Stardust

Alarm clocks. My mortal enemy. My Dr. Evil, my Joker, my Magneto, my Green Goblin. The Bane of my existence. Except I can't, like, kill time (unless we're talking colloquialisms), because that would be counterintuitive if nothing else. All I can do is obey it, like Kryptonite, this omnipresent force that demands I bow down in submission to it. Time, the over-ruler of mankind demands to be heard, demands its supremacy be acknowledged, like a petulant child. It demands its divinity to be recognized by the nominal peasantry of mankind that bend to its will. Maybe I'm just being dramatic, but I don't like waking up tired in the dark. And yet, here I am, the alarm silenced and the early morning quiet once more. The house breathes around me, the furnace exhaling soft, warm air, groaning and yawning along with me as I climb out of my reluctant bed, sheets grabbing at my ankles.

I snap on the light, my eyes burning and the annoyances of the morning suddenly dawning: dragon breath, morning wood, raccoon eyes, fuzzy teeth. I shuffle out into the pitch black hallway, scratching my bare chest, and journey to the bathroom, trying not to think about the possible assailants lurking in the dark shadows.

I'm once again blinded by the bathroom lights, but I have to, y'know, go, so I turn my attentions to the porcelain throne, aim and shoot. I smack my lips in hopes to get the heinous taste of sleep out of my mouth and drowsily glance at the rack of mismatched purple and green towels (magenta and sea foam, Mom calls them) and then the poop literature primly laid out on the vanity, then the sink where I left little hairs everywhere from when I shaved last, then the bathtu—seize fire. “Holy shi—“ I stumble back and wipe out on the fuzzy toilet cozy.

“Good morning to you, too.”

“Oh, my God!” I clamber to my feet, pressing my back to the door. This is not real. This is a sick, sick dream that my libido devised. I am not awake. There is not a girl in my bathtub. Not. There. Not. There. Nottherenotherenottherenothere—

“Is this how you treat all your house guests?”

No way.

No. Way.

I stare at her. This strange, pale individual in my bathtub. She's lounging like she's all alone in her own home instead of, y'know, completely naked in a stranger's bathroom.

“Who... who are you?” I manage to get out.

“You probably won't be able to pronounce my real name so you can—“ She begins to lift herself out of the bathtub.

“Jesus Christ! What the—what's wrong with you?! You're—you're naked!” I shield my eyes to the wonders of the female anatomy and press myself closer to the door.

“Oh, is this bothering you?” She gestures to her pale, almost glowing white body, which I can make out from my peripherals.

“Could you please—a towel?”

I practically hear her roll her eyes as she wraps herself in a beach towel that I threw over the shower curtain rod ages ago, but didn't care to take down. “Decent,” she practically taunts.

I uncloak my eyes and stare at her for a minute even though I was planning on yelling at her for breaking into my house or interrogating her as to why she broke into my house or just plain kicking her out because she BROKE INTO MY HOUSE. But instead I marvel at how her skin looks like the marble countertops that my best friend has in his kitchen. And then I remember that she's a stranger, who's apparently not modest in the least, and finds nothing wrong with being in my house uninvited, it seems. “What—what are you—why are you—what makes you think that—what?” I try a few different approaches, but this is too bizarre. “What are you doing in my house,” I try, making it a statement.

She casually chews on one of her fingernails. “You called me here.”

“What?”

She drops her hand. “You wished for me, numbnuts.”

When did I wish for a naked girl in my bathroom—every day of your life—never, as I can recall, did I ever, ever wish for this. “What?” I repeat, dumbly.

She narrows her eyes, clearly annoyed now. “Let me say this slowly so you can understand. You,” she points to me. “wished for a miracle. I,” she points to herself. “am said miracle. Simple, yes? Nod with me.” She bounces her head of choppy white hair up and down.

I nod and then slowly shake my head. “...No.”

She sighs and puts her hands on her hips.

“I mean, I don't think miracles are supposed to work like that. I don't think that people just pop into your bathroom and claim to be a miracle and do nothing. If you're a miracle, then shouldn't you do something... miraculous?”

“It doesn't work like that,” she says.

“Then how does it work?” I ask.

“It just doesn't work like that,” she insists.

“Then why were you sent here anyways? And why are you in my bathroom? Why were you in my bathtub?” I demand.

She crinkles her nose. “You get kinda dirty when you fall from the sky.”

“What?”

“No more questions.” She lifts up her finger. “I'm feeling this human thing called hunger.”

“What?” I look at her incredulously. “That's it? You give me a bunch of cryptic answers and you expect me to just go with it and then feed you?”

She pops her lips. “Yeah, pretty much.”

“Who are you?”

“I'm Louie,” she says simply and sticks her hand forward. “Commencing handshake.”

I tentatively grab hold of her hand, like she might gnaw on it if I'm not too careful. “Finn.”

“I know. Say, why do you shake hands, anyways? It's stupid, I feel like an imbecile.”

I give her a curious look. “Because.”

“That's not an answer, Finnegan Landcaster.”

I don't question her knowing my full name. I'm in the process of convincing myself it's really just a very detailed dream that I can't seem to wake up from.“Well, I don't know the answer, Louie...?”

“Just Louie,” she says.

“Right. Okay. Louie. Just Louie.”



I walk from my Jetta, the keys haphazardly dangling from my fingers, and the sky a moody gray, stubbornly announcing that the sun will not show its face today. Louie. Louie, Louie, Louie, I think. I think about her, and her sudden existence, and her general strangeness. This morning was weird and blurry and all I can really remember is how I watched her like she was some untouchable, wild creature as she ate Cheerios, frustrated at having to use a spoon, and complaining about 'menial human ingenuity'. And then how she drowned in the fabric of my Weezer t-shirt, and how her nose slopes upwards a little, and how she stumbled around on her toes like a bird, muttering about gravity being a pain, and how she looked so lost when I left her in the basement with only a warning about the dangers of daytime television. I feel bad for leaving her, but at the same time... I don't know why I even bothered with her. She's probably just some delusional hobo with no clothes and amnesia. Not thinking rationally, however, I have obviously been blessed by Valhalla with an enchanting beauty who will simultaneously take my virginity and cure my mother of terminal cancer. Which is, of course, the option I'm hoping for.

I tug open the doors to the main hall where swarms of kids are congregated and I shove my keys into the pocket of my fleece, bracing myself for my daily journey through the gauntlet. I shove one couple dry-humping each other aside, then shoulder my way past a half a dozen girls in cheerleading uniforms, a mob of jocks, a huddle of drama kids, and then I come to where my best friend is hosting a Yu-Gi-Oh! Tournament, going around taking bets, a sour straw hanging limply out of his mouth. “Dude, I have to tell you something,” I say without a greeting, coming up at his side.

“Hold on. Huge monetary investment in progress,” he mumbles, shuffling around various bet markers and stuffing odd change and dollar bills into the fanny pack around his waist.

“O, this is serious.”

He shifts his sleepy eyes over to me, his thick glasses glinting. “How serious?'

“The crow flies at midnight, Malik.”

“No shit,” he muses, bushy eyebrows raising. “Rudy!” A scrawny kid, the Omar Malik protegee, squeals over.

“Yeah, boss?” he says, cheek bulging with bubblegum chew.

“Take over for me, yeah?”

Rudy's chest puffs out. “It'd be an honor, sir.”

Omar unhooks his fanny pack and hands it over to the boy. He motions to me with his fingers. “Walk with me.” Omar Malik, school 'entrepreneur', renowned amateur bookie, and my best friend. He's a huge influence in the school, kind of like a High School mob boss without a cool office, the hair gel, the banged up sidekicks, the machine guns, and facial scars (except for the one under his chin from a scooter) and apparently not a force to be reckoned with, but I know that's a bunch of crap. O cried after we watched Serenity, the conclusion to the all-too-short Firefly series, from the sheer beauty of it all (I admit, I was pretty emotional too), has a stash of beanie babies in his closet, and willingly spends time with old people every Wednesday. The thought that he could ever be dangerous is ridiculous. I mean, when we took a karate class after we got dunked into the dumpsters as sixth graders, he refused to spar with anyone, and then promptly received a nosebleed and had to call his mom to go home. Ridiculous.

O and I have reached the main stairs to the history hallway, and I try to find a way to start in on my little story. “No judging, bro,” I warn.

“No judging here ever, bro,” Omar says back. “Scout's honor.”

I inhale. “This morning... there was a naked girl in my bathtub...” And by the time that I finished up, Omar was nodding and pursing his lips.

“...I'm judging, bro. Do you want to go to the counselor?”

“Dude. I'm being serious here! She's in my basement right now. I swear to God.”

“And I don't believe in God,” he says. “Swear on your grandmother or something.”

“O. Really. I'll take you to my house at lunch and you'll see for yourself. She said that she was a miracle, and you know what? What if she is? What if she really is? What if I'm not making this up? What if this girl, this-this Louie, what if she really did come to save my mom?” I can tell that I look desperate gauging by Omar's reaction.

“Finn... you know that I want her to get better as much as you do, but you can't honestly think that this is real. Even if this chick is at your house, she's probably not some 'miracle'. I'm sorry, but you gotta understand that you sound fricken nuts.” He looks sad, the pity eyes are back.

“But... what if she is? I can't just drop it. It's too weird to not be true.” I'm pleading with myself at this point, trying to prove that Louie is who she says she is.

“Look,” O runs his hand over his face. “I'll go with you at lunch, you crazy bastard. I just hope this isn't a complete waste of my time,” he grumbles.

“Oh, thank you!” I give him a signature Max hug around his big melon head.

“I know I'm irresistible, but, please, try to contain yourself,” O mumbles into my sleeve.

“Whatever, bro.”