In the Stars Read online

  Hemming is methodical and soothing. It takes my mind off the imminent arrival of Cherise and her astrological charts. I’ve excellent reason to be wary. When she originally bought her planet-plotting software seven years ago, I was her first reading. Being a good friend, I agreed to let her make my chart. I told her the time of my birth and then promptly forgot about the astrological nonsense. A few hours later, Cherise knocked on my door with tears in her eyes.

  She had bad news: Someone I loved was going to die. Two weeks later, my mother was diagnosed with cancer. Not even six months afterward, she passed away.

  I don’t believe that there was even the slightest possibility that Cherise might have had advanced notice of my mother’s illness from some ridiculous planetary chart. And I don’t, for one second, think that Cherise could have possibly known Mom was going to die. The planets just don’t work that way.

  I never told Cherise to keep her other astrological predictions away from me. I didn’t have to. She’s my best friend. In the last seven years, Cherise has never mentioned anything about the sun sign of Virgo again. As I told you, she has kept her predictions to blizzards, test scores, and the occasional celebrity breakup—that kind of stuff.

  Until today.

  Needless to say, I’m not looking forward to Cherise bringing my chart to the shop this afternoon.

  I cringe when front door chime rings.

  I hear my father’s voice from the register. “Sylvie, your friends are here.”

  Friends? I wonder as I tie off my sewing and tuck the needle into a pin cushion. I have one friend. Not friends.

  I peek out to the front room before stepping into view. Sigh. Two girls in my graduating class, Jennifer Riley and Tanisha Merston, are standing near the window display looking at a wedding gown.

  Last year, my father mentioned that a wedding dress in the window would be a great marketing device to bring engaged guys and their groomsmen through our door. We couldn’t afford to buy one, so I decided to take a stab at making the dress. My father bought me the fabric and a pattern.

  I think the dress turned out really great for my first try. Normal people start making clothing with less ambitious projects than a wedding dress, but I’m an overachiever. I didn’t even really follow the pattern. I made lots of changes along the way. I added more lace to the bodice and gave the gown a shorter train. The dress turned out just the way I imagined it and I loved creating something so beautiful.

  Jennifer and Tanisha are still looking at the gown. I can hear them talking about who they’d like to marry, what they’d wear, and generally dreaming about the ceremony.

  Wedding gowns do that to girls. A nice-looking wedding dress can take any college-bound high school student and turn her into a love-lost giggling girl ready to chuck her education for a fine-looking man and a big diamond ring. Any high school girl, that is, except me. And Cherise.

  When the girls are done looking at the gown, they turn toward me. Time for some niceties.

  “Jennifer,” I greet her, stepping lightly into the room. I’m consciously trying not to drag my feet like I do when I’m faced with a task I’d rather avoid. Jennifer has blond hair piled high on her head and the most perfect nose of any girl in the whole school. Maybe even the whole city. I wonder if it’s her original nose.

  Tanisha isn’t so bad either. Her jet-black hair falls in carefully coifed ringlets around her face. Her eyes are dark as midnight, and her skin is smooth. Rumor is that Jennifer and Tanisha want to work in the fashion industry after high school and I have no doubt they will. They’re both super fashionable already. I nod toward Tanisha and say simply, “Hi.”

  The thing is, I don’t really hate Jennifer and Tanisha. I just don’t have anything to say to them. These girls represent popularity, boys, and cheerleading. I represent academic overachievers, girls without boyfriends, and students with jobs. We’re polar opposites. We’re so entirely and completely different that girls like Jennifer and Tanisha usually make me feel awkward and uncomfortable.

  I will admit though, of all the “popular” girls at school, Jennifer and Tanisha are the only ones who are always nice to me. It’s not like they invite me to sit with them at lunch or anything like that, but they make a point to smile and wave in the hall.

  The question is: What are they doing here? They’ve never been to the tuxedo shop before. They must want something.

  “Hi, Sylvie,” Jennifer says. “How are you?” I want to reply with a noncommittal, “Fine,” and get back to work, but something in her tone makes me think she really wants to know.

  “Okay,” I say. And then tack on, “I’ve been really busy lately, doing homework and stuff.” Deep breath and then reciprocate. “How about you?” I hope I sound equally sincere.

  “Good,” Jennifer replies. Tanisha adds in her bubbly way, “Terrific.”

  “Is that your dad?” Tanisha asks.

  I glance over my shoulder at my father. He hasn’t said anything, but he’s looking at the girls with interest. The only person who ever visits me in the shop is Cherise. I’m sure his curiosity is brimming over. Not that he’d ever ask me to introduce them or anything like that.

  My father and I don’t talk much. He was way older than Mom when they got married and I’m not convinced he ever really wanted children. I’ve always thought that I must have been a surprise. A happy surprise for my mom, which was just hunky-dory with him—as long as he didn’t have to raise me. Which, in the ironic way of the world, he did. It’s not that I don’t love my father. I do. I’m certain he loves me, too. But we really don’t connect or have much to say to each other. Just the facts. And an introduction to Tanisha and Jennifer, well, that just isn’t the kind of fact he needs.

  Besides, they aren’t going to be here long enough to leave footprints in the carpet. After I find out what they want, I’ll hustle them out the door.

  My father runs a hand through his salt-and-pepper hair and pushes up his wire framed glasses. He’s always dressed to the nines at work; not in a tux, but in a dark suit with a patterned tie. He must have a zillion different ties. I doubt he’s ever thrown one out. I know it seems odd that he dresses so nicely and I prefer the thrift-shop look, but he doesn’t spend a lot of money on his clothes. He mostly makes them himself, if you can believe that. Even the ties.

  Between regular work and sewing after hours, you’d expect that my father lives in the tuxedo shop, but he somehow seems to have enough hours in the day to read the paper and watch the evening news, too. I wish I was heir to his time management skills. I always have to plan things much more diligently.

  Right now, he’s looking at Jennifer and Tanisha as if he expects me to introduce them, but I’m not going to. To my relief, the phone rings and my father turns away to answer it.

  “Well, I bet you’re wondering why we’re here.” Jennifer tosses her head, and not a single hair comes loose or even wiggles.

  Tanisha steps up to the plate. “You know, the Spring Fling Prom’s coming up soon.” I nod, unsure where this is heading.

  “We’re going with our boyfriends,” Jennifer says, as if the whole school didn’t know they both had boyfriends.

  Tanisha again. “Jennifer and I heard that you’re an amazing seamstress.” She gives one of those girly giggles I could happily live without ever hearing again.

  I knew they wanted something. Should I remind them that one wedding dress does not make me either amazing or an actual seamstress?

  “I—I—I—,” I stammer, ready to make excuses.

  Jennifer raises one hand to stop my protest. “This year, the dance is a costume ball.” She pauses for dramatic effect. “Tanisha and I thought that maybe you’d help us make our costumes. We designed them ourselves, but we’ve got a problem. Neither of us knows how to sew.” She reaches into her bag and pulls out some drawings.

  I’m suddenly having arm spasms. I find my hands acting on their own to take the sketches.

  There are three drawings. The first is a wood n
ymph, complete with wings. The skirt is comprised of small silvery whispers of fabric, which float around the nymph’s legs. Wings rise from the costume’s back, in sheer mesh and gauze. This is out of my league.

  The second is an Old English gown of gold lace and russet velvet. I can see the hint of a cotton under-dress. Way, way out of my league.

  If the first two drawings were good, the third is spectacular. It is obviously a fairytale Cinderella princess. But not a Disney costume. More modern. Less flashy. Exactly what you’d imagine a common girl who marries a prince would feel most comfortable in. Blue and yellow and simply cut. It is a dressmaker’s dream.

  But I am not a dressmaker. I might have made one, but with the single exception of the wedding dress, I’m simply a tuxedo hemmer. And a maxed-out student focused on a full scholarship to a highly competitive school at that.

  “I can’t do it. Sorry.” I thrust the drawings back to Jennifer. “I don’t have the time. And I’m not really interested in the Spring Fling dance.”

  “I told you—,” Tanisha begins to complain to Jennifer, but Jennifer silences her with a look.

  “Keep the drawings.” Jennifer hands the papers back to me. “There’s a whole month before the dance. Plenty of time to make the dresses. Plus, we’d never ask you to do all this work alone. Tanisha and I will be your apprentices.”

  At that, Tanisha smiles a big fake smile. “We’ll do anything and everything you ask.”

  “And we’ll pay you,” Jennifer adds.

  I desperately want to ask, “How much?” because I could use the extra cash for college. Yale is far away, and expensive. The scholarship will cover most of my expenses, but that doesn’t stop my father, in his own cautiously supportive way, from dropping the name of the closest in-state university, where I could live at home and keep working in the shop.

  If I stayed in Cincinnati, I’d go crazy. I need to get out. It’s time for me to find my own place in the world. And the tuxedo shop is definitely not my place. My dreams are waiting at Yale and once I snag that scholarship, I could really use some extra cash to help pay for books and food. Maybe even a new telescope.

  Hmmm. I know that even asking Jennifer and Tanisha how much they might give me would be foolish since I don’t want the temptation. “I just can’t,” I say as the door chime rings again.

  Cherise comes in, humming a tune of disjointed notes and clashing melody. She’s carrying her school backpack made of recycled tires, casually slung over one shoulder.

  I notice Jennifer and Tanisha huddle together. I totally understand their reaction to Cherise. Earlier this year, Tanisha showed up at school carrying a Gucci purse trimmed with fox fur. Animal-loving Cherise went ballistic. She didn’t dump paint on Tanisha’s purse like some freaked-out activist, but the next morning Tanisha arrived at school to find her locker had been covered with PETA stickers and posters of baby foxes looking out with big sad eyes from wire cages. The posters were stuck to the metal with some kind of mega-glue that took weeks for Tanisha to remove (the janitor told her it was her locker, therefore her responsibility). Of course there was never any “proof” that Cherise was the vandal, but both Tanisha and Jennifer have kept their distance ever since. (And, no surprise, Tanisha has never shown up at school with that purse again.)

  They move as a unit past Cherise toward the door. “Think about it,” Jennifer says as she opens the door. “I’m the wood nymph. Tanisha is Guinevere. Cinderella’s yours.” The bell chimes again as the door slams shut.

  “What was that all about?” Cherise asks.

  “Nothing.” I reach around my father, who’s still on the phone, and stuff the dress drawings behind the counter. “They wanted to talk about the Spring Fling Prom.”

  “Hmmm,” Cherise squints her eyes suspiciously. “First the diamond, then the Fashionistas talking to you about the dance. Definitely another cosmic marker. Things are lining up perfectly.” She raises her eyebrows to appear more all-knowing (I’ve seen that look a thousand times), but it doesn’t work. She comes across as crazy.

  “Not a cosmic marker,” I retort. “A project that I don’t have time for.”

  My father announces that he has to run over to a hotel to pick up some rentals that had been left there by a careless group of frat boys. That leaves Cherise and me manning the shop.

  “Fate is hard at work today,” she announces, following me as I retreat to the rear of the shop and settle back into my chair. “We’ve been left alone. Time to get to business.”

  I pick up the trousers I’ve been working on. “I am doing business.” I wave the pants in front of her. “I can’t fool around, Cherise. I need to finish these up and then review my calculus notes for tomorrow’s quiz.”

  “You do your business”—Cherise smiles a wicked grin as she drags a chair next to me and sets up a small folding table that was stashed in the corner—“I’ll do mine.” She sets the table between us.

  Since the Jennifer/Tanisha thing took up some of my precious time, I figure I might as well let Cherise get on with her show. The faster she reviews my astrological chart, the faster she’ll leave. I start sewing, but at the same time I’m biting my tongue and hanging on for the ride.

  “Your birthday is September 22nd,” she tells me as if I didn’t already know. “And you were born at 9:12 in the morning.” She must have remembered that information from the reading she made all those years ago. “Just like your DNA, your astrological chart hasn’t changed since your birth.”

  I yawn. Totally intentionally. If she thinks I’m tired, maybe she’ll cut me a break and leave.

  My plan fails. Cherise settles in, then reaches into her backpack and takes out a large piece of white paper. On it, she has drawn a big circle, carefully divided into twelve pizza sections. Numbers one through twelve label each slice. She has written notes all over the paper.

  “You are a Virgo with Libra Ascendant,” she informs me. “In fact, based on your birth date, you ride the Virgo/Libra cusp.”

  Very interesting. (I’m kidding. It’s not.)

  “This isn’t a solar chart, it’s a natal one,” Cherise tells me as she whips out a pen and uses it as a pointer. “You share a solar chart with everyone who was born on the same day as you. Because I am using your birth time along with the date, this natal chart will be far more accurate.”

  During the two seconds I actually pay attention to Cherise’s explanation, I accidentally poke myself with the needle. It hurts, but luckily, doesn’t bleed. I’d hate to have to explain to my father why I bled on these pants. I am going to have to ignore Cherise better and concentrate harder on my sewing.

  “Your moon is in Libra,” she explains, pointing at a pizza slice she referred to as “First House.” “This means that you want to be appreciated for your hard work. You’d like to accomplish something that will make you famous.” She is staring hard at the chart, trying to decipher her own handwriting. “You’re disciplined and curious. Driven and focused.”

  At this I have about a million snappy retorts, the first one being, “Duh. You could have known those things by hanging out with me since kindergarten.” Instead, I look at my sewing and count stitches as she talks.

  “You’re also moody and oversensitive.” Again I’m biting my tongue not to say, “Duh.” Then she adds, “You have a romantic edge, but it’s mostly manifested through the books you choose and the movies you like to watch.” I think she’s at “Duh!” times three.

  Cherise skips ahead to the “all-important Seventh House,” the House of Relationship. “Saturn sits in Capricorn,” she excitedly tells me, as if this is the news I have been waiting my whole life to hear. “It means you’re cautious about romantic liaisons. You don’t want to get involved until you’re certain that not only the man is right, but that the timing’s perfect.” At this she smiles, turning the chart toward me. “And here’s the good news: The timing is now and the guy is on his way!”

  I look down at her drawn circle, her chicken-scratch writing,
and shake my head. Gibberish. I’m looking at a page full of nonsense.

  “Do you mind if I light a few candles?” Cherise pulls two out of her school bag—a blue one she insists is for her own spiritual clarity and a red one to bring me love.

  “Not a chance,” I reply. “In the name of our longtime friendship, I’m letting you spin your astrological mumbo about me, but even the best friendships have limits. I can’t risk you burning down my father’s shop.”

  Cherise sets the candles out anyway, but doesn’t light them. They’re so heavily perfumed I think I’m going to suffocate from the overwhelming mix of vanilla and cinnamon.

  Cherise turns the chart back toward her and stares at it.

  Then she does some strange witchy wiggle with her arms. Apparently I’m not the only one with arm spasms today. When she’s done shimmying, Cherise proclaims, “Mars is entering Gemini. Love will take over where logic once governed. Your heart will soon be bonded to another.” She sighs the dreamy sigh of a teenaged girl on the brink. “Love is in the air, Sylvie. It’s written in the stars.”

  Yeah, yeah, yeah. “All right, I’ve heard enough,” I insist, pausing my hemming long enough to let her know exactly what I think. “You’ve been lucky with your guesses before, but not this time,” I tell her. “I study astronomy. The stars don’t have the power to forecast the future. Mars is simply traveling on the same elliptical orbit it has always traveled on. Astrology is not a science. Astronomy is.” I am on a roll. “There’s no data or objective observation proving that astrology reveals anything about us as individuals or how our lives will progress.”

  I’m about to boot Cherise out of the shop, in the loving way friends tell each other to go away, when I notice she’s running her finger over one part of the chart and humming. It’s not a joyful hum, but a hum of wonder and amazement. A hum designed to attract my attention. Clearly she ignored my whole astronomy/astrology lecture.