Rocco’s shoulders slump. He opens his mouth like he has something to say, but quickly closes it. I don’t know what’s worse: all the worried glances, prayers, and “I’m sorrys” or not being seen or spoken to at all.
“Luna,” Mom yells from the kitchen. “Can you please help me?”
I turn from Rocco and do my best to keep my tears in check. “Coming.”
Before heading back into the kitchen, I rush into the guest bathroom and lock the door behind me. The tears fall, my shoulders shaking with the weight of them.
I undo the Velcro straps and remove my mask. My entire mind spreads and grows bigger after being trapped in the tight, constricting plastic. Like when Mom takes out all the vacuum-sealed sweaters she put away during spring and they expand to their original shapes and sizes. This stupid mask. The only good thing it does is hide my scars. But everything feels more relaxed without it. There’s room to think without getting a headache. I’d never take it off in front of people if I can help it, though.
I splash some cold water onto my face and wipe it off with Mom’s decorative Thanksgiving-themed hand towel. The burns sting, but not as bad as they were when I was talking to Rocco. “You can do this,” I say, staring at the empty wall where the bathroom mirror used to be.
Tears threaten to well up again. I’m not good at giving myself pep talks. My breathing comes in short, shaky rasps. I hold my breath and count to three, releasing it slowly once more.
“Get it together,” I whisper.
I grab a tissue and blow my nose before putting my mask back on and leaving the bathroom.
Chapter 7
The kitchen is busy with all sorts of activity. It smells like flaky crescent rolls, buttery mashed potatoes, and juicy turkey. My stomach rumbles, and I remember the plate of pigs in a blanket and pinwheels I left in the living room.
I weave around cousins, my grandmothers, and Uncle Mike, all moving through the kitchen as if performing an intricate dance I never learned. Cooking with my family is fun, but it’s always so hectic. I prefer when it’s just my mom or Uncle Mike. It’s easier to follow along.
Mom takes hold of my arm and presses a warm crescent roll into my hand. She brushes the hair from my face and looks at me. “You’ve been crying,” she says.
I shake my head.
“This is too much for you.” Her shoulders slump. Guilt shows on her face. “I shouldn’t have volunteered.”
“No. I’ll be fine.”
Nonna Bianchini stares at me. She drops the wooden spoon she was holding and it clatters on the floor. Flecks of brown gravy spatter across the kitchen cabinets.
“Fine?” Her eyes are watery.
“Is something wrong, Ma?” Mom asks, helping Nonna Bianchini sit down at the table.
“Her cheek. Her nose!” Nonna shakes her head. “If it weren’t for that mask, everyone would see. My sweet little girl,” she cries. “She’s not the same.”
“You haven’t seen her face since the hospital,” Uncle Mike says.
“Because I can’t bear to.” Tears wet her eyes. “I can’t bear to see my little Luna hurt in such a way.”
“Ma, calm down.” Uncle Mike’s eyes dart between me and his mother.
“Calm down?” Nonna’s voice rises. “This is all your fault.” She points a shaky finger at my mom. “You know Frankie shouldn’t be driving when his mind is elsewhere.”
Before I can try to understand why the accident would be Mom’s fault when she wasn’t even in the car, a wail escapes Nonna’s lips. Her shoulders heave up and down. “What about Christmas pictures? What about when we go to Midnight Mass? She’s never going to be normal with everyone staring and whispering.” She cries freely, cheeks blotchy and red.
My face is hot. My pulse booms in my ears. The cousins and aunts in the kitchen stare at me from the corners of their eyes. The others trickle in from the living room and watch from the doorway. I’m stuck in the middle of it all, too tense to move from my spot. Trapped in the eye of Hurricane Nonna.
Mom’s eyes widen. She takes a step closer to Nonna, her shoulders squared.
“Ma—” Uncle Mike begins.
“My fault?” Mom’s voice crashes against the walls of the kitchen like a wrecking ball. “Where do you come off saying these things in my home? It was your son driving. And you’ve got no right speaking this way about my child.”
“You’re the better driver. You know how Frankie is. Always speeding and stressed out.” She tries to catch her breath between sobs. Aunt Therese fills a glass with water and places it in front of her. “You know! It’s your responsibility to take care of your daughter.”
“She’s his daughter too! And who cares about Midnight Mass and what other people think?”
It feels like the world is closing in on me. I try to take a deep breath, but it is trapped under the weight pressing down on my chest.
“The world is too cruel,” Nonna says. “And you can’t yell at me like this!” Her words are thick with tears, making it even more difficult to understand what she’s saying. “Where’s the respect?”
“That’s it.” Dad’s voice rises above Nonna’s crying. He wheels himself into the kitchen, his face red. “Great job, Ma. Thanksgiving’s ruined before we’ve even eaten.” He tosses his hands in the air. “If you’re going to talk about my family like this, then you’re not welcome here. No more Sunday dinners. No more hosting holidays after this.”
The kitchen falls silent. Even Nonna Bianchini’s sobbing has stopped. Everything starts to spin, and the few pigs in a blanket I ate are about to end up on the floor. Heat rises in my chest and travels up my neck to my face. Everyone is looking at me. My mask feels too tight. My eyes sting, and my breathing hitches. Crying or puking in front of my family isn’t an option.
I dart from the kitchen, grabbing my sketch pad on my way up the stairs and locking my bedroom door behind me. I rip the mask off my face and fling it on the floor before throwing myself across my bed. I’d toss it out the window if I didn’t know Mom would yell at me.
“Luna?” Mom’s voice is soft on the other side of my door. “Luna, will you please unlock your door?”
“No.” I shove my pillow against my face and scream. Hot tears slick my cheeks and soak the pillow through. I hurl it at the door. It hits the wall and slides down to the ground with a dull thud. “I’m never leaving my room again.”
I pull Dad’s cornicello out from underneath my shirt and squeeze it in my fist. Dad gave me his tiny gold horn amulet after the accident, just before my first surgery. He said it would protect me.
If only he gave it to me before the accident.
Then maybe I wouldn’t be this big disappointment for my family.
“Please, Luna?” Mom says.
No amount of bargaining is going to make me go back downstairs and face my family. This isn’t like one of her morning walks or weekly trips to see Dr. Tucker. I tug my rainbow comforter over my head and curl my knees up against my chest. Chatter begins to pick up again downstairs, but my family doesn’t sound like they usually do. Not excited or happy. There’s a tension. A strain to their voices. They’re afraid Nonna’s outburst is a fracture that’ll lead to an even bigger break. I curl deeper into myself and shut my eyes. What my family doesn’t seem to realize is that it’s too late. Everything’s already broken.
• • •
A muffled shout wakes me up. I open one eye, then the other. My room is dark. It’s late. Everyone must have left. Mom’s and Dad’s voices rise and fall on the other side of my door. I roll over on my side. The red numbers on my alarm clock beam 10:27.
Eyes bleary, I pull my hair into a bun and crawl out of bed. I grab my mask off the floor and put it back on. My face won’t heal properly if I’m not wearing it all the time.
Dad shouts and I flinch. Mom responds, but I can’t hear what she says. I don’t want to hear it.
It’s too cold to sit out in my tree tonight, which makes their fighting all the more real.
/> I stare out at its gnarled, dark branches. It’s the only place that feels safe and normal.
I sit on the window bench, sketch pad on my lap, and take up my binoculars. As usual, there’s nothing going on at the Sapientis’. Mr. Anderson dances in front of his window, but tonight even his shimmying can’t make me smile. Cecilia stares out her window, her phone up to her ear.
So much for the night sky wrapping me up like a big, warm blanket. I feel frozen. Mr. Anderson dances off to bed and Cecilia closes her blinds, the light winking out in their rooms. One by one the other houses follow suit, each window going dark as people wind down for the night.
Mom’s and Dad’s muffled shouts come in bursts through the vents. It’s like counting the seconds between thunder and lightning. There’s a science to it.
Outside, the night calm settles over the neighborhood and I breathe slowly, wanting that calmness to push into my house too. Nonna Bianchini’s tearful sobbing repeats over and over in my head. “She’s never going to be normal!”
I press my head against the cold window glass. Maybe she’s right. Maybe my face is broken for good and all the doctors in Staten Island won’t be able to put me back together again. A wave of tears pushes against my eyelashes. I squeeze my eyes shut, not allowing them to fall. I take another shaky breath and reopen them.
A small flicker of light catches my eye.
It’s not big, hardly significant, a tiny white dot in an ocean of blackness coming from the Sapientis’ house next door.
I hide behind the curtain and watch the little lone firefly dance on the wind.
Alessandro emerges from the shadows. He pushes the second-floor window open farther and tosses a wooden toy connected to a silver string out onto the breeze. It falls a foot or so before catching on the wind and floating into the woods behind our houses.
I inch out from behind the curtains and press my hand against the glass. He lets some more of the silver string go, giving the toy enough slack to float farther away.
The glass vibrates. A buzzing grows in the palm of my hand and shoots up my arm. It travels all the way under my mask and pulses against my skin.
I snatch my hand off the window and open it up a crack, bracing myself for the chilly end-of-November wind, but the air is warm. Almost hot.
I lean an inch out the window. The vibrating starts up again, coursing through my body. My hair floats just above my shoulders, bouncing around my head like when you press your hands against the electric static ball at the science museum. My eyes widen, and I’m afraid that if I blink I’ll miss something. Excitement stirs in my chest, buzzing in time with the electricity surging in the air.
Alessandro’s mom comes up behind him and puts an arm on his shoulder. “You need to be more careful.” Mrs. Sapienti’s voice carries on the breeze between our houses. “Da Vinci constructed it himself.”
“It’s made it this long,” Alessandro says, smiling. “A little turbulence won’t hurt it.”
She plants her hands on her hips. “I don’t know what I’m going to do with you.”
“Chiara,” Alessandro calls. “It’s time.”
The little girl appears in the window carrying a lantern. Chiara stands with her hands on the windowsill while her mother braids her thick dark hair into two plaits. “Don’t let the stars nibble on your hair this time.” Mrs. Sapienti finishes both braids with two dark-blue ribbons. She helps Chiara into a big down coat.
“I won’t,” Chiara says. “Promise.”
Then about two dozen fireflies float from the forest, joining their lone brother to illuminate the space between our houses.
Where did the rest of these fireflies come from?
I duck farther behind the curtains, my heart in my throat.
The fireflies form a circle like they did in the forest, bobbing up and down like fishing lures.
Alessandro tugs on the silver string. Emerging from the forest like an ancient warship is a large zeppelin.
A squeak escapes from my lips. I clasp my hands against my mouth to stifle the next one. This is bigger than the baby stars. Much bigger. The zeppelin looks nothing like the Hindenburg or the blimps that sometimes circle Manhattan. It looks centuries old. Like a flying Viking boat or pirate ship that belongs in some alternate history where ships ride upon soft, voluminous clouds instead of giant waves.
The fireflies open up their circle, and the ship floats into the middle. Their glow bounces off the side of the ship’s dark wooden carriage. It’s shiny with deep red accents. Narrow, too. Above it is a large black balloon the shape of a bullet. But unlike the zeppelins we learned about in history class, the balloon on this one is decorated with long gold ribbons.
At its bow is a wooden figurehead of a woman with silvery-blue skin. I grab my binoculars to get a better look at her. Her hair and eyes glitter as if she’s been coated in stardust, and she wears a delicate-looking gown. Perched on her finger is a tiny, sparkling star.
I close my eyes tightly. When I open them again, the zeppelin is still there, floating just above the Sapientis’ house, as normal a fixture as a satellite dish or a weather vane.
I pinch the skin under my right arm and yelp.
“I’m not asleep,” I say. “This is real.”
“I packed cookies, apples, and two sandwiches each.” Mrs. Sapienti presses two lunch boxes into Chiara’s hands, who passes them to her brother. She hands her daughter two brooms, two mops, and two buckets filled with what appears to be washcloths and cleaning supplies. “Remember to take stock tonight of all the supplies we have on board. It’s been a while.”
“Yes, Mama,” the pair says in unison.
“And remember to be safe,” Mrs. Sapienti says. “It’s not an easy job.”
“We always are.” Alessandro rolls his eyes and grabs the mops and a bucket. “We’ll be fine.”
The ship lowers and fits snugly between our homes, docking close enough to the window. Mrs. Sapienti blows her children kisses before disappearing back into the room. The children climb onto the ship.
I hold on to the wall to steady myself.
“Hey!” Chiara’s voice booms between our houses. She stares directly at me, pointing. “You! From the woods.”
My pulse hammers against my head.
I shut my curtains tight and catapult back into bed, diving headfirst beneath my comforter. She couldn’t have seen me. It’s too dark to see into my room. Chiara saw a shadow. That was it.
I peek my head out from underneath the comforter. From the sliver between my curtains, I can see the hulking ship hasn’t left. It looms over my bedroom. There’s a soft tapping at my window, and I duck further under my comforter, like a groundhog.
The window. In my rush to hide I forgot to shut it. The bench creaks, and a soft thud hits the bedroom floor. I pull my knees up under my chin. I clutch my dad’s cornicello, holding it tight in my fist.
I should have locked the stupid window.
“Hello?” Chiara says to the darkness. “I know you’re in here.”
Chapter 8
Chiara’s footsteps echo throughout the quiet room. I hold my breath, praying she doesn’t see the obvious girl-shaped lump in the bed. Hiding has never been a talent of mine. When my cousins and I used to play hide-and-seek, I was always found first.
I push off the covers and sit up. “Hi.” Nervousness cracks in my voice.
Chiara turns, directing a little lantern in my direction. The candlelight cuts through the dark and lands square on my face. “Why are you in bed?”
“I was hiding.”
“Oh.” She walks over to the bed and flops down on the end of it like she’s been in my room thousands of times and has known me her entire life. “Why would you hide?”
It’s only the little neighbor girl, but who knows what other kind of magic they’re capable of. After all, they’re probably not too happy that I know their secret.
“Because I’m scared.”
Chiara laughs. “That’s silly. Why would y
ou be scared?”
I pluck at the feathers popping out of my rainbow comforter. “I know that you and your family are different. I saw the zeppelin and the stars.”
“Silly! We already knew that from the drawing you sent us.”
Of course they would have known from my drawing. My cheeks heat up.
“Besides, I knew I saw someone in the woods the other day. You’re very nosy.”
“I’m not nosy. I’m observant.”
She shrugs. “Same thing.”
“You’re not mad that I know?” I ask. “You’re not going to turn me into a frog and keep me in a cage, or make me into a statue to put in your backyard because I know your secrets?”
She puts a finger to her lips as if in deep contemplation. Finally, she shakes her head. “Nah. That’s not how it works exactly. Also, Mama wouldn’t let us keep a pet frog.”
“Then what’s going to happen?”
“Nothing, I guess.”
“Nothing?”
“Well, it’s really only a problem if everyone in all of New York knew. Most people don’t even notice us. They’re too busy to look up.”
“I won’t tell everyone in New York.” I shake my head.
“Good.” She smiles. “That would’ve been bad.”
“So,” I ask. “What do you do with it? That big ship?”
“We are spazzatrici.” Chiara grins. “We tend to the stars and moon.”
“You fly?” I point to my ceiling. “Up there?”
“Yes, all the way into the heavens.” She laughs and mimics my pointing. “Beyond the roofs and up into the sky.”
“That sounds dangerous.” My heartbeat quickens. So many things could go wrong flying up that high. Especially in an old wooden zeppelin and not something more stable like a rocket ship. I swallow hard, my hands tingling. It also sounds wonderful.
The Trouble with Shooting Stars Page 6