The Brightest Star in a Constellation

18: Puppet on a String

☆ Evan ☆

Through the gap in my door, the sound of Elaine singing filters into my room. I stand against the wall, giving her space. She's quiet enough that I can barely hear her—that nothing disturbs her as she thrums along to the beat of a song on her playlist. By now, I recognize it as Castle of Glass from Linkin Park.

My phone lights up with a text from Claire, letting me know that she's here to pick me up. I unlock my phone, debating whether I should suggest meeting her outside, but she sends another message first. I have cookies!

And I thought she was kidding. Grumbling, I tell her she can come into the apartment. Not that I don't want her here; having Claire around is a buffer, like I'm floating in a bubble on the verge of popping. But it's also very different from what I'm used to, and for some reason, I don't like watching Claire stand in my living room, looking around and taking pity on me.

I unlock the door and inch it open; Elaine's singing extinguishes like a flame in the wind. The living room is unoccupied, as Randall and Carolyn left this morning, off to run errands and play pretend.

"Hello!" Claire's chipper voice carries through the hallway, and she skips into the living room with a glowing smile on her face. The waning light drowns her in a halo as she sets the Tupperware on the countertop. A line of silver glitter flecks her eyelids, her ponytail held by a vermilion ribbon, the cloth bouncing as she moves. "These are not for us. We have a game today. It's taking all of my restraint not to have one."

"Come on, Cee. Do you really think I care about your self-imposed rules?" I reach for a cookie. Some things are sacred—and sacrificing cookies is frankly ridiculous. I much prefer sanity.

Claire's hand flicks out to stop me. "We need to win this game, Evan. It's between the panthers and the bears, and for once, we have a fair shot. Please don't throw it out the window for the sake of yourself. I want to get to semi-finals, personally."

"A feat we haven't accomplished since 1953, or some shit," I comment. Claire laughs humourlessly, and this time she lets me snatch a snack. The cookies are still warm as I bite into it—the edges crunch, and the inside dissolves in my mouth. "Did you make these? They're really good."

Claire's gaze turns bashful. "I got my parents to help with them. Oh, and I should tell you they're coming to the game."

I hang around Claire's parents more than the opposite. It's not like they hate me—there's just a perpetual misunderstanding between us. Mr. and Mrs. Lethbridge suffer from what I like to call the too-much-money problem. On one occasion, Mrs. Lethbridge earnestly mentioned their yearly trip out of the country in passing and asked me if I had ever been. She took my confusion as a joke and fell into shocked silence as she realized it wasn't.

I don't get a chance to protest. Elaine creeps out of her room. She sidesteps the floorboard that creaks, jumping over it like she's playing an invisible game of hopscotch. "Did I hear cookies!"

Claire offers her some. She evaluates Elaine's outfit, and her pair of mismatched socks—one a vivid crimson with watermelons, the other a forest green with flowers.

"I like your pyjamas," Claire says in her best neutral tone.

Pensive, Elaine gobbles her cookies and then asks, "When's your game?"