The Chaos of Stars

  “Boyfriend?” I ask. I hope she doesn’t decide to have lunch with him instead. I definitely don’t feel brave enough to go buy something on my own.

  Tyler laughs. “No. In fact, I feel a little dirty because of my occasional lustful thoughts, since I’m taken. Still, I can appreciate beauty, right?” She leans forward, so far that I worry she’ll lose her balance and topple right off the bridge. “Hey, RY!” Finally he looks up.

  Floods, I have never seen such eyes.

  They’re crystal blue, a shade that shouldn’t exist on the human body, a shade I immediately crave, a shade that makes my heart beat a little faster—almost as if I recognize it. I want to steal it, paint it, throw it into every room I ever decorate. It’s the most perfect blue I’ve ever seen. Even from this distance his eyes are simply remarkable.

  He pulls out his earbuds and smiles, a dimple on one side but not the other, though it looks like he’s not quite focused on us, like his eyes are seeing just past us. He waves, and I have to admit Tyler is right about “appreciating beauty.”

  “What’s up, Tyler?” His voice is a pleasant tenor.

  “We’re heading to lunch. Want to come?”

  His eyes glance off me, again not quite focusing. Maybe he has bad vision, though I can see him just fine.

  “Oh,” Tyler shouts, “this is Isadora. She started at the museum today. She’s from Egypt!”

  He looks back down at his notebook, tapping his pen against the page. “What part are you from?” he calls in flawless Arabic.

  I narrow my eyes. Didn’t see that one coming. “You wouldn’t know it,” I answer in English. He probably wants to show off that he speaks Arabic, but I don’t like that he assumes I don’t speak English well. I speak English perfectly. I speak everything perfectly.

  He smiles, still not looking up, and Tyler finally leans back so I can stop worrying she’ll fall over the side. “Coming or not?”

  I hope he doesn’t. If he does, I’ll have to spend the whole time figuring out how to pull from his color scheme for a room. Black, brilliant blue, olive tan. And then the lips for an accent. Maybe the bedroom.

  I blush. No bedrooms. Stupid. I should go back to the museum. I’m not even that hungry. Tyler clearly already has a social life and doesn’t need me. I have no idea how to make friends.

  “Rain check?” His eyes flit up and then back down, and relief floods through me. He makes me uncomfortable, and I don’t know why.

  “Sure. Later!”

  Eyes still on his notebook, he waves at us.

  I follow Tyler across the rest of the bridge. “Ry’s great,” she says. “We’ll have to all hang out! You’ll meet Scott, my boyfriend, sooner or later. He’s a total nerd. Not as pretty as Ry, but fortunately for him I’m only mostly shallow.”

  I shrug and smile. Doesn’t matter to me whether her boyfriend is as pretty as Ry. I don’t care about Ry. But that doesn’t stop me from obsessively re-creating his eyes in my memory, and trying to figure out if there’s any sort of non-crazy way to take a picture of him.

  Just for the color palette.

  I try to balance the cow-horn headdress, though my head still isn’t big enough for it and it keeps slipping down over my eyes. I’ll bet when I’m eleven it will fit.

  I hold it on, looking at myself in the burnished copper of my mother’s mirror. In the blurred image that stares back at me, I can almost see myself as her, and it makes me feel pretty. I wonder what I’ll be the goddess of when I’m old enough for it. I think I’d like to be the goddess of animals. Maybe then Ubesti would purr more for me.

  I stand, walking around the room with my back as straight as I can make it, holding the headdress and staring solemnly ahead.

  “What are you doing?” a voice snaps, and I jump, startled into letting go of the headdress, which clatters to the ground.

  “I was just—hi, Hathor. I was just . . . umm.” I blush, humiliated. My brother Horus and his wife, Hathor, are visiting, and even though he’s my brother he feels more like an uncle, because he’s old. Hathor is beautiful, but in a different way than Mother. Mother’s beauty is warm and safe. Hathor’s makes me feel small and ugly.

  “That’s mine,” she hisses.

  “No! I would never take anything of yours! It’s my mother’s.”

  “Stupid girl. Your mother is the one who took it in the first place. It was mine. It is mine. I will never forget what Isis took from me.” She leans over and picks it up by the horns, the single polished disc of gold between the horns gleaming dully in the lantern light. “Mine,” she whispers, placing it on her own head, and I stumble back. Seeing it on her head makes me realize how stupid I must have looked, trying to wear it.

  “Hathor,” my mother’s voice says, in the angry tone that gives me a headache. I turn around, waiting to get in trouble, but where my mother should be standing in the doorway is nothing but an outline, darkness blacker than night, emptier than the desert sky.

  I close my eyes. I don’t want to see it. It shouldn’t be there, and I don’t want it to see me, either.

  Chapter 5

  Set murdered Osiris. Isis and Nephthys brought Osiris back from the dead, but once dead, he remained god of the underworld.

  Set killed Horus. Isis used magic from Thoth to revive him.

  Isis poisoned Amun-Re, only healing him once he divulged his true name and gave her and Horus power over him.

  Horus used that power to defeat Set and become pharaoh-god of Egypt.

  Nephthys wanted a child. Set was unable or unwilling to give her one, so she disguised herself as the more beautiful Isis and seduced Osiris.

  Set and Osiris get together once a week to play board games.

  “WHAT ARE YOU DOING?” I STARE AT SIRUS IN horror. He’s sitting at the table, eyes closed, mouth moving as he whispers to himself. And in front of him, in a notebook, he’s writing glyphs for the names of our parents.

  He finishes, then looks at me and shrugs. “Remembering.”

  “You still pray? You pray to our parents?” I can’t keep the disgust out of my voice. “You actually worship them. Floods, Sirus, what is wrong with you?”

  “I’m not worshipping. I’m remembering.”

  “The way Isis forced you to!”

  “You would rather I pretend like I have no heritage? Pretend like I came from nowhere, from nothing? A lot of cultures revere their ancestors, Isadora. It’s not worship. It’s respect, and gratitude.”

  “It’s sick! It’s the only reason they had us! You’re giving them exactly what they want.”

  He stands, picking up the notebook. “You have the relationship with Mom and Dad that you choose to. Please don’t criticize mine.”

  My jaw hangs open as he walks past me out of the room. I thought coming here would mean leaving all of that behind, but apparently Sirus brought it right along with him. I turn and startle at movement, until I realize it’s just my reflection in a mirror hanging on the wall.

  For a moment I thought it was my mother.

  My reflection smiles as an idea takes root. I pull at my hair, thick and long like Isis’s. She loves my hair.

  My smiles grows.

  “Are you sure?” Amberlyn looks at me dubiously. A massive cloth flower clip takes up half of her head. It’s magenta and leopard print, with a plastic eyeball in the middle. I knew she was the right girl for the job the second I laid eyes on that.

  “Absolutely.”

  “Okay. Because I think we can rock this, I really do, but I want you to be sure. I hate it when girls tell me they want this and then cry.”

  “Hack it off.” I glare at myself in the mirror. No more “Gosh, you look like you could be on a mural!” comments at the museum. Ever. One week of them was enough for a lifetime. I’m not part of that exhibit, and I never will be.

  I hate today. Last night I broke down and emailed Isis, just to make sure she was doing okay, even though I swore to myself I wouldn’t. Of course she emailed back, and I got it right after the
weird fight thing with Sirus.

  Little Heart,

  I miss you, too. Try to make some friends. Stop eating so much sugar.

  I caught Hathor in my workroom during their last visit; we were right not to send you to Horus. The dreams have continued unabated, though you are no longer threatened in them, which is a great comfort and relief. Are you still having them?

  Nephthys is here to help me prepare for the baby and assist on charms to combat the dark forces at work. Your father sends his love. Don’t worry about us.

  Love,

  Your Mother

  P.S. I mean it about the sugar.

  I pop a sucker back into my mouth, making sure to trace the sugar-on-a-stick around all of my teeth. Just remembering her email makes me seethe. “I miss you, too.” I didn’t say I missed her, and I’m sure she doesn’t miss me. And that part about my father sending his love? What love? I doubt he’s even noticed I’m gone.

  And any bad dreams I’ve had are no doubt a result of my brain trying to process my stupid childhood. Once things settle down and I really feel like I have a life outside of all of that, I’m sure my brain will quit rehashing weird childhood memories.

  I take a deep breath and narrow my eyes at the mirror. I should send Isis a picture when it’s finished. She’ll have a heart attack. A grin spreads across my face as Amberlyn grabs a section near the front and spreads the goop on it, then wraps it in foil.

  An hour and a half later Amberlyn spins me around, looking nervous.

  I laugh. My black hair is shorter than it’s been since I was a baby, a pixie cut styled in a feminine version of the fauxhawk. And near the front is a chunk dyed hunter green.

  “It’s perfect!” With my black-lined eyes, deep-purple tank top, and dark jeans, I look tough. I look interesting. And I look nothing like my mother.

  Amberlyn lets out a relieved breath and gives me detailed instructions on how to take care of it so the color lasts longer. I happily pay her; before I came I looked up the customs for paying stylists, so I leave an eighty-percent tip. The fact that my mother paid for what she will consider an absolute butchery is icing on the cake. Who misses who now?

  I grab Deena’s bike and walk it down the sidewalk, the day warm in spite of the clouds that won’t go away. San Diego’s hills have quickly made me repent of my initial excitement over this form of transportation. Who designed this city? It’s a good thing Sirus is around to take me to work and bring me home. I’d probably die if I had to pedal everywhere.

  I pause, watching someone use an ATM. Interesting. The card goes in, but instead of magically paying for something, actual money comes out. . . . Looks like I have something new to research when I get home.

  A smoothie shop on the corner of a brown, tired-looking strip mall calls to me, and I ditch my bike against a lamppost. It smells heavenly inside, all citrus and sugar. I order some strawberry-mango-banana concoction that’s heavy on the sherbet. As I walk outside, I sincerely hope it will give me a cavity. I’ve never had dental problems before, and even though I can’t quit flossing and brushing three times a day (I’ve tried, but the residual Isis guilt gives me a headache), maybe a massive influx of sugar will do the trick.

  The nearest green plastic table is occupied by a guy hunched over a notebook, so I take the free one next to him and give myself a brain freeze. The only thing that could make this moment better would be if the clouds would go away. I’d love to feel the sun on my day off, and I haven’t once seen the stars. It’s starting to make me twitchy, disconnected. Maybe tonight will be clear.

  “Isadora?”

  I jump, knocking over my smoothie. “Floods!” I mutter, flipping it back up and resealing the lid. A lump of the frozen pink drink is slowly spreading out along my table. I look up to see the culprit and am met by a pair of perfectly blue eyes. Ry.

  He’s staring at me like he’s seen a ghost. Even his olive skin has paled. After a few seconds he shakes his head, coming back to himself. “Sorry! I didn’t mean to startle you.” He grabs his stack of napkins and sops up the mess.

  “It’s not a big deal. Don’t worry about it.”

  He finishes cleaning anyway, dumping the napkins in the trash right next to me and then grabbing his bag and sitting down at my table.

  “Your hair. I didn’t recognize you before.”

  I lift a finger self-consciously to my chopped locks. “Oh, yeah. You have a good memory.”

  “No, I mean, I didn’t recognize you when we met before. But now I do.”

  I frown. “Umm, what?” Why would he have recognized me before? I doubt he’s spent any summers in Abydos.

  “Sorry.” He smiles, his teeth big and white and very straight. “I mean, of course I remember you. I remember interesting faces.”

  “Interesting? Wow. That’s flattering.”

  He laughs. “You have perfect, classic features. I like it. You don’t look like everyone else here.”

  “Lucky me?” I take a long draw on my straw, not sure what we’re supposed to talk about now. It’s not like we’re friends. I don’t even know Ry. Why did he sit with me?

  He keeps staring, this strange expression on his face. Finally, his beautiful lips once again parting in a smile like he knows a joke I don’t, he pulls his pen from behind his ear and goes back to the tattered black notebook. He starts scribbling away like I’m not even here. Which, yet again, begs the question of why he sat here in the first place.

  “Sorry,” he says, not looking up. “Just gotta get this description down before I lose it. Suddenly I have a deadline.”

  “Sure.” I have no idea what he’s talking about, but I’m drinking my smoothie so fast my throat feels like it’s caked in ice. The sooner I finish, the sooner I have two hands to steer my bike. He’s too handsome. That’s what it is. He’s too handsome, and the way he has his shoulders thrown back, the way that grin slowly splits apart his face, the way it tells you that everything is funny to him and always will be because he is so pretty he can laugh at anything and get away with it, yes, all of that, that is what I will not like about him.

  I don’t know why I have such an itching need to invent reasons to dislike him. But it’s important. I can feel a strange something budding inside of me. I refuse to let it take root.

  And he’s still writing in his stupid notebook. He’s rude and arrogant. And I don’t like the way one of his curls flops down on his forehead. It’s stupid. I want to push it off, back into the rest of his hair.

  No I don’t. I don’t want to touch him. I don’t care to find out if his hair is as soft as it looks. Why can’t I drink this smoothie faster?

  “Okay.” He sets his pen down emphatically and looks up at me with a smile. “I always have to write these things when I think of them. Even if it turns out to be crap later, you never know, right?”

  “Umm, yeah.”

  He waits for a few seconds. “You aren’t going to ask me what I’m writing, are you?”

  I shrug. “Nope.”

  “I like that. I like your hair, too. The green is a nice contrast.”

  “Wanted something different.”

  “I declare it a success.”

  I roll my eyes. “My life is complete.” I take a few last desperate gulps while he sits there, leaning back, completely at ease, watching me with that infuriating secret smile. He’s probably always this secure. Is he trying to flirt with me? I have no idea. When I’d go out on the rare excursion with my mother, it was easy enough to brush off any hopeful flirters by pretending I didn’t speak Arabic. (Though often as not they were trying to flirt with my mother, too. Blech.)

  Unfortunately, I can’t pretend like I don’t speak English with Ry.

  “Well, nice seeing you again.” I stand and, to my chagrin, he does too.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Throwing away this empty cup.”

  He laughs. He does that a lot. “I mean, today. Let me show you around. I am a living Google Map when it comes to the best restau
rants in San Diego.”

  “So is that what’s in the notebook? Restaurant reviews and maps?”

  He laughs again. He tips his head back and his throat moves in this interesting way. I’ll bet he practices in front of the mirror. “Nope. Maybe the next notebook. But have you been to the harbor yet? There’s a genuinely terrifying sculpture that you have to see to believe.”

  “Thanks, but I have my bike. Gotta get it back.”

  “Not a problem!” He points to the parking lot, where a truck sits. Not just any truck. A fully restored truck straight out of the 1950s, painted sky blue with a white stripe, bursting with personality that modern trucks only wish they had. It is twenty different kinds of awesome.

  “Floods,” I whisper under my breath.

  “What?”

  I shake my head. “Sorry, I’m just crushing on your truck.” He beams and I inwardly cringe. Why did I admit that?

  “She’s pretty great, isn’t she?”

  I pick up my bike. This has gotten off track. I don’t know why he’s so eager to hang out with me today. And I don’t care. I have no interest in boys, now or ever. I can’t help but notice him, and—oh, idiot gods, I am definitely attracted to him. This is how it starts. This is how I set myself up for pain and tragedy and endings where I want eternities.

  I refuse. I refuse it all. I will never attach myself to someone else. I can end everything before it starts and be free and alone and perfectly happy.

  “Maybe another time. My brother’s waiting for me.”

  “Can I give you a ride home?”

  “Sorry, my mother told me never to accept rides from strangers.” Not true; it was never an issue. I was never far enough away from her as a child for her to worry. But it was something she would say to me. Hmm . . . actually, I’m glad she never said it to me, because if she had, I’d be forced to ride with him just to go against her.

  “I’ll have to work on being less strange, then. It was good to finally see you.” That secret smile again. I want to smoosh his cheeks together to get rid of it.