Kiss the Stars (Devon Slaughter Book 1) Read online

  Meanwhile, Georgie had celebrated her thirtieth birthday. My heart leaped with gleeful vengeance. I slammed the car door.

  After lining up my cereal in the cupboard, I strode through the house in a cocky swagger. I imagined accepting my award, wearing a black sheath dress and leopard print gloves that covered my arms.

  I heard thunderous applause. I envisioned my students weeping when I gave my acceptance speech. Georgie would boil with envy.

  24. Devon

  I BORROWED a Ferrari from the blonde who took me for a midnight swim in her pool. I lifted the keys from her counter on my way out the door. The car was silver, as sleek and deadly as a bullet. There was a chance she’d never notice it missing and there was a chance I wouldn’t make it past the city limits before the cops were on me.

  I yearned to crash and burn.

  But the drive across the desert was uneventful. I passed only a few towns once I got outside the city limits. I felt the temperature drop when I climbed into the mountains. The waning moon slid in and out of the forest.

  For miles, after descending, I drove alongside the wide dark Columbia at 160 mph. On a stretch with no other car in sight, I hit 200. The Ferrari didn’t break a sweat.

  Dawn broke just as I reached the Bridge of the Gods. I scrounged up a dollar to pay the toll and went across slowly, looking down into the river below me. I was on the familiar side of the Cascades, nearing home.

  I drove beside the Columbia again, only this time, I was in Washington. I turned onto a narrow road. The old lodge rose up in front of me. Trees towered and swayed in the breeze. Back in here, it was still dark. During camp, every morning, we used to swim to the dock in the middle of the lake to get to the sun.

  My hands clenched on the steering wheel.

  I knew the regular staff lived in town during the off season but I figured a maintenance crew must come regularly. I’d have to hide the car. I shifted down and bumped off the road. I felt the tires grinding into soft dirt. If I got stuck, I’d pull the car out by hand.

  An image of Ruby chewing her nails and watching me, as I changed her flat, reared in my mind. I felt a twist of what resembled nostalgia.

  I headed down the trail. The early morning air was cool. There was a hunter’s shack a few miles past where the trail ended. I’d sleep there until nightfall.

  * * *

  The shack had been recently swept and a fresh supply of canned food was stacked on the rickety table pushed into the corner. Wood was in the fireplace for the next visitor. I lay down on the cot. Daylight brightened the sky through the windows.

  The world was utterly quiet. I slept.

  When I woke, it was the dark of night. I made sure the door was shut and went down to meet the trail, passing by the log cabins that were once so familiar.

  I crossed the tennis courts, half looking for a ball to lob. I gazed up at the night sky, closed in by trees. It was strange to stare into the vast universe with my telescopic vision. Sometimes I got the feeling I was hurling through space and infinity.

  I tried to remember Enid at thirteen. I couldn’t. I tried to summon how she’d made me feel when I was thirteen. I couldn’t.

  What had happened to all of us?

  The car was still in its hiding place. No flats.

  I drove back across the Bridge of the Gods and headed for the city. The Gorge was dark and mysterious and wet. When I neared Portland, lights glittered and multiplied, smearing across the windshield. The wipers made a steady rhythm.

  The next bridge I crossed was Burnside. It spit me out downtown. I passed by Powell’s City of Books and got another stab of nostalgia. I had a limp hope these flashes of emotion meant I’d claw my way out of what I’d become.

  Sooner or later, something had to give.

  I went the long way around to avoid driving past my old neighborhood. I imagined walking through the front door of my childhood home, waving, “Hey, Mom, hey Dad,” like a scene straight out of Pet Cemetery.

  Zadie’s parents were professors. She’d grown up on the east side in a comfy old Victorian with two little brothers underfoot and where I’d spent a lot of time. Enid’s house wasn’t that far from my childhood home, though our house was closer in, a sprawling Colonial with rose gardens. It was my mother’s ancestral home and it was hard to fathom my parents ever leaving.

  I went to Enid’s house at the end of a quiet street where trees shielded the sedate lawns. The house was a mid-century modern with a steep driveway. I’d gone there once for Enid’s birthday party, in the phase where she was still trying to hold my hand. I thought about how easy it had been to cut her off, despite the fact that we went to the same school and lived only blocks from each other.

  I drove by to scope out the scene. There was a mini-van in the drive, parked behind a Suburban. A pink child’s jacket lay on the lawn, under a bicycle.

  I frowned. When Enid had lived here with her mother, the house and lawn were immaculate. Now the gray house needed a new paint job and the big vista windows were murky. Surely, another family had moved in, I told myself. And yet, I felt a prickle along my spine.

  I parked down the street, got out and glanced around. The rain had turned into a light mist. The streetlamps were tall and cast a yellow light. A sign said, ‘Neighborhood Watch,’ but the houses were far back, sheltered by trees, and it was late. I doubted anyone watched.

  I climbed up the hill, becoming invisible as I went.

  From the distance of the next yard, I could look into the kitchen. A woman sat at the counter. She was reading Vogue, turning the pages slowly (no wedding ring) and smoking a cigarette. I smelled vanilla in the tobacco.

  I looked closely at the woman. She had nice even features but her lovely chin disappeared into flesh. Her long hair (falling around her shoulders) was dark and shiny, the same color Enid’s had been. I was pretty sure I was looking at Enid’s mother. Despite her weight gain, she had aged well.

  Many things went through my mind. I had the terrible urge to talk to the woman I remembered as Mrs. Grosling. I wanted to sit next to her and smoke one of her vanilla cigarettes and shoot the shit. I knew I could learn something about myself by listening to what she believed had happened to her daughter.

  But I held back, afraid of being recognized. I decided to wait for the right moment to slip inside. I felt desire toward Enid’s mother, a sexy pull that struck me as illicit, as if I was still thirteen and awkwardly human.

  I scanned what I could see of the room, looking for a security system. I found a tell-tale pad with its glowing keyboard.

  My gaze went back to Enid’s mother. While I watched, she ground out her cigarette in a glass ashtray, stood up and shook out her hair. I felt another surge of desire watching the dark waves ripple down her back.

  She wore tight jeans. Like Enid, she had an hourglass shape, on a larger scale. When she turned, her pillowy breasts jiggled, braless, inside a silk shirt with a wide collar opened to show her cleavage.

  She cracked the window I looked through, and waved her hands, obviously trying to fan away smoke. I thought of the child’s jacket on the lawn. She couldn’t have grandkids. Enid had been an only child, like me. I supposed she could be a great aunt, or the coat belonged to a neighbor kid. Maybe she babysat.

  She moved out of view, into the next room, leaving the window open. Jesus, people were careless. I took the mossy path to the sliding glass doors. With the window open, I was confident the alarm hadn’t been set. (I was no longer in the mood for a cop chase.)

  I gave the door a quick jerk and snapped the plastic lock. Another jerk broke the stopper. I paused to listen, and stole inside.

  The living room had a square stone fireplace and I remembered Enid opening her birthday gifts in front of it. I had given her a set of rhinestone bracelets recommended by the saleswoman at Nordstrom.

  I heard movement in a room down the hall. I recognized the soft brushing of cloth, the sound of a zipper opening. I went down the wide hallway. There was a skylight overhead
and I glanced up at the black sky. You hardly ever saw the stars here.

  I leaned against the doorframe to watch her.

  She pulled her shirt over her head. Her back was to me and my eyes moved down as she wriggled out of her jeans. A black butterfly emerged, faded. Enid and her mother had matching tattoos?

  Devon, you fucking idiot.

  She whirled around and stared right at me, like Ruby had. It took all my strength to stay invisible. Her breath caught, her eyes moved past me. She snatched her robe off the bed. Her poor heart hammered like a racehorse.

  I stepped out of her way, as she hurried into the hall. She would find the broken lock and she’d damn well better call the police.

  I slipped out the front. Enid had nothing to do with what had happened in Nicaragua. She was just a woman approaching middle-age. It was probably her kid’s coat on the lawn. How could I have been so stupid? If there was one thing I should have figured out by now—I knew nothing.

  The tires of the Ferrari squealed. I hit the freeway headed east. The car ate up the miles and the hole inside me opened wider.

  25. Ruby

  THE SCHOOL parking lot was almost empty. Getting my favorite space was no victory. My eyes were grainy from lack of sleep and my stomach roiled from too much coffee. The day ahead stretched endlessly.

  I went to the office to pick up the teacher’s text and Georgie’s lesson plans for the sophomore English classes. I found the materials I needed in my cubbyhole.

  When I got to my classroom, I made a sign and tacked it to the door, in case some of the students were confused about the change of location.

  They were a quiet lot with sleepy eyes and bedhead. At least I’m not the only one, I thought.

  The class expressed zero interest in my explanation of why I was their new teacher. I called on a gangly boy in the back row to summarize the course of the class. Next, I asked a girl to tell me where they were in the text book, though of course Georgie had marked it in red.

  None of the students made eye contact with me. When I drew a diagram on the chalk board, a kid in the front row snorted. “Aren’t you going to use the screen?” he said.

  I glanced up at the pull down screen above me. “Um,” I pretended to think about it. “No.”

  A girl sneezed. “I’m allergic to chalk dust,” she said.

  I peered at the diagram I’d drawn, an old fashioned ploy to teach grammar. Grammar was a dry, dry subject. Georgie had really stuck it to me. I turned to the class. “How many of you know how to diagram a sentence?”

  They stared at me indolently.

  “If no one knows,” I said. “We’ll have to keep practicing until we can do it in our sleep.”

  The girl who sneezed raised her hand. “I know how,” she said through a stuffy nose.

  Slowly, almost everyone raised their hand. The only one who didn’t was a boy in a black leather jacket. I called him up and put the chalk in his hand. When I saw him tremble, I felt a stab of guilt. “Think of a sentence,” I said.

  “English sucks,” he said.

  “Okay. Which is the noun?”

  “English.”

  “Write it on the board. Okay. Now put in the verb.”

  He wrote, “SUCKS,” then put the chalk down and turned to go back to his seat.

  “Not so fast,” I grabbed the sleeve of his jacket. “Class, give us another sentence to diagram. One with more than two words.”

  “The poor kids at school were subjected to torture on a daily basis,” someone said.

  It was more complicated than I’d had in mind. I glanced at my scowling student. “Can you do it?” I asked him.

  His hand hovered next to the board, holding the chalk so tightly his knuckles were white. I talked him through it. When he finished, I clapped. Then I went to my desk and opened my valise. “Close your text books,” I told the class. “I don’t like them.” They suck, I added silently.

  Books slammed shut.

  “Come up here and choose a book from my suitcase. Any one you want.”

  They filed up, darting questioning looks at me. Once each student had selected a book, I said, “Inside your book, no matter which one you have, you will find examples of shockingly poor grammar, also known as poetic license. Your assignment is to circle the errors you find and write out the sentences correctly.”

  There was groaning.

  “Or we can diagram more sentences,” I said.

  At ten, when the bell rang, I’d only had two classes and already it was time for my long (thank you, Georgie) lunch.

  I ate celery with peanut butter, sitting at my desk and reading Tristessa.

  I thought of Devon quoting the whole opening stanza, his eyes on mine. What if one of my students had got the book for their grammar assignment? They would have to circle every single sentence. They would be up all night. Imagine… correcting Jack Kerouac’s grammar.

  I started laughing, silently. My shoulders shook and a teardrop slipped from my eye. I didn’t know if it was that funny, or if I was just that sad.

  * * *

  When my senior class saw the grades on their mid-midterm essays, there was stunned silence. They were superior students or they wouldn’t be in my class. Grade point averages mattered to them. Someone, sitting in this class, right now, would be the valedictorian.

  “As you know, I don’t grade on a curve,” I said. “The highest grade was a B.”

  They stared at me, like I’d betrayed them. I didn’t entirely disagree, though I’d already discovered, in my short career, seniors could be like old dogs—hard to teach new tricks. Especially the gifted ones who thought they knew all the tricks. I should know, I’d been one.

  I tapped the chalkboard where I’d outlined the five paragraph essay. “Remember this? Very simple. And yet not a single person turned in an essay that followed this model. I’m interested in your opinions, your insights, and your passions. But only if they are presented in this format. You understand? It’s non-negotiable. Do not toy with the five paragraph essay until you’re James Joyce.”

  There was a ripple of nervous movement, whispers.

  I turned and wrote on the board: “Why do we have art?” I set down the chalk and brushed off my hands. “I would suggest pondering that tonight.”

  A few smirks and lifted eyebrows, sidled glances. Someone muttered, “That will definitely happen.”

  “It may or may not be the subject of the do-over essay which you will have a chance to write tomorrow morning at seven o’clock sharp.”

  Gasps and murmurs broke out.

  “If you like your grade,” I said. “You can sleep in.”

  For the rest of the period they were subdued but polite, pretending to be fascinated by the finer techniques of essay writing.

  When the bell rang, I headed for the bathroom and caught sight of Henry at the end of the hall. He was gazing down at his phone. I whirled around and ducked into the next hall, running smack into Mr. Stroop.

  “Whoa there,” Mr. Stroop said. “Why is Ruby in such a hurry?” He wore sweats and emitted a damp odor. “Are you looking for me, per chance?”

  “No! I mean, yes,” I forced myself to smile, thinking he could fire me at Georgie’s urging. “There is something I wanted to tell you…” My mind raced, like a rat on a wheel, wondering what in the world I could possibly want to tell him.

  “What a coincidence then,” he said and chuckled.

  He had a white towel around his neck, like he had been working out. He appeared different, somehow. Maybe I’d just never seen him in anything but a suit and tie. Or maybe his shoulders were bigger. Was he sucking in his belly?

  At least he’s in a good mood, I thought. “I just wanted to say don’t worry about the sophomores. I’ve got the grammar totally covered. We’re going to zip right through that bloated textbook.”

  “Bloated?” he said.

  “Superfluous,” I said. “Do you want to see my new lesson plan?”

  He grunted. “I think I’d
better.”

  * * *

  At nine to four, I had my diary open (the one I promised to write in, along with the workshop girls). I stared at the blank pages. There was a rushing in my ears, like hearing the ocean inside a seashell.

  I couldn’t shape the thoughts drifting through my mind like dust motes. Why wouldn’t the words come? Panic rose in my throat. When I stood up, I got dizzy and grabbed the corner of the desk.

  I sat back down. Through the window the sun lit the late afternoon a warm yellow.

  I had to write something. Anything. I had promised. I stared at the second hand on my watch. Five minutes, four and half…three minutes.

  I pressed my pen to the paper and wrote one word, consisting of one letter—I.

  Finally, I wrote: I dreamed of love. The words flowed then. My hand moved down the page faster and faster. When the first workshop girl showed up, I had filled five pages in three minutes. I wasn’t proud of my meager offering but I was relieved to have written anything at all.

  Sitting in our circle, we talked about surprise, surprise by what we wrote, of how we wrote and when and why. “Did anyone else write about love?” I said.

  “I purposely avoided it,” Chastity said. Her sister snickered.

  Scarlet Rose lifted her hand. “Guilty,” she said.

  I was about to direct the girls to pass their journals to the person on their right but Scarlet was seated to my right and I wanted to read what she wrote about love. So I switched directions.

  Scarlet stared at me. “What?” she said.

  “We’re going this way,” I said.

  “Wait…are you sure?” she cast her gaze around, as if imploring the other girls to help her.

  “Don’t you want me to read yours?” I said.

  Her skin was mottled. She looked on the verge of breaking out in hives. “I just—I didn’t think I’d get you.”

  “There are no rules, Scarlet. You won’t be in trouble for what you wrote.”

  “I know. But it’s embarrassing.”