THE STARS ARE BEAUTIFUL - WATTYS AWARD NEW ADULT WINNER 2019

Callum | Chapter 16

THERE HAD BEEN girls in my room before, but never curiosity.

Everly roamed my shelves of books, the textures of my driftwood-colored walls, and seashell stories from years past. She wanted to know why I liked hanging my clothes instead of folding them. She wanted to know the history of my dreams as a boy—a boy who had been gifted the view of a million sea-cradled stars to dream under during his summers away from school. She wanted to know about my mother Julep and the color of her hair and eyes. Do you look like your mother? Does your black hair come from someone else? I know it's not from Andrew.

And our house had pictures—we had hundreds of pictures. I was on display in every room, but there was no truth. There was no Julep Trovatto. There was no marriage that led to my creation. There were only chipped-off bits of a life. A birthday party. A graduation. A moment on the beach with a first caught fish. These were captured times, not treasured memories.

I couldn't satisfy her curiosity in this house, because it held no attic filled with stories, harbored no secrets. Everything of my childhood days spent in Montauk on Fourth of July weekends and summer school breaks was locked inside boxes and tucked into a dark space no one wanted to acknowledge.

***

We spent the afternoon walking along the beach. I collected seashells in my pocket for her. She roamed salty stores with open fronts and bought herself a large hat to fend off the sun. I bought her a miniature lighthouse of Light Point to remember our day. We shared an ice cream. We watched a couple of kids play in the ocean. I watched the sun sink down, down, almost down. Two more days and this would end. I'd go back to class, where she'd sit across from me and be Everly Anne the Case Study and I'd be Callum Trovatto trying to earn a passing grade. There'd be no topolina. No farfalla. Salted air would be replaced by sterile.

I offered her my arm as we walked back. Her feet moved as slowly as mine, and I knew she was right about me, because, in that moment, I hoped. But her hold was too tight. She was clinging and not for the reasons I desired. I put my arms around her and gathered her hand in mine. Her body pressed to my side was a blanket of heat. I pulled away and palmed her cheeks. She was flushed but dry.

"You're burning up. Take off some of this stuff." I pulled away her bathing-suit wrap and hat, then walked her to the edge of the ocean and washed her arms and neck in the cool salt water, but it wasn't enough. I pulled her waist deep and let her hair dunk. This time I did hold onto her hips, gathered close to me, as I tried to cool her down. She was fire without the fury. I cradled her to my chest and stared down into her eyes.

"I'm not doing a very good job of taking care of you."

Barely, she whispered, "You don't know what you're up against."

It took us twice as long to walk back to the house. I brought her to the bathroom inside of my bedroom to check her vitals and offered her a cool bath. Pulling the thermometer away, I felt my eyes widen in cartoon-type surprise.

"One-oh-four!"

She swayed forward on the edge of the tub, and I held her steady with one hand, turning the faucet on with my other.

Stripped down to her bathing suit, I set her in the tub, but she lurched forward, vomiting the remnants of vanilla ice cream into the water. It dripped down her navy-blue bathing suit. Without asking, I pulled it away, not looking, not wondering. I was only dutiful. Fully-clothed, I got into the tub and lifted her up, kicked the plug out of the drain and turned the shower on, sending cold water streaming across her skin. I held her like that: a limp little doll, my topolina. She threw up twice more. I held her steady. It was the first time in my life I was honestly angry that my father was shit-faced and useless. If she had a seizure... If her fever wouldn't break quickly enough... If I had to call Brighton and not be able to give her one fuckin' day of happiness without doom...