The Brightest Star in a Constellation

1: Looking Forward to Nothing

☆ Evan ☆

Two hundred and eighty-nine days, four hours, thirty-six minutes, and fifteen seconds—that's how much time I have left before I leave this town.

My eyes train on Claire as she walks alongside me, cutting across the field. Her vibrant grey eyes find mine, and for a second, I wonder if she can hear our time together ticking away. If, when she inspects my face, she can see my expiration date.

Two hundred and eighty-nine days, four hours, thirty-six minutes, and nine seconds.

"You must have heard by now," Claire starts, bending over to stretch her calves. Her neon pink tank top and matching capris almost clash with the lime-green soccer uniform clinging to her forearms. She stands out against the stark-white sky and the colourless grass beneath my feet like a flower growing from a sidewalk. Impossible to miss. Impossible to forget.

My hands sink into my pockets. "About what?"

Claire sends me a particularly cunning glare, gathering her brunette hair into a ponytail. She nods in the direction of the field and replies, "Coach Hayes is inviting scouts to the soccer game next week."

"How do you even know that?"

"Because," she says, rolling her eyes at me, "I'm a fucking psychic. How do you think?"

Groaning, I scrub my face with my knuckle. My gaze flickers to Coach Hayes for a second, then back to Claire. "If you broke into his office, you should at least have invited me."

"God, sometimes I wonder what goes on in your head," Claire mutters. She finishes her warm-up, watching me like she expects me to stand here and attempt a tree-pose. Unfortunately, the amount of effort I'm willing to put into soccer practice is slowly dwindling to zero, and I can only blame myself.

It seems like I'm existing a few steps behind her. But we're both running in the same direction—I can see her as she recedes, never looking back at me. I want to shout at her to stop, to slow down, but she can't hear me. And I can't catch up. I can never catch up; time seems to move slower and slower with each day that passes.

"I didn't commit a crime, Evan. My father's friends with him. Haven't I told you that before?" she continues.

I blink. Try to think. To remember. I want to feel guilty for forgetting the specifics of Claire's life, but that part of me is asleep. My brain is clustered with a heavy haze that doesn't fade until lunchtime, at least. So I force myself to laugh, and I tell her, "Probably. I still think stealing his keys would be cooler."

She scoffs, narrowing her eyes at me for a second, and digs her shoes into the mud. "Are we skipping practice again?"

I don't know when Claire started saying we. When she started acting like she's joined to my hip, like lichen stuck to a rock. I've never corrected her because I figure it doesn't matter. Not necessarily. I've known her for three years, so when my parents ask, I refer to her as my girlfriend. It's easier that way; less invasive. If I have a girlfriend, I have somewhere to be. Something to do.

Something to get me out of the house.

"In case you hadn't noticed, we are practicing," I say. "Practicing how to be invisible."

For once, Claire smiles. It's the soft kind of smile, the one that makes her eyebrows crease and her lip tremble. The real sort, not the smile she gives me when her friends are around. "Then, you don't care about getting scouted?"

Two hundred and eighty-nine days, four hours... "It's not happening, Cee. Not for me."

Her smile fades, and her usual look of pity returns with a vengeance. "You don't know that. You might not be the best player, but maybe if you stopped expecting to fail, it might help. You need—"