What Happens After All The Stars Die

In Laika’s drafty little town there was only one library. It was a shuddering wooden thing converted from the shell of an old church. Laika would lie on his belly on the alphabet rug in the children’s section, yellowed light seeping onto the pages of his book about space.

Laika knew the universe was going to end in a calm and organized manner, the same way he knew one plus one was two. It would be methodical just like the book said. It would be just like the rows of Times New Roman font lined up in perfect paragraphs in front of him. Soon, the high-mass stars would exhaust their fuel. Galaxy orbits would decay, collapsing into pulpy mush like homework forgotten in the rain. The universe would dim and Laika would try to simulate it before bed by squinting his eyes through his bedroom window. It seemed impossible. The sky burned so furiously over fields of country darkness. Laika could almost feel the pricks of particle heat on his shoulders as he slipped on his nightgown and unwound scalp-tight braids. The stars would lose their radiation. He pulled the curtains shut, and watched the cosmos suffocate behind lace.

Laika closed his eyes and opened them ten years later.

The train ran at two every morning under his dorm room window. Laika could guess the time from sound alone, without getting up from bed. If the universe had a sound, it would be the upstairs neighbor boiling water and Valerie breathing as she lay on his chest. Lamp light pooled along her angular hips and the curve of her back. Laika knew the stars were invisible, but lights were on in far away apartment complexes. At a blur they were basically the same. Every night stopped feeling like the end of the world somewhere in between these last ten years.

“It was impossible to sleep then,” Laika said. “I swear, I was so stressed as a kid. I sweat through two layers of blankets every night.”

He traced the dark skin of her neck, curly black hair spilling through his fingers. A contented smile played on her full lips. “That sounds like something I would do.”

Laika imagined a thread connecting his and Valerie’s childhood beds, tangling across county lines and telephone cables and satellite dishes.

There wasn’t much in his old town, just soaked through sneakers, a long walk home, and bruised March fields. There were men speeding by in trucks shouting things they shouldn’t have, leaving Laika faintly smelling of gasoline. There was school and there was a good curb to sit on in the parking lot outside it. Laika’s skirt was perpetually too short as his legs grew in disjointed spurts, and he white-knuckle tugged the fabric down.

This was what he was doing at lunch break at age fifteen, the knobs of his knees poking together, his other hand grasping a blunt. His blond hair hung loose in his face and down his back. The air smelled alive, like runoff water from snow melt as his two classmates were at work at the other end of the curb.

One tore a sheet of lined paper from her notebook. “Laika, right?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s a weird name,” she passed the paper to her friend, who rolled it silently. Laika stared at the smoke soaring vertically, like a line to heaven.

“Sorry. I meant, I heard that you’ve been to the boy’s school. That’s kind of why I wanted to talk to you. I’m Susie, by the way.” Laika knew her solely because she was a gossip. “So, do you have a boyfriend?”

“No.”

The girl glared at Laika up and down. “You’re cute though, in a malnourished kind of way. Like, your complexion would look good in bad lighting.”

The insult barely registered. “Why are you asking me all this?”

“Please. It’s so boring here. I need to get some of what you’re getting.”

“I’m not getting anything.”

Susie laughed. “Look, I trusted you with this secret,” she gestured to the untouched blunt between Laika’s fingers. “There’s no need to lie to me. Your legs aren’t so wobbly for nothing, right?”

And he just sat there.

Laika hated the way people looked at him, like some untouched thing ready to be claimed and ruined. He wondered how the other girls at school could bear it, or even want it. Being thrown into womanhood seemed like the ultimate embarrassment of his life. In his backpack, between a bruised banana and neatly filed schoolwork was Laika’s seminal text. He got it for a quarter at the library book sale, and its weight was a physical reminder that there were black holes waning in strength out there. This is how he could get up and leave without saying anything.

When Laika sat at his desk, out his bedroom window he could sometimes see black horses galloping. Their strength seemed eternal. Powerful and gossamer, but it was a lie. He’d seen a horse die. Its eyes went glassy like a starless night as it let out hot, accepting breaths. Indistinguishable from a human. While sketching away at the answers to math problems, Laika determined a black hole dying, or a horse dying, couldn’t be much different from anything else dying.

Laika was like a horse lying on its side, collapsing under the weight of its own organs. Surrounded by sympathetic figures, rough hands, and hushed voices. Born in the same acre of land it would die in. Destined for the family plot. It was the part of spring where everything melted, and Laika could pinpoint the places animals curled up to die in the snow.

Circuit boards flickered in his mind, and then three years passed.

Laika was in homeroom, foot tapping, ankle twisted around the metal leg of his desk, and hair spilling on his worksheet. The intercom which may have been older than his entire family line sputtered to life: “Laika Sternberg, to the office, please. Laika Sternberg.” Classmates stilled as he set down his chewed pencil, and sped out of the room.

His school was compact, with rusted brown lockers and scuffed floors. Laika theorized that there were asbestos in the walls. He stood in the office under an uncomfortably unclothed painting of Jesus Christ, while the receptionist snapped her gum. He tapped his feet, until Ms. Jones appeared in the doorway.

Laika let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding.

“Hi, Laika, how are you? Why don’t you come into my office.”

Ms. Jones was the head of the math department and rugby team. Her desk was crowded with toys, chewed pencils, and photos of bygone championships. Laika was familiar with her rotation of novelty math coffee cups with jokes that were too advanced for his level. She sipped from one now, pushing a candy dish towards him with a strong knuckle.

“Sorry about that,” she waved one finger towards the intercom. “We usually have pathway meetings for graduating students. When the teachers were going through our list, we found that you hadn’t attended yours.”

Ms. Jones showed no judgement. She never did. Maybe it was because she was the youngest teacher in the school, or because she had yet to find a husband. Either way, Laika often ate lunch in her office. It started at the beginning of high school when he got bullied, but it continued out of habit sometimes. This was quite generous, as the room was cramped enough that Ms. Jones’ shoulders would brush each wall.

“This was surprising to me,” she sipped, “You’re very bright, Laika.”

“I’m sorry,” Laika could feel himself tear up, hands bunching in his skirt.

“No, I know it can be intimidating. That’s why I scheduled it to be with me.”

Laika tried to imagine his future, but it was a vacuum. Surely, some terrible accident would happen between then and now.

“How’s tutoring going?”

“Good.” Ms. Jones had set up a joint program with the boy’s school in the neighboring town. She even drove him. Why she did any of this completely escaped him, but his parents would never let him go otherwise.

“Laika, consider applying to some post-secondary education.”

“I can’t.”

“Why not?”

Laika’s parents wouldn’t have it, so it was stupid to even consider. His future hit him all at once. Laika with a pale face like bled-out meat, hair white from the scorch of working in the sun. Weary hands and thin wrists. A husband who only sat at the table for dinner, and a blur of children stumbling down the stairs. A life constructed from a lifetime of explanations. It didn’t matter that the stars would die because Laika would die long before. Ever since he was born he was in the process of dying.

“You don’t have to stay here forever, Laika. You don’t owe it to anyone. But if you think that it’s the best choice, pursue it by all means.”

Laika closed his eyes and opened them to his dorm room.

“It’s getting far too late,” Laika said. Valerie rolled her eyes.

“And you’re going to leave me with half a story. You wouldn’t.”

“I can see the sun rising over the buildings.”

“I have nothing tomorrow.”

“Honours astrophysics is so very rigorous, Valerie. You’re setting up poor academic habits for yourself.”

“I want to hear more about your depressing fake husband and the million ways I’m better than him.”

“Not even worth talking about.” Laika laced his fingers loosely through Valerie’s, and in his mind, his hand tensed and gripped a manila envelope. He stood on his front porch, hands shaking so hard that they might’ve papercut a million times over. He tore off the top, already knowing what it meant. No matter the response, he could make a space for himself in this town. He would have to. This would not be worth changing everything. If Ms. Jones could come here, there had to be others. Tears pricked the corners of his eyes as he regarded the first sentence: Laika, we’re pleased to offer you a spot in our highly prestigious–

“Hey!”

His head snapped up to a red pickup truck sputtering exhaust in his driveway. Susie’s head popped out of the passenger side, arm waving wide. For a moment, Laika thought it was over, that she knew about the envelope. Then he saw that expression on her face. He tucked the letter under the doormat and ran down his driveway.

“How do you know where I live?”

The last time they had spoken was three years ago. Susie had on fake eyelashes and a country boy’s arm around her neck. Laika’s appearance changed in no discernable way.

“Oh, whatever,” Susie let a manicured hand hang from the side of the truck. “Have you heard what happened?”

“No.”

“Ms. Jones hasn’t told you?”
“It’s March break!”

Susie’s lips retracted in a cruel smile. Laika’s hair whipped like streamers in the wind as his hands balled into fists.

“She’s gone now,” Susie inspected her glittering pink nails, savoring each step of the gesture. “They fired her.”

“Stop lying to me.”

“You should read the paper, or go to church. You’d understand why.”

Laika bit the inside of his cheek.

“Ms. Jones is a man.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“You’ll see next time you go to school. They found that she changed her document to say female and came here where no one would know her. That’s what happened. She’s long gone now, Laika. I just thought it would be better to hear it from me instead of someone who didn’t care. I just hope she didn’t mess you up too bad.”

Laika wished he had told Susie to drop dead, or had cussed out his parents when he saw them next. He wished he had burnt down the church to carbonized rubble. Instead, he stood quietly and listened as the engine revved up and the truck disappeared down the country road. He walked up to his room, and silently began to pack his bags.

Laika stood in the train station on the outskirts of town. The platform was completely empty. The night breeze shuffled missing person papers and styrofoam cups containing the dregs of watery coffee. Remnants of breakneck morning shifts. In Laika’s hand, the ink of his map bled from his sweat. It was early enough in the morning that when anyone woke up, it would be far too late to catch up with him.

Blistering white light seared into Laika’s retinas as the train approached. He stepped on, and the doors sang shut. Laika did not look back at the platform. He imagined his father or mother standing there. Not even shouting for him to come back. Staring as if this was what they wanted, too.

A calm female voice called the name of the next stop. Laika looked back at a station he’d never been to before like it was the last remnants of home. He scrutinized the country stars once more, and the train accelerated. He imagined the room he slept in ever since he was a baby, with porcelain figures and the old testament on the deadwood table. Would his family sack it or keep it the same? He imagined the corners of his books jutting out in black garbage bags.

On Laika’s first night in the city, he saw the orange sun gleaming in the sky. He found a park and sat on the swings and cried then lay back on a bench to take a nap. He wondered where Ms. Jones went. Laika spent the month before university in and out of shelters. He held his breath the entire night, back facing the wall on the leftmost, lower bunk.

Laika did not like walking alone at night, but when he did he took out his phone and pretended to talk to someone.

“There has to be something after all of this. I don’t have any strong reasoning for it, but what would be the purpose of this otherwise? If I spent the rest of my life wrangling horses, or studying math, it wouldn’t matter in terms of the cosmos. But I feel like it does matter,” a car sped past the highway. There are no more stars here.

Laika was cutting his hair in the bathroom of the last shelter he’d have to stay in. Long colourless locks fell to the ground godlessly, like insubstantial pieces of string. That was that. Sever the thread.

At age twenty, Laika’s hair was slowly growing back. A collection of layers short and long. He had scruff on his chin and a tattoo on his bicep. A smile that came so easy and no more skirts.

“Valerie, what happens after all the stars die?”

She didn’t miss a beat, face shining, and hair fanning out on the pillow in gossamer pieces. “There are so many different interpretations. There’s one I like best, though. The cyclic model of the universe. Everything may end, then propel into existence once more. From entropy, there is order again. It would be an eternal series of oscillations, Laika. Isn’t it beautiful?”