The Brightest Star in a Constellation

49: Rebellious Phase

☆ Evan ☆

I set a dime on the train tracks, leaping back onto the gravel. In the distance, coiling through the beak of the trees, a train chugs along. Its shrill whistle blows, and the wheels squeal against the rails.

The train approaches, and I skitter a fair distance away as it paws its way in front of me. The sounds of birds chirping and wind blowing disappears. In the rush of momentum, the train moves like a fish through the ocean. It shoots straight for its target, rumbling and rumbling.

I stand there until the graffiti-coated carriages reach the end, and the road reappears in front of me. Time passes in a blur, like waves hitting the sand and washing away the footprints left behind by passing faces. Passing strangers.

I lean down to scoop up the flattened dime. The outline of a sailboat on the ten-cent coin is faint and has been smoothed so that I can hardly see it anymore.

Whirling around, I jog my way over to the waterline. In the early morning sunshine, the cerulean is disturbed only by the wobbly ripples caused by the breeze.

It's so calm.

On the other hand, I am not calm.

Yesterday, Elaine visited again. She seemed to be settling into her new school, and her new life without me.

I'd asked her if she missed me, but what I actually meant was that I missed her. Not the time we spent locked in Carolyn's predetermined fate, but the seconds in between. In the intermissions, before the curtains opened, and we had to resume our roles, I grew secret memories with Elaine.

I'd asked her if she missed me, but what I actually meant was this: Do you ever miss something you've never had?

My phone buzzes in my pocket. I remove it. A few messages from the group chat cluster my notifications. At the top is a text from my mother.

I don't read it.

I was not given the chance to decide. I didn't have phases in my preteen years where I cut my hair too short or wore too many patterns in the same outfit.

None of it. I've had none of it.

My hand grips my phone. The waves beckon me.

I chuck my phone into the water. It breaks through the surface, bubbling as it sinks. Circular ripples explode in every direction around it.

I see the screen flicker like a firework before it peters out. Which is when the panic rises in my throat, and I rush towards the bay.

"Fuck! Please don't die on me!" My hands go fishing for the phone, and when I recover it from its place among the pebbles, it won't turn on.

My heart hammers in my chest. I can't believe I just threw it into the water as if I'm disposing of a burner phone with evidence left on it.

Droplets of water cool down my hands. I mop the screen with the cloth of my shirt, but it's too late.

Giving up, I trudge back to the hotel. I saw Peter as I left, but I barely said a word to him.

Things have been awkward between us lately. That is probably my fault. He renders me useless, and it's only getting worse every day. I find myself flirting with him, without really noticing that I'm doing it. I'm pretty sure he's flirting back, but I don't know for sure. I don't want to lose the teasing—it's always been part of our friendship—and I would hate it if he stopped.