Page 9 of We Are the Stars

“What did he say?” Mom asks.

I narrow my eyes. A feeling creeps in, one that tells me they already know what Jase said but want to hear it again. For some reason, I don’t like that they could think Carsen could be capable of this. I don’t even know the kid, but I swear, I didn’t get that vibe from him in the slightest.

“I think you both already know,” I tell her, returning my attention to the salt pile.

They must exchange another silent conversation because it’s quiet for too long.

Finally, Dad says, “We do.”

“But we don’t contribute to gossip. I think you know that well enough by now, Elliott.”

“That’s what I told Jase too.”

“We all know that what we’ve heard is horrible and grisly, but we won’t form opinions on it until we know the facts. You’re on your own to pass judgment on Mr. Wheatley.”

What we’ve heard?Jase didn’t give details about Carsen—not that I would have let him. Allegedly killing your own mother is horrid, but apparently there are darker details than that. Curiosity rears its ugly head again, urging me to find out what those details are, but I don’t want to ask my parents for them.

Google was invented for a reason.

“I’m proud of you for handling what Jase said with such honor. It’s disappointing to hear he’d spread things around like that. It doesn’t seem very Jase-like.”

“Jase doesn’t seem very Jase-like lately.”

“Are you two having problems?” Dad asks in a protective manner.

“Simmer down, Daddy-o. It’s nothing we can’t handle…I hope.”

“Yes, because tacking on ‘I hope’ makes it soundsopromising.” My older brother Fish comes shuffling into the kitchen looking like he only just rolled out of bed. To be fair, he probably did. It’s past noon now, but Fish doesn’t have an early morning alarm to wake him up—other than Mom—since he’s currently unemployed and not going to school.

“Fish, so nice of you to join us this afternoon.”

“It’s afternoon already? Damn. I slept forever.”

“You went to bed at four yesterday. Are you sick? Come here,” Mom presses. “Let me feel your head.”

Fish rolls his hazel eyes and scratches at his messy head of hair. “I’m good, Ma. Just tired.”

“From working? No, wait. It’s the schoolwork, right?” I tease.

“Elliott…” Mom warns. “Don’t start.”

“Fine, but Fish, you’re a bum. Go get a job.”

“I’m trying, Smelliott. Not all of us can stroll into a bowling alley and get hired on the spot because we have boobs.”

“That issogross! Uncle Bryan was the one who interviewed me.”

“Fish, stop being sexist,” Dad says. “Your sister earned that job because she was qualified for it. You don’t get jobs because you don’t apply for them. Maybe start there?”

“Are you saying Ineeda job then? Ma?”

Dad sighs and takes a swig of his beer. The talk of Fish getting a job has been a point of contention these last few weeks. It’s not that Fish is lazy or doesn’t want to work, it’s that he was involved in a serious car accident about two months ago and now refuses to drive. As a result, he spends most of his time at home sleeping. Even when someone else is driving, it’s a hardship to get him into the car. The fear of wrecking again overwhelms and spins out into an anxiety attack. He’s even deferred his last year of college because of everything, and that’s not Fish. He’s always been very motivated and in charge of his life. Now the fear controls him.

“You’ll drive when you’re ready, Fish.Weunderstand,” Mom tells him, stressing the ‘we’, wanting to show that she and Dad are a united front in this decision. Dad thinks Fish simply needs to try harder to get past it. Mom’s giving him all the space he needs. It’s one of the few times they’ve disagreed on their parenting style.

“Are those sandwiches ready, Kaye?”

“Yes, dear. Come grab one. I’m not making your plate.”

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