“You’ve already given yourself permission to act,” he says. “You’re opening up to others through your friendship with Alessandro and Chiara, you’re making great strides in your therapy, and you helped your dad with that healing soup.” His light grows brighter. “Your soul is ablaze with the changes you’ve already initiated.” The shooting star smiles softly. “Now it’s time to continue going forward and confront those problems that are left. Like your relationship with your best friend and your fears around your upcoming surgery.”
Tears slip faster down my cheeks. Any dwindling hope for my wish coming true is crushed into a million pieces and scattered through space like stardust.
• • •
Alessandro maneuvers the ship between our houses and docks it against the tree outside my window. Our trip back down was done in an exhausted silence, aside from the stars’ gentle lullaby.
“I’m sorry, Luna,” Chiara whispers. “I’m so sorry.”
“It’s my fault. I wished for something impossible.”
Chiara helps me out onto the wooden platform in my tree and opens my window for me.
“Can we come by tomorrow?” Alessandro asks, walking down the stairs to the bow. “Just to see how you’re doing?”
I look down. I don’t want to see them. The only thing more embarrassing than sharing your deepest wish with others is being denied that wish right in front of them. “I don’t want to be up there anymore.”
Alessandro squints at me but doesn’t question it. “Stop by whenever you’d like,” he says. “We’ll be home.”
Before either he or Chiara can say anything else, I dive through my window, shutting it and the curtains behind me. The Stella Cadente lingers just a moment before lifting off into the sky.
It’s like losing Tailee all over again. Talking to Alessandro and Chiara was easy, but after they saw me cry over losing my wish, I could hardly talk to them on the way back to earth. I clammed up just like I did with Tailee. How am I ever going to be able to face them again?
And the one shot I had to make everything right with that wish: gone.
“I can’t take it anymore,” I yell. I snatch up the pillow from my window bench and scream into it as loud as I can, the sound muted by feathers and fabric. All of that hope and faith dashed. Everything gone.
I grab my sketch pad. Those stupid pictures of the heavens, of fantastical trips to the moon, of sweeping stars and floating ships. I rip the pictures out and toss them into the trash. Each one a dumb dream.
I squeeze my eyes shut and hold my breath until my lungs ache and scream for air. I gasp, breathing in deep, aching breaths. The shooting star was wrong. Whatever spark he saw inside me isn’t there. Not when everything feels as dark and empty as a starless sky.
My body sags forward, halving itself, curling up as tight as possible in an attempt to disappear into the floor. Tears roll down my cheeks and make my mask feel even clammier than usual. I rip the mask from my face and throw it against my bedroom window. It clatters to the floor, the sound abrasive and reverberating against my heart. My eyes grow too heavy to keep open and I drift into a restless sleep.
Luna Bianchini
236 Marigold Court
Staten Island, NY 10301
An Impossible Wish
Nathan Heyer
18 Gardenia Road
Staten Island, NY 10301
Hi, Luna,
You sent my mom a drawing and she told me to practice my handwriting in a letter back to you. My name’s Nathan. I’m seven. I liked your drawing a lot. It was just a bunch of stars on the page, but they had little faces. Santa brought me a telescope for Christmas. He knows how much I like space. Mom set it up for me and I’d spend all night looking up at the stars if she didn’t make me go to bed so early. But sometimes I can’t see them. It’s either too bright in the city or the clouds are out.
I’m trying to see if they have faces like the ones you drew. None of my space books say they do and none of those pictures show them with faces. But your drawing does. Why’d you draw them like that?
When I look at your stars with faces, I think about my dad. He died when I was three. I don’t remember him much, but Mom says he watches over us. One of the stars in your picture looks like him. It would be nice if he was a star. It would be nice if we were all stars.
—Nathan
Chapter 24
Alessandro and Chiara knocked on my window again the night after my failed wish. They knocked last night too. I kept hiding, buried deep under my rainbow comforter until the knocking stopped and the zeppelin’s shadow faded from my wall.
Rain slides down my window in fat drops. It shoots into the snow on the windowsill like darts, making a slushy, wet mess. Too warm for snow this morning. But it doesn’t matter. Snow isn’t very magical after Christmas. After Christmas, snow starts feeling less like a winter wonderland and more like a burden.
I press my face to the cool glass and stare out at Alessandro’s window. The curtains are closed, the room dark. He and Chiara sleep late into the morning after star sweeping all night. And I know they didn’t come home until dawn. The zeppelin blocked out the faint blue light of early morning as it docked between our houses.
A sob catches in my throat and I swallow it back, closing my curtains and turning away from the window. I stare down at the sketch pad on my knees. A blank page. Impossibly white and vast. The potential of a new page used to be exciting, but when you don’t have anything you want to draw, an empty page feels overwhelming and bleak.
The past two nights have brought nothing but nightmares about the car crash, so vivid I can practically feel the pulsing, endless heat from the collision every time I close my eyes.
If I can’t fix my problems with a wish, then how will they get better? It’s been months since the accident, and everything is still in pieces. Shattered like thousands of shards of glass.
“We’re so worried about her.” Mom’s voice travels up from the vent in the floor and into my room. “She refuses to leave her bedroom. We don’t know if something happened on Christmas, but she seemed fine when I said good night that evening.”
“Tell her that Luna’s not eating much, either.” Dad’s voice trails after Mom’s. “She needs to eat.”
“You want to see her tomorrow? Yes. We can bring her in at nine o’clock. Thank you so much.” There’s a pause. Mom sighs. “Dr. Miles thinks she might be worried about the surgery.”
“I hate seeing her this way.” Dad’s voice is low and raspy, as if he’s been crying. “She was starting to come around.”
“I know,” Mom says. “I don’t know why this is happening.”
I walk over to the vent and shut it with my foot, closing off my parents’ voices. The last time I saw Dr. Miles was right before Christmas. I stomp over to my bed and curl up in my comforter. I don’t want to see her again. I don’t want to see anyone again.
The doorbell rings.
“Where is she?” Nonna Bianchini’s voice booms up the stairs and against my door. I groan into my pillow and roll over onto my side. Nonna Bianchini isn’t like my parents. Where my mom and dad see a shut bedroom door and let me have privacy, Nonna Bianchini will kick it down and pester me until I talk to her. Of course they had her come over. They knew she’d be the only one who could wear me down.
“Luna.” Nonna Bianchini bangs on the door. “Luna, I know you’re in there and I know you’re awake. Let me in, please.”
“I’m trying to sleep,” I shout. “Just leave me alone.”
“Leave you alone? You know I can’t do that.”
“I need privacy.”
“What do you need privacy for?” She scoffs. “You’re twelve. You don’t need privacy. When I was twelve I shared a bedroom half the size of yours with my two brothers and two sisters.”
I swing my legs off the bed and unlock the door. Nonna Bianchini stands in the hall, her wrinkled face pinched with concern. Her dark gray hair is pulled back in a bun, eyes set with the k
ind of determination only a grandmother can muster. She doesn’t linger too long on my mask like she usually does. Instead her eyes focus on the messy tangle of hair knotted on the top of my head.
“Dad said you only shared it with your twin sister,” I say.
“Bah.” She tosses her hands in the air, upsetting her purse hanging in the crook of her elbow. “Are you going to let me in, or are we going to talk in the doorway?”
I open the door wider and go back to sitting on my bed. “Mom and Dad called you?”
“They’re worried, Luna. You haven’t left your room since Christmas?” She looks around my room, at the torn drawings on the floor and the mess of clothes, pillows, and teacups all over. “What happened in here? Why are your drawings ripped to shreds?” She walks over to the ripped-up drawings and frowns. Nonna Bianchini bends down and picks up some of the pieces, trying to put them back together. “Why are you ripping up drawings of your family?”
I shrug. “None of them feel right.”
“What is right, though?” She walks over to my bed and sits down, handing me a pizzelle dusted with powdered sugar. “Here, have a cookie. Sugar’s good for the soul.”
I nibble on the edge. The anise makes my tongue feel fuzzy.
Nonna Bianchini continues. “When I was a girl my mama and papa would get so upset with me over how I acted.” She laughs. “They wanted me to fit in. They’d say things like, ‘This is America, Favianna, and you must be polite and respectful.’ ” She gestures, her hand swishing through the air. “I was always too much of something. Too loud, too angry, too excited. But they were too old and too traditional. They wanted me to be their normal, to fit in with what they thought was right.”
“Why didn’t you?” I ask.
“Because that wasn’t me. I was never going to be what they thought was normal,” she says. “I don’t even think there is a normal. Our family certainly isn’t.”
I stare at my soft black and green socks. “But you wanted me to be normal. Remember? You were scared of my face.”
“I might have overreacted a bit.” Nonna Bianchini takes my hand and sighs. “I kept thinking of how hard it would be for you to go through life. Seeing you and your parents suffering makes me suffer. But you, Luna, you’re my shining light. I don’t want you to hurt, but I also don’t want you to get stuck on being normal. It’s not healthy.” She shakes her head. “Not healthy at all.”
“I wanted to make things the way they were before the accident, but I couldn’t.”
“And that’s why you tore up all those drawings?” she asks.
I nod. “I couldn’t look at them again, so I ripped them up.”
“I’m sorry.” Nonna Bianchini rubs my knee. “But you have to at least try to live your life.”
I put the pizzelle on my nightstand and curl up on my bed, tucking myself under the covers and hiding from my nonna. “I don’t want to try right now.”
She sighs, and I feel her get up from the bed. “You’re going to have to try eventually, Luna. You might not think you’re able to, but you got it in you. You’re a Bianchini.”
I listen to Nonna walk to the door and shut it quietly behind her. “Finish that cookie!” she yells from the hall.
I press my pillow over my face to block out the inevitable conversation she’ll have with my parents. I pull into myself, wishing I were anywhere but here. But where would I go? Not even the heavens are comforting now. You need to be patient. The shooting star’s voice bounces around in my head, as clear as if he were standing right next to me repeating it over and over. I’m afraid I can’t give you what you want.
I hurl my pillow across the room and bury myself deeper under my comforter. Hot tears press against my eyelashes and tumble down my cheeks. After everything that’s happened, maybe all that Bianchini fight has been beaten out of me.
Alessandro and Chiara Sapienti
238 Marigold Court
Staten Island, NY 10301
Dear Luna,
Chiara and I miss you.
We’re really sorry about what happened. We wish we could help you. You’re always going to be our friend. And there’s always room for you on our ship. You’re basically a spazzatrici. Besides, someone needs to keep Chiara and me from fighting all night long.
You wished for things to go back to the way they were before the accident. But we never would have met if that happened. We don’t want you to be normal. We want you to be Luna.
Please talk to us again.
—Alessandro and Chiara
Chapter 25
I know you’d rather not be here today, Luna,” Dr. Miles says. She doesn’t sit on the green chair, but rather sits next to me on the couch, as if she’s trying to bond with me. The pencils and paper are lined up neatly on the table, but neither of us is moving for them.
I keep my eyes focused on the clock, back slouched into the worn couch cushions and arms across my chest. Mom and Dad had to beg me to leave my room to come to this appointment. And just because they brought me here together, just because they think this is a good idea, doesn’t mean I have to talk. Even if Dr. Miles helped in the past, I don’t want to be in therapy anymore. I’m tired of talking. Anger churns in my stomach, making my whole body feel hot.
“Your parents said something happened on Christmas?” Dr. Miles continues.
“Yep.”
“Did someone say something to you during the day?”
“Nope.”
“Luna, it’s important to discuss what’s bothering us. It helps us understand our feelings and how we process things.”
I throw my hands into the air. The anger forces its way out of my mouth. “I’m so sick of all of this. I’m tired of still feeling awful after the accident. I’m scared of my surgery. I’m worried about my dad getting better and my mom being stressed all the time. I still feel anxious. I still feel overwhelmed. I’m tired of not feeling like myself.” My head begins to ache from the compression mask. I bury my face in my hands and sigh.
“I’m not strong enough to make things better on my own.”
“That’s not true,” Dr. Miles says.
I peek at her from behind my hands. She stares at me, her green eyes intent behind her glasses.
“You don’t have to make things better all on your own. It’s not your responsibility. You have a family who loves you and wants you to feel good,” Dr. Miles says. “Being strong doesn’t always mean being tough or ready to fight all the time.”
“I always thought that’s what I had to do.”
“You don’t, Luna. Strength also means being open to your emotions. Sometimes people think this is weak, but it’s not. It means you’re able to address your feelings. When you acknowledge your emotions, you can find ways to grow and work through the things that make you feel bad.”
“How do I do that?”
Dr. Miles pulls the coffee table closer to us and picks up a pencil. “One thing you can do is start doing things you like again. We can start slowly with an easy list, and your mom can put them on a schedule for you. Like taking art classes.”
“I’d love to do that again.”
Dr. Miles jots down art class on the paper. “That’s great. What else?”
“Baking with my mom,” I say.
“Maybe your cousins can come over to help too.”
“I think I’d like that. I also like going to the park down the street to swing on the swings or just draw outside. I used to do that with my cousins a lot.”
“That’ll help get the blood flowing. Excellent idea,” she says. “What about going to your family’s deli to do your homework and to draw?”
I slouch back into the couch and watch Dr. Miles make my list. “But every time I go somewhere people stare at me.”
“People may always stare,” Dr. Miles says. “You can’t change that. But you can change the way their staring makes you feel. You are in control of your reaction to things. Reinforce your positive self-talk and think about the qualities you lik
e about yourself—like the ones you drew. Remember that report card and the flying ship you sketched to show you’re intelligent and adventurous? By focusing on positive thoughts, even when people stare, you’ll build your self-confidence.”
“I haven’t seen Tailee in forever,” I say. “I think I’m more scared to talk to her than I am of my surgery.” I lean forward and grab a pencil and a piece of paper, drawing aimless squiggles across the page.
“What about talking to her scares you?”
I shut my eyes tight. “She’d come over and it was like the words got stuck. The old Luna was shouting up from my belly and couldn’t get past all the doubt and worry clogging my throat,” I say. “I couldn’t stop thinking about what she thought of me, even though Tailee isn’t like that at all.”
“You never knew how she felt about your appearance and rather imagined what she might think based on how you feel about your appearance,” Dr. Miles says without looking up from her drawing. “You should talk to her again and see for yourself how she feels.”
“But what if I’m too scared?” I ask, my voice small and trapped under a sea of tears. I blink several times, trying to keep them from falling. “I already feel like I’ve pushed her away.”
“Let’s work on a script.” Dr. Miles sits back on the couch. “Thinking through what you want to say will help you feel less anxious. I’ll pretend to be Tailee.”
“Should I just start talking like if I was talking to Tailee?”
Dr. Miles nods.
“Hey, Tailee.” A lump forms in my throat. “I didn’t act like a good friend and I shouldn’t have ignored you. It wasn’t a nice thing to do.”
“Good,” Dr. Miles says.
I open my mouth again, but nothing comes out. The words feel stuck. Dr. Miles coaches me through some breathing techniques, and slowly the words start to break through. We go over the script a few times, and each time it’s easier to repeat. The words flow faster and don’t sound as rehearsed. The anxiety is still there, but it doesn’t make me feel as trapped.
The Trouble with Shooting Stars Page 19