Prologue
The crisp morning air drifted into my room, gently pulling me from a dream in which two stars trailed behind me as I ran freely through the night-lit streets. The Galileo Constellation—something I had read about in the astronomy book now lying face-down on the floor—lingered in my mind. Toys from the night before were still scattered across the carpet from when Marcus and I had been playing. His leftover toy cars were tucked neatly beneath my bed, arranged to resemble a miniature parking garage. It was the beginning of summer break, 2019. I reminisce about it with clarity and regret. I was nine, Marcus ten—technically the same age, though he carried the advantage of being nearly six months older. Across the road from me was his house; our windows were perfectly placed adjacent to each other. Whether it was fate or a matter of layout, we’ll never know. Our sleep schedules fell into a similar rhythm, even though our daily lives did not. Marcus moved from piano lessons to tutoring to summer school and then to church, always following a schedule made by overbearing parents. I had only one expectation placed on me: to be a child. Yet somehow, I never quite felt like one.
Despite the toys and mess, my father worked around the clock to provide for my mom and me. I was always there for my mom, and I liked being someone she could rely on since my dad didn’t care to ask how our day was. And although he was gone, every morning at eight, I would get up, eat cereal, watch my television show, wake up my mom, and get her food. The cereal box was located on the bottom shelf of the pantry, accessible to me. She wasn’t a morning person. Her bed would be messy by the time I woke up, and each day I would tidy up the mess she had made the previous night, so that when she woke up, her multigrain cereal would be ready to eat in the morning. I had always hoped to learn how to operate the toaster to make her healthier meals, but the counter was too high for me to use at the time unless I climbed up, which my dad often warned me about. It was always “you could break the handles if you’re putting pressure on them!” “You’ll burn the house down!” “It’s going to cost money to repair what you break!” So, like the obedient child I am, I was determined to prove him wrong and make a slice of toast for my mom.
She had a rough night that time, puking all night, and was so sick she could barely stand or form a coherent sentence. I figured I would try to make a healthy meal for her other than milk and wheat. With extreme care, I propped myself up onto the counter, my left hip next to the toaster, and I inserted the bread with caution and pressed all the right buttons. Except when I lifted myself onto the counter a second time to get the bread out, I burnt my hand on the rim of the toaster. Like an instinct, I yanked my arm back, hissing, and instead of prioritizing my balance on the kitchen counter, I slipped off and hit my head. I didn’t remember much after that, figuring that I was a mere child and I lost consciousness, but I do remember snippets of Marcus’ concerned voice and him shaking my shoulders.
The next thing I remember was my throbbing headache. I remember the smell of the burnt toast, but most importantly, the happiness I felt when I saw Marcus looking concerned at me, making sure I felt okay as he got help from his mom. The only person who seemed to genuinely care about what life had in store for me. Despite not knowing what really happened in my house. We had been best friends since kindergarten, when he was crying over not being able to draw inside the lines while I was flaunting my perfect coloring skills. What started as children bickering blossomed into a five-year relationship, then to eight years, until the start of seventh grade.
That pivotal event, when I concussed myself, sparked the complicated relationship we have today. Despite the lack of concern my parents showed through actions (my mom often would let me know how much she loves me), Marcus showed his emotions through actions. It was a needed contrast. And my imperfect life was a much-needed reminder to Marcus that life didn’t need to be perfect. His parents often seemed to make him believe that perfection led to success. But perfection is subjective. No one or anything could compare to perfection. Just like the first week of seventh grade.
That morning, I embarked on my daily schedule of awakening from the sun’s beams and the faint breeze brushing over my arms. I never felt tired or unmotivated to begin the day, but I had an overwhelming emotion of wanting to make the most of my time. Waking up, brushing my teeth, eating, feeding my mom, and waiting for Marcus. I trudged to the playground, which was nearly a block away. After about ten minutes of waiting, the silhouette of a little boy walked closer.
“Ready?” He screamed from across the park. I swung my backpack over my shoulder aggressively, tripping over my shoelaces. I landed face-first on the hard floor when I heard little stomps rushing over to me. Lifting my head, his pale face and brown wavy hair blew in the wind, “Are you okay?” He looked concerned, an expression I received exclusively from him. I thrusted myself up to my knees, arms wobbling from adrenaline as I examined the damage the asphalt had done to my body.
“...I’m fine. Let me-”
“You’re bleeding!”
“I’ll get a Band-Aid. Can you wait here for me?” He nodded as I rushed off, disregarding my backpack with a throbbing ache in my knee, to my house. The Band-Aids were located downstairs in the medicine cabinet, along with the dozen other medications we’d kept all under my mom’s name. I sniffed back my tears, knowing the pain itself wasn’t that bad — it was the expression on his face, one I had never seen before, that hurt far more. I applied the band-aid with care, throwing away the remnants in the trash before scurrying out the door when I heard a muffled bang in the garage.
“Mom?” I asked, knowing that she was cocooned in her room, sleeping. She never moved out of her room unless she trudged to the medicine cabinet claimed by her. A cold weight formed in my stomach, my heart throbbing harder when I peeled open the garage door. My father was kissing a woman. She had dark brown, curly hair, caramel skin- the opposite of my mother.
She wasn’t my mom.
Her long skirt swayed over her angles like she was the embodiment of the sunlight- a place my mother hadn’t stepped into in years. Her hazel eyes, mixed with orange from the glimmering light to the garage, met mine, widening with horror and realization of the weight of her actions.
“Oh my god-” she breathed, stumbling back. I couldn’t move. I wouldn’t. I could only stay glued to the ground before me, my heart pulsating at every shortening breath I inhaled. Dark splotches rushed into my eyes, my head throbbing with alarm, get out, get out, get out. This wasn’t a scene meant to be seen.
My dad’s eyes snapped toward me, rage forming in his eyes into something unrecognizable. The woman ran back into her car in disbelief. I wanted to run away too, but there was nowhere I could. No sanctuary. He was never home, and we were oblivious, my reality distorted at the thought. Then the figure of my father teleported in front of me, his fist gripping my wrist, and I snapped back to reality, yanking me into the garage fully before slamming the door shut behind us.
So mom wouldn’t hear, I thought.
I could sense a bruise forming on my wrist from his hold as I tried to release myself with whimpers, tugging at each of his fingers as hard as I could. The only restraint I could let out was a mere word: “Dad-”
“Shut up,” his voice was sharp, dangerous, “You don’t speak, not a word. Understand?” Each word laced with a more serious threat than I could ever imagine. I was at a loss for words.
Kick him, run away, tell mom.
My mind formulated multiple versions of how it should have ended, with me saving my mom and me. But none ended like this one.
“You re-you’re cheating on mom,” the words slipped out of my mouth without a thought behind them, small and broken.
“No shit-” he struck my cheek so hard I didn’t process it until my vision unblurred. I forced my gaze to meet his eyes, still full of displeasure, “Not. A. Word.” he leaned down, still choking the circulation of my wrist. So hard my fingers started to tingle, ”I’m the reason you and Allison have a roof over your heads. I’m the reason you’re fed, clothed, and comfortable. You tell her, and all that disappears. Are we in agreement?” he threatened, annunciating every word with every ounce of a threat he meant with his whole heart.
I nodded, my mind telling me we’re not in agreement at all, but I had no choice. My pulse quickened even if his wrist was imprinted. Without him, there would be no way Mom and I could properly function. He was right.
A single tear escaped from my eyes without consent, carving a path of relief down my burning cheek, still numb from the slap. I wanted to scream, tell the truth despite the consequences. Instead, I did a meek nod, my voice stolen from my own dad. Each step I took away from him was heavy with burdens of the truth, but I had to keep walking before I even allowed myself to think about throwing up on his polished shoes. And as I walked away, staring at the band-aid, I realized the cut on my knee hurt less than the one ripping open my heart. From the corner of my eye, two eyes lingered over from the side of the garage, hidden. Eyes I could never forget, no matter how hard I’d try, they haunted me. They were always there miraculously when I needed something, no matter the circumstance. Just the mere thought and sight of them made me crumble to the floor, sobbing as Marcus ran to me.
“I-I’m…I’m sorry,” I sniffled like a troll. He patted my back awkwardly as if it’d offer any consolation, but it worked more than I would have expected.
“Don’t ever be sorry, nothing is your fault, Emmy.”
“I-I..I can’t do anything.” I weeped. A moment of deafening silence spread through the air before he spoke, “You can’t, but I can. Let me do this for you. Let me be there for you. Please,” he begged.
“No- Absolutely not,” My tears stopped flowing, numbness taking over my body.
“Why not? Plea-”
“No! He’s going to leave us if I tell mom, I can’t support her alone, and you know why!”
“And you wouldn’t let me help you then, so let me do it now.”
“I don’t want you to-” my voice broke as a tear slipped away again, returning the unwanted pain.
“If you don’t want me to, I won’t. But I will if you let me, so let me.”
“I can’t,” I whispered, “Thank you for your help, but I don’t need it.” I thought for a solid twenty seconds, but time passed by like it took a decade to conclude.
“Not. A. Word”
His sentence echoed in my mind. Marcus witnessed everything. More than a letter, more than words, more than a sentence. If my dad felt comfortable threatening his own daughter, then Marcus was in more danger than I, and I had no idea what my own dad was capable of.
“We…” the words came out of my mouth with my head leading instead of my heart, “I don’t want to be your friend anymore-”
“Emm-”
“Get out.”
“Emmaline, I can-”
“No, you can’t! Get out! Please, Marcus!” I screamed, tears falling from my face like a waterfall. And he walked away.
*****
I remember the moment vividly. I was hanging out with my friends in solidarity, enjoying moments of freedom secluded from the rest of the middle school population, and I simply wanted to empty my bladder. God forbid a girl wants to use the restroom in peace. I remember the look on Marcus’ face, that smug bastard of a smile he gives everyone. The bathroom was a mere turn away when he smiled at me while speaking loud enough for me to hear- whether it was on purpose or a silly accident is one of earth’s greatest mysteries. But alas, I still heard the words spewing out of his wretched mouth. That next week of seventh grade, after our friendship had been terminated, was the longest week I’ve ever lived. I ignored the longing gaze he threw at me as I walked towards the bathroom when his annoying friend teased him, “What’s going on with you and her? Did you guys break up?” he mocked. I also began to ignore his friend before I stepped into the bathroom. But I slowed down my steps to hear what Marcus would say.
“It’s complicated…her family is just- her dad’s…you know.”
“...You know”
He knows?
My mind screamed at me, and I pivoted towards his position, staring with anger in my eyes from the betrayal.
“He knows?” My voice came out softer and sounded more painful than I would have liked. It didn’t embody the anger that was raging within me.
“What- wait, no it’s not-”
“Ohohoh, the love birds are fighting already?!” his friend chuckled, bouncing up and down giddily.
“Glad you’re enjoying the drama,” I spoke before entering the bathroom. My pulse raced, and I could barely catch my breath, even though I’d been walking. I haven’t done any physical activity, but I was struggling for air. I couldn’t breathe.
I couldn’t breathe.
He told his friend.
The friend who tells other people.
I’m screwed, Marcus is screwed. My dad- oh my god, my dad. Everything spun, black dots forming around my eyes. No, no, get it together. I limped over to the sink as the bell rang and splashed water on my face, snapping me back to reality.
I could breathe. I walked out of the bathroom, bracing myself for what Marcus had possibly come up with, but he wasn’t there. And that was the last time we spoke physically. Over the years, we’d make uncomfortable eye contact and speak telepathically, but other than that contact, we were– are strangers. And that night, the Gemini constellations that were once a pair were one.
