The Brightest Star in a Constellati... - Chapter 38: Chapter 38

☆ Evan ☆
The end of the month brings the end of the semester and the beginning of my new classes.
I hold my breath during math class as the teacher passes back our first quiz. The paper lands on my desk face-down, and I clutch it in my hands, hoping for a decent grade. Anything in the realm of fifty percent, and I'll be fine.
I turn it over slowly, peeking at the top corner, and written in red pen is my percentage; 68%.
Thank god. I did better than I expected. Once the bell rings, I rush down the spiralling stairs to the cafeteria for lunch.
It took two weeks for my bruises to fade, and even though I'd like for the shock waves from the fight to have faded along with it, I have yet to start my punishment. My lunch hour is about to be stolen by my first session with the school guidance counsellor, and the lingering feeling of dread sneaks up on me. It follows me around like my shadow does. It's always there, at the back of awareness. Some days, it wanes, and I barely notice it.
Some days, it's a chore that I can't get it to leave. I can't chase it away.
An obnoxiously yellow school bus sits outside, obscuring the view through the window. The hockey team, (without Sam and myself) gathers in a huddled cluster, carrying their gym bags and chattering away. Lucas has become its temporary captain, and it's a position that suits him—to be at the epicentre of the commotion.
I order my lunch, scarfing it down before I double back to the guidance room. It's tucked in the corner of the principal's office, and I slip past a lineup of students to squeeze through the doorway.
The room is no bigger than a broom closet, covered in motivational posters that make me scoff under my breath. To my side, a shelf of pamphlets sits behind a grey desk. It's filled to the brim with folders, a bucket of pens, overflowing drawers, and a calendar that hasn't switched over from last year. The photo shows a frog hiding under a tulip. A bold, looping font pasted over it reads, Don't worry about the beginning. Work on fixing the ending.
The guidance counsellor sits in a rolling office chair with the foam sticking out. He minimizes the screen on his monitor and faces me. "Evan McKenna, isn't it?"
"That's me." I take my seat. My knees rub against the front of the desk. It scratches repeatedly; like the sound that I heard during the meeting with Coach.
Based on the plaque partially coated in post-it notes, the guidance counsellor's name is Mr. Brennan. He says, "How are you feeling today?"
"Are you serious?" I want to leave the room. Ducking out on practice was automatic, and it barely made me feel guilty. If only there was a skip button that I could press to make it go away. Today is a perfectly fine day. My father is leaving this afternoon, after staying for longer than planned. It's Elaine's birthday, and I don't have a gift. "How many of these sessions do I need?"
"Coach wanted us to schedule six," Mr. Brennan says. "It seemed like enough to me. And I'm sure he would prefer you to cooperate, just like you want to go back to playing on the team. There's a game today, isn't there?"
"Is there?" I brush it off, but it hardly works. My throat is bland, like tasteless bubblegum. Clearing it doesn't serve to get rid of the rock lodged there—or whatever this stupid feeling is.
There's no clock in this room—so I keep time by hitting my shoe against the floor. Tick, tock. Fucking tick, tock.
"Today is a big day," he says. And I wonder if Mr. Brennan speaks purely in inspirational quotes. I wonder when he'll give up and tell me that this too shall pass like it's a revolutionary concept. Like it means anything. "How does that make you feel?"
"Are you really going to ask me that for everything I say?"
He nods. "I believe there's a deeper reason for every decision that you've made. If we don't talk about how you're feeling, we can discuss something else." He glances at his computer screen, eyebrows furrowing slightly. "I recognize your name from somewhere. Have we spoken before?"
He leans over to bring up a directory of students, and I assume he searches for me, because twenty-one taps of my foot later, he continues, "That's it! I was right. You were in this office last year, to transfer out of university-preparatory math."
I cough to clear my throat again. It changes nothing. I kick an informational pamphlet on provincial student loans with the toe of my shoe. "Yeah," I manage to admit. I don't get far with this, because the next words that burst from my mouth are, "So what?"
"So... I don't think I ever got to ask you about that. Your grades were fine. Why did you transfer?" Mr. Brennan places his hands on the desk like an interrogation, and it's certainly starting to feel like one.
"It's just what ended up happening," I say with a shrug. "Just doing what I had to do. I'm back in the regular classes now, so it's not a big deal."
"Do you think so?" he asks. "It sounds like you're minimizing it. Like you're trying to make it sound less important than it actually is. And it's okay—but you're allowed to be frustrated by it. Not everything has to be fine."
The pamphlet beneath my shoe glides across the floor, sliding too far away for me to reach it. I stretch to kick it again, to give myself a distraction. Distractions give me something to do with myself. Something to do to get out of this feeling. "It's fine. I seriously don't care about math class. I fixed it. It's not like my grades were going to get me into Dalhousie, or anything."
"And how do you—"
I interrupt, before he can ask me that question again, "I said I'm fine. Is that not okay? Do I have to be upset about it? Do I have to feel something? I can't just—" I suck in a deep breath, squeezing my nails into the palm of my hand. I'm not trying to draw blood, but it probably wouldn't hurt.
Mr. Brennan watches me. I'm sinking into my seat, still angling towards the paper on the floor. When I catch the edge, it rips off. "You can't just what?" he prompts. Of course, he wants me to finish that sentence.
I've said too much.
"Nothing. Never mind."
He repeats, "Nothing?"
When I don't say anything further, he catches the hint. "If you aren't having a good day, we can end this session. I'll come back to this another time."
☆ ☽ ☆
The buildings fade in the rearview mirror as I drive Adrian to the airport. The wind whistles through the passenger window, cracked open to allow him to blow smoke through the gap. It blossoms in a cloud behind us, rising until it pieces itself together with the clouds.
In the half-hour drive, I barely say a word. Adrian keeps trying to form a conversation, tossing subjects at me over and over. But it doesn't matter what he's doing once he arrives at home, nor does it matter that he plans to come back for my graduation.
None of it fucking matters today.
I make it to the airport and help him unload his suitcases. The windowpanes are glass, and there's a shadow cast by the overhang above. A plane soars off the tarmac, leaving a white tail behind it. The crosswalk angling away from the arrivals door has the light dusting of snow sticking around. If I squint, I can pretend it's the same as the sky. The same as the plane soaring off into the vast, ocean-blue of a sky.
"Last chance to come with me," he says, lobbing his cigarette onto the sidewalk. The faint, wispy flame is crushed out by the cold.
(It's the first time he's said that to my face. It's the only time he's acted like I exist.)
And if it wasn't today, one-hundred and seventy-four days away from my escape, and if it wasn't Elaine's birthday, I would leave. Without hesitation, I would go. But Adrian McKenna chooses the worst day in the world to be a hero.
I pass him his suitcase. Somebody in the car behind mine ambles through the doorway and disappears. The brown carpet arranged in the shape of squares reminds me of the Croix Hotel's lobby area. It's a location that dozens of people pass through, and they never stay for long.
"I have to go," I say, like that explains it. "Text me when you land." Like he's going to do that.
After he heads inside, he turns back for a second to wave. It seems like he's mocking me more than anything.
Once he's gone, he leaves the scent of smoke behind him. It occupies the passenger seat. And if I cared enough, I would try to get it to leave me alone.
But I don't.
Before swinging back into town, I grab a box of cupcakes for Elaine. I text her to come out and meet me in the parking lot, and in the thirty-five seconds it takes her to emerge, I light a candle and pop it into the icing.
"Happy birthday!" I call out to her.
She weaves through the lineup of cars to reach me. Her eyes light up when she spots the cupcake decorated with a chocolate topping and a smattering of sprinkles in the shape of miniature smiling faces. "That's for me?"
"Obviously." I pass her the box and let her take as many as she wants. She grabs two cupcakes, leaving the others for me. We stand in the breezy air, munching on the food. "Did Randall call?"
She shakes her head. "You didn't sing," Elaine says, sidestepping the question. She bats at her hair to avoid getting icing stuck in it.
I shove a cupcake into my mouth in one gulp. "No, and you don't want me to sing. That would be a tragedy."
Before we move inside, I finish the last of the cupcakes. Elaine notices the snow globe in the backseat. She reaches for it, cradling the glass in her arms. "This is my gift?"
"Yeah," I say with a smile. "I know it's not much—"
She sticks her tongue out at me. "Shut up. I like it."
It's certainly better than Randall's present from last year; a kid-safe telescope that took an hour to set up, only for it to work for five minutes. And I would have been pissed about it if it was me, but Elaine didn't mind.
When we reach the apartment, Elaine passes Carolyn to set her gift in her room. The snow trapped inside its surface scatters.
"That's all you're getting her?" Carolyn asks as she preheats the oven for dinner.
I ignore it. I ignore the impulse to say, 'It's probably better than whatever you're giving her.' I don't bother going there, and I grin at Elaine.
She grins back. Her lips form two words: 'Thank you.'
She waits for Randall to call. I wait for Adrian to text me. It's a race between two snails, but they'd never admit to being a part of it.
Carolyn finishes cooking her pan-seared salmon. She lets Elaine stay seated while setting the table, using the decorative plates Randall's grandparents got for them, and that hasn't left the cupboard in years. The smell of her cooking makes my stomach grumble as I realize I haven't eaten in hours.
"How does it feel to be fourteen?" Carolyn asks.
Tilting her head at me, Elaine says, "Am I supposed to feel different?" It doesn't sound like a question—it sounds like a statement that dissolves between us. She chews on her lip. "I guess I'm gaining on Evan, now."
"You're gaining height, that's for sure," I say weakly.
Carolyn smiles politely and offers Elaine her present. It's hand-wrapped and tied with a bright red bow. "Open it," she urges Elaine. "You know how difficult it was to find a gift for you? I searched everywhere!"
Her voice has an edge to it, but she tries to gloss past it. Tries to dull the knife.
Swallowing, Elaine unfolds the present. Inside is an expensive-looking box. She holds it up, flipping it over so that I can see. It's a pair of purple headphones shaped like cat ears.
"Do you like them?" Carolyn says.
Elaine nods. From the kitchen, the phone starts to ring. She quickly excuses herself from her unfinished plate to answer it.
"And you?" Carolyn says. It doesn't feel right. There's something off about her today, but I don't know what's causing it. "How was your day?"
"It was normal." This is not normal. It's far from normal. What the hell is going on?
"Evan, dad wants to talk to you!" Elaine yells from the other room.
I make haste to leave Carolyn sitting there at the dinner table, alone. Her glare is like a target attached to the back of my head—I can feel it digging into me—but she stays quiet. She doesn't say a word. I don't let it bother me. I don't let it wreck the only decent day I've had for weeks. But I can tell that she wants us to notice that her mood has plummeted. Like she's waiting for the right moment—the right second—to ruin it all.