Chasing Stardust: A Novel By Erica Lucke Dean - 10

Starman

With my iPhone finally up and running, I set out to retake control of my destiny. After gaining access to my bank account—though, sadly neither my debit nor credit card—I manage to track down Ernie and my backpack, thanks to a nice lady at the dairy company. But with my clothes officially en route to Mack’s Garage, fate swoops in like an evil harpy and rips the rug right out from under me again.

“Damn it.” A wave of sadness rolls over me as I scroll the Wiki page for Memphis.

“What’s wrong?” Dash snickers. “Battery die already, or did you lose signal again?”

“No, smart-ass.” I release a defeated sigh. “They demolished Ellis Auditorium in 1999. Where am I supposed to take the picture now?”

Dash leans in and reads over my shoulder, surrounding me with his rosemary-and-clean-laundry scent. “That sucks. It was practically a historical landmark.”

Hot breath fans across my neck, sending a delicious tingle down my spine. “Eyes on the road, Dash.”

“We’re good. The Tesla has autonomous driving.” He says autonomous as if it’s synonymous with magic .

With visions of ninja armadillos dancing through my head, I shoot him an icy glare. “I don’t know what that means.”

“It’s basically autopilot.” He turns his attention back to the road, dramatically gripping the wheel at ten and two. “Happy?”

“Yes. Thank you.” Flashing him an obnoxious smile, I continue my frustrating search.

He shakes his head and circles back to the original topic. “Did they replace it or just tear down the old one?”

“There’s a shiny new auditorium in its place, but that’s not where Mom had her picture taken.”

Just like with Cleveland, Mom documented all the places she went and things she did while in Memphis. All but one of those is still there—the place from her photo. And as far as I can tell, nothing of the old auditorium remains. “How am I supposed to re-create a photo in a place that doesn’t exist anymore?”

“We’ll figure it out.” Dash hovers, studying the picture of Mom. “She was beautiful.”

“She was.” I trace the lines of her neck and shoulder with my finger. My head used to fit in that spot. From as far back as I can remember, after every bad dream or any time I was sick, I’d snuggle into the crook of Mom’s neck to fall asleep. Even after she got sick, she did her best to be a shoulder for me whenever I needed one. Near the end, she was simply too frail. “My sister looks just like her.”

Dash clears his throat, and I catch him staring at me.

“I think you look like her,” he says.

A shiver runs through me, and I tug my hair forward like a shield. “We have— had —the same hair.” I coil a thick lock around my finger. “But Jeanie’s her clone in every other way.”

Dash sweeps my hair over my shoulder, and my stomach somersaults. “I don’t know your sister, but I think you look a lot like your mom.”

“You . . .” I lift my gaze and find myself trapped in his mesmerizing eyes.

Inconvenient or not, you still have a boyfriend, remember? I may finally be ready to put Damian out to pasture, but even he deserves more than an impersonal text message breakup before I start shopping for his replacement.

Swallowing the lump in my throat, I look away while I still can. “You’re not watching the road.”

“Sorry.” He shifts his attention to the traffic ahead.

As if he has a sixth sense, or some sort of Zoey radar, my phone rings and Damian’s face lights up the display. Speak of the devil. With a panicked glance at Dash, I accept the call.

“Finally!” Damian’s voice booms through the line, and I can almost see the vein in his neck pulsing with every breath.

Twisting in my seat, I face the window and lower the volume on my phone. “Hi.”

“Are you ignoring my calls?”

“No, Damian.” I grit my teeth as I grind out the words. With my insides coiled like a snake about to strike, it’s a wonder I haven’t reached through the phone and strangled him with my bare hands. “I told you my phone died.”

“For Christ’s sake, Zoey! Why didn’t you charge it?”

“Because—” My breath hisses out like an Instant Pot releasing steam. Nothing I say will make a difference anyway. “Never mind, it doesn’t matter.”

“Call it a sign and scrap the whole trip. You can come with me to my brother’s place on Rehoboth for the Fourth.”

“I can’t just scrap my trip,” I whisper, hoping Dash isn’t paying attention.

“Why not? You’d have way more fun at the beach with me. And as an added bonus, I can help you register for classes.”

A dull ache builds behind my eyes, and I contemplate ending things right here and now. With a glance at Dash, I change my mind. This isn’t the time or the place to make those kinds of decisions. “I told you I wrecked my grandma’s car.”

“Exactly my point. Nothing you can do about that now, right? I’ll get you a bus ticket and you can—”

“I got a ride to Memphis.” I hold my breath and peek over my shoulder at Dash, watching the road with his jaw clenched tight enough to shatter bone. “To spread Mom’s ashes.”

The line goes quiet, and for half a second I think the call dropped, but then Damian chuckles. “Where’d you find someone to give you a ride in the middle of East Jesus?”

“Uh . . .” I fiddle with the frayed hem of my shorts, tugging another loose thread free. “West Tennessee, actually.”

“What the hell ever.” Damian snorts, and I can hear the eye roll from here. “Who gave you a ride, Zo?”

Dash shifts in his seat, opening and closing his mouth as if itching to say something.

My skin prickles, sensing his eyes on me. “Sorry, Damian, I’m losing the signal. Can I call you later?”

“Zoey, wait.”

“Sorry, I’m losing you.” I rub my finger over the speaker, hoping to make the line crackle.

“Don’t hang up.”

“Gotta go!” I mash the button, disconnecting the call, and put my phone on Do Not Disturb.

Eyes locked on the road ahead, Dash exhales through his nose. “So that’s him, huh?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, he sounds . . .” He laughs, abandoning whatever polite flattery he was about to spout. “He’s not happy you’re still here, is he?”

“Nope.” I draw out the word, emphasizing the p . “He didn’t want me coming at all. Had other plans in mind.”

He tears his eyes from the road and gapes at me. “Don’t tell me he expected you to go party in Daytona.”

“Rehoboth, actually. But it’s a little more complicated than that.”

He shakes his head and turns back to the road. “What a dick.”

Desperate to put Damian out of my mind, I change the subject. “What about you? Girlfriend? Boyfriend? ”

Dash snickers. “I don’t have a boyfriend.”

“Girlfriend, then?” We’re barely friends, let alone anything more, yet I get an unpleasant twinge in my chest at the thought.

“No.” A dark cloud crosses his features. “No girlfriend.”

Curiosity gets the best of me. “Never?”

“No, not never.” He rolls his eyes. “You wanna listen to some music?”

“Wait! You can’t leave me hanging like that. What happened?” I lower my voice dramatically. “You didn’t kill her, did you?”

He bursts out laughing. “No. I didn’t kill her. Although . . .”

“Dash!”

“I’m kidding. She’s alive. If you can call a soulless creature alive .”

“Sounds like she and Damian would get along,” I mutter under my breath. Then, louder for his ears, I say, “How about that music you promised me?”

“Sure.” Dash cranks up the eighties station on Sirius just in time to catch the chorus of Talking Heads’ “Psycho Killer.”

“The plan is to spread Mom’s ashes at Mud Island Park.” Until reading her diary, I hadn’t realized how absent G-Lo had been when Mom was growing up. They’d been at odds for nearly all of Mom’s young life, but during a picnic at Mud Island, some of that icy indifference thawed. “I think she’d like that.”

“Don’t inhale this time.” Dash keeps his eyes on the road, but his lips curl up at the corners. “I don’t care what your grandma says, you can’t get high from ashes.”

“Smart-ass.”

He pins me with a smoldering look that sends ribbons of warmth through my limbs.

“You know”—he cocks an eyebrow—“it’s not too late to bury your body in the woods.”

I tear my gaze from his and flash a saucy smile. “Don’t forget, my grandma knows what you look like.”

“How could I forget? It’s not every day someone’s hippie grandma threatens to dig into my sordid past.” His easy grin tells me he isn’t the least bit worried.

If he only knew . . .

“So . . .” He changes the subject. “Should we start at the new auditorium? I know it’s not the same building, but it’s technically the same place. I could even take some pictures, if you like.”

“I’d like that.” With our itinerary set, I finish my Coke with a loud slurp.

“Want some of mine?” He holds out his cup, beads of condensation spilling over his fingers.

“No thanks.” My stomach sloshes, warning me to pace myself. “I’m trying to avoid unscheduled pit stops.”

“I don’t mind stopping. Besides, I suspect we’ll find at least one public restroom every few blocks.”

“Great.” I force a smile. If Dash knew what it took to squeeze into this shiny Lycra chastity belt, I doubt he’d be so eager for me to wiggle out of it so soon. My insides clench at the thought of getting the clingy pants down and not being able to get them back up again.

No. Not happening. I glance out the passenger window and unravel the hem of my shorts a little farther. My bladder will have to wait until we get back to Hicksville.

Dash pries my fingers from my shorts. “How long were those when you left home?”

“Ha ha. Very funny.”

We exit the highway, and Dash parks in the Mud Island garage, just a short walk in either direction from our planned destinations. We step out of the car and straight into the drum of a clothes dryer. But instead of smelling of damp laundry, the sticky wall of heat envelops us in the loamy stench of mud and fish from the nearby river.

I gather my long hair into a loose ponytail to get it off my neck. “Why is it so humid here?”

“Welcome to Memphis.” Dash chuckles, sweat already running from his temple to his jaw. “Come on.” He clasps my hand. “Adventure awaits.”

The city is a flurry of activity. The aroma of sizzling meat and spices emanating from the small army of food trucks parked on every corner fills the air. The rattle of vintage streetcars rises over the din of voices as assorted tourists and businesspeople pack the sidewalks, every one of them on a mission of their own.

We make our way through the throng to the Cannon Center for Performing Arts, but it’s the giant metallic spaceship parked out front that captures my attention. Resembling a swirling tornado of liquid mercury, the columns and funnels of the mirrored sculpture draw my eyes and reflect my conflicting emotions.

“Incredible.” Dash gazes up at the shimmering work of art.

Despite the impressive sight in front of me, I direct my attention to the ground at my feet. Did my mother stand in this same spot three decades ago? My eyes sting as I crouch and place my hand on a four-by-four concrete square as if the sidewalk holds the secret of my entire existence. This isn’t even the same auditorium and yet . . . I didn’t expect to feel her presence here, but I do.

Dash squats beside me. “You want me to take your picture?”

I wordlessly hand him my iPhone, and he snaps several photos before joining me on the sidewalk. Ignoring the noise and the crush of people fanning out around us, we sit shoulder to shoulder on the pavement and stare up at the giant silver structure.

“Seems fitting,” he says after a few minutes.

“Fitting?”

“Definitely.” He nods. “Since, in some weird twist of fate, you were sent here by a Starman.”