Free Consumption by Heather Herrman Page B

of sight, and then threw the rest of the muffin off to the side of the road, where it landed with a soft thud in a rain ditch.
    2
    There was a knock at the door. Star rolled over and looked at the blaring alarm clock by her bed. Six A.M. Not even late enough for the birds to be awake. She pulled the pillow over her head, trying to shut out the sound.
    The knock came again. “Star, you up?”
    It was Mabel, of course. Star’d barely said a word to her friend last night before collapsing into the guest bed and passing into a deep and, thankfully, dreamless sleep.
    Despite all her brave plans, in the end, she hadn’t been able to face her father. Had run here instead, to Mabel and safety.
    Now she removed the pillow and sat up.
    “Come on in,” she said. “It’s open.”
    The door to the bedroom swung inward and Mabel Joyce stepped into the room. She was carrying a large tray.
    “Hey,” she said, setting the tray on the floor in front of the bed. The room was a cozy one, its wooden floors covered in a bright blue oriental rug. Star had always loved sleeping here. The tea tray looked right at home on the floor, like a setting for an Indian princess. Mabel positioned herself cross-legged on the rug. “How are you doing?”
    “I’m all right,” said Star, slipping the sheet off her legs and moving from the bed to join Mabel on the floor. “What’s all this?”
    “I brought you some tea.” Mabel shrugged. “I was up early to help my mom get her stuff packed up for the Festival.”
    “What is it this year?” Star asked.
    “Cupcakes,” said Mabel. “It took us an hour to get them all into her van. She left just a few minutes ago with them.” Mrs. Joyce was a librarian by profession, but her side hobby was making scented candles shaped like various foods. Each June she set up a booth at the Festival with her current attempt. Last year it had been candles in the shape of a cup of coffee, the wick resting neatly in the center of the cup.
    “Think she’ll sell any?” Star asked.
    “Doubtful,” Mabel said. “But at least they’re out of the house. Anyway, I’m glad I got up early. I heard you rustling around in here, so I thought you might want to…” Here she paused, ducking her head. “To talk,” she finished. “Not that I’m pressuring you.”
    Dear Mabel,
Star thought. Her oldest and best friend. Star watched as Mabel took a steaming silver teapot from the tray and poured from it. “Here you go,” she said, handing a cup to Star.
    Star took it, breathing in its fragrance. “Thank you,” she said. “It smells wonderful.” She lifted the cup to her nose and inhaled again, not drinking any, just enjoying the lemony scent. Above her, the steady whir of the ceiling fan drummed on, a heartbeat in this small cocoon of friendship that was the two of them. “You’re right,” she said. “I do want to talk.”
    “Tell me,” said Mabel, leaning forward and placing her hand on Star’s bare leg. “Tell me everything.”
    And there it was, the invitation. Star couldn’t believe she’d kept all of this from Mabel. These past few weeks of hell, Star had hardly talked to Mabel at all. When her friend had called her, Star simply hadn’t called her back. She’d been embarrassed. She couldn’t stand to have Mabel know how bad it was, but that was over. Things were way past that point, and if she’d ever needed an ear, it was now.
    “It’s my dad,” Star said, taking a deep breath. The words stuck in her throat. “He’s been acting…strange. Not himself.”
    On her leg, Mabel’s hand squeezed tighter. She nodded.
    “I had to get out of there.”
    Mabel nodded again. “What do you mean, acting strange?”
    “He’s been cheating on my mom.”
    “Star, your mom is dead,” Mabel said, gently.
    “I know.” It hadn’t been what she’d meant to say. “I know that, but I mean, she just died, and he’s bringing these women home. He impresses them by driving around in his work car, even