CONSTELLATIONS
THE SHOP WAS SLAMMED only an hour ago, the Sunday after-church rush. But as the crowd begins to thin, all that’s left is Callie, Aaron, and Ray. They seem to be here all the time recently, which, I suppose, is okay. I suspect, like me, Callie and Aaron sometimes feel weird about being at home, like when they remember about grape juice stains on the carpet or a particular crack in the wall . . . things we’d rather forget.
I had to work, but Callie and Aaron wanted food, so we walked here together—the first time we’d been out walking like that since we were little. We cut through the park, but there wasn’t much to say to one another.
She called this morning. Aaron talked to her first. Then he put Callie on the phone. I don’t know what Mom said to her, but I heard Callie say “Yeah,” “Fine,” and “Okay.” That’s it. Then she passed the phone to me.
Mom sounded distracted. Exhausted. Defeated. I tried to cheer her up. I told her that things were going great and tried to be upbeat. “Callie’s doing great—she’s back at school. And I love my new school too. I’m making friends. Things will be great once you’re back home, Mom,” I told her. Great. Great. Great.
“Brooke?” she said weakly. “I just want this to be over.”
“We do too.”
She was quiet—I wondered if she was crying. I heard a click on the line. And she said she had to go.
“I love you, Mom—everything’s going to work out. You’ll see, okay?”
“I love you, too.”
Dial tone.
I feel like I’ve been dragging a hundred-pound shadow behind me all day.
Aaron and Ray sit next to each other at the counter, talking, their voices low. I’m purposely wiping down only the tables within earshot of where they’re sitting so I can eavesdrop on their conversation. I glance over at Callie, who sits alone at a table for two in the corner with her legs pulled up to her chest. She’s pretending to do homework, with her books open in front of her, but all she’s really doing is staring out the window at the park across the street.
I remember what Dr. Greenberg said about people needing space. Maybe he wasn’t so wrong about that one.
From what I’ve gathered, Ray wants to help Aaron get a job at his company. Sounds like it would be a sweet gig for Aaron. Full-time with benefits, holidays, sick time. A real job—a grown-up job. This would be perfect. But perfect means pressure, means getting our hopes up; it means there’s a good chance this won’t work, because if there’s one thing Aaron’s not good at dealing with, it’s pressure.
“You know, the boss is doing a big hiring in the next couple months,” Ray tells Aaron, then takes a sip of his coffee. “Getting ready for the holidays. Supposed to be one of the busiest years. Or so they say,” he tells him with a shrug. Ray is such a dad. I find myself smiling at him in spite of myself. He’s the kind of dad I always dreamed about, the kind of dad I used to imagine was trapped somewhere deep inside of ours. Jackie appears then, walking over to them with a freshly brewed pot of coffee. She fills Ray’s cup up to the top without even asking if he wants more. I guess that’s the kind of thing you just know about someone when you’ve been married for so long.
“Yeah, but a place like that . . . I would need to get my GED to even get an interview, wouldn’t I?” Aaron asks, prepared to pull out every excuse not to take advantage of this help we’re being offered. Dad’s social security benefits help a lot, but it still isn’t nearly enough. We’re struggling. And every day that passes, the bills keep piling higher and higher. I’m making only enough at Jackie’s to cover some of the utilities. I want to yell at Aaron, shake some sense into him—Do whatever you have to do, just try—but I bite my tongue, focusing hard on the coffee-stain rings that seem to be permanently fused to the surface of the table I’m working on.
“I know you’ll think I’m meddling, Aaron,” Jackie begins, the coffeepot hovering over his cup. It seems like he’s practically living off coffee and cigarettes these days.
“That’s because you are, dear,” Ray interjects, patting Aaron on the shoulder as he stands. He wanders toward the door like he’s not in much of a hurry to get wherever he’s going.
“Well, too bad, so sad!” Jackie pretends to yell at Ray’s back as he leaves.
He raises an arm in the air, but it’s unclear whether he’s shooing her or waving good-bye—either way, it somehow manages to be a loving gesture. The bell on the door dings as he opens it. “Bye, girls,” he calls out. “See ya, Owen,” he says just before the door swings closed.
“All right,” Jackie admits, “I am meddling—I’m a meddler. Here’s the thing,” I hear her tell Aaron. “I signed you up to take the GED at the Adult Ed Center.” She pulls a folded piece of paper from her apron pocket and slides it across the counter. “That has the dates and times of the tests. You be there. I mean it.” She points a stern finger at him, like a warning.
“Yeah, but—” he starts to protest.
“Dude, I’d listen to the lady,” Owen mumbles, pushing a mop across the tile floor as he moves in between us. He looks up at me with a grin and then raises his eyebrow in this mischievous way, like we’re suddenly the best of friends. “She’ll hunt you down if you disobey—she’s the Godmother,” he says, pretending to whisper in Aaron’s ear, but talking more than loud enough for Jackie to hear.
“Yeah, yeah,” Jackie mumbles, her voice flat and monotone. “Get outta here,” she teases as she swats at him with her hand. “Hey, where’s your hat?”
“See what I mean?” he says, looking back and forth between me and Aaron, pointing a thumb at her as he pulls his folded-in-half JACKIE’S hat out of his back pocket. “Vicious.”
“Little punk,” Jackie mutters. Then she refocuses her attention on Aaron and sighs. “Good kid. Like you.”
“Jackie, look,” Aaron begins. “I appreciate what you and Ray are trying to do, but—”
“But what?” she interrupts. “You’d rather do things the hardest way possible? Rather do it all alone? Struggle? You’re stubborn.” She points her finger again. “Just like your . . .” But she stops herself from finishing.
I feel my blood getting hot on Aaron’s behalf, almost like I can feel his blood inside of me, simmering. “I’m not like him,” he finally tells her, a tiny tremble in his voice that I’m pretty sure no one else can hear but me.
“No—no, Aaron.” She places her hand on his arm and squeezes gently. “It wasn’t an insult. Your father was . . . a complicated man. Not all bad. Not all good. You know? Just like the rest of us.”
He shakes his head, looks down into the bottom of his coffee cup.
“So, what is it, then?” she asks him. “You think you can’t pass the exam, is that right?”
He turns around, as if he can feel me listening. I look away.
“Huh?” she prompts, shaking his arm like a little earthquake.
“Yeah, maybe,” he admits, so quietly I almost can’t hear him. “So?”
“So . . . you’re wrong. You’ll study. You’re a smart boy.”
Then she smiles that award-winning toothpaste smile at him and adds, “I really wish you could’ve known him when he was your age. He was a different person then.” I wait for Aaron to detonate. But, thankfully, the bell on the door dings, interrupting her.
I consider telling Aaron that I’ll help him study, but something keeps me standing here, silent. Maybe it’s because I’m starting to get really sick of taking care of everyone else. Sick of feeling responsible for everything that goes right, everything that goes wrong. So I stand here, feeling so weighed down I can’t even move, with both of their backs facing me.
Jackie picks up the pot of coffee, tousling Aaron’s hair with her free hand before walking away to greet the new customer.
Then it’s the three of us: me, Aaron, and Callie, forming a triangle in the empty space. A constellation. Something invisible holds us in formation, keeping us from moving toward one another, but keeping us from moving away, too.
“Brooke?” Jackie calls across the room, snapping me out of my trance. “Can you give me a hand?”
Somehow I didn’t notice that there’s now a line forming at the front counter. When I look back, both Aaron and Callie are watching me. While I’m rushing to fill coffee and tea orders, I see Aaron, out of the corner of my eye, walk over and sit down at the little table with Callie. His back is to me, so I can’t tell what he says to make her laugh. But she does.
I have the overwhelming urge to scream at the top of my lungs, to shout both of their names, get them to turn around, to look at me and see that I’m my own person and I have my own life and I’m so sick of worrying about them all the time. But I don’t. I reach into my pocket for my phone instead.
Hi, Dani! Sorry, I forgot to respond the other day. How’s your weekend going?
She writes back nearly instantly, and I start to feel a little lighter: going great now, girl! you?
OK . . .
what r u doing right now? wanna hang?
I can’t. Sorry. At work.
bummer :*(
I take a deep breath, fill my lungs with air, releasing it slowly as I type what feels like the riskiest words I’ve ever dared even to think: I was going to stay after school tomorrow to study in the library. Wanted to let you know. Just in case . . .
I lower my phone as the screen fades to black, trying, unsuccessfully, not to get my hopes up as I wait for a response. Just when I begin to think this reckless experiment has become an utter failure, as I’m shoving my phone back into my pocket where it belongs, I hear the most wonderful one-note chime. I fumble to get my phone out of my pocket, nearly dropping it.
i’ll be there! :)
I smile to myself, the screen glowing at me like a signal from a different star across the galaxy.