Why Blame the Stars?

ALSO BY MICHAEL SEGEDY

Hampton Road

Evil’s Root

EMMA

Our Darker Angel

Sanctimonious Serial Killers

Copyright © 2017 by Michael Segedy

Published by Smashwords

ISBN: 9781370845460

All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior permission of the author.

Cover by Travis Miles of probookcovers.com

Everything, including that which happens in our brains, depends on these and only on these: A set of fixed, deterministic laws. A purely random set of accidents.

Marvin Minsky

Freedom is what we do with what is done to us. 

Jean-Paul Sartre

CHAPTER ONE

The tall, dark-skinned girl peddles her bike up to a black iron bridge with a boy around fifteen trailing close behind. A young man, perhaps a couple of years out of high school, is standing against the rail and peering into the dark valley below. He must be lost in thought because he doesn’t notice her approaching.

The girl comes to an abrupt stop, dismounts, and then pushes her bike over to the guardrail. The boy who’s been following along in her wake coasts slowly up behind her but remains on his bike.

When she’s within a few feet of the young man, he shoots a glance over his shoulder at her while keeping his stomach pressed against the guardrail. He reminds her of someone she once knew. It’s something about his eyes.

Hey, nice day! she says cheerfully. Really beautiful country. You bike out here much?

Uh, not really.

She notices his pale hands tighten on the rail. The hands are slightly freckled and smooth. She can almost feel their smoothness.

It seemed like a nice day for a bike ride, so I persuaded my cousin to come along.

Her young cousin doesn’t seem too keen about engaging with the stranger. He stares out over the valley at a large crow circling in the distance over a patch of open field. Each large loop it completes brings it closer to the bridge until it appears just above them.

When the young man doesn’t reply, she feels a bit uncomfortable standing inside their circle of silence. She is about to remount her bike when his soft, uncertain voice stops her. 

Yeah, it’s nice here. Not sure this bike’s gonna get me back. It isn’t in the best of shape. Especially the tires. They’re both pretty bald.

He speaks without looking at her while he keeps his alert blue eyes fixed on the river below and its swirling current jetting off the black and gray rocks.

She lets her eyes travel slowly over the bicycle balanced precariously against the bridge rail. The bike has no shift lever or gears and a heavy-looking tubular frame. It’s an old model with faded blue paint, like something out of one of those black and white movies from the fifties. The rear fender is spotted with rust and the front one dented and scraped. It has an old, gray rag wrapped tightly around the seat, apparently for padding, which adds to its overall demise.

I can see that your bike’s known better days, she chuckles.

Yeah, it has. But if it breaks down, I’m usually close enough to wherever I’m heading to get back home, he says, a tentative, uncertain smile forming on his lips.

As soon as she takes her attention off the bike and turns to face him, she catches his alert blue eyes checking her out. Not in any deviant way, but carefully, cautiously, kind of like she’s seen her cousin looking over one of those fancy sports cars he’s afraid to get too close to, fearing he might scratch it or get yelled at for leaving his fingerprints on its shiny paint.

Her cousin, realizing that their stop at the bridge might be longer than he anticipated, decides to dismount. He has trouble resting his bicycle securely against the side of the bridge. The handlebar is too high to hook over the rail, so after fooling with the bike for a few seconds, he gives up and lays it down on its side on the pavement. Then he sidles over next to his tall, dark cousin.

By the way, I’m Zoe, and this is Tomás, she says, giving the boy a jab to his arm.

He flinches and then draws back, holding his arm, grinning.

Punching his arm was just a stupid reflex on her part, she realizes. Afterwards she feels her cheeks grow hot. She isn’t sure why, but the young man makes her feel kind of childish.

I’m Miles, he says, while looking at her cousin rubbing his arm.

Miles? That’s a rare name.

No rarer than Zoe. How’d you come by a name like that?

How do you think? she answers, a flirtatious edge on her smile.

I wouldn’t know, he says, bemused by her question.

Why, my parents, of course, she laughs.

Well, yeah, but I meant...

It’s Ethiopian.

Oh, okay. Cool. Never met an Ethiopian.

She suddenly has this déjà vu feeling, like she’s had this conversation before. For a second she feels a little lightheaded but then quickly recovers her composure.

Well, I’m not exactly from Ethiopia. Neither are my parents. But my grandparents were.

You’re Ethiopian also? he asks, addressing her cousin, perhaps curious because he is so much lighter.

About half and half, she answers before the boy can respond.

What was your name again? he asks the taciturn boy.

"Tomás, same as American Thomas, but we say it toe mas." He looks down at his shoes, grinning shyly.

Also an Ethiopian name?

No, his name is Spanish. He’s half Latino. Tomás and my aunt just came up from Honduras. I have a little Latino blood in me too, but I’m mostly Ethiopian. My mother’s half Latina, on her father’s side, and half Ethiopian, on her mother’s side. My father’s 100 percent Ethiopian.

I see, he says.

She senses that he’s only partly paying attention to her words.

They both met here in North Carolina at college.

Bob Marley, he mutters.

What?

Bob Marley, you know, reggae. ‘No woman, no cry.’ Wasn’t he a Jamaican Ethiopian?

No. He wasn’t Ethiopian, but he was a Rastafarian.

She’s surprised that he knows about Bob Marley. Not many young people today do.

He was a Jamaican and a Rastafarian. Rastafarians believe that King Haile Selassie I, the former Emperor of Ethiopia, was their messiah.

Oh, he answers. So, what religion are most Ethiopians?

I think most of them are Christians. But there are a lot of Ethiopian Muslims too. Maybe a third of the population.

And you?

Neither. My family belongs to a religious minority. They’re a minority in Ethiopia and pretty much everywhere. Except Israel.

So, you’re Jewish?

My parents are.

And you’re not?

I don’t know. I guess I am. I like Jewish tradition, but I’m not sure about all the other stuff that comes with it. Especially, the whole business about Jews being the chosen people. Also, much of what I’ve read in the Torah doesn’t make a whole lot of sense, if you know what I mean. Too many stories of violence and retribution.

Wouldn’t know. Reading the Bible isn’t exactly my thing.

I don’t think it’s mine either. I do find the story about Solomon and Sheba fascinating though. I guess that’s because I’m Ethiopian, she chuckles. Of course, orthodox Jews don’t believe the story.

You’ve lost me, he says, leaning his backside against the guardrail to make himself comfortable. He appears to be interested in the story or the girl telling it. She isn’t sure which, but she thinks it’s the girl.

Oh, sorry. Let me explain. The Falashas, like my parents, claim descent from Solomon, and of course Sheba, the Queen of Ethiopia, or back in Bible times, the Queen of Abyssinia.

The Queen of Sheba. She’s kind of mentioned right up there with Helen of Troy, isn’t she?

And every bit as beautiful, she says playfully, arching her eyebrows and smiling coquettishly.

I can believe that, he says, and then clears his throat awkwardly. Apparently, he thinks his comment is a bit too forward.

To avoid embarrassing him, she quickly returns to her Ethiopian history lesson.

The story goes that Solomon enticed the Queen of Sheba to sleep with him, and when she returned home, she gave birth to his child, Menelik. Then when Menelik was a young man, he visited his father in Israel and brought back to Ethiopia the Arc of the Covenant, a wooden chest overlaid with gold that supposedly contained Moses’ two stone tablets with the ten commandments. At this point, Menelik founded the new religion of the Falasha. Haile Selassie was directly descended from Menelik, by the way. My parents’ parents were also Falashas. Of course they don’t identify themselves as Falashas. They just see themselves as ordinary Jews.

Your family has an interesting history.

And yours?

My family? Much less distinguished, but also with a long history. Yes, a very, very long history, he says, drawing out very.

Longer than my family’s? she asks amused.

"Yeah, very long."

Oh Yeah. How long? She can barely keep from laughing at how dramatic he sounds.

Dating back. Way back.

"I’m sure very way back," she teases.

Yes, very. Way back to the European Neanderthals. A well-established line.

The Neanderthals, she laughs.

Yeah, you’re probably familiar with some of my lineage’s outstanding traits, like murdering and pillaging. And not taking baths—until relatively recent times that is.

Well, we’re all descended from the same line, you know, she chuckles. But you must also admit, our common ancestors have made many noble advances.

I think that’s a rather subjective statement.

Her cousin, growing bored with their conversation, crosses the road to take a view of the valley from the other side of the bridge.

Come on now. You know we’ve made plenty of upward strides.

Upward like a mushroom cloud.

God, aren’t you the pessimist, she says tauntingly.

No, not really. I’m no kind of ‘ist’ at all. Not much of a believer in anything associated with the ist category.

How about a cynic then? No ‘ist’ there.

He studies her face for a few seconds, apparently trying to come up with something clever to say, and then just shakes his head and says, No, not a cynic either.  Cynics only criticize to criticize. Most of them, anyway. And a few of them might even believe things could be better than they are. I don’t. Things are as they should be.

No need for improvement then?

The question’s not relevant.

Not relevant! You sound like Dr. Pangloss’s disgruntled brother.

I’m not sure I catch your drift.

"Did you ever read Candide?"

Nope.

Well, maybe you should. It’s a book by this guy named Voltaire. An ancient dude. In his book, there’s this old philosopher beset with all kinds of tragedies, but still he persists in his dogged optimism. Nothing can water it down. He’s imprisoned, nearly hanged, dissected, and comes down with syphilis, but still proclaims that this is the ‘best of all possible worlds.’

I don’t believe any of it.

Don’t believe all of that could happen to him?

No, I mean I don’t believe he’s a very realistic character.

Well, maybe not. After all, the book is a satire. But if I’m understanding you correctly, you must believe this is the worst of all possible worlds. That the world couldn’t be otherwise. That our world is the best of the worst of all possible worlds.

He laughs. It seems he finds her wit charming. His sudden lightheartedness gives her a good feeling about him. She rarely gets into serious discussions with anyone her age, especially over anything philosophical. When she does, no one seems to care. It’s like she’s showing off, or just talking nonsense.

Like I said, I never read Candide, and I don’t believe I’m this old philosopher’s disgruntled brother. What did you say his name was?

Pangloss.

Yeah, well, I’m not at all disgruntled about mankind’s fate. That’s to say I’m no fatalist in the sense that I believe things were planned to be the way they are. I don’t believe in plans. Not like your Pangloss did.

Ouch! A large mosquito has stung her just below the chin. She swats at it striking herself solidly on the cheek and neck. Damn bugs. I guess I shouldn’t curse the inevitable, right?

No, actually, I don’t think you could have avoided cursing the inevitable, if you know what I mean.

Her cousin is kicking a pebble down the road. She can see that he’s grown impatient waiting for her to finish her repartee with the young stranger. She hadn’t meant to engage in a long conversation, but she’s finding herself attracted to him. She doesn’t think it’s his looks, though he is kind of cute, especially his eyes, most likely the bluest eyes she’d ever seen. Nothing else stands out. His nose is normal, straight, not too short or too long. His chin firm, but not jutting—actually, slightly recessed—and his lips full, but not at all feminine, as thick lips on boys sometimes seem. And his hair. Nothing special. Brownish-blonde, but mostly brown, and just a little long on his neck. He does have a nice ass, she reflects, and then feels the temperature in her cheeks rise a few degrees. She hopes he hasn’t caught her checking it out.

Cursing the inevitable? No, I don’t see it that way. Nothing inevitable at all about getting bit. I could have brought along bug spray. Getting stung was very avoidable.

You might think so, or wanna believe so, but your decision, which you see as a free decision not to bring the spray, was anything but that.

Right. And do you really believe that crap? she laughs.

Do I have a choice?

Yes! You do! We all do.

Then I think there’s no more I can say on the subject.

She likes how he just stands there smiling at her, not at all confrontational, nor condescending. She also enjoys very much the flirtatious game being played between the two of them.

Look, it’s been fun. I’ve really enjoyed our chat, but I think I need to be heading back. Got a fairly long ride.

The sun has begun to nestle in the tree tops high above the valley. Although she would like to hang out a little more with her intriguing new acquaintance, she fears the growing darkness will put her and her cousin at risk pedaling back along the narrow country road.

How far is your ride back?

All the way to the center of Concord. I parked the car in a shopping plaza there. From the plaza, it will be a cinch to get home. I have a bike rack on the back of the car.

So, you don’t live in Concord, I take it.

No. I live over by South Park Mall. A good thirty minutes from downtown Concord. And a hectic drive to UNCC in the morning.

Yeah, I bet. Charlotte’s full of traffic. For me it’s just a five-minute bike trip or fifteen-minute walk.

So, you go to UNCC. Her face suddenly glows at the thought that they both attend the same university. What’s your major?

Don’t really have one. Just kind of checking out different courses. And you?

Pre-med. Hey, let me give you my number so we can keep in touch. I enjoyed our conversation. Don’t have a lot of friends who are keen about talking philosophy, or talking whatever it was we were talking.

Yeah sure.

He appears surprised by her audacity. So does she. She’s never been so forward with a boy.

"You have your