The Chaos of Stars

“You’re a terrible influence on my girlfriend.” Scott pouts as the onion-covered slice disappears into Tyler’s mouth. “Ry, tell them that’s disgusting.”

We all look over at Ry to find him chewing absently on his pizza while writing in one of his notebooks. Of course. What a weirdo.

He continues to write in the notebook while we swim. Anyone who says the water is great in San Diego really means the water feels like it was imported directly from the Arctic. The waves freak me out, but I remind myself about their biggest perk: no hippos.

We finish the rest of the pizza and enjoy a rousing round of Mock the Worst-Fitting Swimwear. Not even the grand prize winner, a nine-months-pregnant woman in a string bikini, gets so much as a glance from Notebook Boy.

I don’t understand why Scott and Tyler like having him around. There’s no point. He’s like furniture or something. Really pre

tty furniture, but still.

A volleyball smashes into the sand next to me, and I look up to find two guys in low-slung board shorts grinning sheepishly. “Hey, sorry about that. You want to play?”

“No, thanks.”

“Aw, come on!”

“Again, no thanks.” I don’t even bother picking up the ball to throw it at them, and they walk away, grumbling.

“Ooh, they had pretty abs. You should have said yes,” Tyler says.

“Bodies are bodies. Who cares.”

“Speaking of bodies,” Scott says, his head resting on Tyler’s stomach. “Bruce Lee could have taken Chuck Norris in their prime, and you know it.”

I have no idea who they’re talking about. I’m tracing patterns in the sand with my toes, warily watching the horizon as the sun sinks. No clouds yet. Please, no clouds.

Tyler shoves his head away. “Could not! Ry, tell him he’s wrong.”

Ry holds up a finger and we wait while he writes . . . and writes . . . and writes. Tyler and Scott giggle, just watching him, like it’s a game to see how long he’ll go. Knowing those two, it probably is a game. And finally, two full minutes later with the sun nearly setting, he sets down his pen and folds the notebook shut. “What are we talking about?”

“Now, or any time in the last three hours?” I snap, surprised at how pissed I sound. What do I care if he hangs out and ignores us?

He smiles, looking right into my eyes, and my breath catches as I see that he is here, finally, connected to me and only me. “Now.”

“You’ll have to excuse Ry,” Scott says. “He’s a poet.”

“Here we go.” Ry rolls his eyes, breaking the connection, and I feel like I can breathe again.

“Ask him what type of poetry he writes.” Scott’s face twists up in a smirk. Tyler reaches past me and pats Ry’s leg supportively.

“What type of poetry do you write?” I say, my voice flat.

“Epic!” Scott shouts. “He writes epic poetry!”

Ry shrugs. “It’s true.”

“Epic poetry? What does that mean?”

He tucks the notebook into his bag and turns to look at me again, and I swear his eyes are like a physical blow, they’re so shockingly beautiful, and I wish he’d look somewhere else. “Really, really long? And with specific conventions. Starts in the middle of a story; there’s always a quest; really strict meter; you have to invoke a muse. In my case Calliope. It’s kind of along the lines of The Iliad. You know it?”

“Of course. I used to read it under the covers at night on my laptop.”

Everyone gives me weird looks. “Why?” Tyler asks.

“Oh, my mom kind of has this thing against the Greeks.”

“Seriously?”