Catch a Falling Star

by Meg McKinlay

  I almost am my five-year-old self. The years drop away suddenly like they were nothing. Like if I turned around, Dad would be right there, his hand on the lever, getting ready to fill the sky with stars.

  I press my thumb against my palm, feeling a bump where the sliver of wood broke off last night. “It isn’t safe in here, Newt. There are spiders and splinters and rusty nails and …”

  Memories. Even though I don’t say that, sometimes they feel like the most dangerous thing of all.

  “There’s even stuff about Skylab. There’s a picture here from years ago.” He holds up a page and squints at it. “I think this says ‘1973’. It’s a bit hard to read now because of the spider goop.” He frowns at me like I’m somehow to blame for saving his life. “I’ll try to clean it later.”

  “What do you mean ‘later’? I told you – you can’t be up here.”

  “I’ll take this stuff to my room then. I can look at it better there anyway.”

  There’s no point saying no. If I don’t let him take it, he’ll come back, which would probably be worse.

  Plus, it’s my fault he’s here in the first place. I’m the one who came up to do that psycho thing, who stood here peering inside, as if there was something worth seeing.

  If it wasn’t for me, Newt would be tucked up in bed fast asleep.

  It’s not like it matters anyway. It’s just Newt being Newtish. There’s a giant space thing falling from the sky and he’s found a secret stash of papers. Of course he wants to read them. Of course he does.

  It’s got nothing to do with Dad. Newt doesn’t know Skylab was meant to be their special thing. How could he? Memories are my problem, not his. And maybe in a strange sort of way, this is a good thing, a perfect thing.

  Because Newt never got to have Skylab before and now he does, just a little.

  Maybe the only things I need to protect him from are spiders and nails, a splinter or two.

  I work my thumbnail along the ridge in my palm and the sliver slips free, as easy as anything. When I hold my hand to the light I can hardly even see where it broke the skin. It’s the tiniest hole. It’ll heal in no time.

  Thirteen

  “No,” says Mrs Easton. “No, no, no.” That’s a lot of “no”s, but Dale deserves every single one.

  It’s Wednesday the following week. Our Storm Boy projects are due on Monday and Mrs Easton’s given us some class time to work on them.

  “To finish them off,” is what she actually said, but I think Kat’s the only one who’s even close to doing that.

  While we work, Mrs Easton’s been coming around asking what we’ve chosen for our relevant aspect. I was racing to come up with an idea – something that would sound impressive, even just for now – when she got to Dale and stopped dead.

  “Absolutely not,” she says, folding her arms.

  “Duck hunting is relevant!” Dale protests. “And I know heaps about it.”

  Mrs Easton turns and strides to the front of the room. “It seems that many of you are struggling with this project.” She picks up the blackboard duster. “Based on what I’ve seen, it’s clear some of you have a bit more thinking to do.”

  Her gaze sweeps the class, resting briefly on certain kids – Dale and Jeremy, Sharon, Marcus. Then she rubs out “11th JUNE” and writes “18th JUNE” in its place.

  “I’m giving you an extra week,” she says. “And that is absolutely final.”

  Next to me, Kat sighs. “She didn’t even look at mine.” She smooths a hand across her poster, which is spread out neatly on the desk in front of us. On the front, she’s drawn a big picture of Mr Percival. All around him are neatly ruled sections with fancy headings. The bubbles she’s drawn are kind of shiny and her feather writing somehow looks almost like actual feathers. I have to stop myself from reaching out and touching it.

  She hasn’t finished the back yet, but I know she’s got it all planned out.

  “Never mind,” I say. “That’ll make it a bigger surprise later.”

  She looks thoughtful, then nods slowly. “Maybe it’ll give me an even better chance of getting an A+!”

  “Yeah.” I close my notebook and tuck it away inside my desk. “I reckon.”

  ***

  After school I really try. I force myself to sit at the table, looking through Kat’s books and taking notes. I do it the next day too, and all weekend.

  Well, not all weekend. Most. A lot. Not counting the times I get up to hang the washing or check on Newt or make lunch, and then dinner, now Mum’s gone back to working late again. It was different for a few days, but then things went back to normal. I guess she only had a limited amount of sorry. I guess she ran out of knowing how much you do around here, love, don’t think I don’t see it.

  She’s busy. I know that. It’s work. And the truth is, the washing and the cooking and the Newt-ing aren’t the reason I can’t seem to get started.

  I don’t know what the reason is. I only know I don’t want to use any of these notes. I don’t want to use any of these books. I keep going back to Storm Boy, staring at the cover, picking it up, reading my favourite bits over and over again.

  The part where Mr Percival comes back.

  The part where Storm Boy runs across the dunes, calling.

  The part where they make the Lookout Mr Percival’s place forever.

  This book. Just this one. I can’t help thinking that everything that matters – everything that should matter – is right here.

  ***

  On Sunday night I’m chewing my pen at the table while Mum cleans up in the kitchen. The TV’s on but no one’s watching it. Mum made Newt change the channel as soon as she got home – from the doom and gloom news to Disneyland – so he put the antenna down after a few minutes and disappeared into his room.

  There was nothing about Skylab tonight, anyway. There hasn’t been for a few days. I suppose they need to take a break from saying, We have no idea what’s going on but don’t worry!

  Mum grabs a sponge and starts wiping the bench, sweeping crumbs from the baked beans on toast into her cupped hand. She glances at the abandoned TV and sighs. “Well, Newt’s certainly keeping himself busy, isn’t he?”

  I nod.

  “That antenna project was a great idea, love.” She tips the crumbs into the bin and squeezes the sponge out over the sink. “He doesn’t seem that taken with the radio. I thought it was what he wanted, but …”

  “It was,” I say. “It is. You know Newt. He likes to focus on one thing at a time.”

  As I hear myself say this, I wonder if that’s true right now. He’s working on the antenna but he’s following Skylab as well. Maybe Skylab doesn’t really count as a project, though. All he’s doing is reading about it, and if he doesn’t do that now, if he waits until he’s finished his Rudimentary Antenna Design, it will have landed, or arrived or re-entered or whatever it is they’re calling it.

  “You’re right.” Mum smiles as she comes over to wipe the table. “He’s just so … Newty, isn’t he?”

  “Newty?”

  “Isn’t that what you always say?”

  “Oh. You mean Newtish.”

  “That’s it! I knew it was something like that.”

  I pick up Storm Boy so she can wipe underneath it.

  “You’ve been reading that a lot lately,” she says. “For school, is it?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Any good?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What’s it about?” She gestures at the cover. “A pelican?”

  I hesitate. People are always asking that about books: What’s it about? It sounds like a simple question, but it isn’t. You could take all day to answer it if you really wanted to. And if the person asking the question really wanted to hear it.

  “Yeah,” I say finally. “It’s about a pelican.”

  ***

  A pelican, I think when Kat shows me her poster the next morning. She finished everything over the weekend. She seems to have made her bubble wri
ting even bubblier, if that’s possible, and she’s completely filled the back of the poster. There’s a big section on the life cycle of the pelican, with diagrams, and a smaller one called “Habits and Habitat”.

  “Alliteration,” she whispers. “Teachers love it. You can use that if you want.”

  I stare down at her anatomically correct pelicans. They look like the kind of drawings you find in books. “Thanks.”

  A shape looms over us from behind. Jeremy. “Is that your thing?” he asks. “Can I see?”

  Kat rolls her poster up quickly. “I’m handing it in.” She glances at the door to the classroom. The bell should be going any second.

  “I’m not going to copy you!” Jeremy says. “I’ve nearly finished too – see?”

  The bell goes as he opens the lid of his desk and pulls out a tattered sheet of cardboard. It’s a weird brown colour and for a second I wonder why he chose that instead of blue or green or plain white, but when he holds it up, I realise it’s because he’s used the back of a Weeties box. The brown makes it hard to read the orange and purple texta he’s used and I don’t think he did a draft first, because there are a bunch of cross-outs where he’s changed his mind about things. And a bunch of other things that probably should be crossed out. Under “Setting”, which he’s spelled with only one “t”, he’s written:

  Storm Boy lives on the beach and doesn’t wear shoes. He is a real ratbag weirdo. If I saw him I would give him a Chinese burn or put him in a headlock. Probably both.

  “Shouldn’t that be under ‘Character’?” Kat says. “What have you got for–”

  She leans forwards but Jeremy pulls the cardboard away and climbs up onto his desk.

  “Character,” he says loudly. “By Jeremy Ricardo.” Then he clears his throat, which is probably why he doesn’t hear Mrs Easton come in behind him.

  “Storm Boy loves a pelican,” he reads. “This doesn’t make any sense. Ferrets are much better. If it had to be a bird, I would choose an eagle. Also, what is Storm Boy’s actual name? How come the pelicans have names and Storm Boy doesn’t? Another thing that doesn’t make sense. In conclusion, this book does not have good characters. In conclusion, I rest my case.”

  “Down,” Mrs Easton says, in a low, dangerous-sounding voice. “Now.”

  While Jeremy scrambles, Kat walks quietly to the front and puts her poster on Mrs Easton’s desk.

  Mrs Easton somehow manages to smile at Kat and scowl at Jeremy at exactly the same time. She taps the blackboard. “Remember, this is absolutely finally due in one week. Some of you are going well and others … have a bit of work to do.”

  Jeremy tosses the cardboard into his desk and drops the lid loudly. “I don’t get the point of this anyway. Why can’t we do useful stuff?”

  “Yeah, like learning how to survive the nuclear winter,” Dale says. “And dodging massive space giants that fall from the sky.”

  Jeremy nods. “Hey, has Merv organised any sirens? In Belgium, they’re going to sound a thousand air-raid sirens to warn people. In Switzerland, they’re going to ring all the church bells. Hey, I could ring the school bell if you want. It’s a big responsibility but I’m up for it.”

  Mrs Easton sends Jeremy out to beat the dusters, even though Heather did it last thing Friday and no one’s used the blackboard since then. Then she writes some long division sums up and tells us to work in pairs.

  “I can’t believe people are worried about this,” Kat whispers while we add the six and carry the one. “Dad says someone called the council to ask about evacuation shelters.”

  “What did he say?”

  She shrugs. “What do you think? That NASA has everything under control.”

  “But that’s not really true, is it? I mean, if it was under control it wouldn’t be falling in the first place.”

  “Dad said they can correct it if it looks like it’s going to land somewhere populated.” She clicks the tab on her pen to switch colours. “It’s not like they’re going to let anyone get hurt, Frankie.”

  “But what if …”

  I don’t bother finishing my thought. Because as I look at Kat I realise something. That nothing bad has ever really happened to her. She doesn’t know things can change at any moment, that the bottom can drop out of the world. And that’s a good thing. Of course it is. I wish I didn’t know that, either.

  “What if what?”

  I press down hard and the lead in my pencil snaps. In a flash, Kat passes me her sharpener, and I take it. “Nothing,” I say. “You’re probably right.”

  Fourteen

  At home I jiggle the key and clean out Newt’s bag.

  I start the fire, then check the cupboards for baked beans.

  We’ve got three tins, plus two of spaghetti. We’re fine.

  I unzip my bag and tip everything out. Kat gave me the rest of the library books today and as they spread across the table, her words are in my head.

  It’s not like they’re going to let anyone get hurt, Frankie.

  That’s the thing. When nothing goes wrong, you think it never will. The future looks like a smooth road that will just unroll in front of you.

  You think you can make plans – to be a paediatrician or a teacher or an astronomer.

  You think all you have to do is decide where you want to go.

  Dad had plans. He was going to be home in a few days, with space souvenirs and stories to tell.

  I blink, something prickling at the corner of my eyes.

  I was angry when he left. I didn’t want him to go without me. So when he came into my room early in the morning to say goodbye, I pretended to be asleep. I didn’t roll over and give him a hug. I didn’t do anything.

  I think he knew I was awake. He stroked my head, leaned down and whispered in my ear. See you soon, short-for-nothing.

  Soon.

  I blink again and the room swims around me.

  When the phone rings, I’m glad. I know it’ll be Mum saying she’s going to be late again, but it’s something to do and I run to grab it.

  “Don’t worry.” I don’t even bother with “Hello”. “I’ll do beans for dinner.”

  “Um, what?” It’s Kat’s voice on the other end. “Frankie?”

  “Sorry.” I think quickly. “I was talking to Newt.”

  “Oh, okay. So listen, I know you’ve been stuck on your Storm Boy thing, and I had some ideas that might–”

  The door to Newt’s room flies open with a bang. He charges down the hall, his eyes widening when he sees me on the floor. He leaps over me like I’m a hurdle and runs past into the lounge room. The front door slams and I hear his feet crunch on the gravel. I stretch the curly phone cord as far as I can around the corner but I can’t see him.

  “Frankie?”

  “I’m here,” I say. “I–”

  “So I was thinking – if you go to that book on river systems, there’s a bunch of stuff about …” She pauses. “Can you hear me?”

  “Hang on,” I blurt. “I need to … hang on.”

  I drop the receiver and run outside.

  There’s no sign of him. And then I look up at the hill, tracing the path along the ridge to the Shack.

  “Newt!” I yell as I head up the slope. “Get out of there!”

  But there’s no answer and when I reach the Shack, I see why.

  He’s not there. I turn back towards the house. And I freeze.

  There’s a ladder leaning against the wall around the side, past the carport.

  Newt’s on the roof.

  ***

  I don’t yell.

  I don’t do anything that might startle him. I hurry to the edge of the house, to the bottom of the ladder.

  I make sure it’s steady and then I climb up.

  Newt’s wobbling across the roof with his arms outstretched. In one hand he’s holding a piece of wire – coathangers twisted into different angles, shining from the aluminium foil wrapped around them. He’s heading straight for the old antenna on the very
top.

  I hold my breath and bite my tongue. Dad let me up here with him once when he was painting the roof. He said it was safe as long as you stayed low and walked on the joins.

  Newt is not staying low. He is not walking on the joins.

  He makes it anyway. He sits down and I breathe a sigh of relief. Then he turns his head and sees me.

  He grins and holds up his coathanger contraption.

  “That was for inside!” I don’t know why I’m whispering, but I am.

  “We need one up here too. Just wait.” After some fiddling, he reaches up and attaches the coathanger to the top of the roof. “Hey, can you go and turn the TV on? I’ll move this and you yell out when the picture’s clear.”

  “I’m not going anywhere until you get down.” I stay on the ladder, my hands gripping the edge of the gutter.

  Newt bends the coathangers. Every now and then he looks out towards the hill as if he’s checking something, measuring.

  Every time he moves, my breath catches. Will this be the moment he stumbles? Which way will he fall? What will I do?

  I’m turning these thoughts over and over when I see a flash of purple out on the highway.

  It’s early for Mum, though. Maybe it’s someone else.

  But how many purple cars are there? How many that come this way, that turn slowly off the highway and down our road?

  “Newt!” My heart thumps like a hammer in my chest.

  “All right, I’m coming!”

  “Hurry up!”

  I shouldn’t have said that. He was fine until I did, scooting along on his bottom, actually staying low. But now he looks up and sees my face. And follows my gaze.

  “Is that …?”

  He loses his balance and suddenly he’s tumbling, pitching towards me.

  All I can do is hang on and brace myself.

  When he hits me, the top of the ladder bounces. I fling myself against it, pushing it back against the gutter. It wobbles, slides sideways for an awful second, then stops. Steadies.

  One of Newt’s feet is in my face. The other one is hanging off the edge. “Phew!” he says, like he’s had some kind of cartoon near-miss. “That was close.”