Queen of Hawthorne Prep

Why would he do this?

Unwilling to read too much into the gesture, my hand drops to my side as I back away and rush down the staircase. Does he realize that his generosity only sends me spiraling into further mental chaos?

Once at the concrete patio, I skirt around the edge of the pool until my toes sink into the plush carpet of grass. Halfway across the lawn, a noise breaks the stillness of the night and I freeze like a deer in the harsh glare of headlights.

After about ten seconds, another whapping sound breaks the silence. Unlike the first time I heard the noise, I recognize it immediately. Kingsley is in his yard, throwing a ball at the bounce back with his lacrosse stick.

My heartbeat picks up tempo before crashing against my chest. It’s agonizing to realize he’s only a dozen yards away on the other side of the thick foliage that separates our property. As close as he feels, he’s light years away. Even if I wanted to cross the gaping chasm that separates us, I have no idea how to go about it.

Too much damage has been inflicted on both sides.

At this point, it feels irreparable.

Even as those thoughts crash around inside my head, I take a tentative step in his direction. A need so strong bubbles up, propelling me forward. It’s as if there is a delicate thread connecting us to one another. Nothing has severed it.

Deep down, I don’t think anything ever will.

My feet shuffle forward cautiously as my heart picks up tempo, pounding faster, harsher until it fills my ears. The sound of the ball hitting the trampoline-like woven material becomes more insistent.

Is he able to sense my presence?

Does he realize I’m on the other side of the bushes? That I want to find a way to blot out the past and start anew?

But how could we move forward?

My father is dead.

I’ve lost our baby.

And eighty years of bad blood sits between us.

The fresh wave of grief that crashes over me is so powerful that my knees nearly buckle with the force of it. His name swells in my throat before I slap a hand over my mouth to keep the sound buried deep inside. With the afghan clutched to my chest, I force myself to retreat. The sound of the rubber ricocheting off the bounce back intensifies until it reaches a frenzy.

I stumble back a step.

Then another.

And a third before forcing myself to swing away. Whatever fragile possibility had been swirling through the air vanishes as I rush to the little parcel of land I’ve claimed for myself in the far corner of the yard. My fingers tremble as they arrange the blanket on the lawn with painstaking precision. My heart thumps a painful rhythm as I block out the boy next door.

It’s easier said than done.

Once I’ve stretched out and found a comfortable position, only then do I realize the repetitive sound of the ball has disappeared. Other than the wind rustling through the treetops, the night has grown eerily silent.

I focus my attention on the sky stretched out overhead. There must be a million stars crowded against the velvety blackness. Even though we’ve been here for two months, the brilliance and clarity never cease to steal my breath away. Fresh amazement spirals through me.

When my mind is full of angst, routine has always helped settle it. In need of that now more than ever, I begin the hunt for familiar constellations. Automatically, my gaze fastens on the North Star or as it’s otherwise known, Polaris. This is the point in which the entire northern sky turns. The axis of the earth is nearly pointed at it, and so it remains fixed in place while other stars circle it.

After that, I move on to the Big Dipper. The big ladle in the sky is one of the first arrangements I could identify. Next there’s Pegasus, a white-winged horse flying through the galaxy. I shift my gaze, knowing I’ll find both Andromeda and Pisces. One by one, my muscles relax, losing their rigidity as I sink further into the earth.

If we end up moving, stargazing in the backyard is what I’ll miss most. In a dark night sky, it’s possible to see up to forty-five hundred stars. With the light pollution in Chicago, only thirty-five are visible to the naked eye.

And just like that, my mind returns to the dilemma that drove me outdoors.

Deep down, I realize there’s nothing here for us.

Or, more accurately, me.

At the very least, leaving this town behind in our rearview mirror will be cathartic. The closing of one chapter and the beginning of another. Hawthorne has been filled with untold amounts of pain. A forced engagement, Dad’s sudden death, and an unexpected pregnancy. In Chicago, I can begin healing and in time, forget about everything that happened here.