his notes into a pile and shovel them into his bag, and while I work, the doors swish open. Claire trails into the library, zeroing in on me. She hesitates as she comes over to me, like broaching the silence is an impossible task.
"Evan," she says, and it sounds new when she speaks my name. It comes with baggage; the kind that I can't shed. I have minor facts about Claire held in my back pocket, and I haven't had the time to mull over what I'm going to do with them.
I don't know how I'm supposed to get rid of her favourite colour, (green) the dog breed she wants to adopt when she's older, (Pomeranian) among many others. I can't walk by her in the hallway like she's a passing stranger. She isn't. We can never be reduced to strangers after this. She tore off a piece of herself and offered it to me. I think I was meant to do the same. "How are you doing? You didn't reply to my messages," she continues.
"I didn't know what to say," I answer, and at least it isn't a lie anymore.
Claire blinks and awkwardly fixes her stance. She drops her arms and stops staring at me like she's expecting a confrontation. Her eyes glaze over the paper under her nose; my drawing of Peter stares back at her.
I slide the page into his backpack with the rest and say, "What did you mean, that love isn't only a feeling?"
"That..." She pauses, and the smile that has appeared on her face folds into a smirk. Her eyebrows crease. "I loved you like it was forever. Like it wouldn't end. At first, I thought it was one-sided, and that you never loved me. But I don't think that's right. Because you don't last that long with someone you feel nothing for. You loved me like you were afraid of the aftermath. I know you hate Jenny, but she's just like you. She breaks up with Sebastian because she loves him. She doesn't want to lose him—just like I don't want to lose you—but I had to do it. That's what I meant. Love isn't a romantic feeling. Sometimes love is heartbreak."
"I don't get it."
"I know." She shrugs like it doesn't matter, but I know her too well to believe it. "Hockey starts soon, doesn't it?"
When I nod, she says, "Good luck with that. I don't envy you." Her smile is like a copy-paste; it looks the same every time. I start to ask her what she wants from me—from this—but she interrupts my thoughts. "Nothing will change until you stop lying, you know. It won't protect you forever. It's not a shield you can hide behind—I wish you would've come and talked to me. I could see that it wasn't working, but... I can't do it all by myself. I hope you don't feel like you have to lie anymore."
"I'm fine," I say, shuffling over to the doorway, carrying both the bags in my hands. "I'm perfectly fine. No need to open up."
I find Peter in the bathroom on the second floor. He's sitting with his back against the wall, stifling a strangled breath.
Extending his book bag in his direction, I drop it onto the floor beside him. And I don't say a word as I turn to walk away.
"Evan," Peter says, and he says it like it matters—like any of it fucking matters. "I know you're not at the stage where you want to talk about it. But maybe I can tell you something."
"Tell me what?" I'm sick of being told to open up. Sick of lying with no solution in sight. This isn't like his balanced reactions, where all the values add to zero. It's like how mixing every colour of paint creates black; it subtracts the light.
"You said you wanted to get out of this town. That you're counting down until that day comes, and to be honest—I get it. I know what that feeling is like, and I wish I could be like that. I wish I had that hope. But I think I've accepted it," he says. The rows of stalls are stacked next to each other, distorting my view of the mirror and beyond it. It makes the room appear uneven, like travelling close to the edge of the tiled floor would plummet me off of it.
Peter continues, "I'm sorry for freaking out like that."
"Don't be," I reply softly, landing on the floor near him. I put some distance between us, mostly since I think he wants it that way.
"No, it's just..." He pauses to recharge, to think about it. "It's just that I get stressed around exam time. And I really didn't want you to—it's hard to know how you'd react."
I look around, my eyes bouncing around the tiled surroundings. "I get it. Maybe you think I'm only saying that—but I do. I get it. And you're right. I guess... I'm not used to being emotionally available all the time. I want to be. Usually, I get in trouble for trying to be honest. For trying to make sense of what I feel like I have to do... for not wanting to do what I should be doing." The words escape from me, and I'm probably not making sense to him. But I groan and slap a hand to my forehead. "And... I'm making it about me again. It's not, okay? It's not. Are you okay?"
He nods, and the chuckle that comes out of his mouth sounds somewhat genuine. "You don't have to do anything. You didn't have to bring me my stuff—thank you." His voice is fragile on the final two words, and he says, "I haven't had lunch yet."
"Is this your way of getting me to leave you alone?"
"No, but it is my way of getting you to grab me a cookie from the cafeteria," he replies with a fleeting smile.