“You know what?” Nick said, as if he were reading Dinah’s thoughts. “The world can get along just fine without you, and me, and Artie—without all of us. Look at it this way. It got along without us for a few billion years before we were born.”
Dinah felt her old anger flaring, the rage that burned hot inside her like the thermonuclear reactions at the interior of the sun. If she wasn’t going to have even one pathetic shred of immortality, nothing in life was worth striving for or struggling to hold on to—certainly not a relationship with someone who could hurt her as badly as Nick had today.
“I’m sure you can get along just fine without me, starting now,” Dinah said. “And I’ll get along just fine without you.”
The bell rang. Nick turned to go to his next class. Dinah stood alone in the deserted corridor, in front of her Poet of the Week bulletin board. She reached up and took down her picture and ripped it in two, the way she should have torn up Nick’s postcards all those weeks ago, the cards that still lay buried in her bureau drawer. Then she walked away, leaving both love and fame behind her.
Thirteen
Somehow Dinah got through the rest of her classes and the after-school rehearsal for Carousel. She wanted the day to be over, and the week to be over, and the year to be over. Dinah didn’t think she could stand it if the rest of seventh grade—if the rest of her life—was like this. How did other people get through life, when there was nothing, nothing at all, worth living for?
Once Mrs. Bevens finally dismissed the cast, Dinah hurried outside, on her way to Mrs. Briscoe’s house. She needed to tell Mrs. Briscoe about this final fight with Nick; she had to hear Mrs. Briscoe say that she understood why Dinah had felt so hurt when Nick had sneered at her one small seventh-grade triumph. Mrs. Briscoe would say that Dinah had been right to break up with Nick one last, final time. Dinah needed a cup of hot tea poured from a frog teapot to soothe the stubborn lump of unshed tears crowding her throat.
“Dinah.”
Dinah whirled around. Her mother was walking toward her from her parked car.
“I was hoping I’d catch you before you left,” her mother said.
Dinah looked at her, puzzled. Her mother had never stopped by school before. The afternoon had turned chilly, but her mother wasn’t wearing a coat.
“Dinah, honey, I have some bad news. Ruth Briscoe just called. Mrs. Briscoe had a heart attack this morning, and—oh, honey, she’s gone.”
Dinah didn’t understand. “Gone?”
“She was drinking a cup of tea on her front porch. One of the neighbors found her. The doctor says she probably died instantly.”
Dinah still didn’t understand. It didn’t make sense.
“But I was just going over there, to see her.”
“I was afraid you might be. That’s why as soon as I heard, I got in the car to look for you. Dinah, I’m so sorry.”
“But…”
Dinah didn’t know what to say. Mrs. Briscoe couldn’t be—dead. She didn’t even know that Dinah was Poet of the Week. Dinah had meant to go over to Mrs. Briscoe’s house last weekend, but she and Nick had been working on the debate. And then this week she’d been so busy, with rehearsals and everything. So Mrs. Briscoe didn’t know that Dinah and Nick had finally won a debate. Or that Poet of the Week had turned out to be a big joke. Or that Dinah and Nick had just broken up again, this time forever. Mrs. Briscoe couldn’t be dead.
“But I didn’t get to— There’s a bunch of things I didn’t get to tell her—and I didn’t get to say good-bye or anything.”
“I know, honey. This is very sudden.”
Dinah’s mother put her arm around her and led her to the car. Dinah thought: I should be crying. But she wasn’t crying. It didn’t seem real. It seemed more like a mistake, or a dream, or a scene from a play. Dinah could almost see the lines printed out, as in the script for Carousel:
MOTHER: Oh, Dinah, I’m sorry. Mrs. Briscoe is dead.
DINAH: But she can’t be dead.
MOTHER: It happened this morning, while she was sitting out on her front porch.
DINAH: But she can’t be dead.
They seemed like lines Dinah had memorized and practiced with Suzanne. In the play, there would be a stage direction, for the actress playing Dinah to cry. But Dinah didn’t think she could cry, except in fake, stagy sobs. She didn’t feel sad. She didn’t feel anything at all.
Dinah was silent on the ride home. Her mother didn’t say anything, either. She just reached across to Dinah at traffic lights and held her hand. They passed the after-school-activities bus, with Suzanne on it. They passed children playing in the park. Nobody looked any different. It was just an ordinary afternoon, except that Mrs. Briscoe was dead.
When they got home, Dinah’s mother sat down on the family room couch and pulled Dinah down onto her lap. It had been a long time since her mother had held her like that. These days her lap was usually filled with Benjamin. The unexpected cuddle added to the strangeness, making Dinah feel even more as if she were trapped inside the script for a play.
MOTHER (holding Dinah on her lap): I called your father at the store. He’s going to come home early.
DINAH: That’s good.
MOTHER: I have to get Benjamin in a few minutes. Do you want to come?
DINAH: Okay.
MOTHER: Ruth Briscoe said the funeral will be on Saturday, at two o’clock.
DINAH: Oh.
Dinah had never been to a funeral before. She had never known someone who’d died.
She walked with her mother to get Benjamin from day care at Mrs. Haywood’s, three blocks away. Her mother didn’t tell Benjamin about Mrs. Briscoe. He was too little to understand.
At home again, Dinah didn’t know what to do. What are you supposed to do on the day one of your best friends dies?
“Why don’t you call Suzanne?” her mother suggested. “She was fond of Mrs. Briscoe. And Nick will want to know, too.”
Dinah didn’t bother telling her mother that she and Nick had broken up again, this time for good. Mechanically, she dialed Suzanne’s number. Mrs. Kelly answered the phone.
“Suzanne’s downstairs practicing the piano. I’ll get her,” Mrs. Kelly said. “Is something wrong, Dinah?”
“Yes,” Dinah said. “My friend—our friend—Mrs. Briscoe? She died.”
“Oh, Dinah, I’m so sorry. Suzanne! It’s Dinah! Was it sudden?” Mrs. Kelly asked.
“She had a heart attack. This morning.”
“How old was she?” Mrs. Kelly asked.
“Eighty-three.”
“Well, she lived a long, full life, and it’s a blessing that she went at the end without any suffering.”
Dinah knew Mrs. Kelly was just trying to say something comforting. But she didn’t feel comforted.
“Hello?” It was Suzanne, picking up the downstairs phone.
“I’ll let you two talk now. Good-bye, Dinah. I’m so sorry.”
“What happened?” Suzanne asked.
“It’s Mrs. Briscoe. She had a heart attack. She died, this morning.”
“Oh, Dinah!” On the other end of the phone, Dinah could hear Suzanne crying. The soft sound of Suzanne’s weeping made Dinah feel even more numb inside. Suzanne was crying. Why wasn’t she?
“I’d better go now,” Dinah said. Not that she had anywhere to go. But she didn’t know what else to say.
She felt like calling Nick, but he had never met Mrs. Briscoe. Dinah had told him a little bit about Mrs. Briscoe. But she had told Mrs. Briscoe so much about Nick that she felt that the two of them had known each other, even if the knowing had been almost entirely one-sided.
“Dinah!” her mother called her from the kitchen. “You got some mail. It’s in here, on the kitchen table.”
Dinah walked slowly into the kitchen. Was it wrong to look at mail when someone you loved had just died? Obviously her mother didn’t think so. Still, guilt gnawed at Dinah.
The return address on the letter read International Star
Registry. Dinah carefully tore open the envelope. Inside was an official document. Star number NGC 7822 had been registered in the name of Dinah Marie Seabrooke. The paper was embossed with a fancy-looking seal.
Dinah’s very own star! She would put the letter on her bulletin board in her bedroom, right next to her bed. But first she had to show it to her parents, and Suzanne, and Mrs. Briscoe—
Mrs. Briscoe. She couldn’t show it to Mrs. Briscoe.
The tears came then, in a blinding rush, and Dinah’s mother held her in her arms and cried with her.
Fourteen
Ruth Briscoe called again that evening. Dinah’s father kept his hand on her shoulder as Dinah took the receiver.
“Dinah. I’ve been going through some of my mother’s papers, notes she left me about how she wanted things handled if— Well. We’re having the funeral this Saturday, at two o’clock, at St. Paul’s United Methodist Church. Mother picked out the songs she wanted and passages of Scripture, but she also asked if you would take part in the service. You write poetry? It’s hard for me to make out her writing here, but I think she wanted you to read one of your poems. Dinah? Are you still there?”
“I’m here. I will. I want to.”
“She also left you some money, five thousand dollars, for you to put aside for your education someday. You know she had no grandchildren; I’m her only child, and I never married. I think she thought of you as the granddaughter she never had. And she made a note that she wanted you to have her collection of frogs and toads, and her frog teapot.”
Tears streamed down Dinah’s face. Silently she handed her father the phone.
* * *
Friday morning, Dinah got up and got dressed and rode the bus to school with Suzanne. It felt bizarre to be going through the motions of an ordinary day. Yesterday Mrs. Briscoe had died during the morning, while Dinah had been at school, fuming about Poet of the Week. Mrs. Briscoe had been dead, but Dinah hadn’t known it. Today Dinah knew, and that meant that nothing else in her life could ever be the same.
After reading the morning announcements, Mr. Roemer ended his broadcast by saying, “We have had an unfortunate incident this week in which some student took down one of the items on display on one of our school bulletin boards. I want to remind all of you that no one is to post any material on any bulletin board or remove any material from any bulletin board without authorization from the front office. The material on the bulletin boards is placed there for everyone to enjoy. Have a good day.”
Dinah knew he was talking about her picture on the Poet of the Week bulletin board. In sixth grade, Dinah had thought that there was no greater thrill than to be the secret star of morning announcements, the unnamed individual singled out in one of Mr. Roemer’s little “reminders.”
Now she couldn’t believe she had ever cared. She just wanted it to be yesterday morning, when Mrs. Briscoe was still alive and she and Nick were still together, rather than today, when she and Nick had broken up forever and Mrs. Briscoe was dead.
In math, Ms. Lewis handed back their midterm tests. In English, Ms. Dunne conducted their weekly grammar lesson. In gym class, Miss Brady took them outside for field hockey. It was a warm, clear day with a breathtakingly blue sky. But Mrs. Briscoe would never see the sky again.
Dinah ate lunch with Suzanne. “Did you tell Nick yet about Mrs. Briscoe?” Suzanne asked.
Dinah swallowed a mouthful of milk. “We broke up again yesterday. Remember?”
Actually, Dinah still found herself wanting to talk to Nick. It seemed odd that Nick, who had been her boyfriend up until the end of second period yesterday, didn’t know that something so major and shattering had happened in her life. But that was what it meant to break up with someone: that your life and his life were no longer intertwined.
“You haven’t made up yet?” Suzanne asked.
“No. This time it really is over. It really is over over.”
“It’s not over,” Suzanne said. “You and Nick aren’t over. I know you, and I know Nick. You’ll be back together again tomorrow.”
Dinah shook her head. “This is different. Sometimes things really are over. It’s like—Mrs. Briscoe really is dead. And you and I—we’re really going to die, too. And the sun is really going to burn out. I forgot to tell you, my star came yesterday, my Dinah star. But it doesn’t really change anything.”
“Do you think you’ll see it? When we go out stargazing with Mr. Mubashir tonight? Would you know which one it is?”
“No. I mean, it’ll look just like a star. And there are a hundred billion stars just in our galaxy, plus all the stars in everybody else’s galaxies.”
A hundred billion galaxies, each with a hundred billion stars. It made Dinah feel amazingly small.
* * *
After school, Dinah tried to work on her poem for Mrs. Briscoe. Nothing came. She had been writing poems about death for weeks, but now that someone she loved had really truly died, she didn’t know what to say. And the funeral was less than twenty-four hours away.
Dinah’s father, home early from the store, looked up from his biology book. “Stuck? What about reading one of your other poems? You have so many. One of them would probably be all right.”
“They’re not. They’re all so—depressing. It’s like, people are already going to be depressed at a funeral. I don’t want to make them feel even worse. But death is depressing. It just is.”
Even Dinah’s beautiful poem about saving moments seemed depressing now, because the terrible truth was that there was no special, magic box in which moments could be saved. Every moment of Mrs. Briscoe’s life had evaporated into nothingness.
Dinah’s father closed his book. “Why don’t you write a poem about life, then?” he asked. “Life isn’t depressing.”
“But it is. When everybody’s just going to die in the end, it is.”
“Mrs. Briscoe didn’t think so,” Dinah’s father said gently. “She knew that she was going to die someday, and some day not so terribly far away, and I got the impression that she still thought life was pretty wonderful.”
That was true. Dinah had never known Mrs. Briscoe to be depressed. She had been interested in flowers, birds, frogs, poetry, immigration policy, and Dinah. At eighty-three, close to death, she had been one of the most alive people Dinah had ever known. Never once had Mrs. Briscoe given up on living.
“I don’t know if I can write a poem about life,” Dinah said. “When I was Poet of the Week, the whole bulletin board was poems on death.”
“You can try,” her father said. “That’s all we can ever do, is try.”
Dinah picked up her pen and stared down at her blank sheet of paper. For Mrs. Briscoe, she would try. Mrs. Briscoe’s frog teapot had been her last gift to Dinah. The poem would be Dinah’s last gift to Mrs. Briscoe.
* * *
When Suzanne’s mother dropped Suzanne and Dinah off at school that evening, the sky was moonless and cloudless, a perfect night for stargazing. Mr. Mubashir greeted them in the parking lot, looking jaunty in his heavy jacket with a long hand-knit scarf streaming down behind him. In the darkness, Dinah reached for Suzanne’s hand. It was magical to be out at night looking at stars together.
Nick was there, joking around on the other side of the group with Artie. He looked very handsome, in a rugged outdoorsy jacket that Dinah had never seen before. Everything seemed so different at night that Dinah almost felt like going up to Nick and trying to make up with him one last time. But how many times can you break up with somebody forever and then get back together again?
“All right, class,” Mr. Mubashir said. “I think everyone is here. Let’s begin our tour of the October sky. There, above the trees?” Mr. Mubashir pointed. “That is the most familiar of all constellations, the Big Dipper, part of the constellation called Ursa Major, the Great Bear.”
The Big Dipper was one of the few constellations Dinah could already recognize. It was hard to believe that even the stars of the Big Dipper would someday die, w
ould proceed through their life cycle and become red giants and then white dwarfs, and then—nothing: just empty space where once a star had shone.
Mr. Mubashir showed them how to use the Pointers in the Big Dipper to find Polaris, the North Star. Even Polaris would burn out one day.
Overhead Dinah could see hundreds, probably thousands, of stars shining brightly, despite the competition from the nighttime lights of Riverdale. But the stars Dinah could see with her naked eye were only the smallest fraction of a hundred billion stars multiplied by a hundred billion galaxies. Mr. Mubashir had written the number on the board in class one day: 100 followed by 20 zeroes. If you tried to count all the stars in the universe, at a rate of one per second, you wouldn’t finish for 316 trillion years.
The hugeness of the universe pressed down on Dinah. Somewhere in that vastness shone Star NGC 7822. And somewhere in that vastness was Mrs. Briscoe. She had to be somewhere: She couldn’t just be gone.
Mr. Mubashir handed out sheets of paper on which two semicircles were printed, representing the northern and southern hemispheres of the sky. Using the flashlights they had brought from home, they were supposed to face north and try to draw every star they saw, then do the same thing facing south.
Dinah faced north. It was hard to pick out any constellations other than the two Dippers and Cassiopeia. The stars didn’t jump out at her in patterns; they just twinkled in a jumble of pulsing light.
“Dinah.”
Nick was there behind her. “Suzanne told me about your friend, Mrs. Briscoe. I just wanted to say—well, that I’m sorry. I know how close the two of you were. It has to be rough—losing a friend like that.”
Dinah didn’t feel herself reaching out for Nick’s hand, but suddenly she was holding on to it, so tightly that Nick’s fingers must have hurt.
“It’s awful,” she said. “It’s like—do you believe in heaven? Do you think people go to heaven when they die?”
“I guess so,” Nick said. “I mean, the person’s body gets buried or cremated or something, but the person still has to be somewhere.”
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