“Where. Is. Bruiser?” I want my fucking dog. I raised him from a puppy and I haven’t seen him in five years. I want my goddamn dog. But Dad just sighs and rubs the back of his neck and looks anywhere but at me. Great. Just great. I turn to Mom. She’s still holding my backpack, but instead of handing it to me and ordering me to put it away like I expect, she just sets it down on the porch swing. Huh. The swing is blue now. It used to be red. Wonder what else they changed while I was gone. I raise my eyebrows at her.

Mom sighs and clenches her hands into fists at her sides. She started doing that years ago, right around the time of the mud-vs-carpet incident. Fist clenching is never good.

“Mom,” I say, trying to keep my words calm and free of curses—the cussing helps me get my own irritation out before it explodes, but I learned long ago that it just makes her more pissed. “Where is my dog?”

She glances up at Dad, but he’s looking over at the stupid hummingbird feeder like it may hold all the answers to life. Unlikely, since they’ve had it since I was a kid and so far, nada. “Roger,” she prompts him, but as usual he’s off in his own little world.

Mom gets mad. Dad zones out.

Lather rinse repeat.

Endlessly.

Fuck.

“Mom—” I snap, but she whirls on me before I can get out another word.

“Bruiser is gone,” she says. “He ran off not long after your trial.”

What. The. Fuck?

I try to take a deep breath, but I’ve got a rhino on my chest.

“And you didn’t look for him?” I yell. It’s not even a question. I know my parents. I know what the answer is.

“Of course we looked for him,” my mother says, her eyes flashing. Liar. Goddamn liar. “But he was your dog, Ash. He was your responsibility.”

“I was in prison!” I say. Yell. Whatever. The neighbors are going to be in for a show. It’s been a while for them, with me out of the picture. Guess it’s time for them to get used to it again. I open my mouth. You said you’d take care of him, I’m about to say. You told me he was fine. Every fucking time I asked, you told me my dog was fine.

“Exactly,” she snaps, cutting me off like she always has. “And I think that’s pretty much the height of your irresponsibility, don’t you, Ashley?”

Fuck.

Dad’s finally showing signs of life. “Maybe we should go inside,” he says. “Talk this out.”

“Not a chance,” I snap, moving to shove back harder against the door.

Just as the words leave my mouth, Mom’s head snaps around to glare at him. “We discussed this, Roger. He’s not coming in.”

What.

The.

Fuck.

Dad’s mouth opens, like he’s about to argue, but Mom’s glare shuts him down. I scoff. It’s just like always. Not a damn thing has changed. Are you ever going to grow a backbone, old man?

Mom turns to me, and as I watch she takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. A sick, twisted part of me wonders if they have her on the same anger-management program they had me on in prison.

Raising an eyebrow I cross my arms over my chest. “So you’re not going to let me in, Mom?”

She looks me straight in the eye. “Your father and I have discussed it,” she says. Yeah right. More like you said what was going to happen and he caved just like always. “And we think it would be for the best if you didn’t move back in with us.”

“For the best,” I repeat, trying her bullshit words out in my mouth. I don’t like them.

“That’s right.” She glances over at Dad, but he’s off in his own little world again. I wonder how I would have turned out if I was more like him than I was like her. Probably be an accountant by now, have my own little nine-to-five and a goddamn goldfish.

“You mean, it would be better for you,” I say. “Whether it’s better for me hasn’t really been brought up for discussion, now has it?”

“Ashley,” she says, but this time it’s my turn to cut her off.

“It’s Ash,” I say. “It’s been Ash for the last twenty years. And I think you’re more concerned about what the neighbors think of you than about your own son.” I’m standing right in front of her now, my own fists clenched at my sides. I don’t remember pushing up off the door, don’t remember walking across the porch, but here I am, anyway.

I pause, wait for her to argue. Wait for her to tell me she’s changed her mind, to tell me that this has all been a big mistake. But instead she just shakes her head and reaches into her purse and pulls out a key chain. There’s a bright red rabbit’s foot on it. It’s my key chain, from before. But it’s different. The house key is missing. The only one left is the one to my car. It dangles there, glinting in the afternoon light like a beacon, and my gut sinks down to my toes when I realize what it means.

This is why they didn’t fight me when I said I wanted to get my license reinstated, why they told me to do it right away. Why they fucking stood in line with me at the DMV while I jumped through hoops to get it back. They wanted to make sure they could get rid of me.

She reaches out and grabs my hand and slams the keys into it, and glares up at me.

“As far as I’m concerned, my son died in that crash,” she says. “You’re not welcome here.”

Then she pushes past me and yanks the storm door open so hard that it slams against the siding. Then she’s gone, disappeared into the darkened house.

I turn to my father. The rhino on my chest is now a goddamn whale, but he just shakes his head and reaches into his back pocket. Without a word, he pulls out a little stack of bills and presses them into my free palm. Then he’s gone, too.

Fuck.

Chapter 2

Star

The day I aged out of the foster-care system was the day I got my first tattoo.

Well, tattoos.

I don’t know if it’s self-serving or if I was just so wrapped up in having my own identity that wasn’t Delaney’s daughter or foster child or what, but I knew from the start what I was going to get.

All my life, I’ve just wanted to be me, to be Star.

So that’s what I got.

Stars.

Eighteen of them. One for every year I’d been trying, and failing, just to be me.

And I’ve adored them ever since.

Seeing them there, winking up at me, it was like a light had been switched on. All of a sudden, I felt different.

I was different. I was going to be whoever I wanted, and no one was going to be able to stop me.

I sometimes wish I’d thought it through a little better, gotten them placed with purpose. Sometimes I wish I’d found a constellation to arrange them in, instead of just having them scattered across my skin, any which way. But then again, sometimes I’m glad I got them done that way. They’re my own constellation, dancing up the top of my left foot from just above my baby toe, up toward my ankle. Eighteen tiny stars, all in black.

That was the day I found my bravery.

And damn it, I’m going to need it.

I stare down at my computer screen and sigh, trying to figure out what to say.

Star2274: Cleaning out my mother’s house now that she’s passed away.

Star2274: Had no idea it’d gotten so bad.

LuckNGlass: I can only imagine.