Catch a Falling Star

by Meg McKinlay

  By the time Mum pulls in, we’re back inside, both breathing a bit hard, but not so she’ll notice.

  Newt’s got the TV on and is studying the picture. A couple of times, I catch him looking thoughtfully at the ceiling. First chance I get, I’m going to hide that ladder. Maybe I’ll chop it up for firewood just to be safe.

  ***

  It’s not until after dinner that I remember the phone.

  I run to the hall and scoop up the receiver, pressing it stupidly to my ear as if Kat might still be there, talking about wetlands and meteorology.

  Instead, it beeps at me, making that dead sound you get when the phone’s been off the hook for too long. I press the button down, holding it for a few seconds so I’ll get the dial tone back, so I can call Kat and explain.

  That’s what I’m about to do when I notice the photo album. It’s squeezed in with the cookbooks, instead of on the next shelf up, where it belongs. I must have put it back in the wrong spot when I ran to help Newt that day. I pull it out from between The Australian Women’s Weekly Cookbook and a spiral-bound menu planner, but then I wonder why I’m even bothering to move it when no one ever looks at it. When I’m not looking now, even though it’s right here in my hand because Mum’s home and what if she sees? Because it’s easier this way but we’ll definitely sit and do it one day, all together, don’t worry.

  Just not today.

  I slide the album back between the cookbooks and take my finger off the button on the phone. The dial tone beeps and I stare at the receiver. I should call Kat back and explain, say sorry.

  Only I can’t, not now. I can’t listen to her talk about bubble writing and alliteration and how I should decide what to do and then go ahead and do it.

  Like nothing could ever go wrong. I wonder what it would be like to believe that.

  I drop the receiver back onto the cradle. And then I go to my room and get out two things.

  Firstly, the photo. The one I slipped into my pocket while I was getting the cabinet off Newt, and then tucked under my pillow telling myself I’d put it back later – definitely, probably.

  Dad took much better photos that day, but he put this one up on the mantelpiece right next to them. He said life was full of mess and mistakes and there was no point trying to hide it.

  I set the photo on my desk where I can see it and then I get out the second thing – my copy of Storm Boy.

  I don’t open another book or take any notes. I don’t do any headings or sections.

  I just start writing.

  Storm Boy is about death, I write. It’s about life, too. And love.

  Once I get started, I can’t stop. Thoughts tumble out of me, one after another, as if they’ve been waiting behind a wall.

  Death is about both those things. It’s about life and love. If there was no death those things wouldn’t matter.

  I don’t know where it comes from but it feels strange and right at the same time, kind of like the book.

  Storm Boy isn’t about a pelican. It’s about losing something important, something that feels like a part of your heart. It’s about things falling from the sky while all you can do is watch. About not being able to save the thing you love no matter how fast you run, no matter how much you hope.

  Things That Fall From the Sky

  Rescue.

  I used to think that’s how it would happen, for Dad.

  He’d cling to driftwood or a life-preserver, then wash up on an island. He’d be tired and thirsty, but he’d be okay.

  He’d spell out HELP in stones and wait. He’d start a fire and wave his shirt and a rescue plane would spot him.

  Only they can’t land there. Maybe it’s too sandy or rocky. You need a runway for a plane, even a small one. You need a safe space for a helicopter, a landing spot.

  Maybe they have to send a boat for him. Maybe he has to wait a little longer.

  So what they do is fly low; they lean out the window and give him a big thumbs up saying, “It’s okay, mate! We’ve got you. We’ll be back!”

  Before they leave, they drop stuff for him, things he can use while he’s waiting – food and water, warm clothes, a tarp or a tent, all of it bundled up tight.

  It falls from the sky and it saves him.

  He’s rescued then. He’s safe and everything is going to be fine.

  That’s how I thought it would happen, for the longest time.

  Fifteen

  In the morning, I say sorry to Kat. I say sorry on the bus and during class and at play lunch.

  “I waited for ages,” she says. “You said to hang on.”

  “I know. It was because of Newt. I had to–”

  “Isn’t it always?”

  At least that’s what I think she says. It’s pouring today and it feels like the whole school is crammed into the shelter shed. Rain drums on the corrugated iron roof and a hundred voices bounce back and forth off the walls.

  I lean in towards her. “What?”

  “Never mind.” Kat presses her Vita-Weats together, pushing tiny worms of butter through the holes. “It’s fine.”

  “No, what were you–?”

  There’s a loud thump nearby. The shelter shed walls rattle like something’s slammed into them and the bench vibrates beneath us. Jeremy’s jumped up onto it and is standing in the corner.

  “Roll up, roll up!” he yells, like a circus ringmaster. “Get your very own Skylab Protective Helmet here!”

  “Only six available,” adds Dale. He passes something up to Jeremy, who puts it on his head. It’s a kind of bowl-shaped hat with a pointy spike on top.

  “Save your head!” Jeremy yells. “Save yourself.”

  A bunch of kids gather around, jostling and craning for a look.

  “This is a joke, right?” someone says.

  “No joke!” Jeremy taps the helmet. “They’re selling these in America. My uncle sent them over. Because he cares about my survival.”

  Dale nods. “Place a bid now if you want to live!”

  “Don’t rely on the SES,” Jeremy adds. “Merv hasn’t even organised any sirens.”

  Kat rolls her eyes and shuffles further down the bench.

  “As if it’s going to come anywhere near us!” someone scoffs.

  “Actually, you never know. There’s an orbit path right over Western Australia.”

  I know that voice. I peer into the crowd and see Newt’s fair head, there in the middle. Which is not at all Newtish. The only time he puts himself in a group is when he accidentally wanders through one on the way to somewhere else.

  “But you can’t protect yourself with a helmet,” he goes on. “Even if only a tiny piece hits you, the velocity would–”

  “Excuse me,” Jeremy booms. “These have been specially designed for Maximum Skylab Protective Power!”

  This time I’m the one who rolls my eyes. I’m turning away to follow Kat when Newt says something else.

  “Huge fragments of the American space laboratory will crash to Earth at speeds of up to 270 miles per hour, approximating the force of a dying meteor.”

  It’s not what he says, but the way he says it. As if he’s reading from something.

  I edge closer to the group.

  “With Skylab having seventy-one different orbit paths,” he goes on, “there is no way of being certain where debris will fall until the last couple of hours.”

  He is reading. From the newspaper, maybe? One of the articles he got from Kat’s place. It’s a bit weird for him to be carrying them around, though.

  “NASA advises that the best place to shelter is in a car, a house, or an apartment.”

  Nervous laughter ripples around me. “What about schools?” someone mutters. “Do they count?”

  I press forwards. At first I can only see flashes between people’s shoulders and elbows, then a gap opens and I realise Newt’s holding a notebook.

  A notebook? But this can’t be a project. He already has one. And anyway, there’s nothing to work out about Skylab.
There’s nothing anyone can do except wait.

  “What if we’re at school?” A thin, wobbly voice comes from my left. A little kid, I reckon. “What if we’re outside doing sport and–”

  “That’s exactly where your helmet comes in!” Jeremy reaches up to pat the pointy bit. “This important feature is the ‘Early Warning Spike’. If a chunk of Skylab hits it, you’ll get .00193 nanoseconds of warning, giving you plenty of time to jump out of the way.”

  “A nanosecond?” someone scoffs. “How long is that?”

  Newt sighs. “A billionth of a second.”

  “A billion seconds!” Jeremy yells. “That’s heaps. How many minutes is that, Dale?”

  “Heaps!”

  Newt shakes his head. “That isn’t what I–”

  “Listen, mate.” Jeremy stares down at him. “If you want to walk around bareheaded while an out-of-control space station crashes towards you, go for it.” He turns back to the crowd. “Anyone who actually wants to buy a genuine not-at-all-available-in-Australia Skylab Protective Helmet, come and talk to me.”

  “Some assembly required,” Dale adds quickly.

  Some assembly turns out to mean cutting and folding and sticky taping. The so-called helmets are made of cardboard. They come flat in a poster with dotted lines on it.

  I doubt there’ll be any takers but plenty of kids hang around for a look.

  I don’t. I’ve got no idea why Newt’s started a Skylab notebook but it’s not like it can hurt him. Unless you count paper cuts, which are pretty low on my list of Newtish things to worry about.

  I grab my stuff from the bench and go down to join Kat. As I flop down beside her, I grin. “Did you hear that?”

  “How could I? I’m all the way over here. And you’re all the way over there, watching Newt. Again.”

  This time there’s no mistaking what she says. It’s not only that Jeremy’s stopped yelling and the rain has eased a bit. It’s that when she speaks, she leans close and looks me right in the eye.

  “He’s my brother,” I say. “I have to–”

  “He’s eight. You don’t have to look after him every second.”

  “I … you know what he’s like.”

  Of course she does. Her place was practically our second home for years. If there’s anyone outside our family who knows Newt, it’s Kat and her mum.

  She almost scoffs. “He’s not a baby, Frankie.”

  “I know that. It’s just …” I take a deep breath. “I’m sorry about last night,” I say again. “I’m really, really sorry. I mean it.”

  “I know. You said. But it’s not only that. It’s the drive-in, and the last time you couldn’t come over. And the time before that and when you couldn’t come camping with us at the last minute and I had to play card games in a tent with Mum and Dad for five days.” She hesitates, like she’s making up her mind about something. “And whenever you can do something, he has to come too.”

  My mouth feels dry. Has she been thinking this the whole time? Is this a fight? It feels like it is.

  “It’s not that I don’t like him.” She glances down at the corner, where Newt’s trying to explain about something called terminal velocity. “I mean, how can you not like him? He’s so … Newtish. He shrunk a Samboy chip packet for me – chicken flavour and everything.” She sighs. “I just wish it could be the two of us sometimes, you know? You and me.”

  “Yeah,” I say. “Me too.”

  I don’t know if that’s the truth or not. It’s not something I’ve ever thought about, not something I’ve ever been able to think about. Newt’s just always there, on the edge of everything. He has to be.

  “You should come over sometime,” I say. “To my place.”

  “It’s all right.” Kat twists a piece of plastic wrap around her finger. “You don’t have to–”

  “You can sleep over too!” My heart’s pounding. I don’t know why I said that. Or maybe I do. Hopefully I can talk Mum into it.

  “Okay.” Kat nods slowly. “That’d be good.”

  “Newt won’t get in our way, I promise. He’ll hang out in his room.”

  When he’s not on the roof. Or in the Shack. Or …

  “It’s all right,” Kat says. “He doesn’t have to do that. I didn’t mean …”

  She smiles and I feel myself breathe out. We’re not fighting. It was like a storm that went through. Or a sun shower, one that’s over almost by the time you’ve noticed it’s raining.

  “I really am sorry about yesterday.”

  She bumps her shoulder against mine. “Yeah, I got that. It’s okay, really. It was just this idea I had about Storm Boy.”

  I bump her right back. “Oh, guess what? I did it last night.”

  “Which bit? Do you mean the setting, because that’s what I–”

  “The whole thing. I’ve finished.”

  “Finished? I thought you were stuck.”

  “I was. And then I wasn’t. So I did it. Actually, what you said really helped me.”

  It’s true, just probably not how she thinks. It’s like all that thinking about what I didn’t want to do eventually made me realise what I did.

  “Wow. That’s great. Did you bring it? I can have a look at lunchtime if you want.”

  Usually, I show things like this to Kat. Even when I think I’ve finished something, she sees stuff I’ve missed. She helps me fix the headings, adds a few quick texta strokes that make everything look somehow neater or fancier.

  She likes doing it and I like having it done.

  But something about this is different. This morning, when I thought about her seeing what I did last night, I felt strange. Nervous. That’s why I waited until she went to the toilet, then grabbed it from my bag and handed it in.

  “Oh,” she says when I tell her now. “Well, I’m glad you got it done.”

  “Yeah. All I have to do now is Fantastic Futures.”

  Kat nods. “At least you know you’re safe on Friday.”

  “Yeah.” We’re not doing it this week because Mrs Easton decided to give us more class time to finish off Storm Boy. And I’ve been lucky the last couple of weeks. My blinking technique seems to be working so far. We’ve had farmers and teachers and a vet, because I like animals and because last year my dog got bitten by a snake, but Mrs Easton hasn’t looked like choosing me once.

  “So, when do you want me to come over?” Kat asks.

  “Not sure. I’ll have to check with Mum.”

  “Okay.” She grins. “Can’t wait.”

  “Me neither.”

  Sixteen

  We have to, though.

  Wait, I mean.

  Because when I ask Mum if Kat can sleep over, Mum says, “Yes, what a great idea!” but then frowns. “I’m just not sure when.”

  It’s because of work, of course. She wants to make sure she’s here and not running late. And I want that too, so when she says weekends are too hard at the moment and it’ll probably have to be a Thursday or maybe a Wednesday but she can’t be sure until the new roster comes out, I say fine.

  Luckily, Kat’s fine with it too. When I explain, she shrugs. “No hurry. Mum said I can come any time. You know what she’s like.”

  When I tell her it probably can’t be a weekend, she shrugs again. “Doesn’t matter. We’ll still have plenty of time.”

  It’s true. Mum will let us stay up late and watch TV anyway. I’ll make sure the picture’s clear. I’ll get all the coathangers out of my cupboard if I have to. Or we can play games. There’s a shelf in the hall cupboard that’s full of them. We’ve got Yahtzee and Uno and Twister.

  No, not Twister. We won’t play that because it needs three people. And we’re going to be two. Newt can do his own thing, with his antenna and his Skylab notebook and whatever other things he’s decided to work on even if there are three or four and it’s completely unfocused in a not-at-all Newtish way because it’s not like it matters, does it? For one night I’m not going to worry about him at all.

 
; ***

  One day after school I decide to get the games out. It’s ages since we’ve played them. I’d better read up on the rules, make sure we still have all the pieces.

  I go down the hall and scrabble around in the cupboard. It’s a bit of a mess, with big things piled on small things, threatening to topple at any moment. The games are on the top shelf, right at the very back. To reach the Yahtzee box, I have to balance on the bottom shelf and stretch one arm up and out as far as it will go.

  Somehow I manage to do it without knocking anything else over. I half-turn and am stepping down onto the carpet, when something moves near my foot. I can’t see it clearly at first but the way it’s crawling makes me draw back. And then I realise what it is – a redback spider coming from the direction of Newt’s room.

  My feet are bare because I took my muddy shoes off at the door. I can’t step on it but I don’t want it to get away, to disappear somewhere into the cracks of the house. So I do the only thing I can – I swing my arm down and squish it with a corner of the box.

  The word “Yahtzee” now has a disgusting smear across it and so does part of the carpet. I’ll deal with that later. Now, I grab the bug spray and go to Newt’s room. I knock then turn the knob without waiting for a reply.

  “Hey!” As the door opens, he looks up from his desk. “You don’t have official advance notice! You can’t–”

  “There are spiders in here.” I step inside. “We have to …”

  Suddenly all I can do is stare. I’m a cartoon character, my jaw dropped wide open.

  Newt’s room is like a scene from one of those TV cop shows, where the maverick detective gets obsessed with a case and sticks things all over the walls, trying to piece together the mystery.

  There are diagrams of Skylab and the solar system. There are star charts and maps of the Earth’s surface, with curved lines circling and crisscrossing each other. Some of it is stuff from the Shack and some of it is newer, things Newt’s drawn himself. There are pages of facts and figures written out in his careful handwriting.

  “Newt, what is all this? What are you doing?”