“The Cielo Stellato!” I say. “My uncle said there were tons of fireflies. Like the ones that come out every time the ship flies into the sky.”
“I love the little fireflies.” Chiara claps her hands together.
I try to remember any stories Uncle Mike or Nonno Bianchini might have told. Did Uncle Mike ever talk about Stelle before and I just wasn’t paying attention? Did Nonno Bianchini tell me about the Four Sisters? It’s possible, but I just didn’t see things like I do now. I could’ve explained it away, just as Alessandro had said.
“I should have known about you sooner.”
“Sometimes it takes a while,” Mrs. Sapienti says. “Sometimes people never see it.”
I let the information sink into my bones. It all seems so strange yet so familiar. Like an old journal from years ago or a musty old blanket your nonna knitted for you before you were born. The legend of the Four Sisters answers many questions. They are why the spazzatrici exist. They are why Stelle was founded. But it’s as if one answer breaks off into hundreds of questions. I try to latch on to them. To catch all the things I still need to ask in order to make the magic puzzle easier to put together.
But the questions move through my head before I can collect them all. I stare down at the chipped polish on my fingernails. It’s dizzying, trying to figure out how this magical history fits into the world I know. My brain feels light and is threatening to float out of my skull. I try to steady myself and look up at Mrs. Sapienti and Chiara. “It’s just a lot,” I say.
“You’ll figure it out. It sounds like you’re already understanding the most important parts. Like how spazzatrici navigate through space and take care of the heavens.” Mrs. Sapienti takes another sip of hot chocolate. “Are you enjoying your time up there?”
“Oh, it’s been one of the most amazing things in my entire life!”
Her smile grows. “I remember my first time up. Their papa is one of the most skilled spazzatrici.”
“Papa says you got sick and threw up over the side of the ship,” Chiara says.
Mrs. Sapienti purses her lips. “Ah, I remember it differently. I remember your papa being a bit of a showboat and accidentally conking himself on the head with one of the moon brooms.”
Chiara laughs.
“Though we did see a shooting star that night. Very lucky,” she says. “He tried to catch it, but the little fella zipped away.”
“I’ve heard about them.” My heart thrums in my chest. “They’re not like the other stars.”
“Much, much older. They aren’t the souls of humans who passed on, like the stars. Shooting stars were here well before us. They’re more like little angels.”
I look past Mrs. Sapienti into the dark hallway behind her. My throat tenses up as if trying to trap the question I want to ask. Finally, it slips through. “Do you think that if I caught one, the shooting star would grant my wish?”
Mrs. Sapienti looks at me for a long time before taking a deep breath. “Shooting stars are complicated beings. They don’t always behave how you want them to, and we’ve no control over how they’ll react to a wish.”
“Oh.” My shoulders slump. The hard plastic digs into my cheek. She stares straight at it, her eyes sympathetic in that way my family looks at me.
“Let me see what I can do to help,” Mrs. Sapienti says before leaving.
Chiara sloshes another cookie around in her hot chocolate.
“Maybe we should save some for Alessandro?” I say.
She shrugs. “He’ll have plenty to eat.”
I push the shooting star from my mind and take a sip of my hot chocolate. Alessandro trudges into Chiara’s room, taking off his coat and gloves and tossing them on the floor. “It’s freezing out there.”
“Are the stars warm?” Chiara asks.
Alessandro plops down on a pillow and takes up the mug of hot chocolate Mrs. Sapienti left for him. “They’re fine.” He looks at the plate of cookies and narrows his eyes at his sister. “Hey! How many did you eat?”
“I saved you one.”
“One!” Alessandro snatches the cookie before Chiara has second thoughts. “Unbelievable.”
Mrs. Sapienti clears her throat. She stands in the doorway. In her hands is a small glass bottle filled with what looks like glittery, shimmery dust. “I’m glad you’re warming up, Alessandro.”
“Chiara ate all the cookies,” he says.
“There are more. I’ll bring some up.” Mrs. Sapienti turns to me, holding out the tiny bottle.
“Mama! That’s a great idea.” Chiara jumps to her feet, nearly knocking over the empty plate. “I should’ve thought of that.”
“Dust?” I ask.
“Our family recipe—a secret mix of moon and stardust. The perfect ratio of both. Add this to your favorite hot dish—the heat activates the healing properties—and it’ll make you want to dance under the night sky.”
I take the bottle from Mrs. Sapienti. “Should I use all of it?”
“You should. And be sure to eat every last bite.”
My breath catches in my throat. I clasp the bottle tight. “Thank you, Mrs. Sapienti.”
“You’re helping these two sweep the sky and collect dust. It’s no trouble at all.” She clasps her hands together. “Now, enjoy your sleepover and don’t stay up too late,” Mrs. Sapienti calls out as she disappears down the hall.
“Do you think it’ll really help?” I ask, excitement rising in my voice. My head feels light like the zeppelin’s big balloon.
“I think so. It’s not a one hundred percent fix, but it’s a start.” Chiara grins. “Who knows? Maybe we’ll find a shooting star and he’ll grant your wish for you.”
Hope swells in my heart once again. I hug the jar to my chest. This could be the little boost my family needs.
Chapter 19
Dr. Miles sits across from me in an overstuffed green chair. On the coffee table between us are stacks of thick sheets of paper and freshly sharpened pencils. The clock ticks the seconds away, dragging us through the first few minutes of our appointment.
I stifle a yawn. We didn’t get much sleep at our sleepover, and I had to scramble across the light bridge before my mom and dad woke up. Even when we did try to sleep, I couldn’t. I kept thinking about finding a shooting star.
Dr. Miles peers at me from behind her gold-rimmed glasses. “How’s your weekend been, Luna?”
The air in her office smells like Play-Doh and crayons. The clock loudly ticks out the seconds, echoing through the room.
“Your mom told me about what happened at the mall,” Dr. Miles continues. “Would you like to talk about it?”
I swing my feet back and forth, hitting the couch with my heels. “I don’t like feeling that way,” I finally say. “It scares me.”
“Can you tell me what you experienced?”
“It was hard to breathe, and my skin felt tight around my bones. Everything felt numb, and I was dizzy.” I close my eyes, trying to keep the memories from coming back too clearly.
Dr. Miles scratches something on her notepad. “Panic attacks are scary. How did you manage to calm down?”
I shrug. “I took deep breaths, and that seemed to help with the shaking. It helped me calm down. Then my mom followed me out of the store and she rubbed my back. That made me feel better too.”
“That’s very good. Focusing on your breathing during a panic attack is a great way to pull yourself out of it. Which you were able to do. We can practice some techniques so you’re more mindful of it.” Dr. Miles leans forward. “Is this the first time you’ve experienced something like this?”
“No.”
“How many times has this happened?”
I cross my arms over my chest. “Two other times.”
Dr. Miles jots down more notes. “When do you usually start feeling like that?”
My feet thump-thump-thump against the couch. I stare at the hammock full of stuffed animals. At the stuffed bat with black pebble eyes. The sooner I ge
t this over with, the sooner I can check in with Chiara and Alessandro. They said they’d be awake by this afternoon.
“The first time was a couple weeks after the accident. Once I got home and my arm was still in a cast. I hurt pretty bad and couldn’t do any of the things I used to. I couldn’t draw or write or play outside.” My voice hitches in my throat. Dr. Miles’s eyes remain fixed on my face. Her pen pauses on the notepad. She stares but doesn’t make me talk. I look at my hot-pink sneakers and focus on their dirty white laces. “I saw myself in the bathroom mirror. I didn’t look like myself at all. My arm useless and all bruised. My face covered in an ugly mask. You could still see some of the burns and fresh scars underneath it. I tried picking up one of my pencils and I couldn’t do it. That’s when it felt like my lungs were tightening. I couldn’t be myself. It made me really sad.”
My mouth is dry. The Play-Doh and crayon smell sticks inside my nostrils. “The second one happened when my mom and dad first started arguing after the car crash,” I say. “I’d just hide in my room and play music so I didn’t have to hear them fight.”
Dr. Miles nods as her pen moves against the paper on her notepad. “I imagine those were hard for you. Were those panic attacks as big as the one you had at the mall?”
“What do you mean?”
“How would you rate this most recent one against the first two?”
“I don’t know.”
“On a scale from one to ten. Ten being the worst,” Dr. Miles says.
“Worse, I guess. The first was a four. The second maybe a six.” I pull at the skin around my fingernails. “This felt like a nine or a ten. It was really bad.”
“What made it worse?” Her eyes are soft, kind.
I look at my shoes again, staring at the scuffs and dirt. Worn in and worn down from being out in the world instead of sitting in a shoebox. “Worse because it wasn’t private.”
“Because it happened at the mall?”
I nod. “And because it could happen again. Everyone was staring. Everyone saw. I couldn’t control what was happening. Emily and her friends were whispering and laughing. They said I was . . . ugly. Everyone thinks it. It’s why my nonna cried. But I’ve never heard it said aloud.”
“Do you think you’re ugly?”
The word pulses through my body as steady as my own heartbeat. Ugly, ugly, ugly. That stupid word that, if hurled at you, sticks to your skin like flypaper. No matter how much you try to wash it off, ugly holds fast, collecting more dirt and grime until it’s even messier. Until you feel even worse.
“Sometimes,” I say. “I didn’t really feel that way before the accident. My nose was a little big and my hair a little frizzy, but no one ever stared at me. I don’t like the word ‘ugly.’ ”
“Why is that?” Dr. Miles asks.
“I don’t want to talk about this anymore. Not now.”
Dr. Miles scribbles in her notebook. “Okay, Luna. We don’t have to.” She looks up at me, her glasses glinting in the lamplight. “Let’s try something different.”
She scoots her chair closer to the coffee table and pushes a piece of paper and pencil toward me. “I’d like you to draw the qualities you like about yourself.”
My eyebrows knit together, but I take up the pencil and stare down at the blank sheet of paper. Pencil poised to draw, but stuck in the air. “It can be anything?” I ask.
“Of course. Anything you like about yourself.” Dr. Miles smiles. “You’re a terrific artist. That could be a good place to start.”
I press my pencil onto the paper and sketch a small paintbrush and easel. “I hope I can start painting soon. Like my uncle Mike,” I say. “He painted sunflowers in our deli.”
A small drawing of Uncle Mike’s face pops up on the paper. “I’m a good niece. I helped my uncle and dad decorate for Christmas.”
The Bianchini Christmas tree takes a space next to the easel. “I like helping around the house. And at the deli when I can.”
My pencil hovers over the paper. I think of Alessandro and Chiara. Our trips up in the sky. Slowly, a small flying ship takes shape. Little stars dot the sky behind it.
“What’s that mean?” Dr. Miles asks, looking at the zeppelin.
My lips tug upward. “I like adventures. Other people might be scared to try new things, but I’m not.”
“There’s a lot to like about you, Luna.” Dr. Miles sits back in her chair. My pencil moves over the paper, drawing more things I like about myself. A report card for good grades, a head with frizzy curls, a pair of socks with alligators on them. “What do those mean?”
“I’m smart. I like my hair. I’m good at picking out fun clothes.”
“Those are all great.” Dr. Miles nods. “Difficult moments happen to all of us. Even though we can’t control these things, we can remember our strengths to get us through. We all have to learn how to cope with the big, uncomfortable events. It’s part of being human.”
It might be part of being human, but there’s also magic. The shooting star flashes through my head. That fiery ball of light that feels impossible to catch. My heart thumps fast in my chest. I sketch a bright, glimmering shooting star flying high in the corner of the paper.
One simple wish on a shooting star could change everything.
Chapter 20
Rain drizzles against the windows as minestrone bubbles in the little saucepan on the kitchen stove. Nonna’s recipe, except I added a secret ingredient. I emptied all of Mrs. Sapienti’s mixture into the soup. I swear I can see shimmery bits of moon- and stardust swirling through the tomatoey broth. The wooden spoon moves easily through the billions of beans, bright orange carrots, and chewy macaroni. It smells like any ordinary minestrone—hearty and delicious.
It’s not going to fix everything, but I know that even a little bit of magic could do a world of wonders. I pour the minestrone into a bowl and turn off the stove. Steam wafts up and sticks to my mask.
“That smells good, Luna,” Dad says from the kitchen table.
I grab a spoon from the drawer and place the bowl in front of Dad.
“Are you sure you don’t want any?” he asks.
For a second I consider it. But Mrs. Sapienti said it’s best to eat all of it to get the most from the magic. I already get all that dust on me when I’m up in space with Alessandro and Chiara. As much as I can’t stand my mask or the pain in my arm, Dad needs the soup more than me.
“I made it for you. Besides, I want a sandwich for lunch anyway.”
“Well, sit down with me. Your mom will be home from Bianchini’s with cold cuts soon.”
I sit down next to him, watching intently as he scoops the first bite into his mouth. I lean forward, eyes narrowed, waiting for the magic to glow around his body like a star.
“How is it?” I ask, my voice barely a whisper.
“Delicious!” he says. “Keep this between you and me, but I’d say it’s even better than your nonna’s. You did an excellent job, Luna. Thank you.”
He slurps down the minestrone, eating faster than I’ve seen him eat in months. I lean back in my chair, shoulders relaxing. Telling Mom and Dad about the magical next-door neighbors may be impossible, but that doesn’t mean I can’t make them feel the magic. I stare at his wheelchair and the sunken shadows under his eyes. Everyone’s been so worried about me. A twinge of sadness stabs my heart. I want to help too.
Dad gives me a lopsided smile and goes back to eating the soup.
This little bit of magic has to help some. At least until I catch that shooting star. It’s hard to remember sometimes, but I’m not the only one hurting. My whole family is fractured because of that stupid crash.
My eyes widen. I sit straighter as my new wish solidifies. A wish the shooting star can’t refuse to grant. If I wish to go back to before the accident and can stop that awful Wednesday from ever happening, then my dad, mom, nonna, me—everyone—would be back to normal and feeling better.
Dad tips the bowl to his lips, finishing every
bite. “That was incredible.” A grin spreads across my face, matching my dad’s. If even this teensy bit of magic can help him feel better, a wish from a shooting star can do so much more.
• • •
Alessandro’s heavy broom hits the side of the moon with a soft thunk. Scrub, scrub, scrub. Moondust falls onto us like bits of shimmering snow. I have a collection of jars lined up in rows and hold two larger ones, trying to get the dust that falls just out of reach. We get what we can, but there’s always more. And when it collects in big clumps in our hair and on our shoulders, Chiara laughs and says a little dust will do us all some good.
The heavens are quiet tonight. Even the baby stars are resting peacefully in their bassinets, exhausted from a long day of jumping from the top of the castle in the forest.
“They’re getting stronger,” Chiara said with a grin when I got onto the ship earlier this evening. “I think they’ll be ready to head home soon.”
The ship sways gently, the hole in her side all patched up. The stars are bright and clear. I inhale the cold space air and seal a shimmering jar of moondust.
“We’re almost out of jars,” I call to Alessandro and Chiara.
“Good thing we’re finishing up,” Chiara says. She lowers her brush and holds on to the bottom of the ladder while Alessandro carefully climbs down.
Alessandro squints at me, his eyes strained in the lantern light. “You’ve got moondust on your face.”
I wipe at my cheek, and he shakes his head, gesturing to the right side of my face.
“On your mask,” he says.
I brush at the mask with the back of my hand. My cheeks heat up, hot enough to make the inside of my mask feel suffocating, despite the chilly night air.
The Trouble with Shooting Stars Page 16