Rewrite the Stars

Marissa

Nearly every culture has its own interpretation of hell.

Some view it as a final destination, the last stop on the great train ride of human existence.

Others consider it temporary, just a layover on the journey to reincarnation.

But across the varied spectrum of beliefs, the one commonality everyone agrees on is that hell is a place of suffering.

Which is why for parents, hell on earth is a third-grade recorder concert.

But despite the palpable sense of dread permeating the audience, when I slide into my seat in Brentwood Elementary’s freshly renovated auditorium, I’ve got a smile on my face.

Because while the high-pitched trill of Satan’s flute may not be my favorite sound in the world, Isla will be up on that stage.

And nothing brings me joy quite like watching my children shine.

Levi’s tiny fingers are interlaced with mine.

The moment he settles into the seat beside me, I extract a pair of noise-reducing headphones from my tote and hand them to him.

My eyes rove over his tiny features for signs of anxiety, but he seems content as he slips the headphones over his ears and gives me a reassuring smile that soothes any lingering worries.

A year ago, something as loud and crowded as a band concert would have propelled him straight into a meltdown.

But he’s made such great strides in therapy over the past few months and learned strategies to cope when the world around him feels overwhelming.

My shoulders immediately relax as I lean back in my chair, reassured that for the moment, he feels safe.

I’ve just flipped open my program when Bree Sherman swivels around from her seat in the first row (because where else would she be?) and waves. Miraculously, I swallow the groan before it escapes my throat.

“Marissa, hiii! How are you?” Her saccharine smile is heavily coated with bright red lipstick that perfectly complements her pale skin and auburn hair. I open my mouth to respond, but predictably, she carries on before I can get a word out.

“Can you believe they are moving up from pre-recorders to soprano recorders? It seems like just yesterday they were toddling around in diapers and waving around those wooden egg shakers! These babies really don’t keep, do they? Anyway, it’s going to be such a special night.”

“Yes, I’m sure it will be an absolute feast for the senses,” I reply. My smile stretches even wider. Lucky for me, I’m good at faking emotions. So good that I’ve got an MTV Movie Award to prove it. Plus, one of those hollow orange blimps from the Kids’ Choice Awards.

A woman to my left snorts at my reply, and I wink appreciatively.

When her eyes meet mine, they pause for a beat too long.

I can tell she’s trying to parse out how she knows me.

Does she recognize me from Back-to-School Night?

Or do I look vaguely like that celebrity?

The one from that movie franchise—what was it called again?

Or was it that kids’ show in the ’90s, the one that always ended in a musical performance?

I almost want to put her out of her misery and tell her the answer is D, all the above.

Child star, action hero, and doting mother of two are all roles I have played, the latter being the only one I’ve kept into my thirties.

But then the auditorium lights are flashing, signaling the five-minute warning, and I return my attention to the stage.

“Show’s about to start,” I lift Levi’s headphones and whisper in his ear.

“Are you excited to see your sister?” He nods, peering up at me with emerald eyes that are a carbon copy of his father’s.

Well, maybe not a carbon copy. Levi’s have an earnest warmth that’s missing from my ex’s gaze.

Rocky’s are a flatter green, though still wildly hypnotic.

Mischievous and imbued with the type of charm that pulls you in and doesn’t let go until it’s too late.

Like a sea siren luring an unsuspecting sailor to his death.

My phone’s vibration pulls me back to the present.

Extracting it from my purse, I squint at the screen.

I don’t recognize the number, which normally would dissuade me from answering.

But I do recognize the 215 area code. Pennsylvania.

My parents’ area code. What if I’m getting a phone call from the hospital, or there’s some other type of emergency?

I glance down the row, gauging how hard it would be to slip out.

It won’t be easy; we’re smack-dab in the center, and the rest of the seats are full.

Through the open doorway, I spy a handful of staff in the hall, gently herding lingering parents into the auditorium.

The chances of them letting me escape right now seem slim.

Answering from my seat it is, then. With shaking hands, I hit Accept Call.

“Hello?” I keep my voice low as I press a hand over my exposed ear to drown out the conversations surrounding me.

“Yes, am I speaking to Ms. Marissa Morganstern?”

My spine goes ramrod straight. I’ve gone by my stage name, Marissa Morgan, since I was twelve. These days, the only time someone uses my government name is when there’s an emergency or some sort of medical episode. Dread pools in my belly as I wonder which of the two awaits me.

“This is she,” I say hesitantly. There’s a relieved exhale on the other end of the line that starkly contrasts with my own rising panic.

“Ms. Morganstern, this is Phil Addams, attorney to the late Judy Steiner and the designated executor of her trust.” Oh.

My grandmother passed away a month ago. The funeral is still fresh in my mind, as are the aftereffects incurred through a week of sodium-laden lox and one too many bagels.

The guilt hasn’t dissipated much either.

Growing up, I was close with my grandmother, but I barely saw her in the years before she died.

I was so busy with my own life in LA that I neglected to make visiting her a priority, and now it’s too late.

That’s the thing about time: You don’t realize how precious it is until you run out of it.

“I’ve been trying to reach you for a few weeks, but it seems the phone number I had on file is outdated.” That tracks—I changed it shortly after Rocky and I called it quits, following an onslaught of calls from the press, who deemed it appropriate to try my personal cell.

“I’m calling to inform you that the late Mrs. Steiner has bequeathed you a piece of real estate,” the attorney continues. “A waterfront property in Lake Tranquility, Pennsylvania. 104—”

“—Harmony Drive,” I finish for him breathlessly.

“The lake house.” Goose bumps rise on my arm at the mention of my grandmother’s home.

I’d spent nearly every summer at the lake house as a kid, but I haven’t been back in years.

Well before my grandmother moved into assisted living nearly a decade ago.

Before I can say another word, though, Loretta Hendrix, the school’s headmistress, steps onto the stage.

“May I have your attention, please?” Her voice expertly maintains that delicate balance between kind and commanding. “Our concert is about to begin. At this time, we ask that our audience members please turn off cell phones and electronic devices.”

“Ms. Morganstern?” The voice on the other end of the line startles me, reminding me that I’m still on the phone. “Are you there?”

“Let me call you back,” I say quickly, before disconnecting the call.

I’m in a daze as I switch off my phone and slide it back into my purse.

Grandma Judy left me her lake house? Why would she leave it to me, of all people?

Why not leave it to my mom and stepdad, who live two hours away in Philadelphia?

They seem like the obvious choice, the next in line to inherit a family property.

Or even my brother, who lives with his family in Brooklyn and would probably die to own a home outside of the city.

Why me, a person who lives on the opposite side of the country, someone who hasn’t set foot at the lake house in ages?

The auditorium lights dim as Isla takes the stage, and I shove the questions from my mind.

She’s serious as ever as she plays, strawberry-blond hair tucked neatly behind her ears, brows furrowed in concentration.

She’s only nine years old but already possesses a scrupulous maturity that makes my heart a little heavy.

I can’t help but wonder if the divorce robbed her of some of her childhood innocence, made her grow up faster than she otherwise would have.

The band starts off with a requisite rendition of “Hot Cross Buns,” followed by “Mary Had a Little Lamb” and “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star,” all of which are surprisingly delightful.

When they conclude with “Baby Shark,” the crowd goes wild, and even Levi is swinging his feet with glee.

I’m so caught up in the collective joy that I temporarily forget all about the lake house.

When the lights go back on, I turn to Levi. “Well, what did you think?”

“Pretty,” he says, beaming at me.

I gesture to the space under his chair. “Ready to give your sister her flowers?”

He reaches down to grab the bouquet we’ve stashed under the seat.

It’s wrapped in bright pink tissue paper, but after spending the performance tucked beneath his happy feet, it’s missing a few petals.

One flower has been fully decapitated. Levi eyes the rumpled bouquet warily, his expression clouding with uncertainty.

“Isla will love them,” I reassure him, and his face brightens.

I bend to grab my tote so that we can head to the lobby and hug our star musician.

It isn’t until I straighten up that I realize the auditorium has gone strangely quiet.

Even more unnerving, nearly every set of eyes is fixed pointedly on me.

It feels like that scene in the movie Inception, where Ariadne realizes she’s asleep and suddenly everyone in the dream space is staring at her.

But instead of looking primed for attack, these faces are twisted into the closest form of sympathy their plastic surgery can muster. What on earth is going on?

The woman to my left, the one who was studying me earlier, leans over and whispers, “I’m so sorry, hon.”

I give her a puzzled smile. I mean, the concert wasn’t the greatest musical performance I’ve ever attended, but it wasn’t that bad. I don’t think any of us were expecting to hear the Los Angeles Philharmonic.

“It’s all good!” I reassure her. “If anything, I think congratulations are in order.”

She raises a skeptical eyebrow, mumbling something about how I’m a bigger person than she’ll ever be, but nevertheless stands and exits the row.

I take Levi by the hand and follow her, doing my best to ignore the low hum of voices, the whispers that seem pointed in my direction.

Self-consciousness starts to creep in. Is this about the cupcakes I made for the third-grade bake sale last week?

Because I can make something gluten-free, dairy-free, and nut-free, but I cannot make it also taste good. I’m an actress, not a magician.

But then I reach the auditorium doorway and come face-to-face with Bree Sherman. Naturally. She offers me a sympathetic smile, but I don’t miss the glimmer of delight in her eyes.

“Sooo sorry to hear about Rocky and Rayna,” she coos. She reaches out to squeeze my forearm in what I’m sure she believes is an act of condolence.

“Sorry … Rocky and Rayna?” I ask slowly. Confusion washes over me, followed by a sickening certainty that I’m the last person in the room to know something deeply important. This tracks. When it comes to Rocky, I’m often the last to know something deeply important.

Satisfaction flashes across Bree’s face and her lips curl upward.

She’s fully in her element right now, a house cat ready to pounce on an unsuspecting mouse.

This is, after all, a town that’s built on schadenfreude.

The only thing more satisfying than one’s personal success is the impending misfortune of one’s so-called friends.

And Bree Sherman loves nothing more than being the bearer of bad news.

“I guess you haven’t checked your phone,” she says. “Here.”

Gleefully, she extends her screen out toward me.

A tabloid photo of one of Hollywood’s buzziest couples stares back at me.

Silver-screen darling Rayna Stewart is beaming at the camera, her arm wrapped around a man who’s tall, handsome, and in possession of a set of teeth so perfect that the internet is in constant debate about whether they’re veneers (they are).

Rayna knows him as her former fiancé, with whom she’s recently reconciled.

America knows him as Rocky Ramirez, dashing movie star slash award-winning director.

I know him as the father of my children and, as of barely six months ago, my ex-husband.

There’s a pair of siren emojis at the top, bracketing a single word printed in bold, black letters. No, it can’t be. They’ve only been seeing each other again for a few weeks. It doesn’t make sense.

“Yikes!” Bree says, taking in my surely stunned expression. “I guess he didn’t give you a heads-up. What a terrible way to find out your ex is engaged!”

Turns out there is another circle of hell deeper than recorder concerts.