Where the Stars Still Shine (25 page)

“You can’t tell him.”

“He needs to know, Callie. Your mom should be held accountable for this, and if they can find this Frank asshole, he should be arrested, too.”

“No.”

He runs his fingers up through his curls, then drops his hands to his hips. “Cal—”

“She’s my mother, Alex. I can’t do that to her.”

“She doesn’t deserve this kind of devotion.”

I meet his eyes. “Neither does your dad.”

“No.” He regards me silently for a moment. “But my mom does.”

“And so does Greg,” I say. “This truth isn’t going to make his life any better than it is right now. Please. Don’t tell him.”

“Fine,” he says, as a black-and-tan Florida Highway Patrol car rolls off the road behind him.

A female officer gets out and walks over to us. “Is everything all right here?”

“Yes, ma’am,” I say. “I think I had a little too much sun today at the beach. I felt like I was going to throw up, so we pulled over so I could get some water and …” I gesture toward the brush along the side of the road, inferring that I’d vomited in them. My eyes, swollen from crying, seem to solidify the lie.

“There’s a Walgreens at the next exit,” the trooper offers, her official tone a little softer now. She smiles. “I’d recommend some Pepto and maybe a few minutes in their air conditioning, instead of hanging out here on the shoulder.”

I hop down from the tailgate. “We’ll do that. Thank you.”

We pull back onto the highway as she returns to her patrol car. She follows us for a couple tenths of a mile, before U-turning southbound. Even though I’m in no danger of actually throwing up, we take the next exit to Walgreens, where we buy a couple of Drumsticks and eat them in the magazine aisle.

I fall asleep again when we’re back on US 19, but this time my dreams are untroubled and I wake when Alex pulls alongside the curb on Grand. He laughs
when I sit up. I tilt in the rearview mirror in my direction as he gets out of the truck, and discover seat marks embossed on my cheek. Also, my hair is pushed up on one side in a righteous case of bed head.

“Wow. Not so much the goddess at the moment,” I say, as Alex opens the passenger door for me.

“Not so much,” he agrees, wrapping his arms around my waist.

“Thanks for teaching me how to snorkel. And, you know …”

He presses his forehead to mine. “Let’s not talk about that, because I spent the rest of the drive coming up with new and interesting ways to kill someone. I’d rather just kiss you.”

I circle my arms around his neck. “That sounds like a much better use of your time.” My lips meet his and he shifts me tighter against him. I haven’t had many days worth remembering so I’m reluctant for this one to end. “Maybe you could come over. You know, later.”

“Already planned on that.”

“Good,” I say, kissing him once more. “I should probably go. I told Greg not to count on me for dinner, but he’d probably like it if I showed up. Thanks, um—thanks for understanding why I don’t want to tell him about—”

“I don’t really understand,” Alex interrupts. “I still
think you should tell him, but … it’s your decision and I can respect that.”

My stomach knots as I think about Yiayoúla’s scheme to reunite him with his mother. And I realize I have the chance to warn him about what’s going to happen tomorrow.

“Alex—”

“Oh, shit,” he says, his voice low. “We are so busted.”

I turn around to see Tucker come sailing down the block on training wheels, his head covered in a huge white bike helmet that makes him look like a miniature alien. Behind him is Phoebe, pushing Joe in his stroller, her eyes wide with surprise.

“Hey, Phoebs.” Alex greets his sister as if she didn’t just see us making out. I wish I could be so nonchalant, but I can see the questions in her eyes and I don’t want to have to answer them. I look at the ground and say hello.

“Uncle Alex!” Tucker slides off his bicycle and launches himself into Alex’s arms. “You were kissing Callie
on her mouth
.”

I wish I could melt right into the cracks between the sidewalk, and when I glance at Phoebe, her face seems to suggest she’s wishing the same for herself.

Alex laughs. “Yeah, buddy, I was.”

“Are you gonna have a wedding?”

“No, but when I do, you’ll be the first to know, okay?”

“But—” Tucker looks confused as Alex lowers him to his feet. He’s about to ask another question when Phoebe interrupts him. “Tuck, we need to get home to start dinner for Daddy. Remember I said you could snap the beans?”

“Bean snapping!” he cheers, forgetting about the kissing. Tucker climbs back on his bike and pedals away.

“You can help with dinner, too.” Phoebe looks first at me, then turns to Alex as she starts after Tucker, who has already disappeared around the corner. “Go home. We
will
talk later.”

As I hurry after her, my phone vibrates in my beach bag. I dig it out to find a message from Alex.

Kali tihi, theoula mou
.

I text back, asking him what it means, but from around the corner I hear the rumble of the engine as he starts the truck. Phoebe doesn’t say anything as we walk to the house. When she unbuckles Joe from the stroller, he wriggles out and toddles over to me, grabbing my hand. “Up, Peach.” I carry him into the house.

“We should probably start with the bread because it needs time to rise,” Phoebe says, as I follow her into the kitchen with Joe still in my arms. She sets Tucker up at the table with a bag of green beans and a colander. He
snaps off the ends of the beans, pretending they are puny humans and he is the Incredible Hulk.

“Do you always make everything from scratch?” I ask, as Phoebe takes a large container of bread dough from the refrigerator and pulls off a generous lump.

“Not everything,” she says. “But I love to cook, so I try.”

“Down.” Joe squirms and I lower him to the floor. “Cook.”

He opens a drawer filled with plastic food and throws a cucumber, a waffle, and a can of grape soda into a toy pot. Phoebe chuckles. “He has his father’s skill in the kitchen.”

“What, um—what do you want me to do?” I ask.

“Grab five potatoes from the pantry,” she instructs. “The peeler is in the drawer beside the sink.”

“I don’t know how to peel potatoes.”

Phoebe places the blob of bread dough on a wooden pizza paddle and takes a moment to show me how to scrape the peeler along the potato skin.

“My mother taught me how to do this when I was just a couple years older than Tucker,” she says, and I bristle, thinking she’s making some sort of judgment against my mom. I can pack a suitcase in less than five minutes, I can wash my hair in a rest-stop sink, and I know all the words to all the songs on Pearl Jam’s first album, but my mother has never taught me any practical
life skills. “I loved peeling apples the best,” Phoebe continues. “I would challenge myself to do it in one continuous strip. Got pretty good at it, too.”

She hands the potato and peeler back to me, and I continue on my own. It’s not as effortless as she makes it seem.

“I was not one of the popular girls,” she says, as she kneads her fingers in the dough. Her braided silver ring and sparkling diamond wedding band are lying on the counter beside her. “I was raised traditionally, so I was the girl who cared about getting good grades, willingly went to church on Sunday mornings, and played clarinet in the marching band. Your mom, though—”

“You knew my mom?”

“Not personally, but Veronica Quinn was the coolest girl in school, so everyone knew who she was,” she says. “If Veronica got her hair cut, the next week you’d see half a dozen girls with the same style. And no one in Tarpon Springs had ever heard of Doc Martens until your mom started wearing them, usually with ripped tights and baby-doll dresses. And her name … well, I was going through a phase when I hated my name, and Veronica seemed so
normal
and cool. My friends and I would pretend to be scandalized by her, but then spend hours at the drugstore arguing over which shade of red lipstick was the one she wore.”

“Revlon Certainly Red,” I say. “She likes it because
it’s one of the only colors that’s never been discontinued.”

“Yes!” Phoebe pumps her fist, making me laugh. “Nailed it.” She sets aside the bread and takes a whole chicken from the refrigerator. “Anyway, I thought if I was more like her that maybe Greg would think of me as a girl, instead of part of his extended family. But Revlon Certainly Red looked ridiculous on me and I threw it away after applying it just that one time.”

“It looks ridiculous on me, too,” I offer. “If it makes you feel any better.”

Phoebe smiles, as she lifts the bird into a roasting pan. “Actually, it does. Thanks.”

“So, you liked Greg in high school?”

“Always,” she says. “Even when he was with your mom and afterward, when she broke his heart. I dated a couple of guys in college, but … okay, I have to admit it feels a little strange talking about this with you because you’re Veronica’s daughter.”

“It’s okay that he loves you more than her.” I pick up the next potato and scrape the peeler down the length. “He deserves that.”

“Thank you.” She slides the roasting pan into the oven. “Greg is, was, and always will be the love of my life. And our family might seem boring to you—”

“It doesn’t,” I say. “It’s not.”

“Anyway, I don’t keep things from him, so I just want you to know that I’m going to tell him about this …
thing
between you and Alex.”

“I figured.”

“Ever since our mom got sick, Alex has changed. And not in a good way,” Phoebe says. “He was on the college-prep track in high school, but then he dropped out. I mean, the thing with Mom sent all of us into kind of a tailspin, but she wanted him to go to college. If I were in his shoes, I’d do everything I could to honor her wishes, not throw away the life she wanted for me.”

I understand now how she could miss the truth. She’s not even looking for it.

“The point is, you just came home and the last thing you need is to get involved with someone whose own life is a mess,” she says. “My brother is not a good influence.”

I take a vicious swipe with the peeler. “Everyone seems to think they know exactly what I need, but no one has ever asked me what I think. Alex and I aren’t running off to elope or anything. We’re just hanging out.”

“I think your dad is afraid you’ll get your heart broken.”

“But isn’t that my risk to take?”

“You’re only seventeen—”

“My mom and Greg were sixteen,” I point out.

“Exactly.”

“It’s not the same.”

“After what I witnessed today,” Phoebe says, “I’m not so sure I’d agree.”

The front screen door slaps shut and Greg calls out a hello. Saving me once again from an answer I don’t have. He comes into the kitchen.

“So, everything’s—Hey, Cal.” Greg kisses me on the cheek as if this morning’s frostiness was from another lifetime, then kisses Phoebe. “I didn’t expect you home from the beach yet, but it looks like you brought half of it with you.”

I look down to find a dusting of sand—and a few bits of potato peel—around my bare feet, and that I forgot I was still wearing my bathing suit and shirt when I followed Phoebe home. “Oh, um, I’ll sweep it up when I’m done making a bigger mess.”

“It’s okay.” Greg steals a green bean from Tucker’s colander and crunches it raw. “Anyway, I was about to say … they installed the appliances in the kitchen today and the painting is just about finished, so we should be able to have Christmas in our new house.”

Phoebe’s face practically glows. “I can’t wait to fit everyone around the dining-room table.”

I’m momentarily forgotten—along with the potatoes—as they debate renting a do-it-yourself truck
versus hiring professional movers, and discuss where to put the Christmas tree in the new house. When I’m done peeling, I leave the skinless spuds in an empty pan and head for the back door.

“We’ll finish up when you get back,” Phoebe says, and I wonder if she’s talking about mashed potatoes or Alex. Either way, I don’t really want to come back because I know that while I’m taking a shower, she’ll probably be telling Greg everything.

The trouble with living in an Airstream is that I can’t stand in the shower until the water goes cold, because that means having to buy a whole new tank of propane. I have to find other ways to delay the inevitable. My bed gets made for the first time in days. I water the plants. Look up the translation for
Kali tihi, theoula mou
and, despite everything, grin stupidly to myself when I learn it means “Good luck, my little goddess.” Search local dive shops on the Internet. And for the first time since I arrived in Tarpon Springs, I take out my guitar.

The calluses that come with years of playing are gone now, so the strings bite into the soft skin of my fingertips as I form the notes, and my nails—the pale-pink polish chipped after my day in the ocean—feel too
long to play comfortably. But the steadfast consistency of the sound is reassuring. I play the intro to “All Apologies” until my hands remember and I sing along, even though my voice was not made for singing. The screen door tells me when Greg comes into the trailer, and my fingers miss the next chord.

“I was never much of a Nirvana fan,” he says. “Except that song. I loved that one.”

“Yeah. Me, too.”

“So, I came out here with a speech all prepared and now … this threw me off.” He gestures at the guitar as I put it away. “I wasn’t comfortable with the idea of you seeing some mystery guy, but I’m even less comfortable knowing that it’s Alex.”

“Why?”

“He’s not what you need right now.” Greg’s not saying anything different from what Phoebe said in the kitchen, but his words are gasoline and a match.

“How do you know what I need?” I ask. “You don’t even know me.”

“Whose fault is that?” Frustration drives his hands to his hips, his posture defensive. “You haven’t shared anything about your life. You ignore the rules. You keep secrets. And we both know who was responsible for the mess at the house the other night. You lied to protect her, and I suspect you’re the one who told her about the
house in the first place. I’ve given you a home, Callie. Stability. A
future
. How could you do that?”