Page 13 of We Are the Stars

Dad smirks. “Then who’s the one always cleaning the floors in here?”

I burst into laughter as Mom’s jaw drops. She’s quick about flinging her arm back and lobbing a metal spatula at him. Dad ducks in time to miss the assault, hooting with playful laughter the entire way to the garage.

“SEXIST!” she yells. She catches my eye, saying, “I’m going to maim him.”

The smile on her face tells me I won’t be visiting my mom behind bars any time soon.

***

My laptop is an asshole.

I’ve been rereading the same three paragraphs in this romance novel for the last thirty minutes. I’ve been laid up on my bed, doing fine for hours…until now. Mom took the boys out for haircuts—yes, Fish got in the car—and Dad left for the baseball game, which means I have the house to myself. As such, I’ve cranked my stereo up with sounds set to soothe and am trying to loosen up from the hectic morning I had.

Only I can’t.

I can’t because Scowly McScowlerson’s stupid scowl is stuck in my head. Every time the author describes the male lead, I see him. Any time he has a facial expression, he scowls, even when he doesn’t. Frustration bubbles inside me because no matter how hard I try to not see him, I do. All it does is make me more curious about him, more curious to know what everyone else is talking about.

Because of that, my computer has started whispering vile things to me.

Google him, Elliott.

I can help you research him, Elliott.

I hold the answers, Elliott.

Pick me up and play with me, Elliott.

I want to take a sledgehammer to it at this point, and that’s sad because I love my laptop. It’s my prized possession, my keeper of homework assignments, my savior for when I want to nap in class. I’d be lost without it, and probably failing college—or at least philosophy.

The intrigue surrounding Carsen grows. There is a massive part of me that wants to know all the gritty details of what Fish, my parents, and Jase know. Then, there’s this smaller part of me that says it’s not going to change anything because my mother is right; it’s not my place to pass judgment, and I’m a firm believer in that.

Before I know it, I’m scooting off my bed and scooping up my laptop from the small desk in the corner. I bounce back to my twin mattress and flop down, sitting cross-legged with the computer resting in my lap. I take a couple deep, encouraging breaths before I’m able to open it. Once I do, I quickly navigate to the web browser and pull up Google. My fingers dither over the keyboard, hovering there and not pressing any of the keys I so desperately want to press.

Google him, Elliott. Find out what it is everyone is talking about and move on. You can do it.

I inhale another deep breath as I place my fingers on home row and begin to type.

Cars

Backspace, backspace, backspace.

Carsen Whea

Delete, delete, delete.

Bawk, bawk, bawk.

Don’t be a chicken. Do it.

Finally, I type his name into the search bar, and a mess of results pop up, all from a little over two years ago.

Local Boy Murders Mother

Wheatley Whacks His Mom

Carsen is Free to Go — Dad Takes the Blame

Cover-Up: Golden Boy Kills His Mom, Dad Takes the Fall

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