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Light From Uncommon Stars

Ryka Aoki
Chapters (54)
  1. Copyright Notice
  2. Dedication
  3. FEBRUARY
  4. 1
  5. 2
  6. 3
  7. 4
  8. 5
  9. 6
  10. 7
  11. 8
  12. 9
  13. 10
  14. 11
  15. MARCH
  16. 12
  17. 13
  18. 14
  19. APRIL
  20. 15
  21. 16
  22. 17
  23. 18
  24. JUNE
  25. 19
  26. 20
  27. 21
  28. JULY
  29. 22
  30. 23
  31. 24
  32. AUGUST
  33. 25
  34. 26
  35. 27
  36. 28
  37. 29
  38. 30
  39. NOVEMBER
  40. 31
  41. 32
  42. 33
  43. FEBRUARY,
  44. 34
  45. 35
  46. 36
  47. 37
  48. 38
  49. AND BEYOND
  50. Captain’s Log: Stardate Ph079
  51. ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
  52. Also by Ryka Aoki
  53. ABOUT THE AUTHOR
  54. Newsletter Sign-up

Copyright Notice

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Dedication

For Katrina, and Katrinas everywhere …

People think selling one’s soul for music is as simple as “Sign this contract and—poof!—you’re a genius!”

Were it that easy, the world would be awash in transcendent song. Obviously, this is not so.

Souls are cheap.

The trick is finding the right soul.

FEBRUARY

1

Shhh …

Yes, it hurt. It was definitely not just a bruise. Yes, she was scared. Her throat was raw from screaming.

Cautiously, Katrina Nguyen felt under her bed.

Girl clothes. Boy clothes. Money. Birth certificate. Social security card. Toothbrush. Spare glasses. Backup battery. Makeup. Estradiol. Spironolactone.

Katrina had made an escape bag the first time her father threatened to kill her.

At first, the bag seemed an “in case of emergency,” a glass that one would never break.

But after tonight …

Why had she let it come to this? Why couldn’t she be what her parents wanted?

Part of her was in a panic. What have you done? Apologize. Knock on their door right now. Say it’s all your fault—say you’re sorry, say you’ll promise to change.

But another, stronger, part of Katrina was calm, even cold.

You have to escape. Tonight. Breathe, be quiet, and listen.

And so, Katrina listened … for footsteps, for breathing, for sleep. She listened, and listened. Through the dark, she heard her mother’s one last cough. Her father’s one last flush.

And then, finally, there was silence.

Katrina clutched her ribs, then propped herself up. The pain was sharp, but manageable. She was in her room, behind a locked door. All she needed to do was be quiet. And calm. She could do this.

She could do this.

By the light of her phone, Katrina applied concealer around her eye and to her cheek. It would be better not to face the world with visible bruises.

Then she placed a note on her bed.

In it, she had written that she was sorry, that she wished she’d never been born, that she didn’t want to make them angry, and that she’d never bother them again. That part was true.

But then she wrote that she was going San Francisco.