From the Stars, to the Stars

From the Stars, to the Stars: Chapter Seven

Tristan drops his books on the ground and stretches out full-body in the grass beside Bronwyn, pillowing his head behind him on folded arms. "So gang, what kind of trouble we stirring up this weekend? I'm thinking we load up and hit the beach; see what the East Coast's got to brag about besides great, big, yawning history-fests."

Jules answers him first, not looking up from the notebook in her lap on which she's writing something. "What it's got is lots of very big, very dull gray ships with hordes of very whitely dressed sailors, and/or camera-snapping tourists. The beach is pointless for at least another seven months."

"Aw, c'mon Jules," Tristan whines like a little boy. "There's gotta be somewhere to goooooo. It's not like you can study for the whole two days; you'll get Writer's cramp, or tennis elbow, or something. What are you writing, anyway," he asks, turning onto his side and propping up on his elbow so he can see Jules's paper.

"Nothing. I'm trying to solve the Goldbach proof. Addictive. You should try it."

"When they put it in an RPG I'll be there, otherwise you can keep the carpel tunnel to yourself. What about you two? Drew, Mighty Mouse?"

Drew grins, shaking his head. "No can do, man. That paper Morrison assigned us is going to eat my GPA alive if I don't get it finished in the next forty-eight. In fact, I'll hafta jet soon or Liza will take the sound system hostage. I defy anyone to do a quality report on Sacajawea while the walls vibrate to Lady Gaga screaming about her poker face."

"Sounds like you're out of luck, Tristan." I reach over one of Drew's legs to tousle Tristan's hair, but he pulls back sharply.

"Hey now! No call to mess with a guy's 'do. You have no idea how long it takes me to tame these golden locks," he says, pointing to his hair.

"You start spouting off about the glories of hair products and I'll upchuck on you," I warn him.

Drew begins to carefully untangle his and my limbs, making sure he doesn't dump me—tucked between his knees—sideways as he stands. ". . . and that's my cue to get out of the line of fire."

As soon as he's up, the heat of his body no longer framing me, the air bites into me doubly sharp. I rise to hug him, slide my goosebumpy arms around his waist, under his jacket.

"Check you, already turning into a Joss-cicle. You need me to leave this for you?" Drew asks, meaning the jacket.

I kiss his cheek, as cold as mine. "No, keep it," I laugh, trying to hide the shiver tripping up my back. "I'm heading in a few minutes, too."

Jules accepts a ride from Tristan and Bronwyn; they've promised their aunt they'd help her with yard work.

Finally it's just Sebastien and me, starting together across the park. His eyes cut back and forth between the same two points, like a cop canvassing a crime scene. Irritation flashes across his face.

"Is there a reason you keep doing that," I ask.

"Doing what?"

"Hello? Not blind, here. You can't tear your eyes off the crowd?"

"Have you ever seen someone you don't recognize, but somehow you feel rather strongly you should?"

"No," I say sarcastically, my teeth chattering. "I have no idea what that's like."

"Right you are," Sebastien says. Without a word he slips off his jacket and drapes it over my shoulders. "There's a couple near the gate who remind me a bit of some trouble-makers from back home. Be grateful they aren't the same pair, because they wreak havoc wherever they go."