The Chaos of Stars
Page 17
“Floods,” I whisper under my breath.
“What?”
I shake my head. “Sorry, I’m just crushing on your truck.” He beams and I inwardly cringe. Why did I admit that?
“She’s pretty great, isn’t she?”
I pick up my bike. This has gotten off track. I don’t know why he’s so eager to hang out with me today. And I don’t care. I have no interest in boys, now or ever. I can’t help but notice him, and—oh, idiot gods, I am definitely attracted to him. This is how it starts. This is how I set myself up for pain and tragedy and endings where I want eternities.
I refuse. I refuse it all. I will never attach myself to someone else. I can end everything before it starts and be free and alone and perfectly happy.
“Maybe another time. My brother’s waiting for me.”
“Can I give you a ride home?”
“Sorry, my mother told me never to accept rides from strangers.” Not true; it was never an issue. I was never far enough away from her as a child for her to worry. But it was something she would say to me. Hmm . . . actually, I’m glad she never said it to me, because if she had, I’d be forced to ride with him just to go against her.
“I’ll have to work on being less strange, then. It was good to finally see you.” That secret smile again. I want to smoosh his cheeks together to get rid of it.
I wave, climbing onto my bike and peddling away. At the corner light I risk a glance back to see if he’s watching me. He’s sitting, scribbling madly in his notebook. Good. I didn’t want him to be watching me.
Boys suck.
Even when they have perfect blue eyes and ridiculously cool trucks. Maybe especially then.
I punch in the code to the garage, dumping my bike against the wall. Blue, blue, blue. I need to get that color out of my system. I’ll figure out where to—
I pause, halfway through the door from the garage to the laundry room.
Something is wrong.
The now-bare skin at the back of my neck prickles as I stare into the empty house. Sirus is on an LA drive today. Deena is still at work.
I breathe in deeply, and there, again—something is wrong. Their house always smells vaguely of Tide detergent and the cold salt of the sea, but there’s too much salt now. Salt and . . . chlorine?
Maybe they had someone here cleaning the pool today and didn’t tell me.
I walk forward, silently, cautiously. Through the kitchen and into the dining room, where something crunches underfoot. Glass—hundreds of shards of glass. A breeze cuts across me and I look up to see that the sliding glass door to the patio and pool is smashed out, gaping and jagged and open.
Every sense on alert, I slowly retreat into the kitchen and slide a long, serrated knife out of the block on the counter. Keeping my back to the wall, I creep past the dining room, into the family room. Everything seems in order. TV and electronics still where they ought to be—even Deena’s sleek laptop, just sitting there on the couch.
I keep going, the only noise wind chimes drifting in from the patio, their cheerful notes at odds with the electric atmosphere inside. I stop dead when I come to the entry.
The front door is wide open.
I know—I know—it was closed when I pulled up on my bike not two minutes ago. Whoever was here is gone.
Or maybe they aren’t. I look up the stairs, only half a flight visible before it turns around a sharp corner. Clutching the knife, I walk up the stairs, each step measured and silent. If they are still here, they know I am, too, because the garage door opened. Hopefully they heard that and ran. But if not . . .
My breaths come fast, my heartbeat racing. I make it to the landing at the top of the stairs, the second-story hall stretching out in front of me. The first door on my right is already open. I peek around the doorframe and then whip my head back so I can process what I saw. Empty. This is the room that’ll be the baby’s, and there’s nothing in it but a scattering of paint-sample squares and some empty boxes.
The next door is a closet. I open it, cringing at the squeaky hinges, and stab inward with the knife.
Nothing.
Three more rooms. The bathroom, my room, and the master bedroom. The bathroom is easily cleared—thankfully they have a glass shower door rather than a curtain. I creep across the hall to my room, painfully aware of how loud doorknobs click if you don’t open them slowly. I push the door, and—
Floods.
The drawers have been pulled out of the dresser and thrown everywhere. There’s a dent in the wall above where one lies smashed and broken on the floor. My clothes are strewn madly about the room. A notebook I had for writing down design ideas has been torn apart, individual sheets scattered among the clothes.
My suitcase is in the middle of the room, literally ripped open, the pockets sliced and gaping like wounds. My closet door gapes wide, everything flung out. The whole room smells like the weird combination of scents downstairs, magnified.
I take one step in and hear more glass cracking underfoot. I lean down to pick up the only picture I brought—a framed shot of my mother and me, on the banks of the Nile, when I was ten. I’d left it in my suitcase, along with the amulets she forced me to bring. Those, too, are underfoot, each snapped in half.
I don’t—I can’t even—what? Why?
There’s a noise from downstairs and I whip around, brandishing the knife.
“Isadora?” Sirus calls, fear in his voice. “Isadora? Are you home?”
Letting out a breath I’ve been holding for far too long, I close my bedroom door and answer him.
“What?”
I shake my head. “Sorry, I’m just crushing on your truck.” He beams and I inwardly cringe. Why did I admit that?
“She’s pretty great, isn’t she?”
I pick up my bike. This has gotten off track. I don’t know why he’s so eager to hang out with me today. And I don’t care. I have no interest in boys, now or ever. I can’t help but notice him, and—oh, idiot gods, I am definitely attracted to him. This is how it starts. This is how I set myself up for pain and tragedy and endings where I want eternities.
I refuse. I refuse it all. I will never attach myself to someone else. I can end everything before it starts and be free and alone and perfectly happy.
“Maybe another time. My brother’s waiting for me.”
“Can I give you a ride home?”
“Sorry, my mother told me never to accept rides from strangers.” Not true; it was never an issue. I was never far enough away from her as a child for her to worry. But it was something she would say to me. Hmm . . . actually, I’m glad she never said it to me, because if she had, I’d be forced to ride with him just to go against her.
“I’ll have to work on being less strange, then. It was good to finally see you.” That secret smile again. I want to smoosh his cheeks together to get rid of it.
I wave, climbing onto my bike and peddling away. At the corner light I risk a glance back to see if he’s watching me. He’s sitting, scribbling madly in his notebook. Good. I didn’t want him to be watching me.
Boys suck.
Even when they have perfect blue eyes and ridiculously cool trucks. Maybe especially then.
I punch in the code to the garage, dumping my bike against the wall. Blue, blue, blue. I need to get that color out of my system. I’ll figure out where to—
I pause, halfway through the door from the garage to the laundry room.
Something is wrong.
The now-bare skin at the back of my neck prickles as I stare into the empty house. Sirus is on an LA drive today. Deena is still at work.
I breathe in deeply, and there, again—something is wrong. Their house always smells vaguely of Tide detergent and the cold salt of the sea, but there’s too much salt now. Salt and . . . chlorine?
Maybe they had someone here cleaning the pool today and didn’t tell me.
I walk forward, silently, cautiously. Through the kitchen and into the dining room, where something crunches underfoot. Glass—hundreds of shards of glass. A breeze cuts across me and I look up to see that the sliding glass door to the patio and pool is smashed out, gaping and jagged and open.
Every sense on alert, I slowly retreat into the kitchen and slide a long, serrated knife out of the block on the counter. Keeping my back to the wall, I creep past the dining room, into the family room. Everything seems in order. TV and electronics still where they ought to be—even Deena’s sleek laptop, just sitting there on the couch.
I keep going, the only noise wind chimes drifting in from the patio, their cheerful notes at odds with the electric atmosphere inside. I stop dead when I come to the entry.
The front door is wide open.
I know—I know—it was closed when I pulled up on my bike not two minutes ago. Whoever was here is gone.
Or maybe they aren’t. I look up the stairs, only half a flight visible before it turns around a sharp corner. Clutching the knife, I walk up the stairs, each step measured and silent. If they are still here, they know I am, too, because the garage door opened. Hopefully they heard that and ran. But if not . . .
My breaths come fast, my heartbeat racing. I make it to the landing at the top of the stairs, the second-story hall stretching out in front of me. The first door on my right is already open. I peek around the doorframe and then whip my head back so I can process what I saw. Empty. This is the room that’ll be the baby’s, and there’s nothing in it but a scattering of paint-sample squares and some empty boxes.
The next door is a closet. I open it, cringing at the squeaky hinges, and stab inward with the knife.
Nothing.
Three more rooms. The bathroom, my room, and the master bedroom. The bathroom is easily cleared—thankfully they have a glass shower door rather than a curtain. I creep across the hall to my room, painfully aware of how loud doorknobs click if you don’t open them slowly. I push the door, and—
Floods.
The drawers have been pulled out of the dresser and thrown everywhere. There’s a dent in the wall above where one lies smashed and broken on the floor. My clothes are strewn madly about the room. A notebook I had for writing down design ideas has been torn apart, individual sheets scattered among the clothes.
My suitcase is in the middle of the room, literally ripped open, the pockets sliced and gaping like wounds. My closet door gapes wide, everything flung out. The whole room smells like the weird combination of scents downstairs, magnified.
I take one step in and hear more glass cracking underfoot. I lean down to pick up the only picture I brought—a framed shot of my mother and me, on the banks of the Nile, when I was ten. I’d left it in my suitcase, along with the amulets she forced me to bring. Those, too, are underfoot, each snapped in half.
I don’t—I can’t even—what? Why?
There’s a noise from downstairs and I whip around, brandishing the knife.
“Isadora?” Sirus calls, fear in his voice. “Isadora? Are you home?”
Letting out a breath I’ve been holding for far too long, I close my bedroom door and answer him.
