Binary Star

I’ve chosen the coldest, brightest corner in which to confine myself.

I’m studying for a test of the evolution of cataclysmic variable stars. I glow faintly but burn no fuel. I accrete.

The smell of aging, moldy books in the cold reminds me of withered flesh, and of the passive drift of meteorites into orbit before they’re burned away.

John has asked me to make the Facebook page for Students for the Liberation of Animals. He says that I use my words in a way he can’t. I rewrote the manifesto.

Really, it’s just that I’m not sleeping.

I didn’t say that.

I didn’t mean that. I’m sorry.

I’ll do it.

I study for class and work on the Facebook page and go back to studying for class. I focus intensely but can’t seem to focus for long. I go back and forth. I can’t settle.

Every time I move my head in a certain way, the hunger gets worse and I’m dizzy. I pull my hair so I don’t feel my head throb. I bite my nails.

John will fly to Long Island next week. We’re planning an action, the first we’ll post on the SLA Facebook page. Of course, we’ll include pictures. We’ll say it was conducted by an independent cell that then contacted us.

Cataclysmic variables are binary systems in which the component stars seem to pulse.

They increase in brightness then rapidly drop back down to a state of quiescence.

I upload a user picture: a fist that clutches a freed rabbit aloft. I write, We, Students for the Liberation of Animals, call for a revolution.

I upload another user picture: a man in a black ski mask cradling a duck before a burning building. Liberation by any means necessary!

Cataclysmic variables require two stars: a white dwarf primary and a mass-transferring secondary. The white dwarf accretes matter from its companion.

I write a description: Decentralized, independently operating units committed to liberating animals by any non-violent means. We act anonymously. We are your sons, your daughters, your soccer coaches, your neighbors. We are in your living room.

If accretion exceeds the critical mass of the white dwarf, it will ignite runaway carbon fusion.

I drink the Adderall water. I snort a line.

I eat a baby carrot. I chew it longer than I need to. I chew another, but spit most of it into a napkin.

I tell myself I shouldn’t have done that.

I make a gallery of suffering animals with captions: Piglets are snatched from their mothers at only a few weeks old.

When the sows are spent, they, too, are sent to slaughter.

The average life of a factory cow is five years. In nature, she can live as long as 20 years.

A suffering chimpanzee undergoing pharmaceutical tests at Huntingdon Life Sciences.

Huntingdon Life Sciences has repeatedly been found to cut corners and use unnecessarily cruel tactics.

An SLA member goes undercover at Huntingdon Life Sciences and lets these beagle puppies out of their cages for a few minutes of play.

The runaway carbon fusion triggers a Type-1a supernova explosion, completely destroying the white dwarf star.

Sponsored ads to the right of the page tell me about deals at Walgreens, Mac Cosmetics, United Airlines, and Forever 21.

I print the manifesto on a library printer. I stand and pack my laptop into my bag. I walk past the printers to the bathroom.

I look in the full-length mirror and pee and look in the full-length mirror again sideways, splash my face with water, and leave, watching myself in the mirror.

I walk past the information desk and make eye contact with the third undergraduate student I’ve seen here today. His face says that even he thinks I’ve been here too long.

Midterms, I say.

He nods.

I leave a stack of the manifesto on the table of university flyers near him. He doesn’t notice.

I sit back down at the study desk and open my computer. I feel a wave of exhaustion overtake me in a cold, white swell. I rub my eyes. I focus on the Adderall buzz. I crack my fingers and cough. The exhaustion passes.

I make a note in Facebook and copy and paste the manifesto from John’s email. I post it.

No one has liked the page, yet.

Wait until they see the first photos of SLA action. That’ll get attention.

I fold my arms and put my head down.

They are also called eruptive variables.

Hi, Mom.

I’m okay. John flew in last night.

He’s taking a class in the city. Starting next week.

Staying with me, of course.

I’m okay. Very tired.

Spring semester just ended.

I haven’t seen it, yet, but all A’s, I’m sure.

I got a job at Starbucks, starting this weekend.

I can walk there. Save on gas money.

I’m not going to drink the milk.

Not just health reasons anymore. That’s still part of it.

I’ve been reading about…

Yes, ethical reasons. First.

I’m happy to send you some books.

I could maybe come home sometime in August. I don’t know.

It depends on my schedule.

I miss you, too.

I’m tired.

I would tell you.

I’m just going through some stuff.

Mom, stop. I don’t do drugs.

John doesn’t work. It’s complicated. He’s never had to work.

His parents.

You can call me, too, you know.

Mom, what’s the most important decision you’ve ever made?

I’m feeling lost. I feel like I haven’t done anything important with my life.

Graduation isn’t enough.

I need to focus my energy.

I don’t know what I care about.

I don’t like myself.

I’m stuck in some kind of cycle.

I’m not happy.

I’m really depressed.

I don’t know what to do.

I feel like I’m floating in space.

All alone.

Do you ever feel alone?

I’m scared.

I have to go.

I’ll be fine.

I’ll tell you.

Of course, Mom.

I always stay out of trouble.

At five o’clock, I walk to Starbucks and watch the sunrise while I prepare coffee. Venus hovers above the blue horizon and dawn breaks over the brushed metal, turning everything silver. I am light as fog.

I fill my first free cup of coffee just before I open the doors. My coworker arrives late but I don’t say anything about it. She doesn’t say anything to me. We move in circles around each other, getting ready for the morning rush. It took me twenty minutes to walk here and I was glad for the exercise, but by the time we open, I feel cranky.

I stay on the espresso machine while my coworker stays on the register. I enjoy the rhythmic, repetitive nature of the work. My hands move in automatic rhythms and I chat with customers across the counter. Many of them are lawyers on their way to the courthouse across the street. They flirt with me and I act charming. I drink my coffee between making lattes. I feel myself lifting off.

John packs me breakfast the nights before my opening shifts and leaves it in a bag on the kitchen counter. I pretend to forget them.