We should go home.
I slam my car door shut, lagging behind.
Mom looks back at me and her expression softens. “I know it’s hard, Luna.” She puts an arm around my shoulders. “But this’ll make you feel better. You love it here.”
She guides me through the door, and the mingling scents of fresh cookies and fried salami greets me. Deli clerks rush back and forth, filling orders for the long line of customers. Mom and I stand to the side, careful not to get in the way.
I stare at the cookies and pastries behind the glass. My empty stomach grumbles. We didn’t have time for breakfast before Dr. Tucker’s. And I’d gladly eat a million sfogliatella instead of breakfast anyway. My mouth waters at the thought of biting into the flaky pastry.
“Luna!” one of the deli clerks, Matteo, yells. He’s been working here with Dad and Uncle Mike since they were all kids. He smiles, and the lines around his blue eyes crinkle. “It’s been a while. How’ve you been, kid?”
“Fine.” I stare down at the black-and-white checkered tiles, careful to keep my mask hidden behind my hair. “I thought Uncle Mike completely redid everything.”
“Not this side. That’s next he says.” Matteo laughs. “Your dad isn’t too keen on the idea. You should go see the other half though.” He lets out a low whistle. “It’s something else. People actually stay awhile and enjoy their coffee.”
“Let’s get you situated over there,” Mom says, guiding me toward the large arched entryway to the other side of the deli. “Will you let them know we’re here, Matteo?”
He nods and pushes open the door to the kitchen. “Frank! Mike! Family’s here.”
I stop just shy of the tables and chairs and gasp. When Dad bought the tailor shop next door, he didn’t do much with it. It was clean, but looked old. Nothing fancy. Just a few small tables with plastic red-and-white checkered tablecloths and brown cushioned chairs. The only art was a few framed photos of Nonno’s parents and their old restaurant in Italy that hung at odd angles on the eggshell-white walls.
But Uncle Mike transformed the room into a Tuscan sunflower field at dusk. A sunset of oranges, pinks, and reds is painted across the ceiling. Beneath the sky are hundreds of cheery yellow sunflower heads popping up from thick, dark-green stems. Their faces all point the same way, searching for the sun. Just like they do out in the real Tuscan sunflower fields.
I stand on my tiptoes and spin around to take it all in at once. Uncle Mike’s mural is so real, so vivid, I can almost feel the Tuscan sunset warming my face.
“Mom! It’s like being back in Tuscany,” I say. “It’s magical. Remember all the sunflowers? You took that picture of me in the field with them?” I stretch my arms wide and close my eyes.
“See? I knew you’d love it,” Mom says. “They even put in nicer chairs and tables. I think your father’s coming around to it.”
I open my eyes. They did get rid of the old tables and tablecloths. Now the chairs are extra cushiony—like the kind you’d find in a fancy coffee shop. There are no tablecloths, but the tables are a pretty dark wood that matches the rest of the room.
“What do you think, Luns?” Uncle Mike leans against the wall, a huge grin on his face. “Nice, isn’t it?”
“I love it!”
“The lighting’s a little dim,” Dad says, wheeling up next to his brother. “But it works for now.”
“This guy.” Uncle Mike laughs. “He hates change so much that one time it took him two months to replace a lightbulb in the stockroom because the brand he liked went out of business.”
“I’m very particular. And you did this without me okaying it first.” Dad frowns. “You know I don’t like that.”
“Oh, come on.” Mom crosses her arms over her chest. “It looks great. Don’t be such a grump about everything.”
“Maybe I wouldn’t be so grumpy if I wasn’t stuck in this thing.” Dad gestures at his chair. “Or stuck at home all the time. It’s a miracle I was even allowed to come in today.”
A silence falls over the room. I look at the space between my parents, too scared to check my dad’s ring finger.
“Thank God you’re here, Sofia.” Uncle Mike claps Mom on the shoulder. “We need all the help we can get this morning. You’d think the malls would keep people busy, but everyone’s filling orders for the holidays.”
“Let me know what you need,” Mom says. “We’ve got a couple hours before Luna’s next appointment.” She looks at me. “Will you be okay on your own?”
I hold up my science textbook and nod.
“We just made a fresh batch of cannoli,” Uncle Mike says. “Want one?”
“Can I have a sfogliatella too?”
“You’re going to make yourself sick,” Mom says. “What about some prosciutto and smoked gouda to balance out all the sugar?”
I scowl at her.
“Fine. Fine. At least you’re eating,” Mom says. “Go sit down for now. I’ll be back soon.”
She follows Uncle Mike and Dad toward the other half of the deli.
The sitting area is quiet, situated far enough away so that the hustle and bustle from the deli is no louder than a faint hum. I plop down at a table near the thickest section of sunflowers and open my science book to chapter seven: Genes to Traits. I skip ahead to the end and scan the practice quiz. Boring.
I close the book and pull my sketch pad and pencil bag from my backpack, spreading out all my supplies, arranging my pencils from shortest to tallest. Then I pick the shortest pencil in the row.
The details from last night’s trip collect like rainwater in a bucket. Drip, drip, drip. Memories of the ship’s Luna figurehead, the Amelia Earhart goggles, and Alessandro’s moon tracker all come into focus.
I open my sketch pad to a fresh page. There’s too much I want to draw. I’m not sure where to even begin. I lean over the table, pencil poised. Start with the basics. That’s easiest. First an outline of the actual ship, its belly round and perfectly smooth and the sides slightly curved to fit the large deck. The sets of staircases on either side that lead to the stern and bow. Next comes the Luna figurehead, with long flowing hair and the tiny star resting on her finger. I squint as I try to get her smile just right.
My arm begins to stiffen. I roll my shoulder back, doing one of the exercises I learned in physical therapy. Once the stiffness lessens, I push on to a quick outline of the ship’s balloon. The mammoth black balloon that breathes life into the zeppelin. The set of lungs that makes it possible for the ship to fly through the clouds and high into the sky.
Pain shoots through my hand and makes me smear the shading on the balloon. The pencil slips from my fingers as they spasm from overuse. My left hand is bloated and red. I clench it into a fist as more pain courses up my arm.
“Mom?” I yell, walking over to the deli counter. “My hand hurts. Can I have some medicine?”
Mom hands a white box wrapped in red string to a customer before turning toward me. “You know how I feel about painkillers,” she says. She looks past me at the table filled with sketches and pencils. “And aren’t you supposed to be doing homework?”
“Mom,” I groan. “I can do it later.”
“Well, I guess you haven’t been this active in a while. It’s a good sign. Let me grab my purse and a plate of food. I’ll be right over.”
Mom walks into the back to get the pills out of her purse while I head to the table. I look down at my drawings and sigh. All of the memories from last night swirl around my head, and all I want to do is pluck one of the ideas from my mind and tether it to the paper with my pencil. If only my stupid hand wasn’t broken. If only everything wasn’t broken.
“Breakfast time, Luna.” Mom places a hefty sfogliatella in front of me. Almond paste pours from its end out onto the plate, and bits of powdered sugar get lost in the little ribbons of pastry. She shakes two white pills from an orange bottle into her hand. “Eat your sfogliatella, all of it, before drawing again,” she says. “Give these some time
to work.”
Mom hands me the pills.
“Thank you.” I pop them into my mouth and quickly take a large gulp of water to wash down the sharp, chalky taste.
“That’s interesting.” Mom picks up my sketch pad and holds it out in front of her, head tilted as she takes it in. “Very surreal. Your drawings are usually more realistic.”
“Well,” I say with a mouthful of pastry, “it is realistic. Because it’s really real.”
Mom arches an eyebrow, looking closer at the drawing. “What do you mean really real?”
“I flew on it last night.”
She laughs. “My little Luna. Never lose that imagination of yours.”
“I told you about this already—twice—and you wouldn’t believe me.” Heat creeps up my neck. “The new kids next door. They’re magical.”
“It was probably just a realistic dream.” Mom purses her lips. “Dr. Tucker said one of the side effects of your new medication is vivid dreams.”
“No.” I roll my eyes. “It wasn’t a dream. I know what I saw.” I look back down at my drawing and the half-eaten pastry in front of me. “It wasn’t pretend or my imagination. I was up in a flying zeppelin last night.”
“Blimps don’t fly that low, Luna. There are flight restrictions.”
“It wasn’t a blimp.” I look up at her, shaking my head. “It’s a magical zeppelin. It looks exactly as it does in the picture. I drew it exactly how I saw it. Like the Argo, except with a giant bullet-shaped balloon to make it fly. The Sapienti kids hopped in and flew up to the stars. I went with them.”
“You’re twelve. You should know magic isn’t real.” She looks at me warily. “All this time in your room with your thoughts isn’t good. I’m glad you’re seeing that therapist today.”
My face burns. “I know what I saw.”
Mom stares at me a moment longer before her eyes drift over to the deli counter. “I can’t talk about this now, honey. It’s getting busier.” She kisses me on the head. “We can talk about the magic and the zeppelin later.”
Of course she won’t believe me. Mom will never understand. She was the one who told me Santa Claus wasn’t real when I was eight years old because she needed help wrapping all the presents for the younger cousins. She’s never been one for magic.
I scarf down the rest of my sfogliatella while staring at the rough outline of the zeppelin. The pencil smear through the balloon looks like a jagged scar. Even without the scar down the middle, it doesn’t feel right. The drawing looks flat and tired. Zapped of all magic. I tear it out of the sketch pad and cast it aside.
My fingers are stiff, but the pain has subsided. I take up a fresh pencil and a clean sheet of paper. I think about what Alessandro said, about people being too busy to see things properly. This time I don’t focus on the reality of what I saw. I take a deep breath and draw what I felt.
It’s because of magic that Alessandro and Chiara can zoom up to the heavens without the need for space suits. It’s because of magic that the baby stars bounce and coo in their little bassinets. It’s because of magic that the zeppelin can fly so high.
I touch the plastic mask. Nonna’s words about my broken face echo through my mind.
If magic can do all those other things, maybe it can help me heal.
Just as I’m finishing up the bows decorating the balloon, Uncle Mike sits down across from me.
“Working hard, Luna?” he asks.
I look up at the clock. An hour has passed since Mom brought me my sfogliatella.
He looks at the mess of drawings on the table. Some good, others not so good. “Looks like you’ve been busy.”
I nod.
“These are stunning.” Uncle Mike leafs through the drawings. “How did you come up with this concept? The ship feels so familiar.”
“Familiar?” I put down my pencil. “What do you mean?”
“It reminds me of stories I heard when I was your age. Of something that happened way back when. Remember when we were talking about Stelle a couple weeks ago?” he asks.
I stare at my uncle, trying to keep my expression neutral. “I think I remember that.”
Uncle Mike hesitates, as if he’s about to say something, but then he shrugs his shoulders. “It’s silly.”
“No!” I bounce up. “What were you going to say? What stories?”
“Well, one of the reasons I went to Stelle was because of those stories your nonno would tell us when we were kids. All those amazing legends about the city and this secret group of streghe who used their magic to honor and protect the goddess Luna.” He rests his chin on his fist.
“Spazzatrici?” I whisper, my heart in my throat.
Uncle Mike’s furry black eyebrows shoot up his forehead. “How do you know about that? Did Nonno tell you?”
I stare hard at the sunflowers poking up behind Uncle Mike’s shoulder. “Do you think magic is real?”
Uncle Mike leans forward, his elbows on the table.
Customers filter in and out of the deli, and clerks call orders out over the din.
I swallow the lump forming in my throat.
“I do,” he says at last. “But it’s a tricky thing to define.”
“What do you mean?”
“Magic isn’t the same for everyone.” He waves his hand at the sunflower mural. “This is magic for some people. These sunflowers turn their heads each day to drink up as much of the sun as possible.” Uncle Mike smiles at me. “Your talent is magic. The way you see things other people don’t and bring life to your art.”
“But what about the kind of magic in fairy tales?” I point to one of the zeppelin drawings on the table. “What about the kind of magic that makes ships fly?”
He looks at the picture of the zeppelin again. “How did you know about them?”
I shrug, not wanting to tell him the truth. “I found a book when I was poking around in Dad’s stuff. I thought they were neat.”
“Mike, your brother needs you.” Matteo pops his head around the corner, making my uncle and me jump. “The line’s almost out the door.”
“Be there in a minute.” Uncle Mike takes a deep breath. He looks at me, face weary. “Your drawings are great, Luns. Show me more later?”
“It’s a zoo in here, Mike!” Dad yells from the other side of the deli. “Hurry up!”
I nod.
He fixes a shaky smile on his face before heading toward the counter. “Yeah, yeah, yeah. You should be happy we have so many customers.”
Their bickering fades into the rest of the chatter filling Bianchini’s. I stare down at the zeppelin, and suddenly it feels like just the tip of my spazzatrici investigation. There’s so much more to them than I could ever imagine.
Chapter 13
Mom helps me into my coat as we leave for my therapy appointment. “Your father is going to finish up here.” She hands me my scarf. “We’ll pick him up on the way home.”
My arm is still stiff despite the painkillers Mom gave me.
I look over my shoulder for Uncle Mike as we go through the deli door. But he’s nowhere to be found. My heart rattles against my rib cage. I need more time to talk to him.
“Luna?” a familiar voice calls.
I look up just in time to see Mrs. Ruiz waving at my mom and me from the parking lot. “Sofia, how are you two?”
My eyes dart down to my shoes. I try opening the car door, but Mom hasn’t unlocked it yet. I swallow hard.
Mom smiles and closes the distance between her and Mrs. Ruiz. I stand back, doing my best to hide my face behind my hair. “Janet, what’re you doing here?” Mom asks.
“Putting in our dessert order for Christmas. Nobody makes cannoli like Bianchini’s.” Mrs. Ruiz tosses her car keys into her large purse and runs a hand through her short dark hair. Her bright red lips turn up in a smile. “How are you doing, Luna?” She looks past my mom toward me.
“I’m fine,” I say. “Just fine.”
Mrs. Ruiz takes off her black sunglasses and
looks right at me. She doesn’t wince or physically react, but concern flashes in her eyes. The same look my aunts and uncles get when they try to hide their discomfort. Mrs. Ruiz reaches out to give me a hug. The scent of her vanilla perfume fills my nose, a smell that I didn’t realize I missed until just now. She’s careful not to hug me too tight like she usually does.
“You should stop by for a haircut soon,” she says after releasing me. “It’s getting so long.”
“Yeah, it’s been a while.” I twirl a frizzy strand between my fingers and look away.
“Tailee misses you, you know. She says you never pick up when she calls.” Mrs. Ruiz glances over her shoulder. “She’s waiting in the car just now.”
“What?” My cheeks grow hot. Sitting in the blue SUV beyond Mrs. Ruiz is Tailee.
I scramble to tug the hair further over my mask. Our eyes meet for a moment before Tailee slumps down. She doesn’t wave or smile.
Mom and Mrs. Ruiz continue to chat, but their voices fade far away. I steal glances at Tailee. I spot the black bun she wears on top of her head peeking out of the window as she ducks lower in the back seat.
A knot twists in my stomach. Tailee saw me. It doesn’t help that the last time we saw each other, it was so awkward and I could barely talk to her. Did she forget all about the mask? Does she think I look weird?
Mom clamps a hand on my shoulder, jolting me. “Maybe Luna will be up for a visit next time Tailee brings her homework by.”
Mrs. Ruiz’s eyes flicker between me and the top of Tailee’s head. “Tailee said Johnny’s going to bring over Luna’s homework now.”
“Oh,” Mom says. “Is there a reason?”
“Just with Tailee’s vocal lessons and the auditions for the play coming up, she needs to focus on that.”
“Well, then, maybe a sleepover during Christmas break. When there’s more time.”
The Trouble with Shooting Stars Page 10