“Well, maybe one day we can go again.” Uncle Mike opens his eyes, the smile on his face wavering. “But it’ll have to be after your dad is back in charge of running the deli. I barely have time for anything else now.”
I sit back down in my chair. “You haven’t gotten to work on your art for a while.”
A shadow of Uncle Mike’s grin returns. “You need to see what I did with the deli.”
“What did you do?”
“Your dad isn’t a big fan, but I spruced up the seating area. It’s a place people want to sit and enjoy their pastries and coffee now. Think murals and softer lighting. Not that old-school deli your nonno was running. It’s good for business.”
“It looks like an art museum,” Dad says. Mom’s wheeling him back into the kitchen. He frowns. “Not a deli. People will get confused.”
Uncle Mike rolls his eyes. “You just hate change.”
“What I hate is that you’re not taking this seriously.”
“Ease up. Both of you,” Mom says, her eyes darting from Dad and Uncle Mike over to me. “Luna, go grab your coat.”
“I don’t feel like going,” I say. My eyes drift to the window and a glimpse of the house next door. There’s no way I’d be able to properly investigate the new neighbors if Mom and Dad are at home watching my every move. “I want to stay home and read.”
“Are you sure you don’t want to go to the deli?” Dad asks. “I thought you loved coming with us.”
Salty slices of prosciutto, sweet ricotta-filled sfogliatella, and fresh-out-of-the-oven biscotti pop into my brain. My thoughts travel to fixing a plate of my favorites and spending the afternoon at the deli poring over my sketch pad. There’s nothing better than being at Bianchini’s. But my eyes drift back to the window, the corner of the Sapientis’ house just visible. I can’t get distracted from my investigation. Especially not when I know Stelle is a real place. There’s just too much to uncover.
My fingers graze the hard plastic of my mask. “I want to stay home.”
Mom frowns. “You should get out. Get some fresh air. You could run errands with me. We wouldn’t be gone long.”
“I’m fine staying home alone.” I shake my head. “I’m old enough.”
“Are you sure?” She loosely wraps a scarf around her neck. “You know I don’t like leaving you here by yourself.”
“You used to be fine with it before the accident.”
The word “accident” sets off a firecracker in the room. Everyone flinches.
“I’ll be fine. I know where my medicine is, and I can call if there’s a problem. Promise.”
Mom furrows her brow but says nothing. She grabs her keys off the kitchen counter. “Just be careful. You need to finish up your science homework while we’re gone. Chapters five through seven,” she says. “And call your dad or me if something happens. Right away. Don’t wait.”
“She knows the drill, Sofia. She’s twelve.” Dad’s head is already at Bianchini’s. Too far gone to contribute much else to this conversation. Already dreaming of the cream puffs and arancini he’ll need to make to fill upcoming holiday orders.
“Okay, fine. We love you, Luna,” Mom says, kissing my cheek. Uncle Mike pushes Dad outside, followed by Mom closing and locking the door behind them.
The house is quiet. I run to the front door and peek out the window just in time to see Mom’s and Uncle Mike’s cars pull out of the driveway.
Finally! I grab my binoculars off my closed science textbook, snatch my coat from the rack, and tuck my sketch pad under my arm. The cold wind smacks me in the face as I launch myself out the back door and jump from the patio steps onto the crunchy grass.
I trail the fence separating us from the Sapientis, peering through into the backyard. Maybe I can look through the back windows and see what’s in their house now.
There’s a loose slat in the fence dividing our backyards. My cousin Rocco and I found it last summer when we were looking for secret passageways we could use to sneak between our neighbors’ backyards and over to each other’s houses. He and Gloria live five houses down. I used the loose slat only one time. Rocco had a bad cold and couldn’t attend a family barbecue. I snuck him a piece of lemon cake and no one knew I’d even left.
I kick the loose slat with my boot, ready to squeeze through into their yard, when a muffled squeaking sound pierces the quiet afternoon. I stare between the posts. The screen door to the Sapientis’ house slams shut. Chiara rushes from the house with a large wicker laundry basket in her arms. She hops down the porch stairs and runs through her backyard, her black braid trailing behind her on the wind. She darts full speed into the woods like a comet. A bright November sun hangs high in a cloudless sky, but its rays seem smothered by the woods.
The woods don’t look the same. They’re thicker, darker—like a forest has sprung up overnight. We never had this many trees in my backyard. They’re twisted and gnarled, tree limbs crisscrossing and tangling together in a mess of red and orange leaves. Their trunks are solid and dark. Almost impossible to see beyond. I gaze behind me at my favorite tree and my secret platform. Even it looks a little different.
I linger at the gate in the fence that leads to the woods. My brows knit together, and I pull up my binoculars to get a better look. Flickers of gold sparkle in the darkness, ducking between tree branches like little stars trapped in the trees. I think of Uncle Mike’s stories of Cielo Stellato and the words on the Sapientis’ truck.
Spazzatrici. Sweepers. I need to know what that could mean.
The wind picks up, rustling the leaves hanging from the branches. It’s like they’re whispering to one another, sharing secrets about what’s hidden behind their backs.
I take a deep breath.
If I want to know, I’ll have to follow Chiara into the dark.
Chapter 3
The gloomy trees close behind me, their limbs tangled together in an impossible knot. It’s darker than it was on the other side of the gate. Even the little bursts of light seem to have disappeared. The once well-worn path is now overgrown with branches grabbing and scratching at my jacket. The air feels warmer in here than it is in my backyard.
I stumble forward, trying to avoid fallen trees. A cold sweat beads on my forehead and collects beneath my mask. My breath comes out in ragged puffs. I squeeze my hands into fists.
I stand still for a long moment, thinking about turning around. I may actually be afraid of the dark now—the eerie darkness that persists in the daytime where no sunlight can reach, like the woods or basements—and may be too much of a weenie to do whatever it takes for this investigation. After the accident, my whole family told me how brave I was to survive such a bad car crash. That I bounced back like all Bianchinis. But there wasn’t anything brave about what I did. I was scared when the car hit ours, terrified when I woke up in the hospital. I almost leapt out of my own skin when I looked at myself in the mirror for the first time. I panicked so bad that Mom took down all the mirrors in the house so I wouldn’t have to look at myself. And there’s definitely nothing brave about being too scared to sleep because you’re afraid of the nightmares.
A loud screech echoes through the woods. A large raven swoops down so close I can see the sheen in his black beady eyes. I stumble backward over a tree root and bang into the side of a tree. I barely hold on to my sketch pad.
My shoulder throbs with a hot, prickling pain, and the voice in my head screams: This is a bad idea—ABORT!
I stare down at my mud-caked boots. Ugh!
“Maybe Operation Sapienti is over for today,” I whisper to myself, but when I look up, a small golden firefly drifts between the trees above me.
I squint at the little bug and watch as it blinks on and off.
It’s the middle of November—too cold for fireflies—but another joins it. Then another. Soon there are seven fireflies glittering in the dark like a car’s headlights on a lonely road. Safe. Calming. A warm breeze circles around me. They fly just a bit cl
oser, weaving between tree limbs and braiding back together, drawing me deeper into the woods.
I follow them. They hover around me when I lag and speed up once I reach them, swirling and spinning between the leaves.
I hear a girl’s giggle up ahead. Then a strange squeal.
I stop.
Maybe it’s a baby pig. People sometimes keep little pigs as pets even if they don’t live on a farm.
I hold my breath and listen for it again. Another squeal. I tiptoe forward, getting closer to the sound.
The noise repeats just beyond a cluster of dense trees, followed by a shushing sound. The fireflies disappear beyond the underbrush. I creep up and carefully push back the leaves.
I gasp. In a clearing just beyond the trees is a large stone castle that looks like it has been standing in these woods for thousands of years. Its exterior is covered in a thick layer of ivy, but the roof is gone and the stones are crumbling away.
I know these woods. Or at least I thought I did. They’d never been this big and there was never an old castle sitting in the middle of them.
My hands shake, and I grip the tree trunk to steady myself.
Fireflies drift on the edges of the clearing and light up the castle like candles at Midnight Mass. Another squeal erupts from a weathered spire to the right. I look at its base and there’s the girl, her hands stretched out to the sky.
“You’re being too loud, Chiara,” her brother yells down from the castle’s spire. “People will hear you!”
“No one will hear us all the way out here, Alessandro.” Chiara tosses big, fluffy pillows in a wide circle. “You’re always too worried about everything.”
“Are you ready for the first one?” Alessandro asks.
Chiara positions herself in the circle’s center and lifts a large wicker laundry basket stuffed with even more pillows and blankets. She’s grinning, and adjusts her stance so her feet are planted firmly on the ground.
I pull up my binoculars and follow her gaze up the side of the castle. What are they doing? I think.
Alessandro stands on the edge of the spire, his legs shoulder-width apart to keep from falling. An old-looking wooden ladder rests against the thick ivy. A wicker basket sits next to his feet—practically teetering on the edge—stuffed with pillows and blankets like Chiara’s. But the blankets inside his keep wiggling.
“Be careful. They’re still just babies,” she says.
My heart leaps into my throat. I stand on my tiptoes to get a better look at what’s inside the basket. More pigs? Puppies? Kittens? Are they throwing baby animals off the castle?
Alessandro unwraps the blankets. I shriek, then quickly cover my mouth and hold my breath.
“What’s that noise?” Alessandro pauses and leans forward to look beyond the ring of fireflies.
I duck farther behind the trees. My heart beats so hard against my ribs that it’s bound to burst through my chest. It booms in my ears like a drum. Can they hear it?
“What noise?” Chiara asks. “I didn’t hear anything.”
“I heard something.”
“It’s probably an animal. Stop worrying. We need to get going.”
I should run. My feet get all tingly, my nerves telling my brain it’s time to go. But I press my binoculars tighter against my face. I can’t stop watching.
They’re not puppies or kittens. It’s like nothing I’ve ever seen before.
Inside the basket sit six tiny balls of light. Each one glows a soft white-gold, but they look a bit jagged to be perfect spheres. Little points run alongside their bodies, wiggling like tiny fingers and toes.
They’re not just balls of light, though. Are they fairies, their magic so bright their small bodies can’t contain it? Or are they something else entirely? My head swims with the possibilities. Trying to fit whatever they are into the world I’ve known for the past twelve years is impossible. They can’t be from this earth. A dull pain clusters between my eyebrows, as if my brain is expanding to make room for these tiny, ethereal creatures.
“They’re stars,” Alessandro says. “They’ll be fine.”
“Babies,” Chiara repeats. “They’re still little. They don’t know how to fly yet.”
Stars.
Stars?
My brain pushes even harder against my skull.
The stars bounce up and down, that squeaking noise even louder now. I lean out past the trunk to get a better look. Each star has a face. Little pebble eyes, like mice, and small, thin mouths. Their faces animated, each with a different expression, as if they have emotions.
My stomach churns, the chicken parm sandwich threatening to spill out. This is impossible.
I readjust my binoculars, clean off the lenses, and try to blink the stars away like a daydream, but there they are: The stars sit in their cozy wicker basket on top of the spire, bouncing and squealing like little baby animals.
Alessandro picks one up from the litter and cradles it in his arms. The star glows a bit brighter as it wriggles around. “Stay still. You’re going to fall,” he says. The star settles a bit as the boy tickles its tummy. He smiles. “There you go. Are you ready?”
“Remember, be careful!” Chiara yells from the ground.
“One.” Alessandro raises the star up into the air. “Two.” He swings the star back. “Three.” He lets go of the star. It wiggles and flutters its arms, trailing bits of shimmery, silvery grit like clumps of sand—stardust—in its wake.
The star bounces through the air before floating slowly down toward the girl. She runs about with the pillow-filled laundry basket while trying to gauge where the star will land. “Keep going,” she yells. “Don’t fall yet. You can do it!”
The star chirps and dives. It does its best to stay afloat, face strained, eyes shut tight and mouth turned down in a frown. The star squeals again and lands face-first on a pillow with a small tuft, sending plumes of feathers into the air.
Chiara rushes to its side and cuddles the star to her chest. “Shhh, it’s okay, little one.” She bounces it in her arms. She grabs a bottle from her basket and presses it to the star’s mouth. Whatever’s in the bottle doesn’t look much like a liquid. Instead it looks like a stormy, silver-white swirl of energy. The star’s eyes open wide, and it takes hold of the bottle in its tiny arms.
“Don’t baby it,” he calls.
“But it is a baby, Alessandro.” She pats the star on its pointed head before placing it gingerly in the basket. “You need to be nice to them. They’re new to this, and it’s our job to teach them.”
He rolls his eyes at his sister and rocks the next star in his arms. “Okay, little buddy,” Alessandro says. “You can do this. It’s your turn. I know you can.” He tosses the next star into the air, and even though it whirls and flutters a bit higher and for a little longer than the other star, it still makes a hard landing onto one of the pillows near Chiara.
“They’re not gonna be able to stay afloat up there on their own for a while.” Chiara picks the star up in her arms and snuggles it against her cheek. “These poor little stars.”
I watch mesmerized as one by one Alessandro tosses stars into the air. After the last floats down from the castle, he quickly scrambles down the ladder with his basket to bring them up to the spire again for more training.
The forest grows even darker. The fireflies glow brighter, but it’s still hard to see. I step a little closer. I need to soak up every detail. I need to be able to draw this, get this scene just right.
I move out from behind the tree to peek through the bushes in front of it, palms sweaty, hands shaking, sketch pad tight under my arm. I duck and push aside the branches of a bush. My hand slips and the bush shakes loudly. The leaves smack back together hard.
The noise echoes through the clearing.
Everything stops.
Chiara lowers her arms and stares in my direction. Alessandro quickly tucks the star he was holding back in the basket. The baby stars stop their cooing.
“I t
old you I heard something a couple hours ago!” Alessandro yells. “That’s too loud to be an animal.”
“Who’s there?” Chiara calls.
My breath catches in my throat. Chiara’s eyes meet mine. Her mouth opens in surprise. But before either of them can say anything, I run.
Chapter 4
I scramble back through the woods. A tree branch scratches my hands and its roots catch my shoes. I wince and swallow a yelp while pushing through the darkness. My chest aches, throat sore from the cold.
My yard comes into view as the sun begins dipping behind the houses. The pinks and oranges of its last rays pool over the dusky sky like spilled watercolors. I swing open the gate and dart toward my house. It must have been a long time since I started watching Chiara and Alessandro. Mom will know I’ve been gone if she’s back.
I give one last glance behind me before opening the back door and locking it quickly. I lean against the wall, clutch my sketch pad to my chest, and try to catch my breath. The room spins around me. I close my eyes. All I see are baby stars dancing in a dizzying display.
I have a conversation with myself:
“Did that happen?”
“Yes, Luna, you saw baby stars.”
“But baby stars aren’t real, are they? They definitely don’t have faces!”
“Luna?!” Mom calls from the kitchen.
I scramble out of the mud room and through the kitchen door.
“Where on earth have you been? I got home twenty minutes ago and you were nowhere to be found,” Mom says. “I’ve looked everywhere for you. And don’t say you were out in the backyard or in your tree because I looked there, too.”
“I walked down to Aunt Therese’s,” I say. “Wanted to see if she had any . . .” I close my eyes tight, trying to think of something—anything. “Sugar? Sugar for my tea.”
“Sugar? We’ve got plenty in the pantry.” Mom crosses her arms over her chest. She taps my science textbook with her finger. “It looks like this was barely touched while we were gone. Did you do any reading at all?”
The Trouble with Shooting Stars Page 3