The Trouble with Shooting Stars

by Meg Cannistra

  “What happens if this doesn’t work?” I ask. “If Tailee says something I don’t expect?”

  “It’s okay not to follow the script to the letter. Think of it as a guide.”

  “I’m still nervous about talking to her. What if I can’t do it?”

  “It takes a little courage, and the good thing is that everyone can be courageous.” Dr. Miles turns over her paper and draws a small candle sitting on a table in the middle of the paper. She shades the rest of the white space with the side of her pencil, coloring everything in a thick darkness except for a halo of light surrounding the candle’s tiny flame. “Like a small spark, courage catches. The more you use it, the greater it grows.” Dr. Miles erases more of the pencil shading around the candle until only a faint reminder of it remains. “The thing is that you have to believe it’s real, and the only way to do that is to use it.”

  “What if I’m not ready?”

  “There may never be a time when you’re ready. But it’s good to try. Talk to your parents first. They want to understand the way you see things and help you.”

  I nod. “I think I can do that.”

  “You can. And you can tell me all about your progress in our next appointment. Make it your goal to spend less time in your room and more time with your parents before we meet next. Talk to them about your list of activities. And tell them how you feel.” Dr. Miles smiles and hands me a pencil and a fresh sheet of paper. “But now let’s just draw. Whatever you’d like.”

  I scooch closer to the coffee table and begin drawing the stars. The scene comes quickly, as if my hand knows what to draw before my head does. Hundreds of tiny stars illuminating the sky, bright enough to dull the darkness. In the bottom left-hand corner is the Stella Cadente with its huge black balloon and polished wood body.

  Will Linksy

  358 Rose Lane

  Staten Island, NY 10301

  Hello Luna,

  I wanted to thank you for your drawing. I’m not much of an artist and don’t really have an interest in art. I’m not the kind of guy who likes spending time in art museums or at galleries. So I’m not sure if I’ll say the right thing.

  The drawing you sent me was of a little girl sitting in a zoo in one of the animal pens. Her face is burned and people are staring at her, pointing and laughing. It really made me upset. Your drawing struck a nerve with me, and I finally realized why. I felt like that girl when I was a kid.

  I was teased constantly as a kid for being overweight. It was terrible until I got out of middle school. I made friends with people who felt different like me. Some kids still made fun of me, but my friends didn’t care what I looked like. So I was doing something right. I didn’t have to listen to those who called me names.

  I don’t know if this picture is self-reflective, but if it is I’m sorry you’re getting teased. It’s not fun and can feel like it’ll be that way forever. But it won’t be. Let people stare. Honestly, they’re probably trying to sort out their own issues too. If they have a problem with how you look, that says more about them than it does you.

  Thanks for your drawing, Luna.

  —Will

  Chapter 26

  New Year’s Eve is my third favorite holiday. Mainly because it’s quiet, usually just Mom, Dad, and me. Tailee used to come over to celebrate with us too. We’d get to stay up late and watch the countdown on TV. Mom also buys a feast of frozen appetizers and supplies to make double-fudge caramel ice cream sundaes with extra nuts, extra whip, and extra, extra cherries. Sometimes we shred old newspapers for streamers and bang on pots and pans at midnight, but we haven’t really done that since I was little.

  Tailee won’t be coming over tonight. Even though I’ve tried what Dr. Miles said—leaving my room more and talking to my parents—I still haven’t had the guts to call Tailee. It feels like it’s too soon. Maybe talking to Tailee can be one of my New Year’s resolutions.

  A sharp knocking at my window makes me tumble backward onto the floor and land on a stack of books. I scramble to my feet and rub the sore spot on my lower back. Chiara’s dark curls are covered with snow, a scowl across her lips.

  “What’s going on?” I ask, opening the window and letting her inside.

  She crawls onto the window bench and hops down onto the floor. “What’s going on? With me? What’s going on with you, Luna?” Chiara tosses her hands in the air. “Why are you ignoring us? Alessandro wrote you a letter and I told him what to say.” Her expression softens. “We said we were sorry.”

  Chiara’s outburst hits me like the first humid day of the summer. I take a step back to make room for her questions. All of her frustration reminds me of the long, awkward pauses that dominated my talks with Tailee.

  “You don’t have to be sorry,” I say. “You didn’t do anything.” I look past Chiara’s shoulder and out into the snowy night, unable to look her right in the eyes. “It wasn’t fair of me to not explain. I felt stupid and embarrassed. I thought I could fix everything with a wish.”

  “You shouldn’t feel embarrassed, you know. I would’ve wished for the same things.”

  “He said I have the ability to make things better.” I close my eyes, imagining the shooting star explain to me why my wish won’t come true. “But I don’t know if I do.”

  “That’s silly,” Chiara says. “Of course you do.”

  “You’re serious?”

  “You’ve got faith in magic and in the spazzatrici. Enough faith to make you get into a flying ship. Most people pretend they don’t see us and explain it all away. You believed. It’s easy to ignore stuff, but you faced it head-on. That’s huge.”

  It was hard believing in magic when I first saw Chiara make that tiny furniture grow with a snap of her fingers, but I knew what I saw was something special—even if it didn’t make sense. Faith’s a deep-down feeling. Believing even if it seems impossible. If I can believe in flying ships and the spazzatrici, I can believe in myself and that things will work out like they should.

  “Thanks, Chiara.” I squeeze my cornicello between my fingers.

  “Just don’t ever leave like that again. You can’t disappear no matter what,” she says. “Promise?” Chiara’s dark eyes are wide, her mouth a straight line. The same serious face she uses on her brother.

  I laugh. “Promise, Chiara. And if I ever disappear, just come over and talk some sense into me.”

  She nods. “Mama says I’m a good talker,” she says. “Why are you holding on to your cornicello?”

  “Oh. I forgot I was holding it.” I shrug. “I do it a lot.”

  “I do that too!” She smiles and pulls the thin gold chain from under her pajama shirt.  At the end of the chain is her cornicello and a large, old-looking pendant. It’s diamond-shaped and a tarnished bronze. It looks heavy.

  “What’s that?” I ask, pointing at the pendant.

  Chiara pulls it closer for me to inspect. “It’s the spazzatrici crest.” Imprinted into the metal is the outline of a human body, and inside it is a cluster of tiny, sparkling diamonds. Written above the body’s head is the phrase “le stelle vivono dentro di noi.”

  “Le stelle vivono dentro di noi?” I stumble over the phrase, trying to get the pronunciation correct. “What’s that mean?”

  “It’s the spazzatrici motto. It means the stars live within us.”

  Glass shatters. Dad’s swearing carries up the stairs.

  Chiara and I jump.

  “I’ve got to go,” I say. “I’ll see you soon.”

  She opens the window, and a blast of air blows through my room. Chiara waves good-bye before hurrying across the light bridge she built between our houses. I shut the window and close the curtains before running downstairs and rounding the corner into the living room.

  Dad’s face is red. His hands are fists in his lap. Next to him on the ground is a shattered glass. Water dribbles down from the end table and onto the floor. “I couldn’t reach the glass and the thing fell over.”

  “Frank? What hap
pened?” Mom’s right behind me. Her eyes dart around in search of an emergency.

  “It’s nothing.” He tosses his hands in the air. “I’m just so sick of not being able to get around.”

  Mom disappears and comes back with paper towels and a dustpan from the kitchen. “It’s okay, Frank.”

  I wipe water from the end table and floor while Mom sweeps up the glass.

  “I just want to be able to do things on my own,” Dad says. “And to help both of you for a change.”

  “I’m sorry,” I say, cleaning up the last of the water with a sopping paper towel.

  “It’s my own damn fault. I shouldn’t have been so careless.” Dad pounds his fist against the armrest, new tears welling in his eyes. “Why won’t my body work the way it used to?”

  I sit next to him on the couch and reach over to hold his hand. Mom puts the dustpan on the ground and balances on the edge of his armchair, her arm back around his shoulders. He squeezes my fingers. I take a deep breath. Dad cries even less than Mom. It’s hard watching your parents cry. Sometimes they need you more than you need them.

  “You’ve been getting better,” I say. “Mom said you’ll be out of the wheelchair and walking with a walker soon.”

  “Walkers are for grandpas.” He covers his face with his hands and sighs. “I shouldn’t have taken you to your art class that day.”

  Mom rips a paper towel from the roll and wipes the tears from her cheeks. Tears she’s been holding on to for months. Her cheeks are blotchy, eyes watery and red.

  “Not being in that car with both of you has driven me nuts. It keeps me up every night, you know.” Mom sniffles. “Every time we get in a car or you go work at the deli or I have to leave Luna home alone, I’m terrified something bad is going to happen. My mind goes to the worst places and I feel like I have to be with you both at all times because what could happen if I’m not? I don’t want to lose either of you like I lost Marie.” Even though she wasn’t in the crash, she’s still hurting.

  “You’ve sacrificed so much to take care of us, and I don’t want you to have to worry anymore,” Dad says. “I’m glad you weren’t in the car. I was just so angry that day. We were arguing again, and I wasn’t paying attention. Stupid.”

  “Again?” The word catches in my throat. “All of that started after the accident.”

  Mom and Dad exchange a look. Mom shakes her head.

  This information slices through my mind, reopening old wounds. All the late-night arguments that passed underneath my bedroom door and banged in my eardrums. I pushed their fighting deeper and deeper down under the surface of my mind until they became misplaced, confused with the arguments that picked up after the accident. I didn’t want to know what was happening, so I chose not to see the truth.

  “When did it start?” I ask, unsure if I want to hear the answer.

  “Over a year ago,” Dad says. He stares straight ahead, unable to look at me. “It got really bad last November.”

  Memories of their arguments rise to the surface of my mind like dead bodies. Hazy and unclear, but still real. Last November was bad. I listened to music nonstop that month, my headphones practically glued to my ears.

  “I didn’t want to see any of that.” I ball my shaking hands into fists. “I just blamed it on the accident.”

  “That made things worse at first.” Dad rubs Mom’s knee.

  “But it started getting better. We’ve been talking more. We found a good counselor and started going once a week after your dad’s checkups. Talking to someone has helped. We’ve made progress.”

  As much as I didn’t want to see Dr. Miles in the beginning, the exercises and the talking we’ve done have started making me feel better too. “Therapy really isn’t all that bad,” I say. “We’re all making progress.”

  Mom puts her hand on top of Dad’s. The gold wedding band gleams on her left ring finger. “It’s coming along one day at a time.”

  Dad wipes the tears off his face. “I’m sorry for not always putting you and your mom first. I lost sight of our family.”

  Tears sting my eyes. “No, you didn’t.”

  “I wasn’t the only one hurting, you know?” Dad says. “Sulking doesn’t help. I realize that now.”

  “I’ve been bad about that too,” I say.

  “Your poor mom. Having to deal with two very sensitive and hot-headed Bianchinis.” Dad frowns. “I wish I could take your pain away, Luna. I wish I could make things right. I’m so sorry you’re hurting.”

  “I tried, you know.” I squeeze my eyes shut and think about my wish, tears hot on my face. “You all want me to be this brave girl. But I’m scared. All the time. I can’t pretend that I’m not anymore.”

  Mom’s hand is on my shoulder. I open my eyes and she’s kneeling in front of me, Dad leaning forward, his hand on my other shoulder like we’re in some group huddle.

  “Luna, you don’t have to pretend,” she says. “We can’t keep our feelings from each other anymore. We need to talk to each other and listen when one of us is hurting. That’s how we can be brave. By helping each other out.”

  “I just want to be okay for you and Dad.”

  “You don’t have to be okay all the time. Being tough isn’t about bottling things up. It’s about expressing your emotions and finding a way to work through them.”

  “That’s what Dr. Miles said too.” I wipe the tears from my eyes. “She said strength doesn’t mean being big and brave all the time. She said it’s important to feel emotions—even if they’re sad ones—so you can grow.” I hold on to my cornicello. Alessandro said something like that about magic too.

  “She’s right, you know.” Dad pulls me toward him. “You’re allowed to be scared and feel bad. I never meant to make you feel like you couldn’t.  You’re not alone, Luna.”

  “We love you so much,” Mom whispers. “We’ll get through this together.”

  The torn-up drawing of my family begins rearranging itself in my mind, taping itself together again. This time the Luna in the drawing doesn’t have her same old face. But she isn’t wearing her mask, either. Her face is burned, but not nearly as bad as my face is now. A new Luna.

  Our foreheads are pressed close together, Mom’s and Dad’s skin wet with tears just like mine. We stay like this for a while, warm and quiet and holding on to each other.

  Slowly we let go of one another to wipe away the tears.

  “You and Nonna always say the Bianchinis are made of tough stuff,” I say.

  “Because we come together as a family.” Dad nods. “Le stelle vivono dentro di noi. There’s nothing tougher than a star. Every inch of us made up of that same stardust that fills the cosmos. It’s in our blood. Our bones. Our hair. Every living thing, even the plants and animals.” Dad looks down at his legs and pats his thighs, smiling. “That’s special, isn’t it? It must mean something. Maybe the heavens are closer than we realize.”

  Le stelle vivono dentro di noi. Just like Chiara’s spazzatrici crest. I grin, the lilting Italian phrase squeezing my heart.

  Mom and Dad settle in together on the armchair, and Dad turns on the TV to the New Year’s Eve countdown. Still a few hours to go until the New Year. I get up and make my way into the kitchen for a glass of water. Outside, the sun has set. The moon smiles down on Staten Island and casts her bright yellow glow across the tops of the houses. The stars wink in the night’s sky, watching over us and part of us all at once.

  Anne Castillo

  22 Gardenia Road

  Staten Island, NY 10301

  Dear Luna,

  You sent me a picture of the entire downtown Manhattan skyline lit up, the way you’d see it from the ferry. It’s the stars that make this picture magnificent. They feel alive.

  Your drawing took me back to the day I married my husband. Our ceremony was quick, but we celebrated long into the night. We danced through Central Park until our feet were sore and the only music left was our delirious happiness.

  On our way back to Stat
en Island, we held on to the ferry’s railings and just stared at the skyline. All of those glittering lights. I wanted to soak it all in until it became one with my bones.

  Tony passed away a year ago, and losing him has been the hardest thing I’ve ever faced. Some days are angry. Some are sad. And even a few are happy. He’s never far from my mind.

  I like to think he’s standing on the Staten Island Ferry with me by his side as we watch New York City, the entire universe, shine for us.

  Thank you, Luna.

  With love,

  Anne

  Chapter 27

  I didn’t get much sleep last night. But I didn’t think I would the night before my surgery. Even when I do the breathing techniques Dr. Miles and I practiced, I’m still nervous for what’s to come.

  Threads of blue, early-morning light peek in through the window. I swing my legs over the side of my bed, tuck Jean Valjean under the covers, and open the curtains.

  The neighborhood’s just starting to wake up. People juggle coffee cups and purses as they get into their cars and head to work. I tug on a pair of jeans and zip on my jacket.

  Tailee’s front door is sunflower yellow. I take a deep breath. No more wishing. Bravery is working through your fears. The doorbell buzzes under my finger and rings throughout the house. Tailee’s dog, Pepe, starts barking. Mrs. Ruiz yells at him to be quiet. She opens the door, half ready for the day with her bathrobe still on but makeup finished. Her eyes widen. “Luna? What are you doing here? It’s barely seven. Come inside.”

  “I’m sorry it’s so early,” I say, not moving from the front porch. “But I can’t come by later and wanted to catch you all now. Is Tailee up?”

  “She’s getting ready for school.” Mrs. Ruiz hesitates a moment before calling up the stairs. “Tailee! Come down!”

  Footsteps thump down the stairs. “What is it?”  Tailee’s voice is still groggy with sleep.