Catch a Falling Star (29 page)

to look at what’s happening
right now
.”

He nodded, fiddling with the zipper on his tracksuit. “Yeah,

right. That’s good.”

He squeezed my knee before hurrying over to the actress with

the poinsettia. She nodded, the poinsettia bobbing up and down. I

hadn’t told Adam, but I’d read
A Christmas Carol
over the last week.

I’d actually never read Dickens’s novella, only seen it at

Christmastime as a play. I didn’t usually go for Victorian novels,

so bleak and dreary. But this one got to me. And the Ghost of

Christmas Present was my favorite of the spirits, how he could

change his shape to fit any space, how he could only live in that one

present moment.

The now.

Living in the now was a popular sort of notion in Northern

California, especially around here. Live for now.
Carpe diem
. Over

the years, our customers at the café had worn T-shirts bearing ver-

sions of this particular concept.
Live Now
.
Present Moment Only,

Please
.
Goddess of the Now
. I’d often wondered about people’s need to

constantly remind themselves to be aware of living right now. It

seemed sort of obvious to me. Of course we lived right now. When

else would we be living?

Watching Adam work through his scene, though, I started to

think I’d missed a bit of what that whole living
now
really meant to

other people. Probably because I lived far too much in the now. I’d

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never had to wrestle with it the way some of our customers

clearly had.

My trouble wasn’t with now. My trouble was with the future.

I did
now
really well.

Dad always told me I was good at noticing moments, at appre-

ciating the little things in life. It struck me as an odd thing, being

good at noticing moments. Moments, in and of themselves, were

actually pretty boring little bits of time. For most people, they

were like confetti or snowflakes; they didn’t amount to much until

they were in groups. I think I was the opposite. I avoided the

groups, the mounds of confetti or snow that had built up in my

life, because I was more frightened of what those mounds might

tell me to do.

I lived in the now so I didn’t have to move forward.

Sitting on the bench, the warm wind blowing across the grave-

yard, I wondered if I’d been choosing the now so I didn’t have to

think about the point when the ghost of my future came along and

poked me with his crooked, bossy stick.

But like it or not, like Scrooge, I would have to think about it.

When I got home that evening, my Ghost of Christmas Future was

sitting at the kitchen table reading the newspaper.

Two of them.

“Hi, parents.” I leaned down to kiss Mom. “When did you

get home?”

She reached up to give me a hug. “About an hour ago.” Her

dark hair had lightened in the summer sun, and her face looked tan

230

in the yellow light of the overhead lamp. “Join us.” Something in

her voice told me this wasn’t a casual invitation.

I pulled a pitcher of herbal iced tea from the fridge. “Want

some?” I offered, pouring myself a glass over some ice.

“We’re good,” Dad answered, taking off his reading glasses

and resting them on the folded newspaper in front of him. He

pushed out the chair next to him with his foot.

I settled into it. “What’s up?”

They exchanged a look across the table. Uh-oh. That look was

usually reserved for conversations about my brother. I sat up

straighter. “Is everything okay? Is John okay?” Had they seen the

dragon tears I’d scattered by the maple tree in the yard?

“Actually . . .” Dad cleared his throat. “This isn’t about John.”

“Oh.”

Mom folded her hands in front of her on the table. I could see

her working something over in her mind; it moved across her face

like cloud cover. “We have something we’d like to talk about

with you.”

I waited, my eyes darting between them. “Okay.”

Dad cleared his throat again. “We’re, here’s the thing . . .

we’re concerned about you.”

“About me?” I’d never had a conversation like this with my

parents. I wasn’t the sort of kid who caused concerns for parents.

“Is this about Adam?”

“Not really.” Mom folded and unfolded the nearest corner edge

of the newspaper. “We’ve been meaning to talk to you about this

for a while.”

“It’s about graduation.” Dad toyed with his glasses. “About

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what’s going to happen after you graduate next year.” He glanced

again at Mom.

At least now I knew which conversation we were having. We’d

all been having it for years with our parents. Of course, now it was

becoming less theoretical and more —
tell us exactly what will hap-

pen next
. Next. The Future. Chloe’s and Alien Drake’s parents had

already asked for the lists. College lists. Life-after-high-school

lists.
Life
lists. The Future with its crooked stick was big on lists.

So much for living in the now.

I breathed out a sigh. “Right, okay.” I launched into my plan.

I’d stay here after graduation and work at the café. Teach at Snow

Ridge. Life as usual. “Only, I’ll be able to pick up more shifts once

school’s off my plate.”

My parents exchanged another look. Mom nodded slowly, her

eyes on her folded hands. “Yeah, that’s sort of what we thought you

might say.”

Outside, the evening darkened, yellowing the lamplight even

more. Dad picked up the pen lying next to his glasses, clicked and

unclicked the top. “Thing is,” Dad said, taking a breath, “we’re not

okay with that plan.”

My neck cooled. What did he mean they weren’t okay with my

plan? “You don’t want me to work at Eats?”

Mom reached for my hand. “Honey, we’re worried you’re not

thinking broadly enough. We’d love for you to work with us at the

café. But we were hoping you’d go get an education first. Then,

come back to us if you want, after college, in the summers, after

having another life out in the bigger world. Some experiences that

will be your own, that aren’t tied to Little.”

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Not them, too. The hum of the fridge, the clicking of Dad’s

pen, filled my ears with a buzzing. Mom’s hand smothered mine

and I made a fist. “Dad didn’t go to college. He’s always had

the café.”

Letting go, she glanced at Dad, who sighed. “Yes, but we

always thought you’d go off to dance somewhere. And now . . .”

His voice trailed off.
Click. Click.

“It’s been a year,” Mom finished.

“I know how long it’s been,” I snapped, slumping in my chair,

aware that I’d just pulled a classic teenager pose. I sat up a bit. No

need to give them any ammunition.

“Please don’t get defensive, Carter.” Dad tilted his head, study-

ing me. “We’re allowed to have this conversation with you. We’re

your parents.” Dad wasn’t one to discipline me, didn’t need to use

a dad voice very often, and he hadn’t used it at all for quite some

time. It sounded heavy-edged in the small space of the kitchen. His

big shoulders sighed with him. “We want you to know that we’re

honored you would choose this life, this town, our family busi-

ness. It makes us feel like we’ve done a pretty bang-up job.”

Tears bit at the edges of my eyes. “But I’m fired.”

Mom laughed in surprise, sitting back in her chair. “Oh,

Carter. You’re not one to be dramatic.”

She was right. I hated drama, opted for peace and ease. Which

is why I didn’t want any grand plans. I just wanted my life, the life

I already liked. “I think I should stay.” I looked straight at Mom.

“Don’t you always say that life should be about serving those not as

fortunate? I want to stay here and do that.”

Her shoulders sagged. “I do say that. But I think there is value

233

in building yourself first. I went to college and figured out who I

was
first
.”

“I know who I am.” Another glance. There was something else

they weren’t telling me. “What?”

Dad bit his lip. “We’re also afraid you’re staying because you

think you can help your brother.”

Mom leaned toward me, resting her weight on her forearms.

“He needs to get his own help, Carter. You know that, right? We

can’t help him when he won’t help himself.”

I stared at her. “How can you say that? We’re his
family
.”

Mom sighed. “Honey, he has a serious problem. A gambling

addiction.” She paused, those words floating and strange. “He

keeps making bad, addictive choices. I’ve . . .” She pushed some

hair behind her ears. “Well, I’ve been seeing someone who special-

izes in helping families with a member who has a gambling

problem. She’s been able to give me some incredible resources.”

My heart raced. “For John? Somewhere he can get help?”

“Yes.”

“And he’s agreed to go?”

Dad’s eyes darkened. “No, not yet.”

“I’ll talk to him.” I tried to look at both of them at once, catch

their eyes. I’d rather talk about John than talk about me.

Mom started to say something but bit her lip. “That’d be

great.” She splayed out her fingers on the table. “But let’s not get

sidetracked. We want you to put a list together for yourself.” I

flinched at the word
list
. She hurried to say, “Just some options.

Dad and I aren’t saying absolutely college, though we think you

would love it, especially a program in dance therapy or something.

234

But it could also be culinary school or a true gap year.” She smiled

at my face. “Come on, this isn’t a prison sentence. You’re lucky to

have these sorts of options. You should see some of what I’ve seen.”

She stopped her own lecture. “Okay, no lessons, sorry. We just

want you to plan for something that will teach you about what you

can love and learn from beyond Little.”

Dad put his hand on my arm. “Even Hobbits have to take

adventures. That’s how they bring stories back to the Shire.”

My parents were so wonderful. I knew I should feel lucky and

grateful and excited. But I didn’t. I felt kicked out of my own

house.

Mom stood up, arching her back. She hadn’t even showered

since she got home, and she always liked a good shower after

her trips. Her fingers resting on the back of my chair, she asked,

“Deal?”

“Deal.” I avoided her eyes.

235

yesterday’s sightings

Things Are Looking Up in Little, CA

Morning, sky watchers. The other day, we overheard someone

refer to a lonely period in his life as feeling like “a black hole.”

Obviously, it’s a bummer to feel like that and we felt bad for

the guy, but it got us thinking that he probably doesn’t real y

know what a black hole is. Because black holes are fil ed with

so much stuff, so much dense stuff, that it’s not real y about

emptiness or loneliness at al . It’s about too much stuff in too

little a space so there’s not even room for light to squeeze out.

(At least, that’s what it seems like to us from the description on

NASA’s site.) But what grabbed our attention most was that

black holes often happen when a star is dying. And even

cooler, we thought, was that even though scientists can’t see

them, they know where they are because of the way certain

stars and gases act around the black hole. They act weird.

Different.

And it made us think about how sometimes we all end up

orbiting a strange, dense black hole. A dying star. And it

makes us act weird and different.

What do you think?

See you tonight, under the sky.

236

nineteen

i tapped at the glass of Alien Drake’s window. It was too late to

ring the doorbell, and he wasn’t answering my texts. After a few

seconds, his round face appeared in the window, his eyebrows

standing at attention. “Hey,” he said, sliding the window open.

“You going old-school tonight?”

I could barely hear him over the hum of the air conditioner.

“You weren’t answering your texts.”

He scrambled away from the window, returning with his

phone. “Dead.” He held it up as evidence. Behind him, his walls

were covered with star maps, pictures of planets, and a wall-sized

diagram of Area 51.

I felt a deep ache for the days when we used to just lie on the

floor and look at the glow of the peel-and-stick stars on the ceiling

of his room, the rain falling outside. “Can you come out?”

“Roof or walk?”

“Roof.”

“I’ll get provisions.” He slid the window shut again.

In five minutes, we were sitting on an old quilt, the night a

gleaming sheet above us. “So spending too much time around

dying stars makes some of us act weird, huh?”

237

He popped open a bag of cheddar popcorn. “Glad to see you’re

still reading our blog.”