These Unlucky Stars

by Gillian McDunn

  “These moths are from around here?” I ask, disbelieving.

  Dad nods. “Sometimes they’re overlooked, just like Oak Branch.”

  “They look like dessert,” I say.

  I expect Ray to laugh, but instead he agrees. “Like a lemon-strawberry ice-cream bar.”

  Dad tucks away his phone. “The festival will be held downtown, by the lake. With a big parade that ends in the band shell for a night of dancing, food, and fun. Each store is going to sponsor a float.”

  A float! This sounds like something I could help with. Dad and Ray are good at building, but they don’t have any sense for what things should look like. I start thinking of what shades of paint will match the vibrant moth.

  The Earl brings our food. He slides my plate of Eastern-style barbecue with boiled potato and corn sticks in front of me. Meanwhile, Ray and Dad dive in to their Western-style trays with slaw and extra hush puppies.

  “I heard y’all talking about the festival,” he says excitedly. “It’s going to be something else!”

  Dad and Ray nod, mouths already full.

  “Ray’s going to be my helper with fixing up the band shell,” Dad says. “And with constructing the float.”

  I look up from my food. “Wait. If Ray’s going to help build the float, what am I going to do?” I can hear the edge in my voice, but this is important. He better not say that I’ll be the one working in the store while Ray is doing all the fun stuff.

  Dad frowns, chewing thoughtfully. “I didn’t think you’d be interested.”

  “Just because my name’s not on the sign doesn’t mean I don’t care,” I say. “I want to help design and paint it. Okay, Dad?”

  He pauses, and I wonder for a moment what would happen if Ma were here. I have a feeling she would understand how important art is to me. It’s more than important—it’s essential.

  Dad wipes his mouth with a napkin. Then he starts to nod. “You know, that may not be a bad idea. You can put all that art stuff to good use.”

  I’m so excited, I ignore his comment about that art stuff. My insides are flipping like flapjacks. If I design a float for the store, he’ll have to notice how important art is to me.

  I ask to see Dad’s phone so I can look at the image search again. My favorite picture is one with a moth looking right at the camera, lifting one of his front legs like he’s waving to say, “Here I am!”

  Here I am, little moth. I can’t wait to design a float that shows the world how cute you are.

  This is going to be the best summer ever.

  CHAPTER

  7

  The last week of school passes like every other last week of school in the history of time: s l o w l y.

  I avoid Ms. Palumbo and Mr. Melendez the best I can. The school clocks slow to a crawl—sometimes I swear the minute hand actually moves backward. But eventually it’s the last day of school. When the final bell rings, I’m officially a seventh grader.

  I head to the park with Ray, like always. The day is steamy. Even the pine trees look droopy.

  As I get closer to the basketball court, my heart droops, too. Three other girls sit on the table with Faith: Nailah, Emily, and Alicia.

  Nailah and Emily are in Ray’s grade and I don’t know them well. But Alicia is one of the girls who was in that group project in Ms. Palumbo’s class. Her hair is always perfect and the crusts on her sandwiches are always cut off. Just seeing her puts me in a bad mood.

  The four of them take up all the room at the table. Finally, Emily scoots over so I can squeeze in at the end. Faith nods hi, but Nailah is in the middle of a long story.

  I don’t belong here. Maybe I should take out my sketchbook, but I don’t want to answer any questions about it. These girls all know how to put on eye shadow and have favorite celebrities and take endless selfies. There’s no way I can keep up when I don’t even have a phone.

  I find a piece of lint on my T-shirt to pick at. I keep hoping Faith will offer to do my nails again, but she doesn’t.

  After a while, Ray jogs over. “Let’s take off. It’s too hot for basketball. Besides, we have to help with festival stuff.”

  Alicia cuts her eyes at Ray. “I thought you were Annie’s brother, but you sound like her dad.” Nailah and Emily laugh.

  Ray flushes. He picks up his backpack from the picnic table. When he does, I see that he left a paper underneath it, laid carefully so it wouldn’t wrinkle or blow away. Then I realize that it’s his Excellent Citizen award. Somehow I forgot that he would receive it today.

  My insides prickle and flash. I want an award with my name on it in a curving script. It feels like a fire flaring, like something cracking and sparking from somewhere deep inside. It’s not Ray’s fault for winning, not exactly. But why does everything come so easily for him?

  I scowl, folding my arms tight. “Don’t tell me what to do.”

  Ray rolls his eyes. “You’re being ridiculous.”

  I don’t like him talking to me that way, especially around Faith. I don’t want her to think of me as a baby. “You aren’t my dad.”

  Ray glances at Alicia, who smirks. He opens his mouth like he’s going to say something. But then he shrugs like it’s no big deal. “Suit yourself.”

  I try not to watch him as he heads to the lake bridge, toward downtown. When he goes, a few of the others drift off. Some of the seventh graders say they’re going to Quinn’s Market for ice cream.

  Nailah and Emily tell Alicia about something that happened in homeroom. I pick at the chipped paint on my nails and listen for a place where I might join in. I feel stuck in the middle, not sure how to move forward. A turtle in the road.

  There are only three boys left on the court, tossing the ball aimlessly. Grant, Ray’s friend who likes Faith. Javier with the famous dimples. And then there’s Tyler, the loud, redheaded one.

  As I watch, they turn and head toward us. They move in slow motion, almost like it’s a coincidence that they happen to be heading this way.

  I wonder if Faith is nervous, since she maybe likes Grant. But when they come over, she acts really casual.

  “What’s up?” she says.

  I wish I could be like that.

  Grant grins and his eyes crinkle up. Even though there’re so many of us standing around, it also somehow feels like a private conversation between Grant and Faith.

  “Too hot today,” he announces.

  “Let’s do something else,” Tyler says. He’s standing right by me and smells like sweat.

  “Like what?” Nailah asks.

  “Truth or Dare?”

  “Yes!” Emily ends the word almost in a hiss.

  “Nah,” Grant says.

  “Never Have I Ever?” Tyler asks.

  “Tyler. Relax,” Grant says.

  Tyler shifts from one foot to the other, like he can’t stand still. “How about Ding-Dong Ditch?”

  No one answers. He reaches out and pokes me in the arm. “What do you think? Ding-Dong Ditch?”

  “I don’t know what that is,” I say. I look over at Grant and Faith, but they’re smiling at each other, in their own world.

  Tyler steps away from me and looks at the sky. “I can’t believe it. I can’t believe this girl doesn’t know Ding-Dong Ditch.”

  Alicia shakes her head. “Tyler, don’t make such a big deal about it.” She turns and looks at me. “Ding-Dong Ditch is when you ring someone’s doorbell and then run away before they answer.”

  Tyler pokes me in the arm again. “You should do it. Go on, do it right now!”

  “Don’t bother her, Tyler,” Nailah says. “She’s a sixth grader.”

  I don’t think Nailah means it in a rude way, but the last thing I want to feel right now is little, especially in front of Faith. I notice that Nailah has on turquoise nail polish, too. I wonder if Faith painted her nails and feel a little stab of jealousy.

  “Seventh grader,” I say evenly. “Same as Alicia.”

  Nailah rolls her eyes. “Oh, okay. Sevent
h grader. As of forty-five minutes ago.”

  This makes me feel even younger. I hate it.

  I stand up quickly, before Tyler can poke my arm another time. “I’ll do it. Where?”

  Tyler hoots, rubbing his hands together. He points to a row of houses across from the park. “One of those! Ring the bell, then run away fast into the woods so no one catches you.”

  As I cross the street, little jolts of worry run up and down my legs. My feet are unsure. But I know I need to keep going.

  Two of the houses are in clear view of the playground. But there’s a third house where the front door is blocked by trees. I glance back at the playground and see that I have an audience. It would be my luck to fall over a crack in the sidewalk, right in front of everyone. I turn toward the house that’s hidden from view and head up its driveway.

  It’s a little yellow house, much smaller than the tall trees surrounding it. The grass is scrubby with weeds and has wide patches of plain dirt. The screen door has been covered with layers of paint over the years. The finish is cracked and peeling enough that I catch glimpses of the previous layers peeking through: black, red, sky blue, and even an unfortunate yellow the exact color of dried-out mustard. It all clashes terribly with the graying walls of the house. I glance around. Terra-cotta pots hold crispy plants that are about four months past dead. The empty driveway is cracked, and the mailbox hangs at a precarious angle. No signs of life—maybe the house is vacant. The thought makes me feel braver. I’ll just ring the bell and hurry back to the park.

  I step onto the little porch and reach toward the doorbell. Then I hear a low growl.

  I look down. Before, I’d been so busy looking at the peeling paint on the screen door that I hadn’t realized that the door behind it was open a few inches. And now, from inside the house, a big dog is staring at me. There’s only a thin mesh screen between us.

  I freeze, my arm outstretched. The dog could easily push through the screen if he wanted to. He squints at me, ears flat against his head. His mouth is open wide enough to show me his monster teeth, which overlap and stick out at crooked angles. He’s big and hairy and has eyes like laser beams.

  I swear my hand tingles as I look at those teeth. A wild thought enters my head—maybe I have a magic scar after all. But I don’t need fortune-telling abilities to know what would happen if this dog caught hold of me: he would rip me to pieces. I shudder.

  The dog narrows his eyes. And then he starts to bark.

  At least, I think it’s a bark. I’m no expert on dogs, but I’ve never heard anything like this. It has a curve to it, starting out low and hoarse but ending in a yelp. And it’s not quiet. The volume is turned all the way up—and somehow, the sound makes my teeth vibrate like the dog is a living, breathing dental drill.

  I have to get out of here. But my feet feel glued to the floorboards.

  He nudges the screen door, which strains against his weight. With each bark, little flecks of foam fly from his mouth and stick to the screen. I’m hypnotized by his teeth. I know what I need to do: back slowly away from this little crooked house and never ever come back again. But no matter how many times my brain crackles that message, it’s like my wires are loose. My feet refuse to behave.

  He pushes against the screen again, and finally I move backward, pulling my hand to my side.

  Then I hear a woman call, “Otto, hush!”

  Otto? This dog seems more like he’d be named Killer or Crusher. His barks echo in my ears. I need to get out of here.

  “Otto! What is all that fuss?” The sound is louder now, closer to the door. Her voice is high-pitched and wobbly. She’s old, I realize, and probably frail. There’s no way she is strong enough to handle a beast like Otto.

  The dog scrabbles his paws on the screen, like he’d like to jump through and see what a big chomp of Annie Logan would taste like.

  But then, from inside—a crash and a thud. A solid sound, like something hitting the floor.

  Otto doesn’t notice or care. He continues to bark like he’d like to eat my face.

  Then the wobbly voice calls out again. “Help! Help me! Is anyone there?”

  A prickling feeling spreads from my stomach to my throat. I stand completely still.

  I don’t know what to do. But I know I need to do something.

  PART TWO

  The Lonely House

  From the Collected Drawings of Annie P. Logan

  Dimensions: 4" × 6"

  CHAPTER

  8

  My thoughts spin. The dog turns and disappears into the house. I step sideways to the window. An old woman is sprawled across the floor, facedown. Oh no. It’s my fault. I should never have listened to those kids at the park. She fell because of me—bad-luck, magnet-for-trouble me. What have I done?

  The dog circles her, whining. What if she’s unconscious? I should run back to the park, borrow a cell phone, and call 911—but before I can take a step back from the window, the old lady looks up at me. Her eyes are fiercely blue.

  “Hey!” she hollers. “Hey!”

  Otto starts barking, and I jump back from the window. “I’m going to call for help! Be right back.”

  Otto, barking and crying, runs from the lady to me at the window, then back again. He seems to be deciding what he’d like to do first—comfort his owner or have me for lunch.

  The woman is moving. Maybe I won’t need to call for an ambulance after all. Slowly, she props herself on her left arm, wincing. I have a better look at her face now. Her hair billows upward in a white tuft that reminds me of cotton balls, but her eyes are sharp. She’s not some delicate old lady who needs rescuing. She’s spitting mad. At me.

  “Don’t you go anywhere! You can’t leave me like this!”

  The dog nudges her, licking her other arm.

  “Are you okay?” I ask. After the words are out, I wince. It’s clear she’s pretty far from okay.

  Her eyes narrow. “Do I look okay?” She indicates her right arm. “I think it’s broken.”

  My heart, which was beating a million beats a minute, suddenly turns to thick, sticky sludge. “Are you sure? Maybe it’s only bruised.”

  But even as I say the words, I know they’re wrong. Her right arm bends at a funny angle, and I haven’t seen her move her fingers once.

  She squints at me. “I didn’t realize they handed out medical degrees to fourth graders.”

  My cheeks burn. I hate it when people assume I’m younger because I happen to be short. “I’m in seventh grade.” As of this afternoon anyway. Is it possible that school let out only an hour ago? It feels like I’ve been standing on this porch for at least a year.

  She sighs. “Fine, then. Old enough to help me find my hand phone. Where is my hand phone? Have you seen it?”

  I pause. What in the world is a hand phone?

  “I’m sorry—have I seen what?”

  Her eyebrows pull together in a frown. “My hand phone!”

  The room is cluttered and jumbled, with boxes on the floor and trinkets covering every surface. I have no idea what I’m looking for. An old-fashioned phone? Or maybe a watch? It could be anything.

  “There it is!” she says. With a knobby finger, she points to a black rectangle on the floor, about five feet away. A regular old cell phone. It must have skittered across the floor when she took a spill.

  “That’s not a hand phone,” I say. “It’s a cell phone.”

  She scowls. “That’s what I said! I need you to get it for me.”

  Maybe she bumped her head. Maybe I need to call a doctor. I open the latch on the screen door. But the moment I do, Otto lets out a low growl. I step backward.

  I gulp. “The thing is, your dog hates me. So I’m going to go find a phone. Give me the number and I’ll call for you.”

  “Pish,” she says in a no-arguing-allowed voice. “I don’t have Albert’s number memorized. It’s in the thingy.”

  Of course. His number is in the phone, so she needs that one. I have to help he
r. Even as my brain searches for another answer, I know I’m stuck.

  I reach out for the door again. This time, Otto doesn’t growl. Instead, he starts barking loud enough that they can probably hear him all the way in Mountain Ring.

  “Hush, Otto. Now, what’s got into you?” she says softly. She reaches out with her good arm and loops her fingers through his collar. She winces as she does it. Her arm must hurt something awful. The effort makes a sheen of sweat pop out on her forehead, but she manages to bring him close.

  She murmurs something to him. I can’t make out the words, but whatever she says seems to calm him. He sighs and sits down. This time, when I reach for the screen door, he doesn’t make a sound.

  Before my bravery slips away, I open the door and step inside.

  Otto looks at me out of the corner of his eye. He’s not happy that I’m there, but at least when he’s quiet, his mouth is shut. I shudder, taking in a deep breath.

  Every house has a smell. This one has no hint of the mountain air outside—it’s like baby powder mixed with chicken soup and breath mints. Underneath it all is a smell I don’t have a word for except “old.” It’s a packed-up-and-put-away kind of smell.

  Cardboard boxes are stacked two and three high all around the room. There are a few paths between the boxes—an aisle from the front door to the kitchen, an offshoot to a flowered recliner chair that faces a television—but most of the floor is covered. I can barely walk without tripping—no wonder she fell.

  “Are you moving out or something?” I ask.

  She makes a huffing sound, like she’s offended. “Just help me get up.”

  I hold out my hand, not sure what to do, and she grabs it. Her grip is surprisingly strong.

  She looks me over from top to bottom. “Round little thing, aren’t you?”

  A bunch of not-nice words crowd in my head. I don’t like it when people comment on my body. But now does not seem like the right time to tell her that, so I bite back my words.