These Unlucky Stars

by Gillian McDunn

  I sigh. “Fine. But I’m going to program your phone so these unidentified numbers can’t call you.”

  “Fine,” she says. And then, after a moment: “Thanks.”

  It’s barely above a whisper. My eyes widen, but she isn’t looking at me—she’s rubbing Otto’s ears. Otto, for his part, looks like he’s floating on a cloud of happiness.

  I set the phone down. “I’ll make tea. Then we can do a few boxes.”

  She nods. I make the tea and let Otto out. I’ve given up on getting the tea right. I’ve noticed she always seems to drink it, even though I supposedly make it wrong. So now when she says “too sweet!” I pretend I didn’t hear her.

  She drinks her tea, even though she grumbles a bit. Eventually, she seems to feel better. Sometimes she seems easily confused and sometimes she’s very clear. I don’t understand why.

  I peeked in this box the other day but decided to save it for later. It’s stacked full of old photographs. Right on top is a picture of a young woman in a uniform with a scarf knotted at her neck. She looks extremely glamorous. When I hold it up to show Gloria, she smiles.

  “Let me see those,” she says. She sorts through the stack, looking at the pictures one by one. I try to be patient, but my curiosity is wiggling around and trying to get out. Over Gloria’s shoulder, I see the woman at the Eiffel Tower, on the peaks of mountains, standing at the base of waterfalls, and even at the pyramids in Egypt.

  There’s something familiar about the young woman, the way she squints at the camera.

  “Gloria,” I breathe. “Is this you?”

  “I was a flight attendant after Julia died,” she says. “Stewardess, they said back then.”

  My eyes widen. I never thought of Gloria anywhere else but this little house on this little street in this little town.

  She sees my face and laughs. “Thought I’d stayed in Oak Branch my whole life? Not a chance. I could see the writing on the wall.”

  I frown. “The writing on the wall—what does that mean?”

  Gloria rolls her eyes. “Again, what do they teach children these days? It’s an expression. It means that I could see the way that things would play out if I stayed. There weren’t many choices for girls in those days. Get married or be a teacher or nurse. Not for me—I wanted to write my own story.”

  I shake my head slowly. “I’ve never even been on an airplane,” I tell her.

  Her eyes sparkle. “Neither had I. Trust me when I say it didn’t matter where I came from. What mattered was where I was going.”

  “Wow,” I say. “I can’t really imagine leaving Oak Branch.”

  Her eyebrows frown into a line. “Whyever not?”

  “Well—” I say, then stop. I guess I don’t know why.

  Gloria taps her fingers against the arm of the chair, waiting for an answer.

  “Because of Dad and Ray,” I say slowly. “And because of my mountains—I love them.”

  “Pish,” says Gloria.

  I sigh. “What do you mean, pish?”

  “Pish!” she crows. “My dear girl, have you ever considered there is no shortage of mountains to climb?”

  She digs in the box until she finds what she’s looking for—a photo of a woman on a mule, a spectacular view surrounding them.

  “Is that you?” I squeal.

  “At the Grand Canyon,” she says proudly. “All by myself, might I add. It was thrilling—terrifying but thrilling. But I was doing exactly what I wanted. That’s the benefit of listening to the true longings of your heart.”

  I frown, thinking.

  Gloria looks at me carefully. “What’s the longing of your heart, Annie?”

  “Having Ma come back home,” I say automatically.

  “Ah,” says Gloria. She sounds almost disappointed.

  “I know she left,” I explain. “But she’s the only one who understood me—the only one who would understand me now. She always told me I was born under an unlucky star. She knows that I don’t mean to cause bad things; I can’t help it.”

  Gloria hands me the stack of pictures, and I put them back in the box.

  We’re both quiet for a moment, and then I can’t take it anymore.

  “What is it?” I ask. “I can tell you want to say it.”

  Gloria rearranges herself on the chair, doing her best to sit up straight. I try not to roll my eyes. It seems like she has a speech she’s been waiting to say.

  She makes a little ahem noise, clearing her throat. “I understand you’ve had your share of disappointments. Maybe that’s where you’re from, but it doesn’t mean a thing about where you’re going.”

  I scowl. “That’s easy for you to say. I have no idea where I’m going.”

  “Pish,” she says. “I have a feeling it has something to do with that sketchbook pad you drag along with you everywhere.” She smiles like she’s pleased with herself.

  I shift uncomfortably. I don’t want to talk about my art with Gloria.

  “Anyway,” I say in a change-the-subject kind of way. “Why did you stop being a flight attendant?”

  Her expression fades a bit. “My mother was dying. All my brothers were busy with their lives, so I moved back to Oak Branch to take care of her.”

  “That’s not fair, about your brothers!” I say. But inside I think, Maybe Gloria is unlucky like me.

  She’s still looking at the photos in her lap.

  “Sounds like rotten luck,” I try again.

  She shakes her head. “Not luck. Just life.”

  Disappointment crashes inside me. I thought for a moment that Gloria and I were the same. Not the crabby Gloria, not the scared Gloria, but the real one deep inside.

  “It isn’t fair,” I tell her. “You worked so hard for your brothers. And then you had a job you loved but had to stop to take care of your mom.”

  She sighs. “If you want to see it that way, I suppose. But who gets to say which parts are lucky? Lucky that I got the job of my dreams or unlucky that I had to give it up? Lucky that I had a sister like Julia or unlucky that she died young?”

  I open my mouth to argue. For me, life and luck are twisted together.

  “You can’t pick and choose, Annie. Life is a mix of good and bad. Things have a way of evening out.”

  Not luck. Just life.

  Maybe that’s true for Gloria, but it’s not that way for me. I believe in luck, even if she doesn’t. I believe in it, like Ma always said.

  I open my mouth to speak, but Gloria is shaking her head.

  “I’m worn out,” she says. “You go on and go now. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  She nods like it’s decided. I guess it is. I move the box of photographs out of the way so she won’t trip. I scratch Otto behind his ears. Then I shut the door behind me.

  CHAPTER

  18

  When I leave Gloria’s, I head for the barn. I’m the only one here, so I switch on The Earl’s radio.

  It’s set to a country station, one of the few that we receive here in the mountains. The song is about being laid low by heartbreak. The music is smooth and easy, but the voice is on the rough side, like the singer’s been down one too many dusty roads. It’s a great combination—a perfect song for an afternoon in the barn.

  I make a beeline to JoJo and The Earl’s float anyway—unlike Ray and Dad, they appreciate my help. Besides, JoJo is paying me in pie.

  Their float has an oversize version of that split-down-the-middle table in their restaurant, and it needs a tablecloth. I grab my paints and get to work.

  Filling in the yellow squares is calming, and I sink into the task like it’s what I was born to do. The barn’s wide-open doors allow me a glimpse of green trees whenever I choose to look up. And even when I don’t look up, the mountains send me breezes that smell like pine trees and sunshine. No matter what, my mountains know where to find me—how to remind me that they’ll always be there.

  I’m so absorbed in the task that I don’t notice anyone coming into the barn.
/>   “Hey,” Ray says from right behind me.

  Startled, I jump in the air, sloshing paint from the container. Of course, with my luck, some of it splashes across the tablecloth’s tidy yellow squares.

  “Ray!” I shout. “Don’t surprise me like that.”

  “I didn’t mean to,” he says. He grabs a roll of paper towels and helps me dab the cloth.

  “Quit smearing it,” I say. “Why are you here anyway?”

  “Dad has a meeting at Lulu’s tonight. He said we should do Friday night dinner ourselves,” he says.

  “Weird,” I say. We always go to JoJo & The Earl’s as a family.

  Ray shrugs. “Festival stuff, I guess.”

  That must be it. With the big event only three weeks away, everyone in our town is turned upside down.

  Thankfully, we’re able to scrape off most of the spilled paint.

  “I wanted to finish tonight,” I tell him. “But I’m not even halfway there.”

  He looks at me sideways. “Do you want my help?”

  My first thought is, Absolutely not. I don’t want him to think I need him in any way, shape, or form. And shouldn’t he be working on the Logan & Son float anyway?

  But this float is for JoJo and The Earl, and something tells me they’d want me to say yes. Besides, this tablecloth is plenty big.

  I tilt my head toward the paints. “You can work on the red half if you want.”

  He holds up a container. “This one?”

  I nod, and he picks a brush that’s similar to mine. We each sit cross-legged on the base of the float, filling in our squares. Ray whistles along quietly with the radio.

  When I take a break to stretch my fingers, I look at what he’s done so far. I didn’t expect him to be so quick—he’s almost caught up to me. His squares are nice and crisp, too.

  “You’re good at making edges,” I tell him.

  The corner of his mouth quirks in a half smile. “I’ve had some practice painting lately. Guess it’s not all that different.”

  The band shell. I watch Ray, waiting for a comment about the huge mess I made—or to tell me how I should have helped more that day. But he doesn’t say a thing, just goes back to whistling.

  Thinking about painting makes me think of other things that could use a coat or two. Like Gloria’s front door. Gloria’s shutters. Gloria’s pretty much everything.

  “Ray, Gloria’s house needs paint. The only problem is that I don’t think Gloria has much money. If she did, things probably wouldn’t be so run-down in the first place.”

  Ray’s eyebrows furrow together. I can tell he’s thinking, but he waits to finish the square he’s working on before looking up.

  “We could use Oops Paint,” he says.

  Oops Paint isn’t a real brand of paint. It’s what happens when someone makes a mistake while mixing (“oops!”) or if a customer asks for a specific color but then after it’s mixed, they decide they don’t like it. For example, our downstairs bathroom is painted in Oops Paint—an unfortunate yellow that would give a rubber duck a run for its money.

  It’s not exactly fair for someone to change their mind after it’s mixed, because the store loses money. But Dad says it’s better than losing a customer to HomeMade.

  Ray leans back on his heels. “I’m helping Dad in the store tomorrow, but I could come over Sunday after church.”

  My brother may annoy me sometimes, but he also knows how to help. Sometimes there’s an upside to practical and predictable.

  Ray goes back to his work, whistling along to the radio. Together, we work until the sky turns a quiet pink. Then we lock up the barn and get our orders from JoJo and The Earl’s to go. We carry the warm bags with us and take the long way home.

  CHAPTER

  19

  It’s Saturday, and I am free.

  Yesterday Albert messaged Dad, saying that he and Fabian would spend the day with Gloria. Dad didn’t need me at the store, so I’m helping with floats.

  The barn bustles with activity. Already today I’ve painted cardboard bookshelves for Oak Branch Books, cut foam vegetables for Quinn’s Market, and glued tissue paper to the lake for the town council float.

  “Thanks so much for helping out,” everyone says.

  No one asks why the Logan & Son float isn’t further along. The trailer is pushed up along the side of the wall and looks downright abandoned. I’m staying out of it. If Ray and Dad want help, they can be the ones to ask.

  Right now, Faith and I are wrangling a roll of chicken wire. Together we stretch, bend, and shape it. Making the curved edges of the coffee cup is a real challenge, and we haven’t even started the handle yet.

  “Got it?” Faith asks.

  “Hold it closer together if you can,” I say. Faith pushes the wire together, and I anchor sections using zip ties.

  I have learned that Faith has a brain for building things. I know how to come up with ideas that look good, but she has a way of figuring out how to put them together.

  She is also a master of teamwork. I suggested blue for the mug and she wanted green. But unlike certain group projects on ancient Greece, we managed to work out our different opinions. She suggested we mix up the colors we like best and then show Louise and let her pick. Of all the colors we mixed, Louise picked the one right in the middle. So the Lulu’s mug will be turquoise—the exact color of Tahitian Breeze. Both blue and green, better together.

  Later this week, we’ll do papier-mâché, dipping long strips of newspaper in starch before laying them across the wire form. After they dry, the surface will be smooth and paintable. That’s the plan anyway.

  Even though I love art, I admit that I don’t always like starting. It can be overwhelming to see a project that is all potential, when no real decisions have been made. But right now, we’re in the sweet spot where everything is coming together. There’s still plenty of work to do, but it’s easy to see the path ahead. This is my favorite part.

  I should be happy. I am happy. And I thought I’d be so relieved to have a day without Gloria and Otto. But even though I’m loving where we are with this project, my thoughts keep sliding sideways over to that funny-looking dog and that grumpy old lady. I wonder if Otto gets nervous when baby Fabian fusses. I wonder if Gloria is sharing the last of the strawberry pie. I wonder if Albert will notice that I’ve moved boxes to the garage.

  “Ouch!” I say, pulling my hand back from the roll of chicken wire Faith and I are unrolling. The metal edges of the wire are unforgiving.

  Faith startles. “Did it pinch you? Are you okay?”

  I squeeze my finger. “It’s okay—a little bad luck, as usual.”

  Faith’s forehead wrinkles. “What do you mean, as usual?”

  My cheeks get hot. I wasn’t thinking when I said the words—I know Ray thinks I’m ridiculous when I talk about my bad luck. I don’t want Faith to think that. Even if she did believe me, she might worry about my bad luck rubbing off. And maybe she’d be right.

  I want to change the subject, but Faith is waiting for an answer. I scramble through my thoughts and can’t find an easy explanation. So I decide to give her the real one.

  “I’m unlucky,” I say. “Always have been. Always will be.”

  Faith pulls at her earlobe, like she does when she’s thinking. “What does that mean exactly?”

  I like how she doesn’t tell me automatically that there’s no such thing as unlucky. It’s like she wants to hear more.

  “It’s something Ma told me,” I say. “She said I was born under an unlucky star.”

  Faith raises her eyebrows. “So bad things happen to you? All the time?”

  I nod. “Ever since I was little, things refuse to go my way. Ma explained that some people are born like that.”

  She watches me carefully. “What happened to your ma?”

  I push at the wire, but it won’t bend the way I want it to.

  “She left,” I say flatly. “When I was four.”

  Faith’s eyes go rou
nd. “Bad luck,” she whispers.

  “The worst,” I answer.

  The silence stretches between us like bubble gum. I don’t know what Faith’s thinking right now, but I know what’s on my mind.

  Ma left because of me.

  The thought feels like glancing at the sun. I know it’s always there, but when I accidentally look at it directly, it hurts. I try my best to shove that thought away—to push it into the dark corners where it belongs. But no matter how much I try, the thought pops up like a stubborn balloon.

  Faith is silent, pushing at the wire. It won’t go the way she wants it to. She sighs in frustration, squeezing the metal. Then she clears her throat.

  “You know how I said I’m staying at Aunt Louise’s for a while?”

  I nod, thinking back to the town meeting at Lulu’s.

  Faith takes a deep breath and then continues. “My mom has breast cancer. She’s been at the hospital in Newford a lot, and my dad’s been with her. They didn’t want me at home alone.”

  Her words come out in a rush, like she had to hurry to get them out so she wouldn’t use up all her air.

  “My mom has four sisters,” she continues. “The only one to get cancer. Bad luck, right?”

  I nod, not knowing what to say. Newford is almost three hours from Oak Branch. Faith must be missing both of her parents so much.

  Faith’s voice shakes. “None of her sisters has it—just her. So maybe she was born under an unlucky star, like you.”

  I have to do something. Anything. I pat her arm. “I’m sorry.”

  She smooths the front of her shirt and straightens up. “Anyway. I hate talking about it. Let’s work on the handle.”

  As we curve the chicken wire into a handle shape, my thoughts go a hundred miles an hour.

  I hope Faith is wrong about her mom. I hope this is a spot of bad luck, not a downhill slide into unhappiness.

  Bad luck is everywhere. First Gloria and now Faith. This whole time, I never imagined anyone else having bad luck like me. I should feel happy that I’m not alone anymore. But as I listen to Faith talk, I feel the weight of it like a boulder.

  CHAPTER