Starry Eyed

Prologue: The Vows We Knot The bridge sways beneath my white dress, its old ropes groaning in harmony with the summer wind. Twenty years have passed, but the gorge still yawns below, the river hissing over rocks like a dtheproving crowd. Jamie insisted on this spot—“Where else?”—and now she stands across from me, her curls tamed into a loose braid, her hands clutching ours. Our hands. The red yarn bracelets, frayed and faded, are knotted between us. “You’re shaking,” she whispers, her thumb brushing my wrist. “It’s the bridge,” I lie. She smirks. “Liar.” The guests laugh. Our people are scattered along the cliffs—Jamie’s dad in his Hawaiian shirt, my mom bundled in a shawl despite the heat, even Mr. Riley, our stoic middle school science teacher, dabbing his eyes with a bandana. Jamie clears her throat. “Emerson Lane,” she begins, her voice cracking. “You once told me bridges are about balance. Weight distribution. But you were wrong.” She holds up our bracelets. “They’re about this. The stupid, stubborn choice to keep tying knots when the world tries to unravel them.” A tear slips down my cheek. The river mocks it, roaring. “I vow to be your popsicle sticks,” she says, grinning. “Even when I’m brittle. Even when I break.” I choke out a laugh. “You’re such a—” She kisses me. The guests cheer, but I barely hear them. All I taste is cherry cola and the salt of our shared years—the fights, the silences, the thousand crossings that led us here. Later, when we cut thye cake (chocolate with raspberry filling, her favorite), Jamie murmurs, “Remember the first time?” I do. Seventh grade, her overalls smeared with glue, my heart a frantic bird. The first fracture, the first rebuild. Chapter 1: The First Fracture The bathroom stall was a suffocating mix of artificial lemon cleaner and a pervasive, melancholic heaviness that clung to the air like a fog. I had secluded myself in the furthest corner, the dank, flickering fluorescent light overhead buzzing like a dying insect, casting shaky shadows that danced against the tiled walls. I let the sobs wrack my body, my shoulders shaking as hot tears spilled down my cheeks. Mom’s hospital bracelet hung from my wrist, its rough plastic edge digging uncomfortably into my skin, a constant reminder of the nurse’s grim words: “Post-op complication. Just a few more days.” Suddenly, a loud bang startled me, and the stall door swung open with a clatter. Standing there was a whirlwind of color—a girl clad in neon overalls, clutching a bottle of glitter glue like a secret weapon. “Are you dying?” she blurted, crouching down to peer at me with bright, curious eyes. “No,” I replied hoarsely, hastily swiping at my runny nose with the back of my hand. Her head tilted to the side, studying me like some strange puzzle. “Liar. You’ve got the aura.” “The what?” I mumbled, confusion and irritation mixing in my throat. “You know,” she said, waving her hand dramatically as though she were casting a spell. “The ‘my-life-is-over’ vibe. I’m Jamie, by the way.” Recognition hit me. This was the girl who’d shouted “Fight the patriarchy!” during our history class, her boldness livening up the discussion on the Industrial Revolution. Her name tag dangled precariously, half-peeled, the letters curvy and carefree. Without waiting for my response, she plopped down on the grimy tile floor, uncapping the glitter glue with a playful pop. “Give me your leg,” she ordered. “What? No way—” I stammered, unsure of what in the world she was doing. But before I could protest further, she had already drawn a lopsided star on my knee. “There. Now you’re officially a survivor,” she declared triumphantly. I stared at the glittering mess—an explosion of color against the pale skin of my leg. “That’s… incredibly unsanitary,” I remarked, a mix of disbelief and amusement flashing across my face. “So are tears,” she countered, her smile briefly faltering as a shadow crossed her features. “C’mon. This place is a total downer.” With surprising strength, she pulled me to my feet, her grip firm yet gentle as I awkwardly stumbled to keep up. The hallway outside was mercifully bright, filled with golden patches of afternoon sunlight spilling through the grimy windows onto the scuffed linoleum tiles. My shoes squeaked noisily as we navigated the space. “Where are we going?” I hissed, a flutter of panic rising in my chest. “Somewhere with better vibes,” she said, her eyes sparkling with mischief. She shouldered open the heavy school side door, and just like that, we were outside. The air was alive with the invigorating scent of freshly cut grass, mingling pleasantly with the distant sounds of laughter and shouts in the warm afternoon. A rusty old bike lay abandoned in a rack nearby, its chain dangling sadly like an old piece of jewelry. “I can’t just leave,” I protested, although a rebellious part of me yearned for adventure. “Why not? Do you have a hot date with pre-algebra?” she shot back with a teasing smile. “No, but—” “Then live a little!” She fished a crumpled, white bus pass from her pocket, holding it out like an invitation. “Just two stops. I promise it’s worth it.” There was something about her wild grin—reckless and infectious—that pulled me in, urging me to break free from my own gloom. Against all better judgment, I found myself following her. --- The bus was cramped and smelled of stale coffee mixed with diesel fumes. Jamie filled the space with her chatter, her voice weaving effortlessly through the droning engine and bumping tires. “That pond behind my house?” she continued, her voice animated. “My dad’s building a deck, but honestly, he’s terrible at it. Just last week, he smashed his thumb with the hammer and yelled a word I’m definitely not allowed to repeat—it rhymed with duck!” She leaned closer, conspiratorial excitement lighting her features. I stifled a laugh, exhilaration bubbling up inside me. “Why are you being so nice to me?” I asked, genuinely intrigued. “Doing what?” she replied, her brow furrowed. “Being… nice,” I explained, searching her face for clues about her motivations. With a playful shrug, she dismissed the question. “You looked like you needed a friend. And guess what? I have a surplus of them.” The bus jolted to a sharp stop, jerking us both slightly. “This is it!” Jamie declared, yanking the cord and nearly tripping over her own shoelaces in her haste. --- The pond awaited us—a murky oval framed by graceful, weeping willows, their branches swaying gently in the summer breeze. Dragonflies zipped back and forth, their iridescent bodies glimmering in the sunlight as they skimmed above the water’s surface. Jamie wasted no time; she kicked off her sneakers, her laughter ringing out like music as she waded into the water, feeling it lap playfully around her ankles. “Tadpole time!” she squealed, pointing to the shallows where tiny black shapes skittered beneath the surface like rapid periods. “They’re gonna be frogs. Total glow-ups!” I hesitated at the water’s edge, feeling my socks gradually soak through as the damp grass clung to my legs. “What if they don’t make it?” I asked, a twinge of worry creeping in. Without missing a beat, she splashed water in my direction, droplets sparkling like diamonds in the light. “If they don’t, then they’ll turn into zombie frogs. Even cooler!” I couldn’t hold back my laughter any longer; it burst forth, surprising me. The sound felt strange yet liberating, like a forgotten melody. “See?” Jamie beamed at me, her eyes bright with excitement. “Told you this is way better than crying in a bathroom.” At that moment, I felt something shift—a glimmer of hope breaking through the fog of distress. For the first time in weeks, I found myself believing in something brighter, unearthing an ember of faith in the possibility of joy. I believed in her.