Of Starlight by Dan Rix Page A

my face in sweaty locks, which I wiped away. My whole body trembled.
    “Leona, it’s a garden snake,” said a voice from the doorway.
    I shrieked.
    Megan stood in the doorway.
    “Jesus . . .” I clutched my palpitating heart. “How’d you get in here?”
    “The front door.” She carried the snake’s terrarium under her arm, which she set down next to the wriggling sheet. Next she cut the tape with her car keys, reached inside the bundle, and delicately lifted out her palm, now holding the snake. She spoke to it in a baby voice. “Aww, was that bad woman being mean to wittle Salamander?”
    “You’re gross,” I said.
    “Shh . . . you’re scaring her.” She set the snake inside the terrarium and replaced the screen lid. Finally, she hoisted the cage off the ground and shuffled toward the door.
    “Wait!” I said, alarmed. “Where are you going?”
    “Home,” she said. “It’s four in the morning.”
    “No. Stay. Don’t go. You can spend the night.”
    “Your mom said I couldn’t, remember? What was that all about, by the way?”
    “Oh, yeah. Major Connor stopped by for a visit. I wasn’t actually in trouble, so it’s fine if you stay.”
    “What’d he want?”
    “I’ll tell you if you spend the night,” I said.
    She sighed and set the terrarium down. “Okay, but can we please just go to sleep? I’m exhausted.”
    My gaze froze on the terrarium. “First get that thing out of my room.”
    “Seriously, where is my phone?” I said, raking my fingers across my bedroom floor on Saturday morning. I’d lost track of it last night during the Salamander fiasco. We’d relocated the snake to the garage—I wanted to smash the reptile with my dad’s sledgehammer, but Megan wouldn’t let me—and I’d spent the sleepless night shivering on a couch in the living room, refusing to touch my contaminated bedding, while Megan snored blissfully next to me.
    How could she sleep like that?
    Did she have any conscience at all?
    “Why didn’t you just unwrap it?” she said, watching me probe the pockets of my backpack for the tenth time, in case it had fallen inside. Two plates of half-eaten scrambled eggs and sourdough toast sat next to us, courtesy of my mom.
    “I was tired. You know how hard it is to get off sometimes.”
    She nodded. “Like Sarah’s journal.”
    “Yeah, but Sarah’s journal didn’t vanish.” I threw down the backpack in despair. “I give up. It’s gone.”
    I wondered if Emory had texted me. I’d left the phone on vibrate, which meant it wouldn’t have woken me. The realization brought a wave of despair. Now I’d never know.  
    Megan nibbled on the crust of her toast. “Your room’s depressing.”
    “Why do you think I painted it yellow?”
    “You need furniture,” she observed.
    “You’re welcome to leave,” I said irritably.
    “What do you want to do today? You want to go to the beach?”
    “Megan, I need to find my phone.”
    “Try to retrace your steps,” she said.
    “Shut up.” I sat back against my mattress, clutching my temples. I wanted to scream.
    “Retrace your steps. It works.”
    I inhaled through flared nostrils. “Last night, I had the phone at Tina’s party.”
    “Did you leave it there?”
    “I had it in your car afterward. I couldn’t get the dark matter off, so I stuck it in my pocket. That’s the last time I had it . . .” I looked up brightly. “ Your car —wait, wait, no, I had it before I went to bed last night. I still couldn’t get the stuff off, and I put it right . . . fucking . . . here.” I kicked the empty backpack in frustration. “And then your stupid snake ate it.”
    Megan pulled her own cell phone out and wordlessly navigated to my phone number.
    Duh.
    She swiped to make the call and pressed the phone to her cheek.
    In the silence, I listened for a buzzing.
    “It’s ringing,” she said.
    “Shh.” On hands and knees I pressed my ear to my backpack. Silence. I crawled around the rest of my