Chasing Stardust: A Novel By Erica Lucke Dean - 19

Rebel Rebel

“So this is CBGB?”

A floor-to-ceiling display of vintage record albums lines the front wall of the dark, moody space, greeting me as I walk in. Queen, Blondie, Lou Reed—and of course, David Bowie—among many others. Between the stacks of old records, concert posters, graffitied walls, and a mini stage decked out for a concert, I don’t know where to look first. I definitely get the punk rock graveyard vibe. The whole place is a shrine to dead musicians. All that’s missing is the stench of liquor and smoke.

My mom wrote her name somewhere in this room.

“No.” Dash smirks and leads me through the store like a tour guide. “This is John Varvatos. They supposedly left most of the walls the way they were when the place was still CBGB but scrubbed away decades of filth and sticky floors.”

The sandalwood notes of an expensive cologne waft through the air as I shift my tote to my other shoulder and gaze up at Dash. “This place is seriously cool.”

He nods, admiring a vintage guitar behind glass.

“Even the clothes have attitude.” I run my fingers over a rack of crisp shirts and pluck out a bluish-gray short-sleeved button-down from the bunch. “This one reminds me of you.”

His cheeks flush. “I may have one similar to that.”

“Hmm.” Keeping Dash in sight, I tuck the shirt back where I found it and move to the next display. A table covered in rows of jeans draws me in, and I hold up a dark-washed pair. “And these?”

“Possibly.” He chuckles, as if he’s not wearing an almost identical pair.

My preoccupation with Dash’s clothes temporarily satisfied, I shift my attention to the graffitied walls, tracing the different names with my finger, hoping to find even a hint of Mom. So much history. And yet, so much of it is buried behind racks of clothes or covered by framed photos, concert tickets, and other assorted memorabilia.

Tempted to pick at the old stickers to uncover what’s hidden beneath, a wave of disappointment washes through me. “I could spend an entire day sifting through every inch of this place and still never find what I’m looking for.”

Dash slips his fingers through mine and squeezes.

“It really is amazing, though.” My heart clenches as I glance at the man folding shirts in the back. “But I seriously doubt they’d be cool with me tossing a handful of ashes into the air.”

“Probably not.” Dash smiles. “But we can get some pictures?”

Grinning, I hand him my phone. “So many pictures.”

Dash plays photographer while I dance around the room like a kid in a toy store, posing in front of as many relics as I can without getting kicked out. I pick up a red guitar and pretend to play, then grab a stack of records and hold them up like Willy Wonka’s golden ticket. I pretend to write my name on a heavy section of graffiti, making animated faces while Dash clicks away.

“Come with me.” Dash drags me outside and snaps a few pictures of me under the black John Varvatos awning, in the same spot Mom posed when the awning was white with the CBGB logo.

Afterward, we take a few selfies of the two of us—my head on his shoulder, his lips on my cheek, and one of us kissing—before saying goodbye to the ghosts of CBGB and heading to Central Park.

“She could’ve been a little more specific about which tree she wrote her name on.” Even with the intoxicating aroma of fresh-cut grass and sunshine soaking into my pores, I stare into the vast park with an overwhelming sense of defeat.

For all I know, Mom’s tree was turned into firewood decades ago, but I’m not about to let that stop me. “How will I ever find it?”

“Let’s think about this logically.” Dash scans the surrounding trees, then points to the high-rise looming behind us. “You said your grandma wanted your mom’s name to be visible from those windows.”

“Yes.”

“Well, there’s a finite number of trees directly facing that building, and anything big enough to climb thirty years ago would be even taller now, so we can rule out all the small trees.” Dash’s enthusiasm is contagious. He seems almost as invested in finding Mom’s name as I am.

“So we should focus on big trees.” I gaze into the lush green canopy overhead.

“As far as I can tell, we have three options.” He ambles toward the smallest of the three and rests his hand against the trunk. “Let’s start with this one. Just make it quick and don’t draw too much attention to yourself. It’s illegal to climb the trees in the park.”

I laugh but his stiff expression doesn’t crack. “You’re not kidding?”

“No.”

My stomach clenches as I set my tote against the base of the tree. I haven’t been tree climbing since I was twelve, but if it means finding even a tiny bit of Mom, I’m all in. “That’s a stupid rule.”

“True.” Dash nods, and his lips twitch. “But stupid or not, with your luck, we’ll get arrested.”

“Awesome.” I place my hands against the trunk. “That’s just super .”

Dash rolls his eyes, but his smile tells me he wouldn’t trade this moment for anything. “And I thought we were done with the superhero jokes.”

“We’re definitely not.”

“I still can’t believe Bowie was your grandfather,” he whispers.

“Allegedly.” I check over my shoulder before shoving a foot into the crotch of the tree. “And for the record, I don’t buy it.”

The fear of getting caught ignites a fire in my veins, and I shimmy up the trunk until I reach the lowest branch, then haul myself the rest of the way up. My arms burn as I move up the tree, running my fingers over rough bark and reading it like braille until I run out of branches that will hold my weight.

Bitterly disappointed I didn’t find a single initial carved into the wood, I work my way back down the way I came.

Playing lookout and offering moral support, Dash leans against the trunk until I have both feet planted firmly on the ground. “Nothing?”

I shake my head and march to the next tree. After tossing another look behind us, I repeat the steps from the last one.

And again, nothing.

With a loud sigh, I drop from the lowest limb to the ground.

Dash hands me my tote and motions to the towering tree erupting from a mound of exposed bedrock. “Last one.”

“Great.” I hitch my tote onto my shoulder as the last shred of hope skips through my veins. “I was really hoping I’d find her name on one of the smaller trees.”

“Yeah, me, too.” Dash takes my hand, and we hike over the smooth rock outcropping.

Lifting my gaze skyward, I survey the massive oak towering overhead. Dappled sunlight streams through leaves the size of saucers. “I guess this is it.”

Up close, the tree is even more enormous. The gnarled trunk must be close to three feet wide. As it rises into the sky, its limbs stretch out in every direction, daring me to climb it.

“How the hell am I supposed to get up there?”

“I’ll give you a boost.” Dash laces his fingers together and lowers his hands for me to use as a step. “Hop on.”

After stealing a quick kiss, I rest my sweaty palms on his shoulders and plant my foot in his hands the way I did back in my cheer pyramid days.

“Hold on.” His jaw flexes as he lifts me into the air.

My stomach flips completely upside down. As it turns out, climbing a tree is nothing like mounting a cheer pyramid.

“Can you lift me higher?” I grunt as I brace myself on the rough bark, keeping one hand flat on the trunk while stretching the other as far as I can reach. “I’m almost there.”

Dash boosts me up the thick tree, and I grab the closest branch, muscles trembling as I hoist myself up. Once I get a foothold, I clamber to the next limb, resisting the urge to scream I’m the princess of the world at the top of my lungs.

From my dizzying perch, I can clearly read the Essex House sign. “You should see the view from up here. It’s amazing!”

“That’s great,” Dash whisper-shouts from below. “But you need to look for your mom’s name before someone sees you up there.”

“On it!” My pulse hammers in my ears as I run my palms over the trunk, using the pads of my fingers to explore every knot. Every dip. Every imperfection.

A light gust of wind swirls around me, ruffling my hair and making the leaves flutter and dance. I wonder if the breeze is a sign from Mom to keep going . . . or maybe cut my losses. For an instant, I contemplate doing just that. Then my heart skips as my fingers settle into a slight indentation directly above my head. Using knots as footholds, I move upward to the next limb for a better look.

I’ve seen my mom’s handwriting probably a thousand times before—twenty years of birthday cards, permission slips, and little notes left on the refrigerator—but seeing her swirling script, even sloppily etched into the gnarled side of a tree, takes my breath away.

Blinking back tears, I rest a trembling finger in the smooth indentation, slowly tracing each letter. Thirty years may have weathered the tree, but her name is almost exactly as it was when she carved it. The wound has long since healed over, but the scar tissue remains.

I can’t help wondering how long Mom stood on this same twisted limb while she carved her name into the side. My eyes sting as I imagine her standing beside me. Resting my cheek against the scratchy bark, I wrap my arms as far around the trunk as I can while the tears I’d been holding back break free.

“Are you okay?” Dash calls up to me.

“Yes.” I choke back a sob and then another. “No. Not really.”

“Did you find it?”

“Mm-hmm.”

“Did you get a picture?”

“Not yet.” It takes me a full minute to pull myself together, but once I do, I snap a few pictures before tucking my phone in my pocket.

“Are you ready to come down?”

“I think so.” The backs of my legs scrape the craggy tree as I lower myself to the next branch, inch by inch. I peek down at Dash, about a dozen feet below me, and my head spins. It would be so easy to do a basket drop into his arms if I could be sure he’d catch me.

When our neighbor’s cat got stuck in a tree, I remember thinking it must’ve been the dumbest cat on the planet if it couldn’t climb down the same tree it had just gone up. After today, I owe that cat an apology. Climbing down is way harder.

After what seems like forever, I reach the next branch, but there’s no way I can slide the rest of the way. I won’t have any skin left if I do.

“Jump. I’ll catch you.” Dash holds out his arms, but he doesn’t have proper form. Or solid footing.

I snort. “I don’t think so.”

“Don’t you trust me?”

“It’s not about trust. It’s about reality. It’s a long way down, and I don’t want to die.” No matter how many times I’d dismounted a pyramid, it never failed to terrify me. The slightest miscalculation could mean death. I haven’t done cheer in over two years, and Dash isn’t trained to catch me. And this is no pyramid.

“You won’t—” Below me, Dash freezes. Then, with a groan and a quick glance up at me, he slowly pulls his hands from the tree and turns toward the path . . . and the mounted New York City police officer.

“What are you doing?” the cop asks.

“Uh . . .” Dash chokes out a nervous laugh. “It’s funny you should ask.”

The horse snorts as if even he smells the bullshit in the air.

“I’m sure it’s hilarious.” The cop smirks and leans forward in the saddle. “Why don’t you tell me anyway.”

While Dash sputters, valiantly spinning an almost convincing fib on the fly, I suck in a deep breath and pull on my big superhero panties. When it comes down to it, I do trust Dash—probably more than I should after knowing him only a handful of days. But we’ve experienced a whole lot of living in those few days’ time.

“ Psst . . . Dash. ”

His head jerks up, a frantic question in his eyes.

I mouth the words “catch me” seconds before dropping from the lower limb in the cradle position, sending up a silent prayer for him to play basket.

Dash reaches out, snatching me from the air as if he really is Superman under those dark glasses.

“Nice catch, Clark.” I grin.

“You’re killing me here, Zo.” He rests his forehead against mine, his pulse thundering beneath his skin.

“Okay, lemme see some IDs,” the cop shouts. “I should cite the both of youse for unlawful tree climbing.”

“Grab my tote,” I whisper against his lips as I slide out of his arms.

Dash’s eyes stretch so wide, I can see all the possible scenarios running through his mind. “Zoey—”

“On three.” I calculate the distance between the cop and our tree, then from our tree to Fifty-Ninth Street. If my guess is right, and the cop doesn’t cross the big rock on the horse, we should make it. If I’m wrong, someday I’ll be able to tell my kids about the night I spent in a New York City jail. “One . . . two . . . three !”

Dash snatches my bag, and we make a break for it. Years of muscle memory from cheer come in handy as I dodge and weave through trees and over slick boulders. I lose my footing once, but somehow still beat Dash to the busy street.

“Do you think we lost him, or did he let us go?” My heart hammers in my throat, and I rest my palms on my knees while I catch my breath. “I can’t believe I did that.”

Eyes locked on mine, Dash stalks forward with purpose. He stops directly in front of me, takes my face in both hands, and fixes his lips to mine, kissing me until my head swims from lack of oxygen.

When he breaks free, he’s panting every bit as hard as I am. “You. Are. Amazing!”