The Stars Up Here - A Dinner and an Ancient Curse

“Put on the navy dress,” Mrs. Lin said without looking at Elena. She was already rinsing the brass rolling pin under the tap, water splashing off the zinc sink onto her vinyl slippers. “The one with the collar. Not your school jeans.”Elena hovered in the doorway, her thumb digging into the hem of her worn flannel shirt. “Mom, I have thirty pages of history reading for Monday. Mr. Rivers said—””Mr. Rivers can wait two hours,” her mother snapped, slamming the tap shut. She turned around, her small eyes sharp under her penciled brows. “Do you think Mr. Mercer’s wife cares about your history homework? They live on East Crest Hill, Elena. Your father’s supervisor at the department hasn’t even been invited to their front porch, and Mrs. Mercer specifically told me on the phone to bring you along.””She was just being polite,” Elena muttered under her breath.”She was being a neighbor!” Mrs. Lin came over, her hands still faintly damp, and grabbed Elena by the chin, turning her head left and right with unceremonious force. “Look at your hair. You look like a street urchin. Go splash some water on your face. And put on the dress. If you embarrass your father tonight, don’t bother asking for new boots this winter.”Ten minutes later, Elena stood in front of the small bathroom mirror, her ribs aching from the zipper of the navy dress. It was a hand-me-down from an older cousin in New Jersey—made of stiff, synthetic poly-blend that smelled faintly of mothballs no matter how many times her mother hung it near the window. The waist pinched her ribcage, and the itchy lace trim along the cuffs scratched at her wrists every time she moved her arm.She tried to flatten her bangs, but the stubborn cowlick near her hairline kept sprouting straight up like a dried weed. In the dim yellow light of the bathroom bulb, the red welt on her forehead from her brother’s toy truck looked less like an injury and more like a third eye trying to break through her skin.She hated East Crest Hill.It was only two miles from their triple-decker in the West End, but geographically, it might as well have been a different state. Up there, the roads didn’t have potholes filled with gray slush; they had curved cobblestone borders, stone retaining walls covered in ivy, and mature oak trees that didn’t threaten to drop dead branches onto parked cars every time a storm rolled through from the coast.Their family’s ten-year-old Toyota Corolla groaned as her father shifted down to second gear, climbing the steep, winding incline of Crestview Terrace. Mr. Lin drove with both hands glued to the ten-and-two positions on the steering wheel, his jaw clenched so hard his cheekbones protruded like pale knuckles under his skin. He hadn’t spoken three words since they left the apartment. He just kept adjusting his wire-rimmed glasses with his index finger every time they hit a speed bump.”Remember,” Mrs. Lin whispered from the passenger seat, leaning back to glare at Elena. “When Mrs. Mercer speaks to you, sit up straight. Don’t look at your feet. And if Julian is there, ask him about his studies. Your father says his father is on the board of the regional planning committee.”Elena squeezed her hands together in her lap until her knuckles turned yellow. “He sits next to me in chemistry. He doesn’t talk to anyone.””That’s because he comes from a good family,” her mother said flatly, as if that explained the mechanics of human speech entirely. “Important people don’t waste their breath on chatter.”The Mercer house was a dark-timbered Craftsman estate set back behind a high birch hedge. It didn’t have a gravel driveway; it had smooth, dark asphalt that looked like it had been swept an hour before they arrived.When Mrs. Mercer opened the door, Elena’s first thought was that the woman looked like she belonged in a magazine for expensive tea. She was wearing a soft, cream-colored cashmere sweater that didn’t have a single stray lint particle on it, her graying hair pulled back into an effortless knot fastened with a tortoiseshell clip. She didn’t smell like bleach or lard; she smelled like lavender and old leather bindings.”Eunice! Come in, come in out of the damp,” Mrs. Mercer said, her voice warm and low, entirely lacking the sharp, shrill edge Elena was used to hearing from adult women in her neighborhood. She stepped aside, gesturing toward a wide foyer floored in honey-colored oak. “Arthur is just fixing a drink in the study. Oh, and this must be Elena! Look at you—you’ve grown so much since that summer in New Hampshire.”Mrs. Lin instantly pushed the Rubbermaid container forward with both hands, her face transforming into an eager, slightly crumpled smile that made Elena’s stomach twist with a strange, sour pity. “Clara, please, just a little something from home. Red bean cakes. I made them this afternoon.””Oh, Eunice, you shouldn’t have,” Mrs. Mercer said softly, taking the cheap plastic tub with as much grace as if it were sterling silver. “Julian! Come downstairs! We have guests!”A heavy silence lingered over the foyer for a second before a door upstairs clicked open.Slow, deliberate footsteps scuffed against the hardwood above. Elena kept her eyes fixed firmly on the brass umbrella stand by the door, praying to whatever distant god managed East End public housing that the floor would open up and swallow her whole.Julian came down the stairs with his hands shoved into the pockets of a charcoal-gray crewneck sweater. His hair was still damp from a shower, dark tufts sticking up at odd angles near his crown, but he was wearing dark trousers instead of the faded gray sweatpants he’d worn in class. He looked taller here, framed by the grand staircase, his long frame moving with a lazy, unbothered fluidity that made Elena feel instantly, acutely aware of the itchy lace scraping against her wrists.He stopped three steps from the bottom, his cool gray eyes sliding casually over Mr. and Mrs. Lin before settling on Elena.His eyes flicked down to her stiff navy dress, paused for a fraction of a second on her short, uneven sleeves, and then drifted up to the red bump on her forehead.Corner of his mouth twitched. Just a twitch.”Julian,” his mother chided gently, turning to him. “You remember Mr. and Mrs. Lin? And Elena?”Julian stepped off the last stair, nodding once toward her parents. “Mr. Lin. Mrs. Lin.” His voice was raspy, the same dry tone from the back row of Room 204. Then he looked directly at Elena, his eyebrows lifting slightly. “Hey, Stenographer.”Elena felt the blood rush to her face so fast her ears buzzed.Mrs. Lin immediately chimed in, oblivious: “Oh! You two already know each other? That’s wonderful! Elena said you sit together in science!””We’re desk partners,” Julian said smoothly, stepping past them toward the dining room. “She takes very detailed notes.”The Mercer dining room smelled of roasted garlic, rosemary, and the faint, ozone tang of an expensive air purifier humming quietly in the corner.The table was set with heavy, off-white stoneware plates that didn’t have a single chip along the rims—unlike the mismatched set of four Elena’s mother had collected from various garage sales over a decade. In the center sat a roasted chicken resting on a bed of charred root vegetables, its skin golden-brown and glistening under the low, warm glow of a shaded pendant light.For the first twenty minutes, the adults carried the conversation with the stiff, careful choreography of people trying very hard to bridge a gap neither wanted to explicitly acknowledge. Mr. Lin spoke in short, clipped sentences, answering Mr. Mercer’s polite questions about municipal zoning laws with rigid deference, his fork clinking too loudly against his plate every time he laid it down. Mrs. Lin spent most of her time leaning forward, nodding excessively at everything Mrs. Mercer said, her hands tightly folded in her lap whenever she wasn’t eating.Julian sat directly across from Elena.He barely touched the chicken. He spent most of the meal systematically dissecting a small roasted potato with his knife, his posture slouched just enough to be technically polite while conveying complete, unadulterated boredom. Every now and then, his eyes would drift toward the window, watching the rain start to streak against the glass.Elena ate in absolute silence, chewing each bite thirty times just to keep her jaws occupied so she wouldn’t have to speak.“So, Clara,” Mrs. Lin said suddenly, setting her glass down with a delicate clink . “I was telling Elena just the other day… about the old days. Before we moved south. Your father and my late father-in-law… they were very close, weren’t they?”Mrs. Mercer smiled, a nostalgic warmth softening her eyes as she reached for the water pitcher. “Oh, goodness, yes. The two old men were inseparable when they worked on the regional forestry board. You know, Arthur, I don’t think I ever told you about the winter of ninety-six?”Mr. Mercer looked up from his wine glass, amused. “Which one? The ice storm?””The very one!” Mrs. Mercer laughed, a light, musical sound. “Arthur, the two grandfathers got snowed into that tiny hunting cabin up in the White Mountains for four days. No power, half a bottle of whiskey, and a kerosene heater that kept sputtering out. They got so bored—and frankly, so convinced they were going to freeze to death—that they wrote out a whole formal contract on the back of a greasy diner placemat.”Elena’s hand froze around her fork.”A contract?” Mr. Mercer asked, chuckling.”Oh, you know how old men get when they’ve had too much rye,” Mrs. Mercer said, waving a hand dismissively, though her smile widened. “They decided that if their children ever had kids around the same age, they’d have to marry them off to keep the forestry land in the family. They even signed it with a charcoal stick from the fireplace!”Mrs. Lin let out a loud, high-pitched laugh that sounded entirely forced. “Yes, yes! My mother-in-law kept that napkin in a tin box for years! She used to show it to Elena when she was little!”Julian stopped dissecting his potato.His fork hovered half an inch above his plate. Slowly, very slowly, his head tilted up, his dark brows drawing together in a look of quiet, incredulous horror.”A napkin?” Julian repeated. His voice was flat.”It was just a silly joke, darling,” Mrs. Mercer said, totally blind to the sudden shift in the air, leaning back in her chair with a sigh. “Though, goodness, I remember when you two were five years old. Eunice brought Elena over to the old cottage during the summer festival. You two were supposed to share the daybed on the screened porch because we ran out of guest rooms.”Elena felt every drop of blood leave her face, leaving her skin ice-cold.No, she thought frantically. Please, God, no. Let a meteor hit this house right now. Let the roof collapse.“And poor little Julian,” Mrs. Mercer continued affectionately, shaking her head. “He was so terrified of the thunderstorm that night that he woke up at three in the morning, soaking wet, crying his eyes out because he thought the lake had flooded his sleeping bag.”Julian picked up his glass of ice water, took a slow sip, and immediately choked.He didn’t cough loudly—he was too well-bred for that—but his shoulders hitched violently as he shoved his napkin to his mouth, his face turning a dark, mottled red from his collar to his hairline. He hit his chest once with a clenched fist, his knuckles white.”Julian! Goodness, take a breath,” Mrs. Mercer said, reaching over to pat his arm.Julian lowered the napkin. His eyes were watering slightly, but the glare he directed across the table at Elena was sharp enough to slice through bone.He set the glass back down on the tablecloth with a heavy thud .“Fascinating,” Julian said, his voice dripping with icy, razor-sharp sarcasm, each word delivered with terrifying precision. “So… what’s the legal procedure for breaking a five-year-old’s forced napkin-marriage? Do I need to call a lawyer, or can we just burn the paper?”The table fell dead silent.Mrs. Lin’s smile froze into a rigid, terrifying mask. Mr. Lin looked down at his plate as if he’d suddenly discovered a spider in his carrots.Mrs. Mercer frowned, her tone sharpening just a fraction. “Julian. That’s entirely unnecessary. It was a story.”Julian didn’t look at his mother. He kept his gray eyes locked dead on Elena, his mouth curved in a thin, bitter line that made him look older, colder, and utterly unreachable.”Just checking,” he murmured, picking up his fork again with agonizing slowness. “Wouldn’t want to violate an ancient mountain pact before midterms.”Elena didn’t say a word.She couldn’t. Her throat felt as if it had been packed with dry sand. She lowered her head until her chin nearly touched the lace trim of her navy collar, lifted her small porcelain bowl, and literally buried her face in her white rice, staring at the individual grains until they blurred into a solid, blinding smear of white.Right there, under the warm glow of the Mercer family’s expensive dining room chandelier, with the smell of rosemary chicken heavy in the air and her mother’s knee pressing frantically against hers beneath the table, Elena Lin made a silent, sacred vow.She would never talk to Julian Mercer again.Not in chemistry. Not in the hallways. Not if he were on fire and she had the only bucket of water in the state of Massachusetts.He could take his coffins, his SAT scores, and his stupid, arrogant gray eyes, and go straight to hell.