When Stars Come Out (When Stars Come Out 1)

CHAPTER ONE – ANORA & THE DEAD GIRL

I lean forward in my seat and stare at my reflection in the car mirror, assessing my work. I took my time putting makeup on this morning, choosing a brown shadow that makes my eyes look more yellow than green, and black liner. My dark hair cascades over my shoulders. By the end of the day, it will be mostly straight, too heavy to sustain the curls it took an hour to fix. I practice a smile, checking to see if any lipstick transferred to my teeth, but also testing to see if I can manage to make it look real. This is my chance at a new beginning, and as long as I’m careful, the past won’t bleed into the future.

I glance at Mom. Even now she keeps her gaze forward, hands tight on the steering wheel, navigating the rented Ford Focus around another bend in this hopeless road. Mom doesn’t want the past to follow me, but I can’t help feeling guilty. I’m the reason she has to start over, too.

You’ll make so many friends, a voice rumbles in my head. If he were still here, it’s the kind of encouragement my poppa would give. I smile at the thought and straighten in my seat, clasping the round coin at my neck—my poppa’s coin. It will be easier to let go of the past if I make friends.

Another bend and Mom turns down a white concrete drive, flanked by a set of red brick pillars. A black plate with gold letters identifies this as Nacoma Knight Academy—my new school.

Sweat beads on my forehead, as if the sun has moved inches from my face, and I know something’s not right.

Oh, no.

My stomach feels like it’s full of wasps as I focus on the building ahead of me. Balconies outside the third and fourth floors are enclosed with black bars, making each one resemble a cage. A girl hangs by her neck at the center of the building, four stories up. I follow the rope with my eyes, finding it tied to one of several stone spindles jutting from the top of the roof.

My fingers dig into the leather seat, and there’s a familiar prick in my palm as hysteria crawls up my windpipe, into the back of my throat. I swallow the scream, glancing at Mom, realizing the momentum of the car hasn’t slowed.

She can’t see the

dead girl.

Of course she can’t. My mouth tastes bitter at the thought—that’s why we’re in this mess. Mom can’t see the dead, and from the one conversation we’ve had about it, she also believes anyone who claims to see the dead is a liar.

A bead of sweat trickles down my face, tickling my neck and I release my breath. I can do this, I remind myself. The dead are everywhere, and I took precautions as I was getting ready this morning. My perfume has a hint of rosemary, the evil eye dangles off a zipper on my backpack, and there’s a bag of turmeric powder in my blazer pocket. Small things, but they should keep the souls at a distance. Soul, not ghost—I don’t like that word. It implies transparency. The dead I deal with look as human as the day they died: solid, fleshy, and like the nearly decapitated girl hanging by her neck over the doors, they wear their deaths.

This is just a reminder of the rules I set for myself—and the reason I need them.

Rule number one: ignore the dead.

But as we approach, I can’t take my eyes off her. How hard must she have fallen? She’d been a student at Nacoma Knight Academy. Her uniform is similar to mine, except instead of a blazer, she wears a knitted sweater—longer, with two pockets on the front—and a skirt that falls mid-calf. While I don’t think she’s one to cause me trouble, she’s been here a while and her presence is a vortex, sucking my energy. It makes me jittery, like I’ve had too much caffeine.

Mom brings the car to a jerky halt. I stick my hands out to stop myself from colliding with the dashboard, only to realize the bell has rung. Students dressed like me and the dead girl race to buildings across campus. Several move in and out of the doors beneath her feet.

Suddenly I regret my choice of accessory—a pair of purple and blue nebula tights. Personally, my favorite pair of the hundreds I own, yet nothing screams geek like space tights. I could have waited a few months to introduce these to the student body.

I don’t move to exit the car. Once I’m outside, I have to worry about screwing up again. I’m the new girl, and people will want to look at me, talk to me. I’ll have to make sure they’re actually alive. Sure, I want friends, but I also want to become transparent, blend in so well with the crowd I’m hardly noticed. I want to be normal. If I can’t manage that, I’m not sure what is next for me: another school?

Probably not. Mom is done moving.

“Any more signs that you’re seeing things,” she threatened on the drive to Oklahoma, “And I’ll commit you.”

She’s already been researching psychiatric facilities in our new state—I found them saved as bookmarks in her phone. Bringing up seeing the dead was the biggest mistake I’d ever made, but I was warned and I didn’t listen.

Mom must have noticed how pale I looked after her threat because she had reached over, patted my leg and said softly, “They helped your poppa.”

If that were true, he wouldn’t be dead, I think, rubbing the face of my poppa’s coin.

“Anora, stop grinding your teeth!” I jerk, startled by Mom’s sudden command. It’s the first time she’s met my gaze since we got in the car this morning—the first thing she said other than put on your seatbelt.