I disappear up the stairs while she’s in the bathroom, doing whatever it is girls do in there.
Or whatever my mind seems to think girls do in there.
I don’t turn on the light to the tiny stairwell as I climb to the room below the belfry. I already know where every step is, can feel the handle to the door at the top, without having to see it. It’s not because I’ve been here so long, either. This is only the third time I’ve ever been up here.
I’ll say this, it sure smells real. Like old metal, dust, and damp. I’ve always been good at that, though. The details. It’s why people want my ink on them. They want the small things, the shit no one else would notice or care about, but I’m happy to spend hours agonizing over. The precise way a shadow falls below an eye. The hatched lines that fill it. The texture, the shade, the perfect curves of a circle.
The density of stars.
Black glass. Blonde hair. Red lights. Blood on the trees.
I think I do pretty well.
It’s the problem with not having made anything I’m happy with in so long. Sometimes my brain just decides to pour all of its effort into something elaborate.
Like, for instance, filing duty.
It’s pointless to do work here. I know it, feel it, acknowledge it, and yet I still sit down on the stool and flip the switch, bringing the drill press to life. I used to know this guy at Saint Mary’s who kept swearing we were all machines. Maybe not in the most literal sense, but there is some truth to doing things automatically, a muscle that flexes itself without being told to, like a heartbeat. There’s work to be done, so my hands start moving. We’re all mechanical up to a point. I believe that shit down to my marrow. Bag of flesh made up of cogs, cables, and rods, not too unlike that dead clock downstairs.
Filing duty isn’t new to me. I did it all summer for Saul, so I picked up the little nuances. The way the drill falls when I lower it into the metal. The sound of the shavings being kicked up. The noise of the mechanics, the texture of the steel. If only Sy could appreciate how exact it all is, maybe this version of him wouldn’t keep looking at me the way he does.
Like I’m broken.
I know I’m working perfectly when I finish the first one. The five fine holes I’ve drilled into the surface of the metal are smooth, but not too smooth. Rough, but not too rough. Fucking nailed it.
And when my phone rings, I feel my mouth quirk in a triumphant, bitter smirk, because it’s my dad’s name flashing across the screen. Of course, he’d call me when I was feeling the smallest bit of pride. My mind is fucking amazing.
Because three days ago, I fell into a dream.
And I never woke up.
“Yeah?” is how I answer, eyes narrowing suspiciously. Sy had threatened to call him before. Am I turning on myself already? That happens sometimes. Can’t help it.
“You aren’t in class.” The tone of disappointment is so real—so goddamn perfect—that I nearly laugh. I’ve definitely got that one down. “I was going to leave a voicemail.”
Looking around the room, I decide to let this play out. I have places to be. “I’ve got work this morning. Class at eleven.”
“Oh.” He sounds just south of surprised, as expected. “So I take it you haven’t ruined your future quite yet. Otherwise, are you well?”
I tap my fingers against the table, wondering which value of ‘well’ he’s asking about. I guess that’s up to me. “I haven’t read a single syllabus.” Tapping my fingers faster, I add, “I’ve been late twice, I’m in the middle of securing some studio time, and I fucked my Duchess’ brains out with a marker over the weekend.”
There’s a stretch of silence on the other end of the line, and then my father’s exasperated, “I think you’re supposed to use your cock for that.”
“Oh, that’s what it’s for?” Kicking a foot up on the table, I shrug. “Wouldn’t know. Some complete jackass put me into a middle school with abstinence-only education. Shittiest parenting imaginable.”
“This is your senior year.” His voice takes on that serious, authoritative tone that always makes my teeth ache. “You wanted an art degree, and despite knowing the best thing it can get you is something to wipe your ass with, I’ve paid hand over fist to make sure you get it. How’s that for shitty parenting?”
“Gets a little shittier each time you throw it in my face.” I rub my chin. “Ever wonder why you can’t call me without throwing a few jabs in?”
“Probably the same reason you add another tattoo to yourself every time you’re throwing a fit.” He sighs, all long-suffering. Hard work, being my dad. “I meant, are you well? Any side effects? Are you sleeping? You haven’t answered a single one of my texts, and Doctor Weatherby says you haven’t scheduled a session in weeks. You know the arrangement. I need to be kept informed about—”
“I’m doing fine,” I insist, cutting him off. Doctor Weatherby is the last person I want to see. For years, I’ve had it drilled in my head.
Don’t think about the stars, Remy.
Turn away from the stars, Remy.
Stay in the light, Remy.
I’m not allowed to look, but that night of the party, I did it. I glanced down—it wasn’t like I meant to—and the stars were there, and now I’m caught in a web of them, waiting for the red lights and the blood and the black glass, and goddamn it. I need to see them. I’m tired of being told I can’t. They said my name and made me look, and now, if I could just get back to them, I could find out why.
It’s the snake.
Vinny.
She makes the stars burble up like a bad chemistry experiment.
Smoothly, I lie, “I’ve been sleeping like a baby. The kind who has loving parents, even. Modern medicine is amazing, really.”
There’s no sigh this time. For all that, he’s a gigantic shithead. My dad has always been lazy enough to believe me when I say everything is all good. Less work for him. “Well, since you’re so fucking splendid, then I guess I can inform you that it’s time to be realistic and plan for grad school.”
“Ah, it’s been a few months since we’ve had this talk, hasn’t it?” Fuck, I am so good. “So where you wanna do this?”
Sounding confused, he asks, “Do ‘this’?”
Nodding, I elaborate, “Yeah, you know. Where do you want to lecture me about the ‘sorry course my life is taking’? Because I know you like to keep it hush-hush that I’m the family fuck-up, and since I can’t see you coming to campus, we have a few options.” Before he can answer, I offer, “I’ve always liked the country club. It’s not my scene, obviously. But they let us sit in that room—the one with the Rubens painting? It’s the one with all the thick asses. Anyway, I think I’m pretty close to determining that it’s fake as hell, so if we could go there, that’d be cool.”
I can practically hear him rubbing the bridge of his nose. It’s one of the reasons I’m so drawn to Sy. He does this thing where he rubs his thumb with his forefinger. A fidget. It reminds me of my dad, just without all of the festering resentment. “Do you really think that attitude is going to get you anywhere in life?”
I get this sudden flash of Nick this morning, yanking Lavinia’s head back. Stars. That’s what I see when I look at her now. Blonde tendrils of hair. The sound of her scream. The flashing panic in her gray eyes. Red lights. And anger—so much fucking anger—burning hot enough that it could flatten this whole goddamn city to rubble and ash…
“Do you really think this attitude is helping you any?”
The words are almost identical. That can’t be a good sign.
I run my fingers through my hair, pushing it back, blinking as I try to reorient myself. “Can we do this later? I’m not really feeling great.”
My dad’s voice drops an angry octave. “Don’t brush me off. Either you’re doing alright, or you’re not. You don’t get to play both sides whenever it’s convenient for you. You know our agreement. Make an appointment with Weatherby, or else—”
I rub my temple. “Set up a time with the club and I’ll be there.”
“Remington!”
I hang up, letting my phone fall to the workbench as I clutch my head. Stars—so many goddamn stars. Blonde hair. Red lights. Panic. Anger. Wind. The memory is beginning to hurt again, a sharp, hot throb behind my eyes. It’s all smudged, like a charcoal sketch that’s been handled too many times, the edges indistinct.
I’ve tried to get back to it. I don’t know how or why, but I know it’s what I need to do. It just feels so far away. Even when Lavinia is right in front of me, it’s not quite right. Not yellow enough. Not red enough. I thought if I just stayed here, it’d come back to me. I thought if I played along, let my brain work out the kinks in this whole thing, that I’d get to go back to where it all started.
It’s not working.
I power down the drill press, going through the motions of closing up shop as my temples throb painfully. The longer I wait, the worse it gets here. My dad will come. Sy will turn away. Nick will leave. Lavinia will fade, just like the stars.
If they aren’t going to come to me, then I’ll just have to go to them.
