"Luminous, heartfelt, and deeply captivating, Elana Segal's novel, Even the Darkness Has Stars, is a moving celebration of mental resilience and hope. Segal's debut novel is a must-read for anyone who has ever needed a reminder that they aren't alone."
Steven Barwin—author of No Known Address

"By turns disturbing, darkly humourous and just plain fun, Even the Darkness Has Stars captures teenage desperation beautifully. As she stares down the barrel of her fifteenth birthday, heroine Margot Mason navigates loss, loneliness and the dubious solace of self-harm. You’ll be rooting for her from page one."
Alissa York—author of Far Cry

 

When quirky teenager Margot Mason learns her best friend is moving away, she’s devastated. Then her mother unexpectedly leaves the family, and high school turns out to be filled with some of the meanest kids on the planet.

It’s all too much.

Desperate to escape the hurt, Margot finds a way to block out the pain. But even that can’t stop her world from unraveling. Soon, staying in bed feels easier than facing any of it.

Worried about his daughter, Margot’s father books her an appointment with a therapist. Margot is less than thrilled. After all, how is talking to a complete stranger supposed to fix anything when her life just keeps getting more and more messed up?

But Margot may be about to discover that getting better doesn’t mean fixing everything around her. Sometimes, it starts with finding a way through.

14+ due to adult situations, drugs, self-harm

Excerpt:

I knew Rosie would ask me for details about Mom sooner or later, so it’s not exactly a shocker that she’s bringing it up in our therapy session today. She’s sitting patiently on her leather chair, watching me, as she often seems to do. I’ve gotten used to it, but still, sometimes I feel like Rosie’s looking at me under a microscope.

Right now, we’re dissecting my relationship with Mom. The truth is that I’m both furious with her and I also miss her a lot, especially at times like today, after school. I watched other kids’ moms pull up, lean over to kiss them, and drive off to activities like tennis, hockey practice, or music lessons. Life’s so easy for them, but I’m a ghost, hollow and alone.

“It’s been over two months since she left. She barely calls me,” I tell Rosie.

It’s weird to be so open, but I’m surprising myself by actually wanting to talk today, so I go with it. Is therapy growing on me?

“When she left, she said we’d see each other at winter break. I couldn’t believe it, but with Vancouver being far away, it was too expensive to see her sooner. But now I can’t see her until March. That’s crazy, right? There are these little reminders of her everywhere, and I mean, she’s not dead, but it almost feels like she is sometimes. She used this hand cream every night after she’d washed the dinner dishes. She’d keep it on the windowsill next to the kitchen sink. It smells like roses. I found some in a drawer last night and put it on and—”

My eyes are wet. Rosie is nodding her head, listening to the things I have not said out loud before.

“I know these are very hard things to talk about. Take your time to tell me whatever you feel ready to tell.”

I bury my head in my hands, rubbing my forehead back and forth with my fingers, and then words and emotions spill out of me like marbles spilling across the floor. I tell Rosie about the day Mom left and the phone call we had last week. I’m crying and snotting, but Rosie doesn’t flinch. She just passes me a box of tissues.

 “I don’t understand how she could have left? I’m her child. Who does that?”

Rosie reaches out her hand and gives my wrist a squeeze to show me that she’s with me.

“You have every right to feel angry. And to be confused. I’m glad you shared all that with me.”

Rosie pauses. I blow my nose loudly, and it comes out like a big honk, which is embarrassing, but Rosie pretends not to notice.

“Can I ask you something? When we met, you told me your mom left because she went to live with someone in Vancouver. I wonder, did you know your parents were unhappy with each other?”

I shut my eyes tightly. Sure, I knew. I knew too much. Last year, when my parents thought I was asleep, I would overhear them arguing. They didn’t yell or anything. It wasn’t like that. Usually, it would be Mom telling Dad about how she was mad at him for not communicating or showing he cared about her. He wouldn’t say much in his typical Fred way.

He’d reply, “Sue, I am who I am.” It would end with her crying and him pouring himself a drink. I could hear the clinking of the scotch bottle on the glass. That was the signal to her that he was done talking. Then, in the morning, if I was up first, I would go down to get Bozo’s food ready, and I’d find her asleep on the couch still in her clothes, wrapped in a blanket. I’d sneak back up so she wouldn’t know I saw her there. I tell Rosie all of this.

“I see. Did you ever let your mom or dad know that you’d overheard them?”

“My parents? Never.”

“Hmm, that sounds like big information to carry around all on your own. It all sounds like your mom was pretty unhappy.”

“She was unhappy? Too bad! I’m her kid. What about my happiness? What about me?”

Doesn’t Rosie get it? I feel like I’m sitting in one of those giant glass cubes full of water where the water keeps getting higher and higher until it reaches the person’s face, and the person is about to drown. Everything inside me becomes unsettled. Does no one understand?