Stardust

     Past childhood, June had cried exactly three times in her life.

     The first time, she was crammed into a bomb shelter in New York City, smashed up against a mindless wall of stinking, sweating, fear-wracked people. Her sister had abandoned her on the street, her mother was nowhere to be found, and June was fully convinced she would die there, alone in a packed crowd. She’d stopped crying when an old woman pushed between two of the people pressed right up against her and made soothing noises, telling her they’d find her family soon; June found this absolutely unbearable and would have done anything to make it stop.

     The second time, June was locked in the bathroom at the children’s home, several weeks after the bombings. She locked herself in there because she'd overheard one of the program managers talking about moving her to foster care placement. That one was an explosive, violent sobbing session which lasted a good twenty minutes and included pounding her fists against every available surface. She eventually broke the mirror, which she was sternly reprimanded for (unnecessary, the deep gashes on her hands were punishment enough).

     The third time was stupid and June didn’t like thinking about it.

     June didn’t want to make it four. The universe, however, was testing her limits.

     She’d blinked out of July’s room early that morning, so early the lights were on their night cycle and everything was still shrouded in artificial twilight; theoretically, no-one else should have been out of bed, or at least no-one that mattered, and she should have avoided questioning entirely. Unfortunately, after she brushed her teeth and braided her hair and threw on some clothes, she walked into the kitchen of their suite to discover Daddy waiting at the breakfast bar.

     “Anna is having an episode,” he said by way of greeting.

     June’s heart sank. She crossed the kitchen to start a pot of coffee, but the percolator was already dripping; she grabbed a mug from the cabinet and stood by the counter to wait for it to finish. “Should I stay with her?”

     “Yes, please,” Daddy said. He was already dressed for the day; crisp white button-down and tie, sleeves pushed up past his elbows as he slouched over the breakfast bar, a half-eaten piece of toast in front of him. A dark suit jacket was slung over the back of the stool beside him.

     The coffeemaker beeped quietly. June poured herself a steaming mug, then, without being asked, grabbed a second mug out of the cabinet, filled it, added two spoonfuls of sugar from the shiny porcelain bowl on the counter, and placed it in front of her father. He smiled appreciatively. She took a bracing sip of her own black coffee and started rooting through cabinets for something to eat.

     “I saw July yesterday,” she finally said.

     “How was that?” To an untrained ear, he would only sound mildly interested. June knew better.

     “Good,” June said firmly. “It was good.” She pulled a box of raisin bran out of the cabinet and set about pouring herself a bowl of cereal. “I didn’t tell her about… us.”

     “Good instincts,” he said. “I’m sure she’s a lovely girl, but TAB—well, she has been brainwashed. You may have to ease her into things.”

     June brought her cereal and coffee over to the bar; she gave Daddy a quick kiss on the cheek before setting her breakfast down and perching on the stool next to him to eat.

     She only managed to get through a few bites before it all came spilling out. “That’s the thing—she’s so vulnerable, you know? I have to work on her, really get her to trust me—trust us—and I know I shouldn’t leave Anna alone, but she just found out I’m alive yesterday, she thought I died, and I don’t want to—”

     “Mary.” Daddy's voice was cold and firm. Two fingers slid under her chin and turned her head to meet his eyes; June felt small and hot and stupid, caught in the gravity well of his gaze. “I shouldn’t need to remind you of your responsibilities.”

     “I know,” June mumbled. He let her chin go, but not without a quick pat to her cheek. It wasn’t an unkind gesture—it was even affectionate—but it left June feeling like she’d lost. She shoved a bite of raisin bran in her mouth, resolutely forcing back the tears that threatened to ambush her. After a moment: “But July is my re—”

     “Before anyone else, July is the responsibility of her psychiatrist and her doctor,” Daddy said firmly. “She’ll be fine for a day or three.”

     June stared down at the flakes slowly disintegrating in her bowl; her vision blurred and she squeezed her eyes shut. Hot waves beat themselves against the inside of her skull.

     “Be ready to leave by five,” he said pleasantly. Subtle noises of movement followed quickly; a rustle, the scrape of the stool on the tiled floor, a small clink of ceramic. When June reopened her eyes, he was loading his plate into the dishwasher.

     “Alright,” she said, and began eating again, shoveling cereal into her mouth at a ferocious pace she hoped would stave off further emotional interactions.

     Daddy closed the dishwasher, came around to her stool, and cupped her skull with one hand to give her a firm kiss on the head; he grabbed his suit jacket off the stool behind her and pulled it on in a single smooth, sweeping motion. Automatically, June paused her meal to button his suit and give him a once-over, smoothing the front panels of his jacket, then planted a brief, cold kiss on his cheek.

     He took a moment to smile at her, black eyes crinkling warmly at the corners. When she looked into them, she could never see her own reflection.

###

     Normally, caring for Nea was never a big deal. During her episodes, she mostly slept fitfully all day, bundled up in her massive four-poster bed, drifting in and out of half-coherent dreams, sweating and mumbling nonsense. June sat in bed with her and gently stroked her damp hair, got her water when she was lucid enough to drink it, helped her stumble to the bathroom—but mostly, she just sat there and read books, or listened to her mp3 player.

     Nea’s room was comfortable—despite her stalwart commitment to all-black everything, she had a penchant for maximalist aesthetics, overstuffed cushions and drapes of lace and velvet, dim lighting diffused by dark lampshades, stuffed animals heaped in piles on the bed and in every armchair. The whole space felt very cozy, if you weren’t creeped out by dozens of spider plushies and collections of animal bones openly on display. Her room was comfortable, her needs were minimal, and June loved her, of course—maybe more than anyone in the world save for July.

     But that was the problem—July. It was difficult to not feel creeping irritation at Nea’s shivering, feverish whimpers when June’s mind kept circling back to July, languishing alone in her room all day, probably feeling dejected and betrayed by June all over again. She didn’t even want to go to Daddy’s stupid dinner party to begin with, and by the time Aranea was well enough to justify leaving her alone, it’d be almost time to go and schmooze with his stupid friends all night. When Daddy brought them to elite society events, she was lucky if she was only out for six or seven hours. It would be long past lights-out by the time they got back, and it was already almost time to—

     June’s train of thought was broken by a tug on her sleeve. Her gaze whipped down to see Nea, looking thin and wan as ever, but with a lucid, sharp gleam in her dark eyes. She gave June a pallid smile, tugging on her sleeve again.

     “Water?” Nea asked sweetly.

     June grabbed the glass of water off her nightstand and helped Nea take a few sips and readjust her position so she was propped up against a mountain of stuffed animals. After a bit, Nea managed to clutch the glass on her own, spindly fingers wrapped around the vessel and only shaking a little.

     When she had finished the entire glass, June replaced it on the nightstand, and Nea settled back to lean against June’s shoulder with a heavy sigh.

     “Feeling better?” June said.

     Nea hummed. “I woke up.”

     “You sure did.” June wormed her arm back behind Aranea to wrap around her waist and gave her a reassuring squeeze. “See anything this time?”

     With another hum, this one tuneful, Nea leaned her head in toward June until the top of her skull was practically butting against June’s face. She relented, pressing a few soft, warm kisses to the top of Nea’s head, which set her giggling; it took a moment for Nea to compose herself before she replied. “The river’s flooding. You’ll all have to grab boats.”

     June frowned slightly, gears turning in her head. That was even more vague than normal. “What does flooding mean?”

     But Nea was already distracted, continuing to hum an aimless tune as she flexed her fingers in the air in front of her. June heaved a sigh, mentally setting the topic aside for the moment. Sometimes Nea’s visions meant something, sometimes they didn’t; June was fairly sure that what Nea saw as “the river” wasn’t any one single thing, but rather some abstract signifier of cause-and-effect, and “flooding” could have meant nearly anything in that context.

     It was nearly four; she didn’t have time to keep lingering on speculative, potentially pointless trains of thought. June pressed another kiss to Nea’s head and said “Gotta get ready for dinner.”

     Once she'd bundled Aranea off to shower and laid out a simple cap-sleeve black dress on her bed, June retreated back to her bedroom and began the process of preparing herself for polite company. First her own shower, steamy-hot, where she exfoliated her face and begrudgingly gave her legs and armpits a shave; once she got out, she slathered herself in jasmine-scented lotion and rubbed moisturizer on her face, put on deodorant, and opened the bathroom door to a blast of chilly air on her scrubbed-pink skin.

     June took her shower cap off, letting her braid swing freely back down to her waist, and sat down at her vanity to choose her makeup. Neither she nor Daddy would need to wear sunglasses that night, of course—privacy wasn't a concern among his friends, not when they were all in similarly high places as him—so after spot-covering some uneven patches of skin with concealer and foundation and choosing a dark red shade of lipstick, she also subtly blended natural-toned eyeshadow over her lids and followed it up with the very liberal application of mascara.

     She topped the whole thing off with some setting spray, then, waving gently in front of her face to speed up the drying process, wandered back into her main bedroom to poke at her wardrobe.

     June's space was pretty sparse, in direct contrast to Aranea's. Her walls had some posters of bands and actors she’d liked over the years, mostly Christmas gifts from Daddy and his various friends, and her shelves were full of books and comics, mostly YA fiction, but overall, June wasn't a fan of collecting material possessions. All her favorite childhood books and games had gotten blown up in the bombings, and replacing them had always felt pointless.

     A glance at the digital alarm clock on her nightstand showed it was nearly quarter til five. June shook herself and went to pick an outfit from her closet; she settled on a sleek, pristine jacquard white suit over a black collared shirt, paired with black kitten heels. As she looked at herself from several angles in the full-length mirror hanging on the inside of her closet door, June smoothed the lapels of her jacket, twisted her hips from side-to-side to examine how the subtly-embossed cotton folded over them, whipped her long braid over one shoulder, and finally decided (with great satisfaction) she looked something like a prince.

     When she made it into the main room of their suite, Daddy was already there, sitting on the couch in a different suit than that morning—this one was black with thin, dark gray pinstripes, and his tie was dark red. Nea was perched happily at the breakfast bar with her back to him, finishing a bowl of something-or-other.

     She didn’t get more than a few steps into the living room before Daddy gave her a critical once-over. “Absolutely not.”

     June’s heart dropped. “Why not?”

     “You’re dressing for attention again.”

     This shit. It was always this shit with him. June dug her nails into her palms, willing her heart to slow, her bile to go back down where it belonged. “I’m really not.”

     “You look like you are, then.” His voice was calm, mild; if it wasn’t for the slight twitch in his freshly-shaven jaw, it would be almost impossible to tell he was irritated. “Please change into something more appropriate for a woman of your class.”

     “Women wear this stuff, though.” June was a bit too hasty and she knew it, but she fought back a wince and forged on anyway. She turned from side-to-side, posing to show her body from every angle, even lifting up one foot to show her heels. “See, I’m not wearing a tie, it’s a women’s blouse, and—”

     “Mary.” Daddy's voice was suddenly loud and harsh. Nea squeaked behind him, spoon clattering in her bowl loudly; June fell silent, nails digging so hard into her palms she felt she might break skin. After a second, her father continued, back to his normal volume, but with barely-repressed frustration simmering under every syllable. “I don’t have time for this. Wear a goddamn skirt or stay home.”

     Without responding, June stomped back into her bedroom and slammed the door, hot tears threatening her vision once again.

     The day was turning out to be too much.

     From behind the door, she heard Daddy’s muffled voice call “And wear your hair down, for Christ’s sake!”

     Staying home wasn’t an option, of course. She had no idea how angry Daddy would be if she threw a tantrum and avoided her obligations out of petty resentment. At the very least, he would be disappointed in her, and that on its own was unbearable.

     She threw herself onto her bed and buried her face in a pillow, clutching it so tight over her face she could barely breathe. June allowed herself one violent, shuddering scream, which quickly turned into a solid couple of minutes of shrieking, half-muted by the bedding, until her throat was raw and sore and she was entirely out of breath, panting frantically, her shoes kicked off in her rage.

     After that, she changed into a dress, fixed her smudged makeup, and brushed her hair out until it shone and cascaded around her body like a waterfall of gold. They left only ten minutes later than intended.

###

     June didn’t know which of Daddy’s friends was throwing this particular dinner party, nor did she really care; while she liked helping out with his job, she’d always found the other people in government somewhere on the spectrum from boring to annoying, and the CEOs and other corporate bigwigs invariably gave her the creeps. It wasn’t like he had any normal friends.

     Whichever one it was this time, they had rented out an upscale hotel ballroom, lavishly decorated in shades of brown, cream, and gold; chandeliers hung from elegantly-paneled ceilings, bathing the room in golden light, and thick draperies were drawn over the floor-to-ceiling windows, shielding the event from prying eyes. The floor was dotted with large circular tables that bore floor-length tablecloths; waiters milled around with carts and serving trays, but very few people were seated so early in the night, and even less had food. At the very front of the room, some space was cleared off the floor for dancing. Nobody was using it. The inoffensive adult contemporary music that permeated the air just below conversation volume was not very inspiring.

     A good several dozen people, all human, mostly white, mostly in their fifties and up, schmoozed and strolled around the room, chatting and laughing and flagging down waiters for champagne glass refills. June sat glumly at a table, Nea at her side, and wished desperately that she wasn’t wearing an obnoxiously dull black midi dress. Boring music or no, she entertained herself imagining Nea in a beautiful gown, something with a tapered bodice and floor-length skirts, and herself in a crisp white suit, cravat at her throat, spinning around the dance floor like something out of a fairy tale.

     Her daydreaming was inevitably cut short when her father returned from his circuit of the room with several of his friends in tow—some corporate schmuck with hairy knuckles June couldn't remember the name of, the secretary of health and human services (Kennedy, who was entirely bald), the economic advisory chairman (McCarthy, who she typically recognized by his garish taste in ties; this one had a pattern of blue line-art of sailboats), and a woman June was fairly sure she’d never seen before in her life.

     The group sat down and introductions were made; Daddy introduced them as his beautiful daughters, Mary and Annabel, and June made all the appropriate noises and nodded at the right times, only half-listening. Waiters began to meander between tables with trays and carts laden with plates instead of bottles of champagne; June caught sight of a wide variety of hors d'oeuvres, little cucumber sandwiches, deviled eggs sprinkled with chopped red pepper, tiny quiches, what looked like stuffed mushrooms stuck on toothpicks. Her stomach growled. She ignored it and gave Nea's sweaty hand a reassuring squeeze.

     Something in the conversation caught June’s ear, prompting her to tune back in.

     “—into the stardust research sector,” the corporate dork was saying, sipping his flute of champagne. “We’ve recently extended an offer to a reptilian shipping corp.”

     “They won’t let you use their data, you know.” Daddy slid back into the conversation with ease. “The stuff would be useless to you, anyway—their research facilities operate on a different set of rules entirely.”

     “You’re always so damn cryptic, John,” McCarthy said jovially. There were three empty champagne flutes in front of him. June disapproved—at the very least you should keep refilling the same one, don't clutter up the table with dirty dishware.

     “I am under numerous NDAs,” Daddy said with a comic tone of despair, and with that, he rose from the table, re-buttoning his jacket as he did. “Pardon me, I’ll only be a moment.”

     As Daddy made his way in the general direction of the men’s room, June gave Aranea’s hand another squeeze—her gaze was starting to drift, and she was beginning to fidget in her seat. She stilled, then squeezed June’s hand in return.

      “NDAs?” the new woman asked. Her brown hair was slicked back into a tight, pristine bun, not a single hair out of place. It made her look like her scalp was molded from plastic.

     “John is a personal friend of Taner’s,” McCarthy said. His jacket was unbuttoned, showing off his tie in its full tacky glory, and his face and hands were both red and sweaty. “You know about Taner’s hand in the sector, of course?”

     “Of course,” the woman said thinly. Her face was pinched.

     “Roland,” Kennedy broke in, looking at the dork with the hairy knuckles, who was still intently nursing his champagne, “let's be clear—this dinner is pleasure, not business.”

     Roland—right, she had met him before; he was a CEO, he owned some medical company or other—nodded hastily.

     McCarthy waved dismissively, leaning back in his chair. “Good energy, but we’re all friends here.” He turned his attention back to the woman, who was still wearing a pinched smile, slowly swirling a full champagne flute with nimble fingers. “The NDAs—they’re reptilian-enforced, of course. John helps Taner with his work in the sector—you know. Above.”

     McCarthy said that last part in an exaggerated whisper, pointing up at the ceiling with one hand as he leaned in toward the woman. She nodded slowly, her smile growing more visibly forced with every inch he leaned in.

     Kennedy cleared his throat loudly, shifting in his chair. The chandelier directly over their table made his bald head gleam in a way June found kind of funny. “To circle back around—if John says your company won’t have much luck, I’d take him at his word.”

     This seemed to disappoint Roland, who downed the rest of his champagne in one gulp and slunk down in his chair. The woman, meanwhile, turned her keen gaze over to Kennedy. She still had not taken a drink.

     “I was sorry to hear Taner couldn’t make it tonight,” she said, voice suddenly smooth and buttery. June leaned in, just slightly, to hear better. “I’ll have to ask John to pass along my regards.”

     “Taner’s work keeps him very busy.” Kennedy's eyes were slightly narrowed.

     “Of course.” For a split second, the woman’s eyes flit back-and-forth across the room, then she fixed her gaze back on Kennedy with another smile. “I noticed—this is my first time with the Marcuses in-person, and, well… their eyes—”

     “Medical condition,” Kennedy said sharply. June felt, very briefly, a moment of thankfulness toward the man. It passed quickly. “Falls under the NDAs—you understand.”

     “I’ll say this much,” McCarthy said, a bit too loudly. Sometime since he’d last spoken, a waiter had come by and silently put another full glass in front of him; he took a large drink of champagne and smacked his lips before continuing. “Hundreds of millions of dollars funneled into the program, and for what—a bunch of slit—”

     “The girls,” Kennedy hissed. Suddenly, everyone at the table was looking at June and Aranea. June’s breathing had started to get very fast at the sense-memory of a knife in her palm, and she had to press her nails into her skin very, very hard to steady it.

     “Mary, was it?” the woman asked, voice silky and kind. Without waiting for June to answer, she said “My son is around your age. He’s loitering in the corner as usual—why don't you go introduce yourself, get him out of his shell?”

     The woman gestured to one side of the room, but June didn’t look. Mustering up every ounce of energy she had, she gave the woman a sweet smile and said “I prefer to focus on family right now.” Beside her, Aranea nodded urgently.

     A hand clapped on June’s shoulder from behind. She stiffened momentarily; then the smell of her father’s cologne washed over her, crisp and piney, and her shoulders relaxed.

     “That’s my girl,” Daddy said brightly.

###

     The next morning, like so many mornings before, June woke up in her father’s bed.

     She rolled onto her back, stretched blearily, smacked her lips—the inside of her mouth tasted like rot. The covers, smelling like pine and sweat, piled up warm and comfortable against her skin; all her muscles felt sore, and as she half-sat-up against the pillows, she stretched her arms over her head, hoping to pull some of the aching stiffness from her hips.

     There was a cup of water on the nightstand by her side of the bed, fresh, unmelted ice cubes bobbing gently at its surface. June took a crisp sip, the chill seeping down her throat and out through her chest, washing the rotten taste of sleep from her tongue. She placed the cup back on the stand, next to Daddy’s red driving gloves, neatly folded, and a little paper cup June knew contained her morning vitamins. They’d upset her stomach if she took them without food, so she left them untouched for the moment.

     The balcony door was open. Daddy stood, already in rumpled shirtsleeves and a pair of slacks, leaning against the iron rail and smoking a cigarette. Coils of smoke curled up into the endless black void over his head and disappeared.

     As June looked at him, his jaw covered in dark grey stubble (he hadn’t shaved yet that morning), sunken cheekbones dramatic in the harsh ambient light, a wave of inexplicable, hot anger washed over her—followed immediately by a larger, all-consuming wave of affection for her father. Early mornings were sacred; he used them as meditation, as freedom from responsibility, from the endlessly heavy burden of the public eye. June felt lucky he allowed her into these vulnerable moments—even Nea wasn’t allowed in his bedroom.

     June shifted, pushing herself further up against the pillows and pulling the blankets up over her bare chest. Her movement attracted his attention; Daddy looked over at her, then stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray perched on the balcony rail and broke into a wide, adoring smile.

     “Morning, sweetheart,” he said.

     There was a thick lump in her throat; at the same time, her heart leapt and raced like an excited colt. She pulled her braid over one shoulder—he’d been so careful to braid it before bed last night, taking his time, gently and deftly pulling locks through one another, fingers hot against her scalp—and combed her fingers through the loose end of it, thinking again about princes and princesses.

     “Good morning, Daddy,” June said.