Wish on All the Stars

by Lisa Schroeder

  “Oh, sweetie,” Mom said as she put her arm around me.

  “What if I help pay for it?” I asked, leaning into her. “Maybe I can raise the prices on my artwork. If I gave them a couple hundred dollars, would that feed him for a year?”

  She turned a little so she was facing me. Then she put her hand on my leg and said, “Juliet, I know you really want to help them. And I love that you have such a big heart. But I’ve been thinking about it, and it’s not just about the money. You really shouldn’t go against their mother’s wishes. Having a pet is like adding another member of the family, and she probably doesn’t feel like she can take that on right now.”

  “But I want to do something,” I said, my voice shaking. “Carmen is working hard to save the bookmobile, but what about her and her family? Who’s going to save them, Mom?”

  And when Mom’s eyes filled with tears, I couldn’t keep mine in anymore. We sat there and held each other and I cried. Because sometimes? Sometimes you just need to sit with your mom and cry.

  After she got me the box of tissues and my sniffling had gone from ridiculous to only slightly annoying, Mom sat next to me and lovingly tucked my hair behind my ears. “I know it hurts to see your friend hurting,” she said. “And maybe you can’t take that away completely, but you are helping her by being her friend. I want you to know that and believe it.”

  “What if I want to do more?” I asked.

  “Then we need to think about that and see what we can come up with,” Mom said. “If this is something you feel strongly about, maybe you need to share your feelings with people who make the laws.”

  “Could I write a letter to someone?” I asked.

  “Absolutely,” Mom said. “You could write to our state senator. You could also write to the editor of the newspaper. They print letters from concerned citizens once a week and that can be a very powerful thing, to have your opinion read by thousands of people.”

  “Except when we wrote letters to Mr. Strickland at the grocery store, they didn’t do any good. I mean, he didn’t change his mind or anything.”

  “Maybe not,” Mom said, “but you know what? You tried. And that counts for something. If no one tries to change things, guess what happens?”

  “Nothing?” I asked.

  “That’s exactly right,” she said. “Absolutely nothing. Think about baseball players going up to bat. They strike out sometimes. That’s part of the game. But one strikeout doesn’t mean they should never try to hit a ball again. Because the next one? The next one could be a home run. You just never know.”

  “Wow,” I said. “I never thought about it like that.” I stood up. “Okay, I have a lot to do, then. On top of writing letters, I still have five more pieces I want to paint, and the arts and crafts fair is in four days.”

  “How are you doing on supplies?” Mom asked. “Anything I can get you?”

  “You know, I’m worried about how I’m going to display everything,” I told her. “Ms. Strickland said every booth will come with a table, but anything else you want, you have to bring yourself.”

  “Let me see if I can find some easels,” Mom said. “I think that’s what you need. You probably won’t be able to display all the paintings at one time, but maybe you do six or seven and, when you sell one, you replace it with a new one.” She looked around. “Where are you storing all the ones you’ve finished, anyway?”

  “In my closet,” I said. “Stacked on the floor.”

  “I’m proud of you, Juju Bean,” she said. “You’re doing a good thing. Many good things, actually.”

  “Thanks,” I said as I headed to the kitchen to get a brownie and a glass of milk before I went to my room. I was already writing a letter in my head. I checked the time. It was just after seven. I had a little bit of homework to do and then I’d write a letter and paint a picture.

  My phone buzzed in my pocket. I pulled it out as I munched on my brownie, and found a picture from Emma. It was Jack, sleeping in his new dog bed, a fuzzy yellow blanket wrapped around him so all that was sticking out was his head.

  She wrote: A whole new world! (Imagine me singing the song from “Aladdin.”)

  I wrote back: A whole new world in a happy home with so many people to love him. Lucky dog!

  She responded with a bunch of heart emojis and little doggy faces and footprints.

  I sent her a photo of Casper I had taken last week and wrote: Tell Jack that Casper says hi and welcome to the neighborhood. He’d bake him some dog biscuits but he’s worn himself out from sleeping all day.

  She replied: Want me to bring him over sometime so they can become friends? Jack might love cats, you never know.

  Yes, or he might love to eat them, Emma. Not really sure I want to find out which one it is.

  This time she responded with a row of cat and dog emojis and said: Think positively, Juliet! Maybe they’d become the best of friends and we could create a YouTube channel about Jack and Casper and everyone would tune in to see the cutest dog and the cutest cat being adorable together. We could make millions!

  How does Emma even do that? I want a brain like that.

  Dear Editor,

  I think it’s sad that some people in our community are scared of being deported. They have families and they’re working hard to give them the best life they can. If they aren’t doing anything wrong, why should they be sent away?

  I know a kid who is scared every day that her mother is going to be sent back to Guatemala, leaving her and her little brother all alone. I asked her why her parents came to America and she said they wanted to escape the horrible gang violence that was happening in their country. They just wanted to make a better life for themselves.

  My friend loves helping other people. I look up to her so much. She’s the kind of person who makes America a better place. Maybe people who are scared of immigrants need to actually get to know some of them. They’re just regular people who love their families and want to be happy. That’s all.

  Signed,

  Juliet Kelley

  San Diego, CA

  Somehow, I did it. I finished the paintings. Every time my brain tried to tell me there was no point to any of it, I told it to be quiet and go sit in the corner because I had decided I was going to do it. And then I would paint a picture and pretend it was for my friends, who seemed to love everything I made.

  Brains like to play tricks on us, I think. So maybe the best thing is to play a trick right back. If my brain thought I was painting a picture for someone who would love it no matter what, it was a lot easier to get it done.

  Still, when I woke up the day of the arts and crafts fair and thought about walking into the senior center with my artwork, it felt like someone had twisted my intestines into a pretzel.

  My twenty-five paintings were boxed up and ready to go. Mom had found a bright blue tablecloth along with some little easels online and had ordered them for me. I’d made a sign that said each painting cost fifteen dollars. I had planned on asking for ten, but Miranda said I could easily ask for more. Since I wanted to raise as much money as possible to help the Buttons, I’d decided to increase the price. It seemed like there wasn’t anything else to do. I was ready. Except I didn’t feel ready. I felt nervous and afraid.

  I remembered what Miranda had said. I needed to talk to myself like I’d talk to a friend.

  You can do this, Juliet. People will love your paintings. And for every one you sell, you are helping your friends, Mr. and Mrs. Button. That’s the important thing.

  You can do this.

  You can do this.

  You can do this.

  Then I crossed my fingers, closed my eyes, and silently made a wish. Please, let people love my work. Let me sell my paintings and make lots of money for the bookmobile.

  There was a knock at my door. I sat up. “Come in.”

  “Juliet,” Mom said, waving a newspaper around, “they ran your letter in the paper this morning!”

  “No way,” I said.


  Mom put the folded paper in front of me, so I picked it up and started reading. Mine was one of four letters they’d printed, and they’d put mine first. “Wow” was all I could manage.

  “It’s really good,” Mom said. “So proud of you. Now get up and hop in the shower. It’s your big day and we want to make sure you have lots of time to get your table ready.”

  You can do this, I told myself again.

  But what if I really couldn’t?

  I decided to take a bath instead of a shower. I thought it might help me relax. I stayed in the tub so long, I wondered if I might magically turn into a mermaid. As I dreamt of swimming in the ocean with my sparkly mermaid tail splashing behind me, Miranda knocked on the door and yelled, “Juliet, are you okay in there?”

  I reluctantly got out, threw the towel around me, and opened the door.

  “I don’t know if I can do this,” I told her. So much for the positive self-talk.

  “Juliet, stop with the drama,” she said. “It’s going to be fine. Please, just get dressed. Mom’s making omelets and then you need to go.”

  As she walked away, I called out, “I’ll remember your extremely helpful pep talk next weekend when you have your lifeguard tryouts!”

  After I put on a gray skirt with a yellow-and-gray floral shirt, I checked my phone and found I had a text from Emma. All she said was “The big day is here!” with a bunch of clapping emojis. Well, at least someone was excited.

  I ate a few bites of my omelet, but that’s all I could manage. After we finished, Mom and I packed up the car and headed out.

  “It’s so nice that the senior center is donating the space for this,” Mom said. “How are you girls collecting donations for the bookmobile?”

  “Emma’s in charge of that,” I said, looking out the window. “I think her mom was going to help draft a little note to everyone about the bookmobile and then at the end of the day, they’ll go around with a box and collect donations.”

  “Hm. I wonder if you should have made the donation mandatory in order for people to participate in the fair,” Mom said. “I worry …”

  Her voice trailed off. “What?” I asked.

  She reached over and patted my leg, smiling as she did. “Never mind. I’m sure it’ll be fine. People love to help other people, right? Yes. It’ll be fine.”

  “I hope so,” I said. “Otherwise all this will have been for nothing. Oh, Mom, I just remembered I wanted to ask—did Dad tell you he’s coming?”

  “Yes, he did.”

  “Are you okay with it?”

  “Absolutely. I’m happy he wants to support you. That’s what parents are supposed to do.”

  “It won’t be, like, awkward for you?”

  “I don’t think so. But even if it is, that shouldn’t be your concern, Juliet. We’re adults and we’ll handle it. My main priority, and your dad’s, too, is that you and Miranda feel loved and supported. And I think both of us are committed to doing whatever is required to make that happen. I think he’s going to come for Miranda’s lifeguard tryouts next week as well.”

  I wondered if she felt bad that he had to drive so far to see us. But I decided not to ask. It wouldn’t do any good, and anyway, I did like it here. More than I’d thought I would.

  When we got to the senior center, Mom dropped me off at the door and then went to look for a place to park. I carried the box with the tablecloth and easels so I could start getting my spot ready. There were signs pointing the way to the recreation room, where the fair was being held. A smiling Emma holding a stack of papers greeted me when I reached the large set of double doors to the rec room.

  “You’re here!” she said. She stood up straight and smiled as she said, “Thank you for being a part of our arts and crafts fair. We’re doing this to raise money to save the bookmobile, and a donation in any amount is appreciated. I’ll be coming by later with a donation box. In the meantime, I hope you have a wonderful and successful day. Would you like a flyer that tells you more about the bookmobile and why we believe it’s an important part of our community that deserves to stay?”

  I laughed. “No, I’m good, thanks. And wow, you’ve got that down. Nice.”

  “Thanks,” she said, her cheeks turning a little pink. “I’ve been practicing a lot. Hey, Carmen’s already in there. Your table is a few down from hers.”

  “I’m so glad she decided to sell her mom’s jewelry,” I said.

  “Me, too,” Emma said. “You are both doing a big, scary thing, and I’m so proud of you.”

  “If I don’t sell anything, promise not to laugh at me?” I asked her.

  Her mouth dropped open. “You know I’d never do that. And you’re going to sell them. I promise you, I’m right about this.”

  I took a deep breath. “Well, I guess we’re about to find out.”

  I started to walk in when Emma called back, “Oh! I almost forgot. I saw your letter to the editor this morning in the paper. It’s so cool you did that.”

  I gave her a puzzled look. “You read the paper?”

  “No, but Lance does and he saw it and told me about it.”

  “I was so upset I couldn’t get Carmen and Oscar a cat,” I explained. “My mom said I should I do some other things that might help get the laws changed or whatever.”

  “Yeah, I get it. I brought the paper in for Carmen to read. I bet it’ll mean a lot to her to see how much you want to help her.”

  Just then my mom walked up carrying one of the boxes with my paintings in it. She smiled at Emma and told her good morning before she said to me, “You’re not stalling, are you, honey? Let’s get in there and get this party started.”

  “Okay, okay,” I said.

  We found our table and Mom immediately got to work spreading the blue tablecloth out and setting up the easels. I went over to Carmen’s table, where she had necklaces and bracelets laid out. She’d made a handmade sign, just like I had, with the prices. A bracelet was four dollars and a necklace cost seven.

  I picked one up and couldn’t believe how much it looked like real beads. “These are so beautiful,” I told her.

  “Thanks,” she muttered.

  I set the jewelry down and looked at her. “Carmen? Is everything okay?”

  She shook her head and stared at me. “Why’d you do that, Juliet?”

  “Do what?”

  “Why’d you write that letter?”

  “I was … I was trying to help. I wanted people to know—”

  “Juliet,” Mom called. “I need you to come and choose the paintings you want to display first, please.”

  But I didn’t want to go. Was Carmen mad? Worried? Both? What was it—what was going on?

  “Juliet?” Mom said again.

  “Coming,” I said.

  Instead of dipping my toes into a puddle of worry, it now felt like I’d just jumped into a giant pit of anxiety.

  Things I try when I’m feeling anxious

  *    Deep breaths

  *    Painting

  *    Reading a good book

  *    More deep breaths

  *    Soft music

  *    Going for a walk

  *    Taking a nap

  *    Baking something with my sister

  (Sitting in a big room with people walking by, judging my art? Not so much.)

  Looking around my table, I could see some of the other things being sold. Knitted items like baby blankets and hats. Some pottery. Homemade soap. Candles. Jewelry. Photography. And art, though mine was a lot simpler than the others. I didn’t know if that was a good thing or a bad thing.

  When the doors opened, a wave of people streamed in. I don’t know why it surprised me, but it did. Ms. Strickland had obviously done a really good job getting the word out.

  A girl I recognized from school walked up to my table with her mom. “Oh wow, I love your owls,” the girl said.

  “Thanks,” I said. “I love your hijab. It’s beaut
iful.” It was a gorgeous emerald green.

  “Thank you,” she said as she stared at an owl I’d painted teal and purple.

  “We go to the same school,” I told her. “I’m pretty new, so you probably don’t recognize me. My name’s Juliet.”

  She smiled. “I’m Nayah.” When she pulled a twenty-dollar bill out of her pants pocket, I thought I might cry. “I’d like to buy this one, please. I know exactly where I’m going to put it in my room.”

  I took her money and gave her change from a cash box I’d brought with me, and then I wrapped the painting for her.

  “Thank you,” she said as I handed it to her. “I really love it.”

  Hearing her say that was the best feeling. And it showed that my brain had been lying to me about no one wanting my stuff. Thank goodness I had figured out how to turn the negative voices off.

  “Good,” I said. “I’m glad.” More than glad, really. Ecstatic.

  As she left, more people walked up, including my dad. He came around to my side of the table and gave me a quick hug. “I’ll be back when things slow down a bit,” he told me. “Your paintings are incredible, Juliet. Really.”

  “Thanks for coming,” I said. “Hey, can you go buy something from my friend Carmen?” I pointed in the direction of her table. “She’s the one selling the beaded necklaces.”

  “Sure,” he said. “Should I pick something out for you and your sister?”

  “I’d love that, thanks!”

  An elderly lady bought one of my cat paintings because it reminded her of one she’d had as a child. And I sold two night sky pictures to a pregnant woman who told me she planned on hanging them in the nursery.

  My nervousness about selling my work faded fast, but worry didn’t disappear completely because I couldn’t stop thinking about Carmen. I hadn’t mentioned her name in my letter to the editor, so I thought she’d be okay with it. I never would have written the letter if I’d known it would upset her. And maybe that’s why she was mad. I probably should have asked her if she’d mind.

  Once it slowed down, I took a quick break to text Emma, telling her Carmen was upset with me and I didn’t know what to do. Before I finished, I heard, “Hello, Juliet.” I looked up and saw Mrs. Button.