The Trouble with Shooting Stars

by Meg Cannistra

  She’s like a human lie detector machine. If I try to cover it up, she’ll just punish me. And that’ll take way longer than telling the truth. My eyes drift to the stairs at the end of the hall. All I want to do is race up them and sprawl out with my sketch pad and pencils.

  “No. I was out in the woods.”

  Mom’s eyebrows jump up. “You were where?”

  “But it’s because I saw the neighbor kids run back there and I wanted to see what they were doing.” I gesture toward the window. “Except the woods aren’t really woods anymore. Have you seen them? It’s a forest full of spooky trees now. Thousands of them. Like really big ones with tons of leaves.”

  “You shouldn’t be out in the woods, Luna.”

  “But look, Mom!” I grab her by the arm and pull her toward the window.  “Look how many . . .” I pause, squinting out into our dusky backyard at the shabby number of trees. No longer a forest. Just the same old neatly planted trees my cousins and I used to play tag in. You can see straight through them like a row of toothpicks. “No.” I shake my head. “No, no, no. There were way more. I swear. And a huge castle in the middle.”

  “A castle? On Staten Island?” Mom frowns, the lines around her lips deepening.  “Were you really out there today?”

  “I was, and the forest was humongous.” I pull up my binoculars. Maybe looking at the woods through the binoculars will make them go back to the way they were this afternoon. But no. If anything, there are even fewer trees.

  “I don’t know what’s gotten into that head of yours lately.”

  “Mom, I was there. I know what I saw.” My voice turns whiny like when I was little and used to throw tantrums.

  The kitchen gets heavy with silence. The grandfather clock in the foyer chimes five. “I’m making that appointment for you to see Dr. Miles. That therapist Dr. Tucker recommended,” she says.

  “What?” I blink at her several times. “Why?”

  “You need to talk to someone even if it isn’t me.” Mom turns away from me and busies herself with chopping onions. “We’re having tacos for dinner.”

  “I’m not hungry.” I grab my sketch pad off the dining room table and run up the stairs to my room, shutting the door behind me.

  My whole body buzzes. I sit on the window bench and open my sketch pad, pencil poised over an empty page.

  Everything pours out onto the page: the stars, the castle, the fireflies, the dark, scary woods. And the Sapientis.

  My hand aches, but I keep drawing until the page is full and my mind is empty. Maybe Mom would believe if she saw my drawings. Maybe with this proof she’d realize I’m not imagining things. I peer at the Sapientis’ house, trying to see through their dark curtains and into their fantastical world.

  Or maybe she’d worry about me even more.

  We all see things so differently.

  But that’s how it is with a lot of things.

  I touch the edge of my mask; its hard plastic is cold after being exposed to the chilly air for so long. I stare down at the mess of magic in my sketch pad, the hasty drawing of everything in my head. If Mom can’t see it, what would Dad or Uncle Mike or even someone else see if they looked at this drawing? Would they understand it the way I do? Or would they be too busy to pay close attention?

  I tear a clean page out of my sketch pad, quickly writing my name and address and a rambling paragraph that reads:

  Hi there,

  You’ve been selected at random to participate in my project. My name is Luna. I’m twelve years old, and I live on Staten Island. I love art and draw every day. I’m interested in what you see when you look at my drawing. Will you please take a look at it and write me back? Tell me what exactly it is that you see.

  And.

  Be.

  Honest.

  I’ve included a stamped envelope with my address, so don’t worry about postage costs. Remember: Be honest.

  —Luna

  I fold the paper in half and rummage through my desk for the envelopes from the stationery kit my Granny Ranieri bought me for my birthday last year. Carefully, I place the note in an envelope, along with my drawing of Chiara using magic to grow furniture in their house.

  There have to be more people out there who see what I see.

  I put the envelope on my desk, placing my bright red pen right on top so I don’t forget about it, and sit back down on the window bench.

  With the stack of envelopes sitting across from me, I turn to a new page in my sketch pad and keep drawing.

  Chapter 5

  I don’t need help.” Dad grabs the wheels on his wheelchair and tries to pull himself away from Mom.

  “Your hands are all calloused,” she says. “It’s going to hurt in this cold.”

  “Why do we have to do this?” I ask. “It doesn’t make me feel any better.”

  We stand on our driveway, the Wednesday morning sun hidden behind gray clouds fat with rain. I watch the Sapientis’ house. Still and quiet. Almost as if it’s empty. No one’s been around all morning. I haven’t even seen their parents since the night they moved in.

  “Dr. Madan says Dad needs fresh air.” Mom’s walks have been an ongoing routine for the past month. Every morning at ten. And if Dad or I have a doctor’s appointment in the morning, she makes us go in the afternoon.

  A light breeze stirs up the chilly air and sends dead leaves skittering across the street. I readjust the envelopes nestled between the pages of my sketch pad. Sometimes Mom and Dad like to sit in the small park at the end of our street and I have time to draw the birds and squirrels. But I wish I was still at home spying on the neighbors and drawing pictures of bouncing baby stars instead. Mom would never let me miss one of our family walks.

  I finger one of the envelopes. Drawings for my new project. Last night after I drew the stars, I kept going—drawing other fantastical things, like the full moon against a starless sky and unicorns guarding castles hidden deep in the woods. When I couldn’t think of any more magic, I drew ordinary things that are sometimes overlooked.

  No two people see something the same way. Or correctly. I learned that on one of the crime shows Mom and Dad used to watch together. On every episode, the cops talked to several witnesses and each one had a different idea or opinion of what happened at the crime scene. No story was 100 percent right.

  That’s where my experiment comes into play. I asked Mom this morning and she said I could leave the folded drawings in our neighbors’ mailboxes with our address and ask for their interpretations. As long as I didn’t pester them for responses. I’m curious if people can see the magic too, or point out any extra magic that I missed. I want to know what other people notice.

  I wrap my thick wool scarf around my face and pull my hood over my head. If it weren’t for my experiment, I wouldn’t be too excited to be out here. I don’t want anyone to see me. Or my mask.

  Dad looks about as miserable as I do. He doesn’t want anyone to see him either. His pale skin echoes the gray sky. His big brown eyes are sunken and sad. Even his large, hooked nose looks droopy. And it’s hard for him to shower now, so his thick black hair doesn’t have the spring it used to.

  Mom tugs my scarf down a few inches, so it’s not in my eyes, and smiles. “These walks will do us all some good,” she says. “We need to get out more.”

  “I hate them,” I say, walking past my parents. “I don’t like people looking at me.”

  “Look right back at them, Luna. Be brave. There’s nothing wrong with you,” Dad calls after me a bit too forcefully.

  I cringe. It’s like he thinks he can shout the courage right into me. Into us.

  “Frank,” Mom whispers, thinking I’m too far ahead to hear the edge in her voice. “That’s not what she needs right now.”

  “What? She needs to be tough.” Dad’s voice is firm. It presses down on the crisp autumn morning like an iron. “It’s already unfair for a kid her age to deal with all these doctor visits. She doesn’t need to deal with people staring
at her all day too.”

  Face flushed, I quicken my pace, running out onto the street so I’m farther away from them.

  Tompkinsville has a lot of different kinds of streets, but mine is my favorite. Our street, Marigold Court, is the very first one in the neighborhood. It ends on a cul-de-sac and looks a little bit like a big key amid all the other, labyrinthine streets. All the houses are old and look unique, not like the gated communities where every house comes out looking the same. Here some are short and squat brick homes; others are tall and spindly with big turrets and wood siding. Ours sits smack-dab at the end of the cul-de-sac with the woods at its back. Those strange woods that transform into a twisted, secretive forest. How could an ancient crumbling castle I’ve never seen before sprout up like it has always been there—and then disappear? Fantasies like that don’t just happen on Staten Island.

  “What do you think of the new neighbors?” I call over my shoulder. Mom and Dad go silent, their eyes moving over the Sapientis’ house.

  “New neighbors?” Dad says.

  “They just moved in the other day,” Mom replies. “They’re from Italy, I think.” She tilts her head to the side.

  They both shrug.

  “The dad was in the garage the other day.  We saw him on our way back from Dr. Madan’s office.” Mom pulls her blond hair into a ponytail as she stares at the house.

  “Did you see inside?” I turn to face them. “What was in there?”

  “I don’t remember,” Mom says. “I wasn’t snooping.”

  Dad rolls his wheelchair after me, just a yard behind. “They seem quiet.”

  “And their windows are dark,” Mom adds.

  “I want to know what they’re up to.”

  “Don’t be so nosy, Luna. It’s not polite.”

  “You don’t need to tell her what to do all the time.” Dad’s voice carries on the wind and stings my cheeks.

  I tuck deeper into my coat.

  Adults always say it’s not the kid’s fault when parents fight, but when your name comes up more than anyone else’s, it’s kind of hard not to feel like you’re the problem.

  It might have been nice having a brother or a sister. I have my cousins, but now it would be good to have someone when you can’t talk to your parents. Like Chiara has Alessandro.

  I walk farther ahead of my parents, pull out my sketch pad, and press my palm against the drawing of the baby stars. My parents’ voices fade on the breeze. The drawing feels warm against my cold hands, as if it carries its own magic.

  I turn the pages to one of the time-stamped drawings from last night. It’s hard to imagine such a quiet Italian family existing. The only time my family is ever quiet is when we’re all asleep. Even then my aunt Therese’s snoring could wake a grizzly bear out of hibernation.

  But the Sapienti family is different, I guess. No activity last night. None since I saw the baby stars bouncing around in the forest yesterday afternoon.

  The breeze wraps itself around me, and I close my eyes. I can still see those glimmering stars twirling. When I finally fell asleep sometime after two a.m., my dreams weren’t nightmares about the car crash. They were filled with dancing baby stars flying out of the forest and high up into the heavens. No twisted metal or screeching car tires. Just happy dreams of Alessandro tickling the stars’ bellies before tossing them from the roof. And of Chiara laughing as the stars floated down onto the feathery pillows strewn about the forest. If I could, I’d live in those dreams forever.

  “Just let me push you,” Mom says. “It’ll be better.”

  “I’m a man. I can do it myself,” Dad snaps. “You just don’t get it.  You don’t see this situation like I do.”

  I wince and move in front of the Kims’ house, a cozy two-story that looks a lot like a gingerbread cottage tucked among many Christmas trees. The Kims are visiting their grandchildren in Florida. Mom’s getting their mail and watching their cat. She said they wouldn’t be home for two weeks, making them bad candidates for my experiment.

  Mom takes hold of Dad’s wheelchair and pushes him forward. He crosses his arms over his chest, lips pulled tight in a straight line. The same face he always makes when he’s unhappy. For someone as loud and funny as Dad, it’s hard to get him to the point where he’s too upset to speak. But lately that’s become his usual expression.

  “What if I went to work on a more regular schedule, you know, to get out of the house?” Dad says. “Instead of these ‘walks.’ ”

  “You know you can’t yet. Yesterday was an exception. It’s so hard to maneuver behind those counters and with all those people.” Mom pinches the bridge of her nose. “Mike told me Eddie crashed into you when he was carrying a cold-cut platter. You’re lucky he wasn’t carrying a pot of meatballs and gravy or something.”

  Dad waves the incident off with his hand. “Please. It wasn’t that big of a deal.”

  “There was capicola and salami all over the floor. Besides, Dr. Madan says you need more rest.”

  “He doesn’t know anything.”

  “He’s one of the best doctors in the area.” Mom sighs. “The deli is too stressful. It’s clearly not very wheelchair-friendly. It’s okay for once in a while, but not full-time yet.”

  “Mike’s working on getting a ramp put in. It’ll be ready in a month.”

  “Well, then we can discuss this again in a month.”

  “You’re impossible.”

  “I’m practical.”

  Dad shakes his head, but he doesn’t say anything more.

  “Walks are good for you. It’s important for you and Luna to get out of the house.”

  “You should just go back to work,” he says. “We’d be fine at home.”

  “Frank,” Mom begins. “You know I can’t go back right now. Someone needs to be here to take care of you. Luna can’t do it.”

  “We’d be fine during the day. And you wouldn’t be bothering us.”

  “Bothering you?” Mom frowns, too tired to argue. She’s a speech pathologist and works in the school district, but she had to take the first half of the school year off so she could be with Dad and me. I can tell she misses it. Every day she’d come home, excited to tell us about how the kids she’s working with were progressing. But now nothing new happens. She’s stuck at home and at doctors’ offices all day. It doesn’t help that Dad and I aren’t as easy to be around as the kids she works with in the schools.

  I walk faster, trying to lose them again.

  If Dad didn’t have to take me to my art lesson that day, he and Mom would still be able to work. I’d still be in school.

  I’d still look normal.

  I close my eyes tight, tucking the what-ifs into the back corners of my brain.

  Two older ladies in tracksuits speed walk on the opposite side of the street. Their eyes bounce between my parents and me. I pull the scarf further over my face. One of the women tilts her head. My face burns, possibly enough to melt my mask. Realization forms in her eyes and she whispers to her friend, who then gives me another appraisal. They both stare with pity, their necks craning to get a better look as I pass. I know exactly what they’re thinking: ugly. I stuff my hands into my pockets and look down, praying we don’t cross paths on our way back home. Sadness churns in my stomach like a pot ready to boil over. I fight the tears threatening to fall down my cheeks.

  “I want to go home,” I say, anger rising in my chest.

  “Luna, you can’t keep hiding from the world,” Mom says. She stops pushing Dad, and they both look at me. “That’s no way to live your life.”

  “I’m not hiding. I just don’t want to see anyone.” I push my hands into my pockets. Dad said I need to be brave. That all Bianchinis are brave. I swallow the lump lodged in my throat, tossing my hair back over my shoulders. “I just don’t want to be the town monster.”

  “Come here, Luna,” Mom says.

  I walk over, and Mom crouches in front of me and takes hold of my arms. She squints, tugging the scarf down a bit
, and then looks at me some more. “I don’t see a monster,” she says. “I see my daughter, Luna. A brave girl with freckled cheeks, bright brown eyes, and a mass of springy dark hair.” She looks at Dad and smiles. “What do you see, Frank?”

  He leans forward in his wheelchair and looks at me in the same puzzled way Mom did. “I don’t see a monster either,” he says. “And if anyone thinks otherwise, they need to get their eyes checked.”

  “I’m not a baby anymore.” I ball my hands into fists and take a step away from them. “I know what I look like. I know you took down all the mirrors because I got upset. I’m not stupid.”

  “Luna,” Mom begins.

  I throw my hands in the air. “No. Don’t say my name like that. I hate how everyone says my name like I’m some sad, ugly dog at the pound.” Ugly, ugly, ugly. I stare past them, afraid that if I look at my parents I’ll start crying. “Don’t you know I can see my reflection in windows and spoons? You trying to hide the truth from me doesn’t stop me from knowing exactly what others see.” My voice catches in my throat. I glare at them. “But I’ll be fine, okay? I always am. I just like being by myself.”

  Mom and Dad exchange a glance, worry etched on both their faces.

  I touch the envelopes in my sketch pad and straighten my back. “If you want me to stay out, then I will. I’ve got stuff to do. Alone.”

  Dad sighs. He looks at Mom, who nods. “Okay, we’ll head home,” he says. “But we expect you back in fifteen minutes.”

  Mom narrows her eyes. “You understand? No detours into the woods.”

  “I guess.”

  “Don’t give me that, Luna Andrea Marie Bianchini! Keep up the sass and you won’t be allowed to do your experiment.”

  “Fine. I won’t go in the woods.” I press my lips into a firm line. Better to keep it at that instead of say anything more.

  Mom gives me one last look before turning Dad’s wheelchair around and heading back home.

  I stomp over to the Anderson family’s mailbox, a simple white metal one with a red plastic flag. Two pieces of mail and a catalog already sit inside. Good. That means they haven’t brought their mail in yet.