The Chaos of Stars

Probably they should have worried more about how his brother, Set, god of chaos, would feel about this turn of events.

I SHIVER IN THE EXCESSIVE AIR-CONDITIONING of the San Diego airport. Everything is shiny and sleek and cool, all white and chrome and lifeless. Neon signs for food that makes my stomach turn with its smell flash at me as I hurry down the huge hall, looking for the exit. For a few seconds I long to be on one of my rare trips outside to the open-air market near my home, in the dust and heat and shouting chaos. The energy there is palpable, the city a living thing. The colors, the noises—it feels like a heartbeat, like art. Here, it feels like money.

I hope this isn’t what all of America is like.

But I don’t want to go back to Egypt, not ever. I’m just tired beyond belief. I didn’t sleep at all on the flights, and I’m loopy with exhaustion.

I’m glad to be here. Thrilled. America has no culture. There’s no weight of history, barely even centuries to pull on people. You can be whoever and whatever you want, genealogy and history and religion as fleeting and unimportant as the latest trend in style that’ll be gone as quickly as it came.

America has no roots. Nothing here lasts forever. I’ll fit right in.

My goose-pimpled arms make me wish that instead of luggage I’d been able to bring my mother’s bag. She always has exactly what anyone might need: a snack or a cardigan or a tampon or antivenin, so on and so forth.

I turn the corner and the airport opens up, the escalators leading to the bottom level with baggage claim and huge windows dark with night. I go down, looking around, and there he is.

Sirus’s hair is perfect, shiny black, cut close to his head. He has my same strong, straight nose, but he wears glasses over his dark eyes. No way you’d guess he was actually thirty-six. He looks midtwenties, tops. My heart leaps, happy and excited to see him, to have something familiar in this strange new place. He sees me and grins, waving with his free arm.

Which is when I notice his other arm around a beautiful black woman with a head of wild corkscrew curls, a sleeveless dress, and a huge, huge, huge pregnant belly.

Floods, babies are taking over the world.

A sharp sting of betrayal flares in my stomach, and I can’t hold back my scowl. What is Sirus thinking? So much for his free and independent life. And he didn’t even tell me! Not a single mention of a girlfriend, much less a baby on the way.

I manage to wipe my scowl away and force a smile by the time I get to the bottom, though I’m sick inside. Nothing here feels like what I thought it would.

“Baby sister!” Sirus picks me up and twirls me around in a hug even though I’m nearly his height. I laugh in spite of my anger, shocked more than anything by human contact. I honestly can’t remember the last time someone hugged me. I haven’t let my mother hug me in years. It feels strange. It feels nice.

“Isadora, this is Deena, my wife.” He grins, bursting with pride as he sets me down and looks at her. She smiles—it lights up her whole face—and, much to my shock, wraps her arms around me in an awkward, belly-filled hug. Her head barely hits my shoulders. This hug is not so nice. I don’t know where to put my arms, or what to do, or why this woman I didn’t even know existed is suddenly hugging me.

“I’m so happy to meet you, Isadora! Sirus has told me so much about you. I’ve always been sad that I couldn’t meet his family, and I’m thrilled that it worked out for you to come stay with us!”

I smile fakely, glancing at Sirus for support. How much did he tell her?

He winks. “Deena knows all about how our family is deeply religious and won’t leave Egypt, so it’s better for you to come here before you apply to American universities in a couple of years.”

I let out a breath. “Yeah. That whole religion thing. Gods are so overrated.”

Deena laughs, weaving her arm through mine. “Well, I’m thrilled. I’ve never had a sister, but always wanted one. Plus, Sirus tells me you’re an interior decorator.”

“Designer,” I correct before realizing it makes me sound rude. “I mean, I kind of think of it more as art.” My projects around the house were my salvation these last couple of years. I think that’s what I’d like to do with my life. Take blank spaces and make them beautiful. Create something where nothing was before, where I can control every aspect of it.

“Exactly! That’s so great. And I’m apologizi

ng, because I’m going to put you to work right away to earn your keep. Our house is in desperate need of room art.” She smiles warmly, and I think I might like her. As soon as I find out what the crap Sirus was thinking, getting married and not telling me about it.

We work our way through the crowds to the luggage pickup. Deena’s amazed by my flawless, accent-free English. She should hear my Afrikaans; it’s awesome. I find out she is a city attorney and they’ve been married for two years. I kick Sirus covertly in the shins when he says that, as punishment for being a big fat liar and hiding things from me. What is wrong with him?

“It’s so sad that your parents wouldn’t come to the wedding because they can’t leave Egypt.” Deena shakes her head sympathetically and I nod, assuming Sirus will let me in on whatever elaborate mythology he’s created to explain our family. He should have just said they were dead, since in our father’s case it’s technically true.

The belts start turning, and looking out for my luggage saves me from any more conversation. The first few suitcases come down the ramp, and my stomach sinks. They are all black. And midsized. And look exactly like mine. I flash back to my last afternoon with my mother, picking out luggage. She told me not to get black because it would look like everyone else’s. I ignored her because she’s never traveled by plane. How did she know? How does she always know?

After pulling no fewer than four wrong suitcases, I finally find mine. Sirus grabs it and we head outside. It’s dark, and my stomach is unsettled from all of the change and startling revelations. The air is cool, wetter than I’m used to. I can feel it on my skin, pawing at me, and I don’t like it. I look expectantly at the sky, needing to see my stars.

“It’s cloudy,” I say, my voice small and sad.

“June gloom,” Deena answers. “San Diego has amazing weather year-round, but June has almost constant cloud cover. Still, it means the beaches aren’t as crowded.”

I nod, not caring about the beach, and we find Sirus’s tiny Mini. It’s sky blue, old but perfectly maintained. I love it. I’d paint it cherry red with racing stripes. It makes me happy that even though he runs a fleet of limos and taxis, my brother drives this.