Where are the stars?

CW: This story contains strong language.

Monday 7

Dear diary

Not a diary. Didn’t say that. 

Dear journal? Whatever.

So I’m doing this writing thing cause my creative writing teacher said I had to. The first thing I’d like to say is that I never should’ve taken this class, but it’s too late now cause the guidance counselor won’t let me switch out. Anyways, I’m supposed to write about my day, every day, for like a week. Here we go

Day 1:

There’s this new girl that lives on my floor and she has this hair that’s like, you know, pretty or something. I don’t have a crush on her or anything. That would be stupid. I’m just making observations, you know. Like for the assignment. Maybe I should say hi to her this week. If I do, you’ll know, cause I’ll write it in my diary journal. That’s all.

Tuesday 8

Dear journal? Notebook of observation?

Wait, I kinda like that.

Dear notebook of observation,

Day 2:

Not much happened. I didn't get to say hi to the new girl, but I went out on my balcony and she happened to be out on her balcony—which is three down from mine—and that was awkward. I ran back inside like an idiot. Doesn’t matter though. 

Also, there was a note tucked under my door when I got home from school today. It was written with a glitter gel pen by this girl named Bella. I think she’s in my Physics class? I don’t like her like that, though, so I didn’t really read it. That’s all.

So I realize now that all that balcony stuff might be confusing if you don’t have all the context: I live in a hotel. Cool. I mean, not that cool. During the summer there’s always a bunch of tourists making a mess everywhere. LA is cool and all, but they make it seem like it’s some sort of party. Luckily, they all leave when school starts up again, and then everything just gets really quiet. Like, really quiet. It’s called “off season.” Whatever that is. I suppose I like it better than the summer, except nothing really happens, nothing except that new girl moving into a room on my floor. I guess that’s why I’m so interested, cause it’s the only interesting thing to ever happen here in, like, ever.

Not that it really matters. There’s not a very good reason for her to ever pay attention to me. I’m like you're an average dude from Cali: blonde, tan, named Tristan. I dunno if there are that many Tristans in LA, but it’s still a pretty boring name. 

Anyways, I have to do my assignment now. 

Wednesday 9

Dear notebook of observation,

Day 3:

Crazy things happened today. Like, rom-com movie sorta crazy, I guess. When I got home after school to the lobby and went to the elevators, the new girl was there. Like, right there. We both got on the elevator at the same time. 

Then it was quiet. Scary quiet. For two minutes I had to listen to the ding of the elevator bell until I worked up the courage to say hi. That’s all.

So, I couldn’t say all this in my journal cause it would be really embarrassing if my creative writing teacher read it, but I said way more than just “hi” to the girl. 

Basically, we both ended up in the elevator together—you already know that. Long story short: it was hot. In the hotel. Obviously. Even though it’s at the beginning of the school year and it’s supposed to be nice and fall and halloweenish, it’s still crazy hot in LA; of course the hotel’s air conditioner is next to broken. I blame the fact that the building is ancient. 

Whatever.

I had sweat streaking down my back, from the heat, not for any other reason. I wasn’t nervous or anything. Then I had a terribly brilliant idea: “We should go swimming!” I turned and smiled at her like I was delusional—which she definitely thought I was.

I guess the nice thing about living in a hotel is that you have unlimited access to a really fancy pool. Except, it’s “off season,” which means that us swimming in the pool together, alone, would be more weird and eerily quiet than it would be romantic. If you think really hard about it, it kinda feels like a horror movie. Just . . . empty. Only the tourists actually use the pool; they’re the only ones shameless enough

For whatever reason I still can’t fathom, she turned around and smiled at me. “Okay, Blondie.” 

Blondie.

That’s what she calls me and I haven’t bothered to correct her by telling her my real name. Tristan doesn’t seem like much of an upgrade from Blondie, to be honest. And maybe I kinda like it. Just maybe.

Then we went swimming.

At first, it’s all I can think to get in the water; it’s still hot and I was still sweating. And that’s all fine and dandy—at first. Then things get quiet and . . . weird . . . again. There’s no one else outside, just the pool that stretches on for an acre, lined with lofty palm trees and empty sun-bleached lounge chairs—some of which still have the butt-prints of the tourists that were here only a month or so ago. The tiki bar is closed. There’s no music, just the rustle of the dried palm leaves in the wind.

The sun starts to set, and I’ve barely waded out in the water, too nervous to do anything but watch the orange filter that is cast over everything and think about what a stupid idea this was.

“Have you always lived in this hotel?”

It’s the girl. Duh. 

“Uhhh . . . yeah. Yeah, I have.” I sound like I’m retarded. “Have you always—” I stop myself before I can repeat her question back to her. Of course she hadn’t always lived in this hotel; she just moved here. “Yeah, I like it here. It’s just sometimes very . . . quiet.”

The water begins to feel less cold, and I swim in little circles so that the size and emptiness of the pool is less engulfing. I look at the new girl, and she’s shaking her head at me. “This,” she gestures with her arms all around her. “This is not quiet. Not like I’ve seen.”

“Where are you from?”

“Texas.” 

Of course, the first thing I think is, new nickname unlocked, but at least I have enough common sense not to say that out loud. “That’s cool. Like . . . Dallas? Austin? I don't really know what the Alamo is but I’ve heard about it and it seems . . . fun?”

“No, like Lubbock. And I’ve never been to the Alamo.”

“Oh.”

Both of our gazes fall to the water and it starts to get dark.

“In Lubbock,” she starts, “it’s nice during the day, but it gets scary at night. You look out, you look around, and there’s . . . nothing. There’s not many people and they’re all inside, there’s not many lights and they’re all off. Shops are closed, roads are empty. If you look around too much, you start to get paranoid.”

“Paranoid.”

“Yeah. Do you ever feel like that?”

“Maybe when I’m in the elevator all alone.” She laughs at that and it makes the pool feel a little smaller, a little more comfortable. 

“There is one thing I miss about Texas though.”

“What’s that?”

“You could see the stars.”

Thursday 10

Dear notebook of observation,

Day 4:

I’ve done a lot of swimming recently. That Bella girl sent me another note, asking me on a date, but I gotta pass on that one. That’s all.

Maybe that’s not a very long entry, but what can I say? I’m busy. I don’t need to include Friday’s entry because it’s just as bad, but my days have been looking up.

Everyday, Texas and I—yeah, I’m keeping the nickname—enter the lobby past the only front desk lady that works during “off season,” who has gotten progressively nosier about my business. Whatever. I still smile at her as we pass, and she scowls back, and then the only sound in the hotel is the echo of footsteps as we approach the elevator. Then we go swimming, of course, and everything is great.

Then the weekend comes—and everything goes to hell in a handbasket.

“Hey Texas!” I call across three balconies to where she leans over the railing in a way that makes me admittedly nervous. “Open your door for me?”

A terrible idea is brewing.

“Yeah, Blondie. Okay.”

I sprint out of my room and down the hall to Texas’s door. She opens it. Smiles. There’s a gel pen tucked behind her ear as if she’d just been doodling with it or whatever girls do with glittery gel pens. “Let me take you out.”

“Out?”

I grin, stupidly. “Yeah.” 

“Like . . . a date?”

I look a lot more sheepish when I say, “Yeah.”

Then she slams the door in my face!

Monday 14

Dear . . . 

Okay, screw this. 

Day: doesn’t matter

The assignment is over, but after what happened with Texas, I needed a way to debrief about it and I guess that means writing. Stupid writing. Basically the girl hates me, and I’m so dumb I don’t even know what she hates me for. We haven’t spoken, haven’t gone swimming in days. I guess this means I blew it. However I managed to do that. Maybe I should write back that Bella girl? That’s all.

That night, I decide to go swimming.

The pool feels scary again. Probably because Texas isn’t here.

It’s not until I try to shake away the goosebumps and paranoia that crawl up my skin that I realize she was right: you can’t see the stars here. I suppose that’s light pollution for you. The sky is just a blank, black canvas and the pool is just a blank, black void and I’m in the middle of it all. Untethered in a way that I fear I might float away into the abyss and die or something.

I grab my towel that’s somehow already damp and try to dry off. 

Then I find a light. It’s the only one in the entire hotel, and there’s a girl standing on the balcony, leaning over the railing. For a second, it looks like she might fall into the black abyss, and I half wish that someone would yell at her to back away from the edge.

Welp, someone grants my wish. The voice that calls out sounds like it ought to be her mothers and has that Texan twang. “Bella! I swear if you don’t get back from that railing I’ll lock the door to the porch and toss the key into that pool down there.”

“I don’t know how you’ll toss the key away if the porch is locked,” she retorts.

“Don’t make me get your father involved!”

But as the mother and daughter bicker, the only word that catches my thoughts is Bella.

I guess I really am an idiot.