Set between the United States and México, Andrés N. Ordorica’s debut novel How We Named the Stars is a tender and lyrical exploration of belonging, grief, and first love―a love story for those so often written off the page.

How We Named the Stars
By Andrés N. Ordorica
Published by Saraband 

If you asked me, I’d tell you: Cetus, the sea monster—which would no doubt prompt questions charged with panic and intrigue. It’s not a pretty myth, but I’d explain how the Aztecs knew the constellation as Axólotl. Perhaps, being native to México, that pink salamander with its sweet face would be more reassuring to you. The truth is, both origin stories are dark—scary, even. In the Greek myth, Princess Andromeda was offered up as a sacrifice for the monster Cetus to devour in hopes this act might bring an end to Poseidon’s wrath. Xolotl, who inspired the lizard’s name, was god of fire and lightning, a guide for the souls of the dead into the underworld.  

If you asked me to explain why I chose this constellation to be yours—which of course you would, being you—I’d say that although darkness can be scary, it also can be profound. I’d say, Imagine a blacked-out room, completely void of light. Now imagine striking a match. Although the room is mostly dark, full of so much unknown, it’s also full of so much light. 

Even if you looked at me with a face that screams You’re certifiably insane, I’d say, See how inviting that single flame is, how brave it must be to burn brightly, even when alone in such darkness, even when it’s faced with such pain. 

I’d say, That’s you.  

You’d no doubt protest, call me dumb, tell me to be quiet, might even say, Please shut the fuck up. You’d make some argument about how you’re not bright enough to be a star, let alone luminescent enough to be a collection of them, enough to make up a whole constellation. But I’d counter this argument, pushing past your self-doubt. All my real feelings would pour out: you aren’t just a constellation, you’re a galaxy, a universe to me. But knowing you like I do, well, of course all this honesty would be too much. It would make you retreat, like a clam, and it would be a lot of work to get you to come back out of your shell. 

But no matter these imagined protestations, I still see you as the god of fire. When I look at you, watching you in all our quiet moments, an electricity runs through my body, a spark that only you can bring about. Around the fire, orange-red flames bouncing off your copper skin, I imagine you as a bearer of light: someone who deftly moves between shadow and revelation, navigates both darkness and truth, holding those dark black eyes of yours shut—your hands snaking through the midnight air, your body aligning with the beat of your favorite song playing softly from a speaker. All I want is to be near you.  

As the logs continue burning, smoke seeping into hair and clothes, I witness you at your brightest and fullest—the brightest and fullest you have ever been in the short time I’ve known you. Tonight, I want to tell you this. Tonight, I want to grab my camera, take a photo, and say, pointing to the screen, This is you. Can’t you see how I see you? But I fear that rousing you from this moment of joy, from the comfort enveloping you, might break the spell. Between the fire and drink scattered around our feet, there is enough to keep you warm, but still I long to hold you close—long to offer up some of my body’s heat. Perhaps it’s the drink allowing these thoughts to unfurl, or perhaps it’s something that’s been building for a while now. But I stay quiet all the same, letting the stillness of night take over, allowing you to dance freely under the October sky. 

As you continue dancing, I hold the six letters of your name close to my chest. Looking up at the firmament, at these gods of vengeance who produced all this beauty around us, I begin to pray for you. I don’t know who I’m praying to, but I pray you might remain in the light always, be this free, be this happy, that you might never know darkness. I then close my eyes, allow my body to sync with your movements, and whisper each letter, releasing them one by one into the night sky: 

D                            N                      E
                A                       I                        L 

You’re singing to yourself now, an almost mantra, and, I kid you not, I see lyrics buzzing around us like the letters I’ve let go of. Inching ever closer to your light, I join you. Together our movements grow more erratic, more urgent, as we move and shake with newfound purpose. Guided by something carnal, a yearning for truth and a desire to be our realest selves, the most honest versions. I will stay like this with you for a few more hours, dancing around this burning blaze just as man has done since the dawn of time. When he used to fall asleep under the stars, seeing them as nothing more than blank pages in which stories would unfold, in which myths and legends would be written. 

How We Named the Stars by Andres N Ordorica is published by Saraband in July, priced £10.99