An Excerpt from Star in the Middle

by Carol Larese Millward

Chapter 1

 Star

Grandma was really mad about the baby. Okay, so I screwed up, but I didn’t do it to mess with her. I was prepared for hollering, not crying. I could barely look at her snotty nose and her red eyes. Why’d she go and act like that anyway?

She said to me, “Star, how could you do this to me?” Like I didn’t feel bad enough.

I hid it from her as long as I could. I wanted to wait until my sixteenth birthday to tell her, but you can’t hide a baby forever. It’s, like, sticking out all over the place before you know it. Anyway, the baby didn’t wait around for my sixteenth birthday. What did he care how old I was when he came into the world?

Wilson lied to me. He said it took a long time to get pregnant. He said even if I did manage to get myself pregnant, he’d stick by me. I didn’t get myself pregnant; I had some help.  And yeah, he’s around all right, when it’s convenient for him. He’s still this big jock at school, and I’m a high school dropout. Dropout loser, that’s me.

He’s just like my parents. My father ran out on my mother when she was pregnant with me, then she dumped me on my grandmother and disappeared. Grandma tried to find her. She said she raised her own kids, so why should she get stuck with me? Good question.

Here’s another good question: Where do you look for a mother?

I wasted a lot of years searching for her in my dreams. I found her, too. She was the best mother ever. Sometimes we’d be cruising in a car with a heater that worked. Sometimes we’d be in the grocery store—with enough money to buy milk and eggs at the same time. Trouble was, by morning she was gone, gone, gone. Gone with my dreams of reliable transportation and groceries. I guess now the prom has the same chance of happening for me as finding my mother.

Baby Wil isn’t going to spend his life wondering whether his mother’s dead or alive. I’m going to stick to him like glue. And Wilson, I told him to make up his mind—either he’s here for us, or he’s not. I told him I wanted his answer tonight.

Now, if this baby would just cooperate and go to sleep, I could think about what I want to say. What do you say to convince a guy that he has to change to keep a baby he never wanted in the first place?

Maybe if the baby looked more like Wilson…. Wilson would probably like that. But, you know, babies don’t really look like anybody. People say they do, but they don’t. Wil has a round, bald head and sleepy blue eyes. He smells good, too—thanks to me. I keep my baby real clean. Grandma says that no matter how little you have, you can afford to keep your baby clean.

I like the way Wilson looks. He has thick, sandy brown hair and wild dark eyes. I liked the way he smelled, too. In school that is, when he leaned against my locker and told me how pretty I looked. He smelled clean then, like soap. He doesn’t smell that great now. Mostly, he smells like beer. It’s an off-season thing, he says. I guess he can abuse his body when he’s not playing sports.

A baby needs so many things: formula, clothes, and diapers. Miss Marcie hooked me up with some programs that help teen mothers, like the Women, Infants, and Children (WIC) Nutrition Program. But Grandma said she didn’t want any handouts. She says she hates handouts. But babies cost a fortune. And what teenager has a fortune? I sure don’t. Grandma doesn’t either. She already works two jobs.

At least Wilson lives in a decent house with his parents and his sister. At least Wilson has his own car and his own room, and his own spending money. I thought maybe Wilson’s parents would want to help with his baby, their grandson. But Wilson said they don’t even want to hear about it. It? I remind him that Wil’s not an “it”—he’s his child.

Grandma’s furious with Wilson for not helping with the baby. She said there is no excuse for him not to step up and be a man.

Wil is not easy. He needs me for everything. When he’s hungry, he wants food now. And when he’s not sleepy, forget making him sleep. I used to beg. Crazy, huh? Begging a baby to go to sleep is like begging your body to produce a period when it’s intent on producing a baby instead. Wil doesn’t care that I’m sleepy—he wants to be held and cuddled.

Right now, for instance, I should be getting ready for Wilson. I mean, I’m still wearing yesterday’s clothes and I have spit-up in my hair. How attractive is that?

“Please go to sleep, Wil. Please, please, PLEASE.” See how easy it is to fall into begging a baby? “Really, Wil, your father will be here any minute. I told him Grandma’s out for the night. That got his attention. I see I have your attention, too. Look at your smile. Maybe you do have your daddy’s dimples. Your crib’s nice, huh? Mommy will be right back. Okay? Please, Wil, just ten minutes—that’s all I need.”

I reach for the mobile, set it in motion. Farm animals dance to the tune of “Old MacDonald Had a Farm.”

I spend my life backing out of this bedroom I share with my baby. The room’s so tiny, the crib touches my bed. And we had to move the dresser into the hall.

I like to just stand in the doorway and watch Wil when he doesn’t know I’m there. He looks around, kicking his feet. Sometimes I lean against the doorframe, grateful that it holds me up. I’m always exhausted. Awesome cooing, Wil—good job! Sing yourself a lullaby: Such a good baby. I can almost feel the hot water now.

Arms wrap around my waist from behind, like a trap snapping shut. I can’t move. “WILSON! Stop it! I mean it. Get off me. You scared me half to death.” Wilson laughs into my ear and holds me tighter. I’m trapped. I can’t fight. I can barely breathe.

“Got someplace else to be, baby girl?” he asks, burying his lips against my neck. I feel his hands, warm and strong, as they turn me around to face him. I go limp; feel my exhausted body come alive. Wilson knows. He presses his open mouth against my lips until they part, then he presses even harder.

I try to remember where I put the condoms Miss Marcie gave me yesterday. I told her I wouldn’t need them—I was done with sex for a while. She said she hoped that was true, but she pressed them into my hand anyway.

It’s hard not to want sex when you miss someone the way I miss Wilson. I want him to hold me. I want to feel his body as it bends into mine. I want to look into his eyes as he calls me “baby girl.” I want to hear him say he loves me.

I hear the baby stirring, crying—and something else comes alive in me. It’s sense against senses. Wilson doesn’t say he loves me, not ever, and all I can hear right now is his need. And all I taste is the booze on his breath.

I break free, looking back at the baby we made: The baby that floated in my body, kicking at first like a tiny frog in a pond, and then rolling over slowly like a beached whale longing for the ocean. I search my mind for some clue about how to make my life different than it is at this moment—how to erase this desire I have for Wilson, and focus on what I want from him for Wil.

The baby’s quiet now and Wilson reaches for me, but I’m ready. I move away from him.

“How’d you get in here anyway?” I close my eyes so I don’t see how his face breaks into little-boy dimples.

“Credit card, baby girl. It opens doors.”

“Very funny. How’d you get a credit card?”                 

“Baby girl, getting a credit card is not the problem. Come here and tell me what you need. I’ll make all your dreams come true.”

“Stop being goofy, Wilson. I need you to listen for your son while I take a shower. We can talk about my other dreams later.”

“The warden’s gone. We’re gonna do more than talk. I miss you. You miss me, too. Right? We both need this?” He purrs in my ear. “We’re good together, baby girl.”

Wilson pulls me into his arms, kisses my mouth, and then slides his lips down my neck.  

My body falls into his. I close my eyes and force myself to hear my baby cry. My body stiffens, my jaw clamps shut. The best defense is moving away from this—this seduction trap he does so well. “I’ll be back in ten minutes and we’ll talk. Listen for Wil, please.”

“Come on, baby girl. We’re finally alone.”

“Don’t whine, Wilson. We’re not alone. We have a son. Listen for Wil, please,” I repeat. I leave him standing there in the hall.

I go to the bathroom and turn on the light. My image jumps out at me from the medicine cabinet mirror. My flushed face gives me away. I want Wilson.

Is this why I called him? I told him I wanted to talk to him. But is that really what I want? To talk to him: give him ultimatums? It’s what I have to do, for Wil’s sake. But part of me wonders.

I strip off my clothes, ball them up and throw them into the hamper. I hear footsteps in the hall and lock the door. I’ve locked him out, but he’s still there, kissing me. It’s what I want, the kisses, closeness—not the rest.

I turn on the water and let it warm up before I get in. The water beats down on me, and I open the shampoo bottle—the smell of coconuts mingles with the steam. I’m happy. I’m warm. I take my time: lather up, wash myself clean—willing myself to be strong and not give in to Wilson needs.

I get out of the tub and dry off. Too late I remember my clothes sitting on my bed. I wrap myself in the towel and comb my fingers through my red hair. I wipe steam from the mirror and see a sprinkle of freckles across my nose and cheeks. I examine my lime green eyes. My neighbor’s a hair stylist and she gave me a great cut just for babysitting her bratty toddler.

She also gave me samples of body spray—I spritz the burnt vanilla over myself. The basketball I held in my body for thirty-four weeks left a flabby pouch where tight muscles used to be. My body will never be the same.

Wilson’s waiting when I open the door. He lifts me up and carries me to my grandmother’s bed. “No, we can’t, not here,” I whisper, as he lowers me onto the sheets, pulling at the towel until it falls away. His eyes are on me as he tears off his clothes. I feel myself slipping under, and my eyes close. He brushes my lips with his so lightly that it’s almost not real. His lips are like a breath, a flutter of dragonfly wings.

I twist away, and then back to him, like he’s a magnet and I’m made of metal. He holds tight to my hands and I know that it’s over. It’s done. This boy is the father of my baby; this boy is the man that I love.

The tears escape before it’s even over. All that passion we feel passes swiftly through us like a train’s whistle in the night. It drifts away to unknown places; steam evaporating into nothingness, leaving us both spent, and me feeling even more powerless than before. My tears stir up Wilson’s anger; his cheeks are so full, I think they’ll explode.

“Don’t even start, Star,” Wilson hisses the name he knows I hate. He hates it, too. Star. Why not Moonbeam or Comet? My mother left me with nothing but a name I hate.

“DON’T!” he spits out again as I continue to cry, turning away from him, curling into a ball.

Wilson stumbles out of bed and pulls on his boxers and jeans. He works at the zipper, fumbles with the snap—tugs his shirt over his head.

“You called me, Star, remember that. You wanted this. Talk?” He kicks at the bed frame. “What a joke. What do we have to talk about? What? I have nothing to say to you. And that kid—he’s not mine and you know it. There must have been ten guys hanging out on the corner whenever I came up here. How many of those guys did you, Star?”

How many of those guys did you, Star? It’s the last thing I hear. He’s gone. Soundlessly gone. I will myself to sleep and dream about visiting my great-grandmother in Pennsylvania. She’s been dead for years, so I’m surprised when I find her putting my great-grandfather’s coal mining clothes through the old ringer washer in her basement. The clothes swish and twist in dirty gray wash water laced with sparse suds, and then she feeds them through the ringer. I feel the air go out of me as I watch the clothes flatten and drop into the rinse tub. I feel flat and lifeless, too; dirty, and drowning in ice cold water.

I hear that baby crying. The baby that Wilson claims isn’t his. I force myself to wake up for just a minute, until I realize that I’m naked in my grandmother’s bed. I smell sex on her sheets and my skin feels like it’s rotting with guilt. I sink in to my misery and sleep. I’m hovering on a high windowsill, naked. I close my eyes and lean forward, taking flight. The air is cold as I tumble fast to the street below.

I’m lying face up, eyes wide open, red hair plastered to the ground. The guys who hang on the corner stand in a circle above me. They are black and white and brown boys, with pants hung low on their hips, boxers showing, cigarettes hanging from their lips. They nudge each other and shrug their shoulders, asking what they should do with me. I want to tell them to call 911, but I know I’m already dead and decaying. Wilson comes by and covers my naked body with his jacket.

I hear the baby cry. The baby’s father hears it, too. He walks away from the sound. I lie there rotting: unable to tend to that baby, the one that Wilson claims isn’t his.

This chapter comes from Star in the Middle by Carol Larese Millward, originally published by WestSide Books in October 2009.