The Chaos of Stars

  I turn to see Ry standing right next to me, smiling. “Riding with me then? Great!”

  Floods. Did Tyler just set me up?

  If only his truck weren’t so beautiful. I lean my head back and close my eyes, letting the breeze from the open window play across my face. Amun-Re, I love this truck.

  “So, how do you like San Diego?” he asks, more or less, since he says it in fluent Arabic, complete with Egyptian accent. He’s tapping on the steering wheel, eyes straight ahead on the road, but a dimple hints that he wants to smile that stupid smile and it’s all he can do not to.

  I’m tempted to answer him in Urdu, but I opt for English instead. “It’s fine.” Other than creepy drug-addict prowlers who destroy my personal property. “Why do you keep trying to speak to me in Arabic?”

  “I don’t know, I thought maybe you were homesick.”

  “Trust me, not homesick. Sick of home. Which is why I’m here.” He’s a show-off, that’s what he is. I don’t give a mummified cat whether or not he can speak Arabic. I add show-off to my list of reasons why I will never like Ry in a way that would be dangerous. And then I’m mad that I even feel like I need to have a list, which is another thing to put on the list I wish I didn’t have to have.

  “So, I’m not strange anymore?” he asks.

  “What?”

  “You’re riding in my car, which must mean I’m not a stranger anymore.”

  “Actually, the more I’m around you, the stranger you get.”

  Ry laughs, but his phone buzzes and he pulls it out. “Yeah? No parking at all? Sure, let’s meet there. Not a problem. Bye.”

  He turns off of the main road. We weave down the hills, teasing glimpses of the ocean blinding me. It still shocks me every time I come over a hill and see it spreading out on the horizon. It feels wrong, that much water. My eyes keep trying to turn it into sand, heat shimmers, something that makes sense.

  I don’t recognize this neighborhood—the homes are close together but big. Here they cram as much house onto as little land as they possibly can. Cars are parked all down the narrow street, and guys carrying surfboards walk barefoot on the asphalt.

  There’s no space in this city. Anywhere. I want open land. I want desert. I want to be able to look in a single direction and see nothing.

  Crap. I am not homesick. I’m not, I’m not.

  Ry slows and I see Scott’s car (the color of puke mating with rust) pulling up into the driveway of a massive home, complete with huge Grecian pillars and a fountain. The whole thing is so ostentatious it borders on laughable. Okay, I do laugh a little bit.

  “Can we park here?” I ask.

  “It’s okay, we know the owners.”

  I shake my head at the monstrosity of a house. “Do you know the architects? Because they should be shot.”

  “You know, I kinda agree.” His mouth twists into that smile again, and it sets my teeth on edge. He always seems to be in his own little world, his blue eyes never quite focused on this one except for that brief time with the smoothies. Not that I want them focused on me, but still.

  Ry pulls in behind Scott. Tyler’s already out of the car, grabbing towels and a big canvas bag out of the trunk. “You boys get the pizza and meet us there. Okay, Isadora, you want the daisy bikini, or the pink one?”

  Who is this girl and how did I end up here?

  Thirty minutes later we’re on the sand by ourselves. Or, well, by ourselves and about 400 billion other people. Thankfully Tyler had a black cover-up for this painfully pastel bikini I’m wearing. It only took me seven minutes to text Sirus that I don’t need a ride home—I’m getting better. He texts me back and reminds me about the new security system. It’s an unnecessary reminder. I spent all the hours I couldn’t sleep last night reading the manual and memorizing how it works.

  Tyler stretches her legs over the edge of the huge towel and digs her toes into the sand, leaning back onto her elbows. “If the boys don’t get back with our pizza in the next five minutes, I will die of starvation.”

  “Scott seems nice,” I say, watching the water warily. I want a bank on the other side. And no waves. Then I’d like it.

  Tyler smiles, watching the water happily. “He is. He’s also a huge, huge dork. I love him. But seriously, if he’s not back soon, it’s over. I will propose to the next boy who walks by with anything edible.”

  “Fickle woman,” Scott says from behind us, setting down a pizza box with a flourish. Ry puts another on top of it and hands me a bottle of Coke.

  Oh, glorious, glorious caffeine and sugar. I can make it through anything as long as I have enough of those two. My mother never let me have soda. I’ve had as much as I possibly can since I got here. She’s right—I’m addicted, and it gives me headaches, and I don’t care. “Thanks. How much do I owe you?”

  He waves a hand dismissively and plops onto the sand next to me. “Nothing; don’t worry about it.”

  I frown. “I’m paying you back.”

  “Pick up the tab next time.”

  What does he mean by “next time”? Does he think this will be a regular thing? It doesn’t sound very datey, though, because aren’t American boys supposed to pay for girls all the time?

  Floods. This is stupid. Free food is free food. I take a long drink and then help myself to a slice piled high with mounds of vegetables. The cheese is thick, the crust just barely sturdy enough not to collapse under the weight of the toppings. I’ve had pizza a couple of times, but this is the best yet.

  Scott shudders, pulling a plain cheese slice out of the other box. “How can you eat all that? It’s so polluted. You’ve gotten away from the purity of the perfect blend of sauce, bread, and cheese.”

  I take another massive bite and shrug. “It’s more interesting. This is the best pizza I’ve ever had.”

  Ry beams. “Told you I was a restaurant Google Map. You should have trusted me.”

  “Noted,” I say, unable to avoid smiling.

  Scott is still staring at my slice in agitation. “But—the onions! Just the thought of biting into them . . .” He shudders.

  “I can eat onions like apples,” I say.

  “Shut up,” Tyler says.

  “I ate them all the time growing up. It’s no big deal.” Ancient Egyptians were big into onions, and my mother never really got past it. Doesn’t give you the nicest breath, but they add just the right amount of flavor and texture to nearly anything. Few dishes can’t be improved by the liberal addition of onions, as far as I’m concerned. Isis used to chop them so finely it was how I imagined snow would look.

  “That’s the most disgusting thing I’ve ever heard.” Scott’s eyes are wide with both admiration and horror.

  I pull off a big chunk of purple onion and stick it on my tongue, slowly pulling it into my mouth and chewing, channeling Hathor.

  Tyler laughs. “Sexy!”

  “Don’t even think about trying that,” Scott says. “I refuse to kiss you if you’ve been eating onions.”

  “Like you could resist!” Tyler finishes her cheese and grabs a slice of the veggie, eyebrows raised defiantly.

  “You’re a terrible influence on my girlfriend.” Scott pouts as the onion-covered slice disappears into Tyler’s mouth. “Ry, tell them that’s disgusting.”

  We all look over at Ry to find him chewing absently on his pizza while writing in one of his notebooks. Of course. What a weirdo.

  He continues to write in the notebook while we swim. Anyone who says the water is great in San Diego really means the water feels like it was imported directly from the Arctic. The waves freak me out, but I remind myself about their biggest perk: no hippos.

  We finish the rest of the pizza and enjoy a rousing round of Mock the Worst-Fitting Swimwear. Not even the grand prize winner, a nine-months-pregnant woman in a string bikini, gets so much as a glance from Notebook Boy.

  I don’t understand why Scott and Tyler like having him around. There’s no point. He’s like furniture or something. Really pre
tty furniture, but still.

  A volleyball smashes into the sand next to me, and I look up to find two guys in low-slung board shorts grinning sheepishly. “Hey, sorry about that. You want to play?”

  “No, thanks.”

  “Aw, come on!”

  “Again, no thanks.” I don’t even bother picking up the ball to throw it at them, and they walk away, grumbling.

  “Ooh, they had pretty abs. You should have said yes,” Tyler says.

  “Bodies are bodies. Who cares.”

  “Speaking of bodies,” Scott says, his head resting on Tyler’s stomach. “Bruce Lee could have taken Chuck Norris in their prime, and you know it.”

  I have no idea who they’re talking about. I’m tracing patterns in the sand with my toes, warily watching the horizon as the sun sinks. No clouds yet. Please, no clouds.

  Tyler shoves his head away. “Could not! Ry, tell him he’s wrong.”

  Ry holds up a finger and we wait while he writes . . . and writes . . . and writes. Tyler and Scott giggle, just watching him, like it’s a game to see how long he’ll go. Knowing those two, it probably is a game. And finally, two full minutes later with the sun nearly setting, he sets down his pen and folds the notebook shut. “What are we talking about?”

  “Now, or any time in the last three hours?” I snap, surprised at how pissed I sound. What do I care if he hangs out and ignores us?

  He smiles, looking right into my eyes, and my breath catches as I see that he is here, finally, connected to me and only me. “Now.”

  “You’ll have to excuse Ry,” Scott says. “He’s a poet.”

  “Here we go.” Ry rolls his eyes, breaking the connection, and I feel like I can breathe again.

  “Ask him what type of poetry he writes.” Scott’s face twists up in a smirk. Tyler reaches past me and pats Ry’s leg supportively.

  “What type of poetry do you write?” I say, my voice flat.

  “Epic!” Scott shouts. “He writes epic poetry!”

  Ry shrugs. “It’s true.”

  “Epic poetry? What does that mean?”

  He tucks the notebook into his bag and turns to look at me again, and I swear his eyes are like a physical blow, they’re so shockingly beautiful, and I wish he’d look somewhere else. “Really, really long? And with specific conventions. Starts in the middle of a story; there’s always a quest; really strict meter; you have to invoke a muse. In my case Calliope. It’s kind of along the lines of The Iliad. You know it?”

  “Of course. I used to read it under the covers at night on my laptop.”

  Everyone gives me weird looks. “Why?” Tyler asks.

  “Oh, my mom kind of has this thing against the Greeks.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Yup. Not a fan. So I had to sneak around to read The Iliad and The Odyssey.”

  “I thought my mom was weird for banning vampire novels,” Tyler says. “Don’t tell her you’re hanging out with Ry, then.”

  “Why?”

  “Full-blooded Greek.” He smiles at me with that dimple and that skin, and it’s too perfect. Is there something wrong with me that I want to hang out with him more just because he’s Greek and it’d kill my mom?

  Tyler whispers something to Scott, and they both jump up. “Be right back!” she says, and they take off down the beach, hand in hand.

  “They’re going somewhere to make out, aren’t they?” I ask, frowning at them.

  “Probably.”

  “Lame.”

  Ry and I sit there, staring out over the ocean as the sun’s dipping progress speeds up. I make a point of keeping my eyes on the water. It glows now, this brilliant, darkening blue. It’s amazing. I should come here for sunset every night. I don’t wish away the water anymore.

  “So,” I say, too aware of him right next to me and wanting to talk about something normal, “why epic poetry?”

  “I know there’s no point—not like anyone wants to read it—but I grew up on these stories, the mythology, and it’s a beautiful way of making sense of the world. Plus I have high hopes that my poetry will get me the one thing I want in the whole world.” He lets that hang there, like he wants me to ask what it is.

  Instead I say, “Doesn’t everyone always meet really tragic endings in Greek mythology?”

  He laughs. “Pretty much. But some would say my writing is a tragedy in and of itself, so I’m already doing my culture justice. What do you like to do, Issy?”

  “Oh no. I am not an Issy.”

  “Sorry, I didn’t take you for a Dora.”

  “I’m not. I’m an Isadora.”

  “No nicknames?”

  “My name is Isadora. That’s who I am. I hate nicknames.”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t know it was a big deal.” He sounds sincere.

  I sigh. “It’s not. Well, it is. It’s just—cultural, right? Your name is who you are, what defines you. Ancient Egyptians even believed names themselves had power. You take away someone’s name, or change it, you’re taking away a part of them. You are your name.” I frown, thinking of all my stupid relatives who couldn’t ever even bother to learn my name. My mom, who’d call me pet names all the time—she couldn’t be bothered to see me, Isadora. I was just another baby, just another kid to snuggle and raise to worship her, then replace.

  “That makes perfect sense,” he says.

  “It’s lame and we both know it. But don’t you dare even think about calling me Dora.”

  “Deal. Isadora it is, and nothing else forever.”

  I risk a glance at him and he’s staring at me with his brilliant secret smile, and I quickly turn and fix my eyes determinedly on the horizon; the water is losing its glow. I lie back, willing the constellations to show.

  Ry does the same next to me, putting his arms behind his head. He starts saying something but is interrupted by my shriek as the first stars come out. “Yay!”

  “What?”

  “I’ve missed them so much! If only Orion were out.”

  “Umm, what are we talking about here?”

  “My stars!” I point up. Now that I’ve seen them, some of the things that had detached inside of me settle into place, where they’re supposed to be. My heart is actually fluttering in my chest I’m so excited. The only thing I need for it to be perfect is Orion. I have to wait a few more months until he’s visible at night again, though.

  “Your stars? And Orion?”

  “The night I was born, Orion was the most prominent in the sky, and it’s always been my favorite constellation. I can’t wait for this winter. Orion’s like the one constant in my life, the one thing I could always find when I needed comfort.” It spills out; I shouldn’t tell him anything, but I’m so relieved I’m giddy.

  He laughs again. “Well, that’s weird.”

  I turn and stick my tongue out at him. “Sure, Epic Poetry Boy.”

  “No, no, I don’t mean the stars. I mean, what you were saying about names and how important they are.”

  “What does that have to do with anything?”

  “Well, Isadora-not-Issy-or-Dora, I’m Ry—as in Orion.” His smile shines in the dark like a beacon. Like my stars.

  Chaos take me.

  Who are you remembering today?” Mother asks, beaming at me as I kneel in front of the small stone altar in my room.

  “I’m remembering Thoth.” He’s my favorite. I love it when he visits.

  Mother nods her approval. “Thoth is the reason I was born. And he helped me when your brother Horus was poisoned by Set.”

  I know these stories, but this is part of the worship, part of the remembering. In my head and my heart I list the things that Thoth is god of, and then I remember the stories I’ve been taught about him. Finally, I repeat his name to myself, and then trace it onto the altar.

  Of course, I always do Isis and Osiris first. I think Mother would like me to do Horus more often than I do, but he ignores me and I’d always rather remember Thoth. Once a month I do a quick one of the rest of the
m—Nephthys, Hathor, Anubis, Set, Ammit, Grandma Nut, Grandpa Mun, and of course Amun-Re. I always shiver when I have to remember everything Set has done, though.

  “You started a bit late this morning,” my mother says.

  I whisper Thoth’s name, tracing it without looking up at her. My stomach twists guiltily. I slept in five minutes past dawn. “I’m sorry.”

  “We must always have order in this house. Everything has a time and a purpose. If we maintain order . . .”

  “We never leave chaos an opening to creep in,” I finish, and look up at her.

  But she’s gone. I look toward the door, but beyond it the hall is dark. Darker than dark, swirling and alive with blackness. The darkness has my mother.

  I crawl backward, away from it, crunching across shards of broken glass I know shouldn’t be there. I freeze. If I move, if I make a noise, the darkness will come for me, too.

  Chapter 7

  Isis knew that, with Osiris already in the underworld, she needed another claim to the god-king throne of Egypt. She presented Horus to the other gods, magically conceived after Osiris’s death, young but strong and ready to take his father’s place. And at his side, his mother, who was willing to do anything to support him.

  Nephthys wanted a son, too. But Set would not oblige her. So, dressed and made up to look like Isis, she approached a drunken Osiris. Anubis was born. And Nephthys slunk back into the shadows, begging her sister to shield them from Osiris’s wrath and take Anubis as Isis’s own son.

  That’s how Anubis is both my half brother and my cousin. Soap operas got nothing on my family history.

  I WAVE AT SIRUS, AND THEN WAVE AGAIN, and then stop and put my hands on my hips until he slowly drives through the roundabout and away. He’s been overprotective lately, of both Deena and me, and while I appreciate the sentiment, I hardly think he needs to worry about me at work. I even caught him yesterday, hanging out nearby. He claimed it was because he had nothing else to do and the day was beautiful, but finally admitted it was because Deena kicked him out of her office because he was making her feel claustrophobic.