Catch a Falling Star

by Meg McKinlay

  That girl in the hospital had a broken bone. That’s easy to see, to feel sorry for, to try to fix. But what if something’s broken here too and you just can’t see it?

  I blink and turn around, leaning in towards the wall by the door.

  There are more articles here now – not a lot but a couple.

  There are the usual updates – Between July 10 and 20! Between July 10 and 18! – but I’ve already seen those on the news. And there are other sorts of predictions, full of excitement, about what Skylab’s going to look like once it re-enters the atmosphere.

  Skylab to Light up Sky!

  Like fireworks, I think. Or a festival.

  If it takes place at night, the re-entry could make a spectacular sight. It would be well worth staying up for.

  Like a movie, maybe. Like the drive-in. BOOM! Skylab!

  Pieces could sprinkle right across the sky.

  Like icing sugar on cupcakes – so delicate and lovely.

  I wonder if it’ll be like any of those things. They can say whatever they want, but no one really knows what’s coming. No one’s ever seen anything like this before.

  I turn to go and my toe catches on something. There’s a pile of papers on the floor, a book sitting on top. It’s the one Newt got from the library. I bend down and pick it up. There’s a scrap of paper in the middle, bookmarking a page, and when I open it, there’s the story Newt asked about, the one about the bears.

  I sit down in the wedge of hall light by the door, and read. And as I do it comes back to me – the story of a girl named Callisto who was turned into a bear by an angry goddess.

  I can almost hear my own voice reading this to Newt. I can’t believe I’d forgotten it.

  Even before I read the rest, I know what’s coming. How later the girl-bear was shot with an arrow, and saved narrowly from death by being plucked into the heavens and set among the stars. According to the legend, that’s how Ursa Major – the Great Bear constellation – was formed.

  It’s funny to think that people really believed this once, that it wasn’t just a story they told. We have science now, so we know better, but sometimes I wish I could believe in those stories too. There’s something almost magical about them that makes the world feel bigger.

  Newt snuffles in his sleep and I’m glad he doesn’t know what I’m thinking. He’d call me ridiculous, or worse.

  I put the paper back in place and am about to close the book when I realise something. This isn’t a random scrap of paper. It’s a newspaper article, snipped carefully from its page.

  The Mystery of the Missing Plane.

  It’s that weird article again, the one I saw on Newt’s wall that afternoon.

  He’s taken it down, slipped it into this book. But why? Even if he couldn’t find a bookmark, there’s plenty of scrap paper lying around.

  I hold the page up to the light and start to read. I read the whole thing this time, and the further I go, the weirder it gets.

  It turns out that the pilot who disappeared without a trace is actually safe and sound. At least according to some psychics in New Zealand who made contact with him during a seance. He told them he’s living with beings from the Great Bear constellation and will return to Earth by the end of this year.

  My first impulse is to laugh, but something stops me – a strange feeling crawling under my skin.

  I look from the article to the book to the crazy cop-show mess on the walls. Newt mutters in his sleep and his voice is in my head, asking if I know what time Dad’s plane took off. And then I hear myself, shutting him down, telling him he doesn’t need to know that.

  I see myself walking away.

  And he’s got no one to talk to then, so all he can do is come back to his room where he’s working stuff out – Skylab stuff and Dad stuff and mythical, magical stories about people being rescued by the gods at the last minute. Being safe and sound – not dead and gone forever but just somewhere else, in the heavens.

  Oh. No.

  It’s like that moment in a jigsaw puzzle when a piece snaps into place and everything starts to make sense. The things that looked like nothing before are suddenly something, small parts of a greater whole.

  This isn’t sense, though. It’s the opposite of sense.

  The paper’s in my hand and my hand is shaking.

  The weird and wonderful news. Dad would have loved it. He would have roared with laughter, and I would have too.

  But I’m not laughing now.

  Things That Fall From the Sky

  Nothing, if they get beamed up by a UFO.

  No one, if the gods decide to save them in the nick of time.

  If they are absolutely fine, living in the Great Bear constellation, in the stars.

  Nothing and no one.

  If if if …

  A plane goes up and Skylab goes over. A man disappears without a trace.

  Until …

  If …

  You can actually live there, Frankie. Did you know that?

  Did you?

  A small boy’s birthday present starts falling back to earth.

  Oh, Newt.

  You don’t really believe it, do you?

  Twenty-one

  Of course he doesn’t.

  There’s no way Newt could think that, not even for a second.

  That Dad’s up there somewhere, in the stars.

  That when Skylab comes back … what?

  That he’s coming back too?

  Even inside my head, it sounds ridiculous. Newt is science. He’s logic and reason.

  He’s Did you know people used to believe thunder meant the gods were angry?

  And Actually it’s caused by the sudden expansion of air.

  There’s some other way this makes sense. There has to be. I’m just not seeing it, that’s all.

  Maybe if I’d listened to him the other day. If I’d talked to him.

  Maybe if I talk to him now.

  I wait for my moment. I don’t interrupt him in his room. I don’t chase him up the driveway.

  The right time will come, I tell myself.

  A few days later, it does.

  It’s Tuesday night and Newt and I are having dinner in front of the news. Mum’s doing a double shift, so it’s just the two of us. As soon as Orange-Tie Man starts talking about Skylab, Newt abandons what’s left of his baked beans and grabs his notebook.

  Orange-Tie Man tells us NASA’s predictions now have Skylab coming down between July 11 and 16. Almost certainly, he says, which is a definite improvement on probably and maybe and most likely. Which sounds like someone might possibly know what they’re talking about.

  Newt flips the notebook open and writes something down, then underlines it.

  “Once more, we stress that the risk of being struck by debris is extremely small.”

  Newt nods, as if they’re having a personal conversation. “Six hundred billion to one, actually.”

  “Nonetheless,” Orange-Tie Man goes on, “those wishing to shelter are advised that even large pieces of debris should not penetrate more than one roof and a concrete ceiling.”

  Should not? Without meaning to, I look up. From the floor in front of the TV, Newt does the same. “Did you know,” he says, “that in 1954 a meteorite crashed right into someone’s lounge room? A woman was asleep on her couch and it hit her on the leg.”

  I glance up at the ceiling again, trying to resist the sudden urge to leap off the couch.

  “Ann Hodges,” Newt says. “That was her name. They named the meteorite after her. She got a massive bruise the shape of a pineapple.” He stares at his leg almost wistfully. I reckon he’s the only person in history who wants to be hit by a space rock.

  I blink. What if it’s as simple as that? What if the bears and the UFO are pieces of a completely different puzzle and all Newt’s trying to do is work out where Skylab’s coming down so he can …

  Huh? I can’t believe I’m hoping my little brother is trying to get hit by a giant chunk of sa
tellite.

  Somehow it seems better than the alternative.

  Fruit-shaped bruises fade. Broken bones heal.

  But waiting for someone to return from the stars … that could break your heart, I reckon.

  And I don’t know how you fix something like that.

  Orange-Tie Man’s moved on to World Oil Shortage! US Petrol Madness! Newt closes his notebook and I know he’s approximately ten seconds away from disappearing into his room again.

  “Hey, Newt.” I slide down onto the floor beside him. “You’re not trying to get hit by Skylab, are you?”

  Right away I know that’s not it. I know this look on his face, when he’s thinking some new idea through quickly. I can almost see him running numbers in his head.

  “You couldn’t,” he says finally. “You’d have to make sure it hit something else first, something thick enough to slow it down and you’d have to know how big the piece was … how heavy it was because otherwise the velocity would–”

  “Newt.” I pick at a loop of carpet fibre, teasing it out with my finger. “The other day, when you were asking about the plane …”

  “Oh, that.” He hesitates. “Don’t worry about it.”

  “No, listen. I’m sorry for walking off.” I work another finger into the carpet loop, stretching it sideways. “If you want to talk about Dad, we can. Any time you want. Now.”

  He gets to his feet, his notebook to his chest. “It’s okay. I worked it out myself.”

  “Worked what out?”

  “Don’t worry about it,” he repeats. He doesn’t meet my eyes as he turns and heads for the hall. “I’ve got stuff to do.”

  “Newt …”

  He’s gone. And I’m stretching the loop so tight one end pulls free of the carpet so it isn’t a loop any more but a long, loose thread. And then I’m wondering whether I should tuck it back in or cut it off with scissors or will that maybe leave a bald patch and if it does could I cover that with a chair or would it look strange having a chair right in front of the TV?

  I can’t stop my thoughts running and running so I turn back to the screen because even though it’s off it’s something to stare at and in the very centre, the faintest pinprick of light lingers and I wonder if I sit here for long enough without blinking, I can catch the exact moment when it disappears for good.

  No.

  There are plates to clear away and benches to wipe and Mum’s cheesy baked beans to slide under the grill, because she’ll be home any minute now. Probably.

  Sometimes when you’re doing a puzzle, you put a piece in the wrong place. At first it seems like it fits, but eventually it throws the whole thing off and you have to pull it out and start again from where you went wrong.

  This thing with Newt must be like that.

  It has to be.

  ***

  Over the next few days things get weird with Skylab. Weird-er, I should say.

  On the radio in the mornings Podge and Dazza laugh so hard they can hardly speak.

  On Wednesday they say it’s coming between July 9 and 16 and while some people are scoping out smugglers’ caves, others are planning parties. In Missouri, members of the newly formed Skylab Watchers and Gourmet Diners Society are going to wear hard hats and gather outside for a feast.

  On Thursday it’s coming between July 10 and 15 and a hotel in North Carolina declares itself “an official Skylab crash zone”. They’re painting a target on the building and inviting everyone to join them for a poolside disco.

  On Friday it’s coming between July 11 and 14 but don’t worry because you can buy special Skylab insurance. If you get hit you’ll get a massive payout. Or maybe your relatives will, depending on how badly you get hurt.

  If you want to get hit, you can buy a special T-shirt with a bullseye on it.

  If you don’t want to get hit, you can buy a can of Skylab repellent. Podge and Dazza don’t go into detail but I suppose you wait for the sonic boom, count the nanoseconds, then spray it into the air around you.

  “Hey,” Jeremy says, “I wonder what would happen if you had a bullseye T-shirt and a can of repellent. Do you reckon Skylab would hover in the air above your head?”

  Newt turns around. For a moment he looks thoughtful, as if this is a serious scientific question, as if he’s about to say something in reply.

  Then he sees me watching and his gaze slides away.

  At school Jeremy asks again if he can be on emergency bell duty, “since Merv doesn’t seem to be taking this seriously”.

  “Kindly refer to my husband as Mr Easton,” says Mrs Easton. “In any case, I don’t think ringing the school bell will have the desired effect.”

  “Yeah.” Karen nods. “Everyone will think it’s recess and run outside. Great plan, salad-bowl boy. You should pitch that to NASA.”

  Jeremy frowns. “I’d ring it differently. I’d think of a special signal or something.”

  “It could be like Morse code!” Dale says excitedly. “Only we’d spell out ‘SKYLAB IS COMING. PLEASE TAKE SHELTER’.”

  “And ‘THIS IS NOT A DRILL’,” Jeremy adds. “You have to say that too, so people know you’re serious.”

  “You mean the people who can understand Morse code,” Kat says. “Which is basically no one.”

  “That’s their bad luck,” Dale says. “If you don’t know Morse code, you don’t deserve to survive. My uncle reckons–”

  “Do you know Morse code?” Karen cuts in. “Tap SOS on your desk – go on.”

  Dale hesitates.

  “Ha! I guess you don’t deserve to survive.”

  “I know it!” Trevor calls out. “Dad taught me when we started going out on the boat.”

  “Me too!” Darren stands up. “I’ve got my badge and everything. I go to Cubs!”

  “It’s dashes and then dots.”

  “No – the dots are first!”

  All around the room, kids start rapping their knuckles on desks. Dale tries to copy them, banging his desk lid. It’s like the world’s worst percussion section.

  That’s when Mrs Easton gets that look on her face. It isn’t even time yet – it’s still before lunch – but I guess she’s desperate. “Right!” she says. “That’s quite enough.” She’s already standing up, scanning the room. And something in me just knows.

  And nothing in me is ready.

  “Frankie,” she says. “Help me out.”

  She smiles and it’s like that hand on my shoulder, light yet steady at the same time. And I want to be that girl, the one she suddenly seems sure of. The one who got an impossible A+ and it definitely wasn’t a mistake.

  I want to be that girl so I stand up and go to the front of the room and I think once I get there it’ll be okay. Once I get there, I’ll think of something.

  Because I’m brave and honest.

  Because I’m fine.

  But all those faces are in front of me and the noise in my head is so loud. All those knuckles rapping, those desk lids banging. All of them wrong.

  Dot-dot-dot. Dash-dash-dash. Dot-dot-dot.

  That’s how it really goes. You have to know that. You have to know how to call for help when you need it.

  Thoughts swirl through my mind, impossible to hold onto.

  I could be a nurse or a journalist or a teacher.

  I could be a radio operator.

  Because dot.

  And because dash.

  My knees feel wobbly and my head as well. Kat’s mouthing something at me and I can’t make it out.

  I want to be that girl but I can’t.

  I wish there was an air-raid siren, a special bell.

  THIS IS NOT A DRILL.

  “I can’t,” I say finally. “I’m not ready.”

  Mrs Easton looks me right in the eye. I want her to put her hand on my shoulder but she doesn’t. She looks at me steadily and finally she nods. “All right. Next time, then.”

  It’s not a question.

  Twenty-two

  On Sunday Orange-Tie Man i
s excited.

  Excited but deadly serious. Because Skylab is coming this week. Definitely and without question. Which is even more reliable than almost certainly.

  On Monday he leans forwards, talking faster than usual. “NASA has confirmed,” he says, “that Skylab will re-enter the atmosphere between 8.30 am Wednesday and 1.30 am Friday. Once again, they stress that there is no cause for alarm.”

  The picture fuzzes and Newt frowns. He bangs the TV, bringing it back into wobbly focus. And I wonder how many times you can warn people not to be alarmed before all they start hearing is the word alarm and everyone ends up panicked without quite knowing why. And then I wonder if NASA would ever actually say there was cause for alarm, and if so, at what point? How many nanoseconds’ warning would we get, and would that even be enough to get the cap off the repellent?

  “While the situation is still developing,” Orange-Tie Man goes on, “new information just to hand suggests that Skylab’s dying orbits will take it across Australia for periods of between a few seconds and eight minutes.”

  “Eight minutes!” A gasp escapes my lips before I can stop it.

  That’s a long time to look up and hope that a 77-tonne space station doesn’t re-enter the atmosphere above your head.

  Australia is a big place. I wonder if it’ll go over us. I wonder if Newt knows.

  When I turn towards him, I’m not sure whether I’m going to ask or not. I kind of want to know but I don’t want to give him another reason to start talking, thinking, obsessing about Skylab any more than he already is.

  I don’t get to decide because before I can say anything, he lunges for his notebook.

  “I knew it!” he says, and that strange brightness is there on his face again.

  He shuffles forwards, as if he wants to get as close to the screen as possible, as close to Orange-Tie Man and what he’s saying, what he’s promising.

  He scribbles in his notebook, so quickly I wonder how on Earth he’s going to read any of it later, and that makes me think about the Earth, which makes me think about space and the stars and his Newtish ways and that he’s only eight and how can I make sure he’s safe and okay and fine and bouncing back unless I know what’s going on?