Starcrossed

  Starcrossed (Starcrossed #1)

  by Josephine Angelini

  liane19

  How do you defy destiny?

  Helen Hamilton has spent her entire sixteen years trying to hide how different she is—no easy task on an island as small and sheltered as Nantucket. And it's getting harder. Nightmares of a desperate desert journey have Helen waking parched, only to find her sheets damaged by dirt and dust. At school she's haunted by hallucinations of three women weeping tears of blood . . . and when Helen first crosses paths with Lucas Delos, she has no way of knowing they're destined to play the leading roles in a tragedy the Fates insist on repeating throughout history.

  As Helen unlocks the secrets of her ancestry, she realizes that some myths are more than just legend. But even demigod powers might not be enough to defy the forces that are both drawing her and Lucas together—and trying to tear them apart.

  ________________

  Chapter One

  “But if you bought me a car now, it would be yours

  when I go away to school in two years. Still practically

  new,” Helen said optimistically. Unfortunately,

  her father was no sucker.

  “Lennie, just because the state of Massachusetts

  thinks it’s okay for sixteen-year-olds to drive . . .” Jerry began.

  “Almost seventeen,” Helen reminded.

  “Doesn’t mean that I have to agree with it.” He was winning, but

  Helen hadn’t lost yet.

  “You know, the Pig only has another year or two left in her,”

  Helen said, referring to the ancient Jeep Wrangler her father

  drove, which she suspected might have been parked outside the

  castle where the Magna Carta was signed. “And think of all the gas

  money we could save if we got a hybrid, or even went full electric.

  Wave of the future, Dad.”

  “Uh-huh,” was all he’d say.

  Now she’d lost.

  Helen Hamilton groaned softly to herself and looked out over the

  railing of the ferry that was bringing her back to Nantucket. She

  contemplated another year of riding her bike to school in November

  and, when the snow got too deep, scrounging for rides or,

  worst of all, taking the bus. She shivered in anticipated agony and

  tried not to think about it. Some of the Labor Day tourists were

  staring at her, not unusual, so Helen tried to turn her face away as

  subtly as she could. When Helen looked in a mirror all she saw

  were the basics—two eyes, a nose, and a mouth—but strangers

  from off island tended to stare, which was really annoying.

  Luckily for Helen, most of the tourists on the ferry that afternoon

  were there for the view, not her portrait. They were so determined

  to cram in a little scenic beauty before the end of summer that they

  felt obliged to ooh and aah at every marvel of the Atlantic Ocean,

  though it was all lost on Helen. As far as she was concerned, growing

  up on a tiny island was nothing but a pain, and she couldn’t

  wait to go to college off island, off Massachusetts, and off the entire

  eastern seaboard if she could manage it.

  It wasn’t that Helen hated her home life. In fact, she and her

  father got along perfectly. Her mom had ditched them both when

  Helen was a baby, but Jerry had learned early on how to give his

  daughter just the right amount of attention. He didn’t hover, yet he

  was always there for her when she needed him. Buried under a thin

  layer of resentment about the current car situation, she knew she

  could never ask for a better dad.

  “Hey, Lennie! How’s the rash?” yelled a familiar voice. Coming

  toward her was Claire, Helen’s best friend since birth. She tipped

  unsteady tourists out of her path with artfully placed pushes.

  The sea-goofy day-trippers swerved away from Claire like she

  was a linebacker and not a tiny elf of a girl perched delicately on

  platform sandals. She glided easily through the stumbling riot she

  had created and slid next to Helen by the railing.

  “Giggles! I see you got some back-to-school shopping done, too,”

  Jerry said as he gave Claire a one-armed hug around her parcels.

  Claire Aoki, aka Giggles, was a badass. Anyone who took a look at

  her five-foot-two frame and delicate Asian features and failed to

  recognize her inherent scrappiness ran the risk of suffering horribly

  at the hands of a grossly underestimated opponent. The nickname

  “Giggles” was her personal albatross. She’d had it since she

  was a baby. In her friends’ and family’s defense it was impossible

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  to resist calling her Giggles. Claire had, hands down, the best laugh

  in the universe. Never forced or shrill, it was the kind of laugh that

  could make anyone within earshot smile.

  “Fo-sho, sire of my BFF,” Claire replied. She hugged Jerry back

  with genuine affection, ignoring his use of the dreaded nickname.

  “Might I have a word with your progeny? Sorry to be so rude, but

  it’s top secret, high-clearance stuff. I’d tell you . . .” she began.

  “But then you’d have to kill me,” Jerry finished sagely. He

  shuffled obligingly off to the concession stand to buy himself a sugary

  soda while his daughter, the chief of the food police, wasn’t

  looking.

  “Wacha got in the bag, dad?” Claire asked. She grabbed Helen’s

  loot and started rifling through. “Jeans, cardigan, T-shirt, under

  . . . whoa! You go underwear shopping with your dad? Ew!”

  “It’s not like I have any choice!” Helen complained as she

  snatched her bag away. “I needed new bras! Anyway, my dad hides

  at the bookstore while I try everything on. But trust me, even

  knowing he’s down the street while I shop for underwear is excruciating,”

  she said, a smile on her reddening face.

  “It can’t be all that painful. It’s not like you ever try to buy anything

  sexy. Jeez, Lennie, do you think you could dress more like

  my grandma?” Claire held up a pair of white cotton briefs. Helen

  snatched the granny panties and shoved them to the bottom of the

  bag while Claire stretched out her magnificent laugh.

  “I know, I’m such a big geek it’s gone viral,” Helen replied,

  Claire’s teasing instantly forgiven, as usual. “Aren’t you afraid

  you’ll catch a fatal case of loser from me?”

  “Nope. I’m so awesome I’m immune. Anyway, geeks are the best.

  You’re all so deliciously corruptible. And I love the way you blush

  whenever I talk about underpants.”

  Claire was forced to adjust her stance as a couple of picturetakers

  barged in close to them. Working with the momentum of the

  deck, Claire nudged the tourists out of the way with one of her

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  ninja balance moves. They stumbled aside, laughing about the

  “choppy water,” clueless that Claire had even touched them. Helen

  fiddled with the heart necklace she always wore and took the opportunity

  to slouch down against the railing to better meet her

  friend’s small stature.

  Unfortunately for achingly shy Helen, she was an eye-grabbing

  five feet nine inches
tall, and still growing. She’d prayed to Jesus,

  the Buddha, Muhammad, and Vishnu to make it stop, but she still

  felt the hot splinters in her limbs and the seizing muscles of another

  growth spurt at night. She promised herself that at least if she

  topped six feet she’d be tall enough to scale the safety railing and

  throw herself off the top of the lighthouse in Siasconset.

  Salespeople were always telling her how lucky she was, but not

  even they could find her pants that fit. Helen had resigned herself

  to the fact that in order to buy affordable jeans that were long

  enough she had to go a few sizes too big, but if she didn’t want

  them to fall off her hips, she had to put up with a mild breeze flapping

  around her ankles. Helen was pretty sure that the “wicked

  jealous” salesgirls didn’t walk around with chilly ankles. Or with

  their butt cracks showing.

  “Stand up straight,” Claire snapped automatically when she saw

  Helen slouching, and Helen obeyed. Claire had a thing about good

  posture, something to do with her super-proper Japanese mother

  and even more proper, kimono-wearing grandmother.

  “Okay! On to the main topic,” Claire announced. “You know that

  huge kazillion-dollar compound that the New England Patriots guy

  used to own?”

  “The one in ’Sconset? Sure. What about it?” Helen asked, picturing

  the house’s private beach and feeling relieved that her dad

  didn’t make enough money at his store to buy a house any closer to

  the water.

  When Helen was a child she had very nearly drowned, and ever

  since had secretly believed that the Atlantic Ocean was trying to

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  kill her. She’d always kept that bit of paranoia to herself . . . though

  she still was a terrible swimmer. To be fair, she could tread water

  for a few minutes at a time, but she was rotten at it. Eventually, she

  sank like a rock no matter how saline the ocean was supposed to be

  and no matter how hard she paddled.

  “It finally sold to a big family,” Claire said. “Or two families. I’m

  not sure how it works, but I guess there are two fathers, and they’re

  brothers. They both have kids—so the kids are cousins?” Claire

  wrinkled her brow. “Whatever. The point is that whoever moved in

  has a bunch of kids. And they’re all about the same age. There are,

  like, two boys that are going to be in our grade.”

  “And let me guess,” Helen said, deadpan. “You did a tarot reading

  and saw that both of the boys are going to fall madly in love

  with you and then they’ll tragically fight to the death.”

  Claire kicked Helen in the shin. “No, dummy. There’s one for

  each of us.”

  Helen rubbed her leg, pretending it hurt. Even if Claire had

  kicked Helen with all of her might, she still wouldn’t be strong

  enough to leave a bruise.

  “One for each of us? That’s uncharacteristically low drama of

  you,” Helen teased. “It’s too straightforward. I don’t buy it. But

  how about this? We’ll each fall in love with the same boy, or the

  wrong boy—whichever one doesn’t love us back—and then you and

  I will fight each other to the death.”

  “Whatever are you babbling on about?” Claire asked sweetly as

  she inspected her nails, feigning incomprehension.

  “God, Claire, you’re so predictable,” Helen said, laughing. “Every

  year you dust off those cards you bought in Salem that time on the

  field trip and you always predict that something amazing is going

  to happen. But every year the only thing that amazes me is that you

  haven’t slipped into a boredom coma by winter break.”

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  “Why do you fight it?” Claire protested. “You know eventually

  something spectacular is going to happen to us. You and I are way

  too fabulous to be ordinary.”

  Helen shrugged. “I am perfectly happy with ordinary. In fact, I

  think I’d be devastated if you actually predicted right for a change.”

  Claire tilted her head to one side and stared at her. Helen untucked

  her hair from behind her ears to curtain off her face. She

  hated to be watched.

  “I know you would. I just don’t think ordinary’s ever going to

  work out for you,” Claire said thoughtfully.

  Helen changed the subject. They chatted about their class schedules,

  running track, and whether or not they should cut bangs.

  Helen wanted something new, but Claire was dead set against

  Helen touching her long blonde hair with scissors. Then they realized

  that they had wandered too close to what they called the “pervert

  zone” of the ferry, and had to hastily backtrack.

  They both hated that part of the ferry, but Helen was particularly

  sensitive about it; it reminded her of this creepy guy that had followed

  her around one summer, until the day he just disappeared

  off the ferry. Instead of feeling relieved when she realized he wasn’t

  coming back, Helen felt like she had done something wrong. She

  had never brought it up to Claire, but there had been a bright flash

  and a horrible smell of burnt hair. Then the guy was just gone. It

  still made her queasy to think about it, but Helen played along, like

  it was all a big joke. She forced a laugh and let Claire drag her

  along to another part of the ferry.

  Jerry joined them as they pulled into the dock and disembarked.

  Claire waved good-bye and promised to try to visit Helen at work

  the next day, though since it was the last day of summer, the outlook

  was doubtful.

  Helen worked a few days a week for her father, who co-owned the

  island’s general store. Apart from a morning paper and fresh cup of

  coffee, the News Store also sold saltwater taffy, penny candy,

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  caramels and toffee in real crystal jars, and ropes of licorice whips

  sold by the yard. There were always fresh-cut flowers and handmade

  greeting cards, gag gifts and magic tricks, seasonal knickknacks

  for the tourists, and refrigerator essentials like milk and

  eggs for the locals.

  About six years ago the News Store had expanded its horizons

  and added Kate’s Cakes onto the back, and since then business had

  exploded. Kate Rogers was, quite simply, a genius with baked

  goods. She could take anything and make it into a pie, cake, popover,

  cookie, or muffin. Even universally loathed vegetables like

  brussels sprouts and broccoli succumbed to Kate’s wiles and became

  big hits as croissant fillers.

  Still in her early thirties, Kate was creative and intelligent. When

  she’d partnered up with Jerry she revamped the back of the News

  Store and turned it into a haven for the island’s artists and writers,

  somehow managing to do it without turning up the snob factor.

  Kate was careful to make sure that anyone who loved baked goods

  and real coffee—from suits to poets, working-class townies to corporate

  raiders—would feel comfortable sitting down at her counter

  and reading a newspaper. She had a way of making everyone feel

  welcome. Helen adored her.

  When Helen got to work the next day, Kate was trying to stock a


  delivery of flour and sugar. It was pathetic.

  “Lennie! Thank god you’re early. Do you think you could help

  me . . . ?” Kate gestured toward the forty-pound sacks.

  “I got it. No, don’t tug the corner like that, you’ll hurt your back,”

  Helen warned, rushing to stop Kate’s ineffectual pulling. “Why

  didn’t Louis do this for you? Wasn’t he working this morning?”

  Helen asked, referring to one of the other workers on the schedule.

  “The delivery came after Louis left. I tried to stall until you got

  here, but a customer nearly tripped and I had to at least pretend I

  was going to move the blasted thing,” Kate said.

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  “I’ll take care of the flour if you fix me a snack,” Helen said cajolingly

  as she stooped to pick up the sack.

  “Deal,” Kate replied gratefully, and bustled off with a smile.

  Helen waited until Kate’s back was turned, lifted the sack of flour

  easily on her shoulder, and sauntered toward the workstation,

  where she opened the sack and poured some flour into the smaller

  plastic container Kate used in the kitchen. While Helen neatly

  stacked the rest of the delivery in the storeroom, Kate poured her a

  bubbly pink lemonade, the kind that Helen loved, from France, one

  of the many foreign places she was dying to visit.

  “It’s not that you’re so freakishly strong for someone so thin that

  bothers me. What really pisses me off,” Kate said as she sliced

  some cherries and cheese for Helen to snack on, “is that you never

  get winded. Not even in this heat.”

  “I get winded,” Helen lied.

  “You sigh. Big difference.”

  “I’ve just got bigger lungs than you.”

  “But since you’re taller, you’d need more oxygen, wouldn’t you?”

  They clinked glasses and sipped their lemonade, calling it even.

  Kate was a bit shorter and plumper than Helen, but that didn’t

  make her either short or fat. Helen always thought of the word

  zaftig when she saw Kate, which she had a notion meant “sexy

  curvy.” She never used it, though, in case Kate took it the wrong

  way.

  “Is the book club on tonight?” Helen asked.

  “Uh-huh. But I doubt anyone will want to talk about Kundera,”

  Kate said with a smirk, jingling the ice cubes in her glass.

  “Why? Hot gossip?”

  “Smokin’ hot. This crazy-big family just moved to the island.”

  “The place in ’Sconset?” Helen asked. At Kate’s nod, she rolled

 
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