Mason is enjoying himself far too much. “I get it, I mean, a girl needs Dick every now and then. Needs to go on a little Dick date.” He seems to ripple with silent laughter.
“Mason!” I’m agitated. Am I embarrassed because I realize I’m actually looking for approval from a dead person or because it’s clear I don’t have it? “What’s wrong with Richard Walker?”
I can tell he’s about to come out with another double entendre, so I cut him off. “And no more dick jokes.”
He gasps. “Who, me? I would never.”
I snort. “Right. So what’s your problem with Richard? Out with it.”
“No, nothing, nothing at all. Except—well, doesn’t he sort of seem like not a real person? Like he’s an imitation of a person? He’s human aspartame.”
“That’s big talk from someone who is literally a phantom. And I think he seems like an excellent person.”
I hate it when I get huffy like this. This is quintessential Mason, though, so clever and quick that you can’t help sort of crushing on him. Until he turns his critical laser in your direction, and it suddenly seems ridiculous that you could have entertained the idea that he could see you as more than a friend. Or that you would even want that.
The thought of more than a friend gives me an idea, though.An angle for distraction. “Anyways, it sounds like someone might just be jealous.”
“Jealous?” He leans in closer to me, like he’s intrigued. “You mean me?”
“That’s right,” I say, doubling down even though I’m already feeling stupid that I came out and suggested he would want me like I’m some hot shit or something.
He stands up and kicks at a rock at his feet. Then he shakes his head and says, “I didn’t want to admit it, Murph. But it’s the truth. I am jealous.”
My stomach starts feeling twisty and weird, like it’s trying to fold itself up with my lungs the way you pair freshly laundered socks. I can’t breathe. Is he actually saying this? Without thinking, I reach toward him. “Mason—” I start, but he interrupts me.
“I am so jealous of you. Because I want a little of that sweet Splenda Dick, toooooooo.” He howls the last word to the sky.
I groan. I should have known. This is our familiar pattern, but the sting still feels brand-new. I’m out of my depth. I start toward the road.
“I’ve got to get home. My mom will be freaking by now.”
“Okay, Murph.” The air changes and suddenly feels empty, the way a house feels when you walk in and no one is home. I shudder. I got rid of him. Why did I do that? Being with him felt uncomfortable, but being without him feels worse, especially since I don’t know if I’ll ever see him again. Well, I’m not going to let that happen, because right now, I need him. I need to see him, and maybe more than that, I need someone to see me.
By the time I get back to the house, I’ve convinced myself that I should confess to my parents that I have become completely unhinged, that I am having full-blown multisensory hallucinations and have lost touch with reality. But then I cross paths with the delivery guy from Pontillo’s Pizza getting into his Civic, and suddenly everything feels so … normal. I had forgotten it was Wednesday, which in our house means Pizza Day. At last, something not shitty is happening. I decide to go with it, as I am a firm believer that cheese cures most things. I make a quick stop in the bathroom to wash my hands and get rid of any tear streaks on my face and then slip into my seat in the kitchen. My dad is already at the table, waiting for buffalo wings. Mom is bustling around the island with the to-go containers. She’s busy and energetic all of a sudden. She clearly has an agenda.
“Nate and I have decided to watch that new superhero movie—I think it’s the Avengers team up with Batman?” she says, utterly failing at seeming spontaneous. “Why don’t you keep your dad company in here, Hatts?”
Before I can respond, Nate appears in the doorway, remote still in hand. “Mom!” he says, outraged. “How many times have I told you that you can’t mix the Marvel and DC universes?”
“I don’t know, I just can’t keep them straight,” she says, putting the plate of pizza, wings, and blue cheese next to my dad’sleft hand. “Wings at nine o’clock, babe, pizza at three.” The clock system is how we let Dad know where the location of each food item is. I’ve always relished its efficiency. “Now I’ve got to go watch Batman fight Iron Man or whatever.” She laughs as my brother puts his hands over his ears like he’s hearing a deafening screech, and the two of them disappear into the den. My brother makes my mom endlessly happy, with his simple needs and perfect vision.
It’s going to be all giggles and rainbows in the den, but the mood in the kitchen is severe. I take a deep breath. We are clearly supposed to have “a talk,” though I’m not sure if Dad is in on the planning of this or not. We each eat a whole pepperoni slice in silence, as if we’re hoping the grease will provide wisdom.
Just get it over with. “So I guess you heard,” I say.
“Yes,” he gets out, licking oil off his fingers and then wiping his hands on a paper towel. Now he’s ready, I guess. “I’m sorry, Hattie. It wasn’t a surprise to me, though. Since you were a little girl, we suspected something was wrong. You couldn’t see the stars.”
The basic truth of this sentence almost knocks me off my chair. He’s right, of course. I’m flooded with my earliest memories of hearing nursery rhymes all about “star light, star bright” and flipping through picture books filled with sparkling illustrations of star-studded skies and wondering where those wonderful skies were. Because when I looked up into the dark, even on our rural property untouched by light pollution, all Icould make out was the moon. At some point, I decided that the notion of stars in the sky was as made up as unicorns or the Tooth Fairy. And even though by now I knew that stars were technically real, I hadn’t ever revised that comforting default belief in my mind.
“Did Mom know, too?” I ask.
“Well, you know I can’t speak for your mother. But I will tell you that I have a theory.”
“Uh-huh.” The wordtheoryalready has me inwardly groaning.
“I’ve thought a lot about this, Hattie, and I’ve found this helpful. I hope it might help you, too.”
“Uh-huh.”
