Read Online Lost Stars by Lisa Selin Davis - Free Book Online

a-hole, not a speck of brain tissue in his head, his beautiful head with the beautiful hair and the little wisps of stubble on his chin and, crap, he had green eyes and I really loved green eyes, no, they were hazel and hazel was even better. Hazel was the best. They were hazel.
    Then he nodded at me. At me. I sat up a little straighter as he sat down next to me. He was talking to Tiger about the new Neil Young record and he settled back into the couch and his arm touched mine and I wasn’t talking to anyone so I closed my eyes because I was so into the music. I pretended I was so into the music. Black Flag. Not my favorite.
    â€œI fucking love this song,” he said.
    Black Flag: okay, I’d give them a chance. My brain was swimming. Giant gulp of disgusting Genesee.
    â€œMe too,” I said, but he didn’t seem to hear me. At least, he didn’t turn around. He turned his head a degree or two, seemed to see me, or at least a slice of me, the outline of my face—​oh, my hair was a mess and I had those gloves on my hands and I was so stoned my eyes must have been totally red and I probably looked terrible. He ignored me. Good. Fine. He should ignore me. I was ignorable. I hated myself. Drink drink drink. I really just hated myself. And then it seemed like I was going to cry and there Greta was, sinking into the couch next to me. I loved Greta, but she was also beautiful as a Barbizon model in her shirt with the giant shoulder pads and the balloon pants with suspenders and the high heels, and all other girls within a fifty-foot radius immediately vaporized in her presence.
    â€œWhat’s happening, Carrie?” she asked, and she reached for my hand, and I said, “Youch!” and then I felt like a jerk for the six-hundredth time since I’d arrived thirty-seven minutes before.
    The boy, Dean, turned around now. He nodded toward me. One of the guys. That’s right. He’d seen my hardhat and my work boots, and he probably thought I was a lesbian.
    â€œDean, this is Carrie,” Greta said.
    And Dean said, so quietly I almost couldn’t hear him, looking at his lap when he said it, “I know.”
    I died a little bit. I drank, huge gulps, to keep myself alive. The music pounded, and I could barely hear Greta and Dean. Soo’s mom opened the basement door and called, “Turn it down!” but we ignored her.
    â€œI’d tell you to shake hands,” Greta was saying to Dean, “but I don’t think she can.”
    â€œI’m not contagious,” I said, twirling my fingers in front of his face and then hating myself for that, too.
    â€œI didn’t think so,” he said. “It’s national Michael Jackson Day, right?” And he smiled, and the whole world cracked open, and then he seemed to think better of the smile and took it back and sat up a little straighter on the couch and looked at his own, gloveless, hands. He was turning on and off like a variable star, its brightness increasing and fading. And then the smile leaked out again and he put his hand up to his hair, his glorious stringy hair, all a mess and tangled and beautiful, and then he put it down again. He had pale freckles all over his arms and a light dust of soft-looking dark hair and he had a little bit of bike grease wedged under his fingernails, and if he could see beneath the thin cotton of my gloves he would see the same smiles of dirt caked under mine, too. Dirty fingernail twins. We had so much in common. I took another huge gulp of beer. My body was full of beer, so full I could just float away.
    â€œDo you want a drink?” Greta asked him. She was making her exit. She was leaving me alone with him. I loved her and I hated her. Go away. Don’t leave.
    â€œNah,” he said. “I don’t drink. Anymore.”
    â€œOkay,” Greta said, unaffected by this announcement. “Carrie, you want another one?” she asked as she stood up.
    The