Trailing Stars (Trailing Stars #1)

Chapter 9

"Not bad," Clara says, reading all of them side-by-side. "I especially like the one to your dad." She clears her throat dramatically, snatching up the poem to read it aloud:

"A hero from
the start,
you were there for
everything.

Scraped knees and
bloody noses.
Screaming fits and
fistfights.
Silences and
emptiness.
Tears and
cries.
Dreams and
nightmares.

None of it was
too much for you.
I wasn't too much
for you.
Not even during
your worst
nightmare."

"I actually like the one to her mom better," Nathan says. He picks up the poem, ignoring Clara's furrowed eyebrows and my already flushed face. He starts reading it aloud like Clara did with Dad's poem:

"The moment we opened our eyes,
you knew we weren't the Angels you
asked for but Little Monsters instead.

We were demons in disguise
but you called us angels.
We gave you curses
but you called them blessings.
We told you we hated you
but all you heard was 'I love you.'

You said you loved us
and you meant it.
You said we would always be kids
no matter how tall we grew.
You said we were Angels
when it was clear we weren't.
You said you would
always forgive us,
always love us.
But we would
always hurt you,
always break you.

Because we were Little Monsters.
And yet all you saw were Angels."

I feel like I might throw up if they read Kate's and Hannah's poems, too. They don't, thank god. I snatch them up before they change their minds, folding them into fans. Clara and Nathan don't hesitate to fold up Mom's and Dad's poems for me.

"Who's Morgan?" Clara asks, Dad's poem hovering just inside the bag.

Kate's gift bag practically crumples in my hand, and I'm pretty sure I'm not breathing. Why am I so stupid? Why didn't I pick up Dad's bag first? It was the one gift I was worried about, and I didn't think to handle it?

Clara doesn't even seem to notice my panic. She looks right at me and says, "I recognize everyone else's name, but I don't think we've ever met Morgan. I don't think you've even talked about them."

I know Clara can usually tell when I'm lying, and I know she gets upset when I do, so I don't lie. But I can't look at her, so I'm sure it feels like I'm lying anyway. "Morgan is my brother."

"You have a brother?" I nod, running my nails along the creases on Kate's poem. "How come we haven't met him?"

I spread and fold Kate's poem before shoving it in her gift bag. "Um... He's not in town..."

"How come?"

I pick up Hannah's poem and focus on folding it instead of the burning feelings at the back of my eyes. "He couldn't make it."

My hair untucks itself from behind my ear and curtains my face. Not that it does much to actually cover how strained my voice is and how tense I am. Or how Clara's eyes pierce into me. And when she says, "That's too bad," it's all I can do not to cry.

I force myself to straighten and tuck my hair behind my ear again. "Yeah." I stare down at Hannah's poem in my hands. "It really is..."

There's a lull in the conversation, and I spend that time counting my breaths. I don't let myself look at Nathan or Clara. I just count and fold Hannah's poem. When there's nothing left to fold, I spread out the piece of paper and drop it into the gift bag. I immediately realize what a mistake that is because now I don't have anything to focus on except for the feeling of Nathan and Clara looking at me.

I clear my throat, running my hands down my jeans. "I should head home to hide the gifts. Thanks for helping me."

Nathan hands me Mom's gift bag. "Anytime."

"Yeah, anytime," Clara echoes, handing me Dad's gift bag. She doesn't let go when I grab it, forcing me to stay a second longer. My eyes flicker to meet hers, and she gives me a meaningful look, carefully saying, "Tell us if you need anything else. Like a talk or something."

She only lets go of the bag when I nod. I turn, letting my eyes flicker to Nathan. He's looking right at Clara, a certain steeliness to his eyes. Another silent exchange. It must be really bad if he's not even offering to give me a ride. The thought makes my chest grow heavier than it already is but not having to spend more time with anyone puts me at ease. Almost like the pressure a star goes through. Except stars have light years until they finally give into that kind of pressure. I'm sure I only have a few minutes before I collapse.

I force myself to walk down the stairs, trying to count my breaths, but it kind of feels like there are no breaths to count. After all, this is the first time I've talked about Morgan out loud since he died.