Stars

I’ve gotten good at sneaking around my house in the dark. Too many late-night computer cravings had left me with a sure path to the kitchen and its ancient overheating laptop. My feet were silent on the stairs, on the carpeted floor. I was a ghost, I was invisible, I was floating two-and-a-half inches in the air with my hands brushing across the dining room wall. I was a puff of breeze, unnoticed.

The door to the deck creaked on its hinges, little staccato warning clicks sharp against my muffled breathing. I opened it slowly with the patience that comes after midnight.

The deck’s wood was splintery and familiar against my bare feet. Wind trickled through tall-reaching silhouettes of trees. I inhaled deeply. The night air tasted like kissing rain.

Down the steps in deep darkness. My legs knew the way. Across the long damp grass, the rounded gravel, the brief tangle of lilac sticks. A firefly flashed impossibly bright. I blinked to clear my vision. The dark straight beams of the deck were black against a dark blue sky...the sky.

I tipped my head back and looked up.

Stars. More stars than I thought could fit in one sky, splashed over and across each other in a brilliant, beautiful, half-fantasy river-sparkle of pure light. I stood rooted for a moment. Hypnotized. Transfixed.

The sharp lines of the deck swam back into view; I wrenched my head down and started moving again. Go go go. I'm here for a reason. My feet crunched against birdseed shells, then sharp-edged gravel that jabbed into the skin. Ignore it. I’d walked on worse.

A board--please don’t clatter--that could be followed to a flat-split stone, where my hands found--yes!--the frame of the basement door. Push it open, slowly, little increments at a time as it brushed against the straw mat with tiny whiskery scrapes. Slip through the opening, sucking in my breath. My foot hit a pair of shoes; I wobbled, braced myself against the wall. Pushed the door gently almost-shut. Shuffle-walked across the new-laid slate and to the opening of his room.
He was sleeping. His splayed body was carved in the red shadows of an alarm clock. 12:03. I could hear him breathing gently as I leaned through the window-wall and took a breath. Whispered his name.

No response.

I pulled back. What was I doing here? He was asleep, as I should be. What would he think, woken to my urgent voice after midnight?

But I’d come all this way.

I whisper-called him again. Nothing. Damn. What now?

I’d leave a note. I came down here at twelve, but you were asleep. Happy birthday. I looked blindly around in the dark. I had no pen, no paper. There might be a pencil in my dad’s workshop—but there were also numerous pointy objects scattered across the floor in that half of the basement. And people have enough trouble reading my handwriting even when written in daylight. Stupid idea. Stupid.

Damnit, wake up. I hissed his name softly, impatiently.

He started; the covers rustled. His breathing caught and resumed, faster, alert. He sat up in the dim red glow of 12:06.

“Hey,” I whispered from above. “I want you to see the stars.”