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𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝟔
" 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐛𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐬 "
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          There's a place lower than rock bottom, and I've plummeted smack right in the middle of it.

It's currently 11:29 at night, but I'm not sure what day it is. Time kind of merged in on itself while I stayed cooped up in my bedroom after my full-on exile. I'm trying hard not to dwell on the fact that I am now a has-been who has fallen off the star section. Operative word: trying. I've done nothing but mope and annoy my cats the past few days. 

How's that for not dwelling on my misery?

The Three Meowsketeers are currently in play mode; they're frisky and affectionate when they're like this. Especially Ara, the orange tabby one. They provide an adequate distraction from the suckiness of my life but I have to make the most of it, because in a snap, they can all turn back into little snobs and ignore me.

I throw a bell ball for Athos. He's the only one trained to play fetch. I'm dangling a feather wand for Porthos, and he's too strong. I feel like the wand is going to snap. Ara is fairly content with just curling up on my lap, kneading my thigh.

"At least you guys won't abandon me, right?" I baby talk.

In an instant, Ara stops kneading, jumps off my lap, and saunters off to her kitty condo. The boys, noticing their queen's absence, immediately decide that they no longer want to play either. They jump off my bed to join Ara.

I narrow my eyes at them. "You bastards."

If they're going to sleep, I may as well go, too. But then there's a sharp clink against my window. Followed by another. Then another.

I sit up and turn my ear towards the sound. The clinks stop, and are replaced by the call of a hooting owl. Except, it's so obvious that it's a person going, "Ca-caw! Ca-caw!"

My shoulders droop. I roll my eyes. This is the call of the great Mack-Mack bird.

I rush to the window, throw the curtains aside for the first time in days. So this is what the outside looks like. I've nearly forgotten. When my eyes adjust to the darkness of the night, I see Mack standing in our backyard holding a handful of pebbles he no doubt fished from my dad's koi pond. He points a gloved finger excitedly up the night sky.

Ah. The meteor shower.

I cast a scornful look at the Meowskeeters. "Well, if you won't distract me from my misery, at least Mack will."

Rushing over to my closet, I get a coat and a knitted scarf. Then I rush back, slide the window open, and prop my leg up on the pane. There's a gutter pipe near my window which I'm fairly confident will be my ticket to freedom.

"What are you doing?" Mack's sharp whisper cuts across the soft evening breeze.

"I don't want to ask Dad for permission, he'll call Mom. I'm sneaking out."

The gutter pipe is more slippery than I thought it would be. I've got my feet on both side, ankles clamping down on its diameter. The moment I transfer my arms from the window pane to the pipe, I realize my mistake.

Too late! 

I come sliding down the pipe like an untrained pole dancer. In a stroke of genius, I push off the wall just before I hit the ground. As a result, my ass lands on the stale snow with a solid thump. I'm really putting that 4.3 GPA to good use now, aren't I?

Mack's winter boots crunch across the backyard. "Smooth," he says when he gets to my side.

"Just help me up, asshole." I reach a hand out, and he clasps it, pulling me up to my feet.

"Look at that. You left an assprint," he chuckles, pointing to the ground. We admire my handiwork for a few seconds, then his foot kicks out to erase the mark on the snow. "So your dad won't have any evidence that you snuck out."

"Smart," I say, but then the kitchen light flickers on, and I immediately feel stupid.

Dad is staring directly at us through the window. I wouldn't be surprised if he's been watching us this whole time. He's wearing a robe over his pajamas and an unimpressed expression on his face. Crossing his arms, he heads to the backdoor.

"Do we run?" Mack asks, a little flustered. "Are we booking it? Nico, what --"

"Shh!"

The backdoor opens. Dad pokes his head out. His bearded face is all scrunched up in irritation. Huffing, he points his finger at me. "Back before sunrise," he says, and drops the strict Dad façade. "And good evening to you, too, Malik."

Mack mumbles a sheepish, "Good evening, Mr. G," throwing in awkward finger guns as if they would help.

Dad winks and returns the gesture. Then he slams the door shut.

I chuckle in relief. "Let's go!" I say, slapping Mack on the shoulder.

We rush to the street. It's so peaceful and quiet this time of night, our laughter easily cuts through the neighborhood.

"I thought we were toast," Mack laughs, mounting his bike.

"If Mom caught us, we would have been," I say, stepping up to the back pegs while Mack kicks up the stand. Clasping his broad shoulders, I straighten my back and command, "Onward, space nerd!"

Mack tears through the streets, pedaling like crazy. The winter wind is harsh, but I still feel warm in his company. I think this is the first time I've laughed so freely in days.

At 11:55, we reach the old abandoned greenhouse up by Maple Lane. It's near the outskirts of the city, away from all the artificial lights, making it the perfect spot for stargazing. Mack found this place when we were kids. It's become a hideout of some sort.

Mack slows down as we approach. I jump off the pegs, almost bolting to the greenhouse.

"Wait up!" he calls, kicking the bike stand.

"Hurry up. I'm getting snow on my hair."

Mack catches up and ruffles my hair, says he's patting the snow off, but I know he's just messing it up. I push him off playfully, he shoves back. It's all chuckles and fun until he slips and nearly falls on his ass.

"You know you should be nice to me. I got you a surprise."

I raise my brow in question.

He cocks his head towards the greenhouse door. "C'mon." He yanks me by the arm. When we enter the greenhouse, I see nothing and wonder if he's just messing with me again. But then I see it: a blanket on the floor and an array of junk food, ranging from Cheetos to Lay's, from Ruffles to Doritos. Just some good old, zero nutritional value crap.

My mouth falls slack. "What's all this?"

"You've been feeling down the past few days. I thought I'd cheer you up," he says then shrugs like it's nothing.

It's not nothing.

"This is the best thing anyone's ever done for me. I could almost cry."

"Hey!" Mack feigns offense. "I did not take years of theater training for you to become the drama queen between the two of us."

I don't even fight the urge to roll my eyes.

"That's not even the best part," he says. I doubt anything could beat the little picnic-stargazing combo he's set up tonight, but he points down at his crotch chiming a giddy "Ta-da!"

I raise an eyebrow at him. "Your dick is not worthy of a ta-da."

"Look again, asshole."

There's a huge bulge there that is definitely not his dick. I should know. I tease him anyway. "Damn, Mack. I didn't know you were this happy to see me."

He smacks me right across the head messing my hair up some more. Finally, he reaches down his sweatpants and fishes out a yellow bag of chips.

Oishi Cracklings. I immediately snatch it from his hands.

"Oh my God!" I exclaim, thumbing the ricehat-wearing farmer on the corner of the matte packaging. "Where'd you get this?"

"Export aisle." He shrugs. "Come on! Shower's about to start."

I beam at his little gift as we settle down on the blanket. Since Dr. Mom is a healthcare professional and dad is an absolute health nut, junk foods are rare to come by. Especially the Filipino brands.

Sitting crossed-legged next to Mack, I tear the Cracklings open with my teeth. The strong scent of vinegar immediately wafts out of the bag.

"God, that is terrible!" Mack scrunches up his nose, leaning away.

I pop a square chip into my mouth and shove the bag right under his nose. "It's not that bad. Your underwear smells worse than this."

He shoves the bag away. "Nico, please stop snooping through my hamper. It's not healthy sniffing your best friend's dirty boxers."

"Ha!" A piece of Crackling comes flying from my mouth. "You flatter yourself, Mack."

He shakes his head. "Close your mouth when you're eating," he chides, slapping my jaw close. "An absolute animal."

I chew as loudly as I can, chomping down like an absolute savage because if you can't already tell, I'm stubborn and petty like that. Mack just laughs it off, and opens the other snacks. The Doritos bag always has more air than actual chips, so he mixes in the Cheetos and Ruffles to fill it. I try coaxing him to try a Crackling, but he firmly declines. Soon enough, I finish the bag on my own, and he's gracious enough to share his chip mix with me.

We're gorging down on chips, surveying the skies, and in the corner of my eyes, a flash of light speeds across the heavens.

"It's starting!" Mack yells, essentially spitting out a mouthful of squashed chips. Now, who's the animal?

Another meteor flies by, followed by another and another. Mack is thrilled out of his mind, bouncing on his knees, pointing at every meteor like it's the first time he's seeing them.

We've been doing this for ten years. His excitement has not worn down one bit.

I've never really gotten what the fuss is about. I know a lot of people go gaga over stars and meteor showers and the moon, but they're all just bunch of rocks for me. What's the big deal?

Still, it's amusing to see Mack like this – ecstatic and starry-eyed. He looks at the meteor shower; I look at him. He shines brighter than any falling star.

Mack catches me looking and immediately pouts. "You're missing it!" he whines, clamping my face with both hands and turning my head to the skies.

"Alright, alright!" I wriggle out of his hold.

"You're disrespecting the heavens, Nic," he says affronted. "It's putting on an amazing lightshow and you're ignoring it!"

He was right, he is the drama queen in this relationship.

"I'm not ignoring it," I retort. "I just don't get why it's such a big deal. We see the shower every year."

"That's not the point, Ni-co-las," he drags my name out. "All of that," he says, gesturing to the flashes of light against the darkness of the night sky, "is a reminder."

"A reminder?" He's gonna wax poetic, I know it.

"A reminder," he firmly repeats. "Do you know what meteors are also called, oh great and knowledgeable one?"

"Falling stars."

"Exactly!" he quips. "And though it's a misconception since meteors aren't technically classified as stars, these fleeting flashing fireballs are reminders that even the best and brightest of stars can indeed fall."

And that's when the thought hits me like a freight train.

Even the best and brightest of stars can fall.

"Mack, you brilliant little space nerd! You just gave me an idea."