THE STARS ARE BEAUTIFUL - WATTYS AWARD NEW ADULT WINNER 2019

Callum | Chapter 8

I WAITED FOR HER to exit class a few days later.

"Are you afraid of water?" I asked.

She didn't think so.

Under the glow and warmth of the late afternoon sun, we rowed a small boat through Central Park, ducking beneath wispy weeping willows, stealing glances under bridges. She shined so radiant; her eyes were so innocent, so wondrous, like everything was new.

After a while I quit rowing and simply let us float. She quizzed me from my school books, and I answered only, "Your dresses have been getting shorter."

I stole glimpses of her as we walked hand in hand under the canopy of elm trees in The Mall, both of us a little shy and blissfully clueless.

Trapped under a globe of empty, echoey concrete walls of the Naumburg Bandshell, I swung her around as we danced to birds singing in the trees.

We fed goats at the petting zoo, and she never once complained about the smell, only asked me for more quarters every time her hand ran out of feed, and I got her more, more, more, sorry that's all I have, more quarters.

"I never had a pet," she laughed. "Sorry." As she wiped her hands clean, she glanced shyly at me.

"Why not?" I took her hand as we began to walk.

"My father didn't think it was smart." She paused and then said, "I'm sorry, that's all I can really tell you."

I nodded. "What kind of pet would you want if you could have one?"

"A pig. Like those little teacup pigs."

I laughed. "Oh... kay. Not what I would have guessed."

"Expected me to say a cat? Honestly?"

"More like one of those prissy little dogs you could dress up in clothes and carry everywhere."

"I'm both bothered and offended, Callum Andrew."

I smiled at her, and that time I could not look away.

"Stop," she said, smiling herself. "You have that look again."

"Well, you have that beautiful thing again." I forced my eyes to focus on the trees. "So, no pets. What about boyfriends? Ever had one of those?"

"Have you met Timothy Brighton?"

"I suppose I'm trying to figure out why it's all right for you to walk home with me. Why this is all right?"

"That would make two of us, Callum." She sighed. "But I'd guess your performance in class must have him intrigued."

"Performance? You think he's basing your future prospects on grades?" I scoffed.

"Not grades," she said. "Just how you are... with me."

"I'm sorry, could you repeat that? There was this horrible ringing in my ears."

"How you are with me." She smiled. "Sorry."

"I was almost wondering..." I swallowed my anxiety. "I was almost wondering if you weren't telling him that we were spending time together."

Confirmation as she looked away.

"I'm sorry."

"No, it's okay," I half-lied. "I understand why it's awkward."

"Not awkward—impossible."

We were quiet for a while as we walked. Everly pulled on my sleeve as we came upon the southern portion of The Mall.

"I need to sit for a moment," she said.

"Want to sit on the lap of Hans Christian Anderson? His statue is coming up."

She smiled weakly. "Somewhere cooler than bronze statues."

We sat in the grass under a large elm, where she sipped ice-cold lemonade, humming every time she took a sip. I brushed her hair away from her hot forehead as I asked, "Good day, Everly Anne?" She pressed the condensation from her cup to her flamed cheek.

"Good day, Callum Andrew."

Eventually we found statues of Hans Christian Anderson and Shakespeare, but it wasn't until we reached the Gapstow Bridge that she started to show interest in storytelling.

"I never knew my mother," she said. "She died giving birth to me."

We stopped on the bridge, looking down to the water below.

"What do you think she was like?" I asked. "Does Timothy ever tell you about her?"

"He can't talk about her. No."

I nodded. "Yeah, Andrew doesn't like to talk about my mother, either."

"I feel sorry for your father," she said. "Having to watch your mom die slowly like that."

"Do you feel sorry for your father, Everly Anne?"

She looked up at me. "Sometimes it's hard to feel sympathy for someone so cold. It would be like trying to form a relationship with Hans over there." She laughed lightly. "I'd like to believe that, before she died, he was softer, that there was this underlying man who felt and had warmth inside of his heart, but I've never seen him that way. It's all business. It's all routine. You know, we don't even celebrate Christmas? My nurses give me things, but I've never been given a gift from Timothy. Not even for my birthday."

"It hurts you," I said, touching her cheek softly. "It's okay if it hurts you, Everly. You can be sad in front of me, you know. I won't judge."

"What about you, Callum? Is it okay that it hurts you?"

"It wasn't for a long time. No."

"What made it okay?" she asked.

I pushed her long hair back, over her shoulders. "What do you think?"

"I think you still can't go to Theater Night. I think it still hurts."

"It'll always hurt." My hands ran down her arms. "But while my father chooses to mask his pain and your father chooses to deny his pain, I choose to walk with you every day. I choose to lessen the pain and perhaps a bit of the pointlessness in Julep's death by finding happiness. She fought every day to stay alive for one more day. Don't I owe her at least that? To fight every day to stay alive just one more day?"

She looked away for a moment. "Sometimes I feel like I owe him that, too."

I turned her face back to mine. "You don't owe Timothy shit. It's completely different. You didn't kill your mom, Everly Anne."

She exhaled harshly, as if she was trying not to cry. "I certainly didn't keep her alive."

I cupped her face in my hands, placing one kiss to her forehead. "What happened to her?"

Her head shook. "She hemorrhaged."

"And your father couldn't save her, right?" She said nothing. "So he's only blaming himself. Believe me. If you believe nothing else, believe me when I tell you I know what it's like to have a father who blames himself every day for not being able to save the person he loved most. The only difference between us is that your father was gifted a punching bag. Well, that, and you look much better in short dresses than I ever would."

She laughed sadly. "You would be an ugly woman. I'll give you that."

I smiled. "Give me your hand, too."

She watched me as I kissed her fingers. I wanted to hug her, to hold her, but I knew better than to push. Kissing her hand was too much.

We shared a sunset from the top of Belvedere Castle, where, on the way down the steps, Everly turned around, three steps below me, and asked, "Do you like how short my dress is today?"

And I replied in the dim light of the stairwell, "I like how bright your eyes are today."

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