The Stars Up Here - The Crooked Willow Tree

Elena sat at the tiny folding table in her bedroom, staring out the glass. The only view from her window was the thick, warped trunk of an ancient willow tree that grew out of the neighbor’s driveway. Its branches slumped heavily over her sill, blocking half the daylight even at noon. If she wanted to do her algebra homework without straining her eyes, she had to click on the desk lamp her uncle had salvaged from a garage sale—a flickering brass thing with a cracked green glass shade.”Elena! Get out here and wash the sink!”Her mother’s voice cut through the hollow door, sharp as a rusted blade.Elena didn’t move immediately. She kept her pencil pressed against the margin of her notebook, holding it so hard the graphite snapped with a dull click .“Elena! You deaf?”She swallowed, placed the broken pencil neatly in the groove of her desk, and stood up.In the hallway, the air was thick with steam from the laundry bucket. Mrs. Lin was bent double over the plastic tub, her permed hair pulled back with an orange plastic claw. Her small, sharp face was flushed red from the heat.”Your brother left his toy trucks in the foyer again,” Mrs. Lin snapped, wringing out a kitchen rag with a harsh, twisting motion of her wrists. “Don’t just stand there with your hands in your pockets. Move them before your father gets home and trips. He’s had a twelve-hour shift at the district office.”Eight-year-old Leo was sitting on the linoleum in his undershirt, zooming a bright red plastic fire engine along the baseboards. As Elena reached down to grab the toy, Leo deliberately slammed the hard plastic wheels into the side of her bare ankle.”Ow! Leo, stop it!” Elena flinched, kicking her foot back purely by reflex.Her toes caught the back of the fire truck, sending it skidding into the corner, where it hit the wall with a loud crack.Leo’s face crumpled instantly. He didn’t even drop a tear—he just opened his mouth and let out a ear-splitting, practiced shriek. “Mommy! She kicked my truck! She broke it!””Elena!” Mrs. Lin dropped the rag back into the grey water with a heavy splash. She lunged forward and swatted Elena hard across the shoulder. “What is wrong with you? He’s eight years old! You’re sixteen and you’re picking fights with a child?””He hit my ankle first!” Elena’s voice cracked, high and defensive. She hated the sound of her own voice when she got upset; it sounded thin, like cheap paper tearing. “Look at my foot!””I don’t care about your foot! You’re his sister—can’t you just let him have his way for once?” Mrs. Lin scooped Leo into her arms, kissing his forehead while the boy sneered at Elena over his mother’s shoulder. “Your aunt was right about you. Selfish. Always keeping score. Just like your father’s side of the family—petty.”Elena stood there, her shoulder stinging under her thin cotton shirt. Her hands were clenched into tight little fists at her sides, her knuckles white. She wanted to yell back. She wanted to grab the plastic truck and smash it beneath her heel until it turned to red powder.Instead, she turned on her heel, walked into her room, and slammed the door so hard the glass shade on her desk lamp rattled.”You dare slam doors in my house?” her mother screamed from the hallway. “You think cause you got into Pinecrest Academy you’re better than us? You’re nothing! Dead weight!”Elena pressed her back against the cool wood of the door, breathing in short, shallow gasps. Her heart was hammering against her ribs like a bird caught in a chimney. She closed her eyes, forcing her teeth together until her jaw ached.Three years, she told herself. Just three more years until eighteen. Three years, and then I’m out.She walked over to the small, scratched mirror hanging beside her closet. A pale, skinny girl stared back at her. Small eyes, a flat nose, and a high, broad forehead that her mother always said looked like a frying pan. Nothing special. Except for her eyes, maybe—dark, clear, and currently burning with a cold, impotent rage.On her forehead, right above her left eyebrow, was a faint red knot where she’d bumped into the edge of the hallway cabinet two days ago while dodging her brother. It looked absurd, like a little horn starting to sprout.Elena bared her teeth at the mirror, trying to look terrifying. She just looked ridiculous.The next morning, the sky over Pinecrest was the color of dirty dishwater.Pinecrest Academy was the town’s premier public magnet school, a sprawling brick complex sitting on the hill dividing the working-class West End from the manicured estates of East Crest.Elena walked the two miles from her apartment, her worn canvas backpack heavy with second-hand textbooks. By the time she reached the heavy oak doors of the main building, her armpits were damp under her stiff cotton blouse, and her cheap leather flats had rubbed a blister onto her right heel.She was ten minutes late.Leo had hidden her left shoe behind the radiator before school, and her mother had refused to let her leave until she finished scrubbing the grease off the stove top.Elena slid through the back door of Room 204, crouching low to avoid attention. The classroom smelled of floor wax, stale chalk, and the faint, chemical tang of fresh ink.”Ah. Miss Lin.”The voice boomed from the front podium. Mr. Rivers—a thick-set man with a fringe of gray hair around his shiny bald head—didn’t even look up from his ledger. He adjusted his thick-rimmed glasses with a thumb. “Decided to join us from the lower valley? How generous of you.”A ripple of quiet sniggers broke out from the front rows. Elena felt the heat rise instantly from her collar, spreading across her cheeks like spilled ink.”Sit,” Rivers snapped, waving a hand toward the far corner without looking at her. “We’re on page fourteen of the syllabus. Try not to make a habit of entering my class like a burglar.”Elena swallowed the lump in her throat and hurried down the side aisle, her head bowed so low she could only see the polished linoleum floor and the scuffed loafers of her classmates.There was only one open desk left. It was in the very back row, pressed up against a cold glass window that looked out onto the faculty parking lot.She slid into the plastic chair, dropping her bag onto the floor with a muted thud .As she pulled out her notebook, she caught a whiff of something beside her—not the heavy, sweet perfume the girls in the front row wore, nor the sour smell of sweat from the track team. It smelled like clean cotton, cold air, and the faint, bitter scent of cedar wood.She turned her head slightly.Occupying the desk next to hers was a boy. He was slumped so low in his seat that his spine seemed practically horizontal, his long legs stretched so far into the narrow aisle that his scuffed white sneakers nearly touched the desk in front of him.He was wearing a faded navy Champion hoodie, the hood pulled halfway up, blocking his profile. His head was propped lazily on one palm, his eyes fixed on a thick, dark-covered paperback resting flat on his thigh beneath the desk line.He hadn’t even blinked when she sat down. He didn’t turn to look at her, didn’t shift his feet to give her more room, didn’t register her existence at all.Elena bit her lip, pulling her notebook closer to her chest.At the front of the room, Mr. Rivers was pacing back and forth, his voice droning on about the upcoming diagnostic exams.”This is not middle school,” Rivers barked, tapping a piece of chalk against the blackboard with rhythmic, aggressive slaps. “Pinecrest places eighty percent of its honors track into top-tier universities. If you think you can coast on talent here, you will be weeded out by November. You will bend your backs, you will sharpen your pencils, and you will work until your fingers bleed.”Elena hastily grabbed her ballpoint pen and began scribbling every single word down.Pinecrest… 80% honors track… top-tier… work until…”Jesus,” a voice murmured beside her.It was low, slightly raspy, as if the owner hadn’t used his vocal cords all morning.Elena stopped writing. She didn’t turn her head, but out of the corner of her eye, she saw the boy in the navy hoodie shift. He lazily turned a page of his book with one long, pale finger.”Are you taking court stenography, or are you just trying to wear a hole in the paper?” he asked, his tone flat, bored, and utterly unimpressed.Elena’s hand stiffened on her pen. She turned her head slowly to look at him.Underneath the hood, his hair was a dark, unruly mess, falling slightly over a pair of sharp, cool gray eyes. His features were surprisingly refined—a straight, high nose, a lean jawline, and a slight, lazy curl at the corner of his thin lips that gave him an air of permanent, quiet arrogance.He wasn’t looking at her face; his eyes were trailing over her frantic, messy hand-written notes with mild amusement.Elena felt an impulse of pure, prickly defensiveness surge through her. She leaned over her desk, covering her notebook with both forearms, and glared at him.”I’m taking notes,” she whispered furiously, her voice trembling slightly.The boy let out a tiny, breathless huff through his nose—not quite a laugh, but close enough to make her skin prickle. He didn’t look bothered at all. He just flipped another page of his book, his long fingers trailing over the text.Elena glanced down at the cover of his paperback, which he wasn’t even bothering to hide very well.Fancy Coffins to Make Yourself: A Woodworker’s Guide.Elena stared. She blinked once, twice, making sure her eyes weren’t playing tricks on her in the dim morning light.”You’re reading about coffins in AP Chemistry?” she hissed.Julian Mercer finally lifted his head slightly, leaning his chin into his hand. He looked at her then—really looked at her—his gray eyes sliding casually over her oversized, faded collar, her tense shoulders, and the small, angry red bump sitting right above her left eyebrow.Corner of his mouth twitched up, just a fraction.”It’s practical,” he whispered back, his voice smooth, dry, and entirely devoid of respect. “Judging by the way you’re stressing out over a syllabus speech, you might need one by midterms.”