The Brightest Star in a Constellation

9: Promise

CW: Abuse

☆ Evan ☆

"Ellie," I whisper, knocking on her door as quietly as I can manage. "Ellie, Ellie—"

The door swings open. Elaine's face pops out from behind the doorframe to scowl at me, her eyebrows raised. "What do you want now?"

"Can I come in?"

"Fine!" She collapses onto her bedsheets in a heap. I keep the door slightly ajar; Carolyn absolutely loses her mind about respect if I close it. There's likely a Randall-related reasoning to it—if I had to guess, it's something about the four-year difference between Elaine and me.

"Give me the money tin. I need it," I say.

"Again?" She doesn't reach for her mattress, where we've hidden the plastic container. She just watches me attempt to form an excuse.

At least this time I'm not wasting it on purpose. "Yes, for the gas to fill the tank of your father's goddamned car. Gimme."

Elaine kicks her legs off the bedside and reaches through the gap between her mattress and the headboard. The plastic tin full of bills and loose change makes the softest noise when she moves them, leaving it for me to take what I need.

Once finished, I put it back where it belongs, safe under the pink bedsheets. The colour of her walls is the same shade, a direct contrast from my room across the hall. Blue and pink. Perfectly regular colours for two perfectly regular children. The illusion of a perfect family; the sweet, artistic daughter and the tough, sporty son.

In actuality, it couldn't be further from the truth. The truth is that Elaine's room is plastered with drawings; watercolour skies and fields filled with flowers line the walls, sitting next to pencil drawings of our family. I can't help but smile when I look at them, because even though some of my drawings are years old, they're all signed the same way. E. V. Elaine Vincent, or maybe Evan McKenna. It's our shared secret.

"Okay, I have to go. I have a date with Claire."

Elaine laughs. "Is she really Miss fake girlfriend anymore, or is it more like Missus?"

"You don't have to call her that, you know. And it's none of your business!" I groan, slipping the money in my pocket and bolting out of the room before she can corner me about it.

When I reach the kitchen, Carolyn is sitting at the table. Her fingernails rap against the wooden surface. And as soon as I enter, she stands and waddles to the sink. The water turns on, drowning out the possibility of conversation for a while.

"You're awake late," she says.

No sense in denying it. "I slept in."

Carolyn stops, placing the plate she's washing on the drying rack. With her free hand, she grabs a tea towel. "What about practice?"

Outside my room, Soccer practice is written on the whiteboard, as plain as day. She's pretending like she doesn't know, but Carolyn has my schedule memorized. If I skip out on soccer games, she calls me, and sometimes the school, to figure out where I am. I wonder if she's caught on to my plans to quit—I don't know how she'd figure it out, but I have my suspicions.