From the Stars, to the Stars

From the Stars, to the Stars: Chapter Fourteen

Tristan's skill-sets include many things, but he was excited like a little puppy to be sharing one of them with me. "To help you chill," he explained; he was willing to take an apprentice. The apprenticeship included a gaming console, and a slew of titles.

It tickles Tristan to no end to see me lunge at his small television, controller clutched tightly in both fists, yelling obscenities. Thanks to his mentoring, I can now (kind of) kick butt in at least three RPG worlds, and "Die you mutuant scum!" has become my new favorite phrase.

It's also nice to lose myself in a life and death scenario that didn't involve my little sister, a romance that didn't have anything to do with my best guy friend, or a supernatural surprise that didn't have anything to do with, well, me.

I'm thinking about which tack to take with Sebastien and getting his would-be girlfriend together, when out of the blue, I ask, "Have you ever done something that left feeling both relieved and guilty at the same time?"

Tristan sits in a beanbag chair next to me, directing his game avatar to throw a percussion grenade into a swarm. "What, you mean like taking a leak in someone's rosebushes?"

The satisfaction of my hand whapping against the back of his head makes up for the sting that comes with it. "Not what I mean, you circus freak. I mean, did you ever—let's say, yell at someone for their own good, but then feel bad about it afterwards?"

"Is this about telling Bryn you don't want her company when you gotta take your car into the shop this Saturday?"

"Nope," I sigh, giving up getting a straight answer out of him. "They called and said this weekend was no good, so I'm taking her in on Wednesday."

So you'll still be stuck by yourself?" An alien battle cruiser goes down. "Not cool."

"It's fine," I say. "I'm just dropping her off, so it's fifteen minutes, tops, and the shop is just across Garret from my house. No big."

Just as he's half-muttering, "Oh, okay," and half concentrating on his tactical maneuvers, a boss fight takes him down. He turns to me, offering the controller. "You're turn?" he asks.

I consider the ache at the base of my thumbs, gotten from so much button pushing, and shake my head. "Bronwyn will be back soon, and we've got a slumber party planned."

I do not add that my "big favor" figured largely into said sleepover.

Tristan grins hugely. Great, I'll join you at eight."

"Um, no. Firstly, no boys with their icky body hair and their globs of testosterone allowed. We're going to be as girly as possible. We made a mid-year's resolution and everything. With your Y chromosome, you'd have to wear a super pink tutu and dance around to boy band music for hours just to catch up."

"Hey! I'm easy. I can relax as good as any girl. Besides, what kind of fun can you have without me? Bryn's an ancient teenager who'd have to Google the word 'relaxed' just to figure it out, and your idea of a wild time is to read Emma for the umpteenth time."

"I am well aware boys have a kill switch that lets them turn off any ol' time they like—I suspect it's on the bottom of one of these controllers, in fact—but I'm a girl, so I can't prove it." I shrug. "Still doesn't change the fact that you aren't invited. Like I said, no boys allowed . . . and don't even think of sneaking in and hiding under the bed.

Tristan's eye grow round with mock innocence. "I would never!" he says, and pats the air near his chin in the imitation of a southern belle.

"Tristan, you are the very definition of a boy who would sneak into a girls' sleepover. Somewhere there's a manual about it, and they used a snapshot of you for the cover image."