A Handful of Stars

by Cynthia Lord

  I picked up my paintbrush. “I’ve never imagined pink bees.” Especially with orange stripes.

  “I imagine all the time,” Salma said. “That’s how I keep work from being boring. Raking blueberries is buggy, and sometimes it’s so hot that sweat is dripping all over me by the time we’re done.”

  We both made a face.

  “But when you pretend, life can be any way you want it to be,” she added. “So I imagine it better. Today I imagined I was a princess and the fields were really my lands. But an evil queen cast a spell over everyone so we all had to pick her blueberries.” She smiled at me. “Tell me a chore that you hate to do, and I’ll show you how to imagine it better.”

  “Um,” I said, trying to think of something really bad. “Picking up dog poop in the yard?”

  Salma giggled. “That’s a hard one. Maybe you could imagine it’s something wonderful that you’re picking up? Seashells? Or treasure? Or Easter eggs.”

  “Easter eggs?” I asked. We both burst out laughing.

  “Okay, maybe that’s too weird,” Salma admitted. “But you see what I mean.”

  Watching her paint blue daisies for her pink-and-orange bees, I wondered how she could just pick colors and have faith they’d look good together.

  I looked down at the blueberry stencil taped to the front of my bee house. Maybe I could try stenciling the leaves red, like they turn in the fall? Just for something different? But if the leaves were red, it would be autumn. There wouldn’t be any berries on the plants. It wouldn’t make sense.

  I picked up the green paint and went to work.

  Dr. Katz liked to say she had no choice but to become a veterinarian. With a name like “Katz” everyone expects you to like cats, so it was good that she did. It was good for Lucky and me that she also liked dogs and kids.

  She was one of the only people I ever let call me Tigerlily, because she said it like it was pretty.

  Dr. Katz went to high school with Mama. When she tells me stories about Mama, somehow I never feel bad for asking her to remember something that turned out sad. And when Lucky’s eyes clouded over last year, she put her arm around me and said, “It’ll be okay, Tigerlily. Blind dogs learn to get along.”

  I didn’t want Lucky to just get along—I wanted him to see. So Dr. Katz promised she’d check with a friend who operates on animals’ eyes and find out how much it would cost. “Even with the operation, there are no guarantees,” she told me. “And it’s harder on an old dog to go through surgery. There are risks.”

  Those were reasons enough for Mémère to say no. She said she knew someone who had a blind dog that could hear a Cheeto hit the floor clear across the room and never bumped into anything unless they changed the furniture around. That dog still barked at squirrels because he could hear and smell them, even if he couldn’t see them.

  But learning not to bump into things seemed like a poor trade for seeing. And hearing squirrels but not chasing them and watching them run away just felt like losing. Only having half of something after you’ve had it all is a special kind of sadness.

  I cried about it, until one night Pépère came in and sat on my bed with me. “You never know what you can do until you try,” he said, and we came up with the idea of selling bee houses. If I earned the money myself, Mémère couldn’t say it was too expensive.

  Sundays and Thursdays were Dr. Katz’s days off. On Sundays, I had church and then I had to help out at home. But every nice Thursday, I made sure to walk Lucky by Dr. Katz’s house, just in case she was outside in her garden. I always felt a little guilty, because I was hoping she’d stop what she was doing and check Lucky’s eyes for free.

  Mémère would stop me if she knew. She says we don’t need charity.

  Dr. Katz never makes it feel like charity, though. She likes Lucky and wants him to be happy, just like I do.

  On this Thursday, Dr. Katz’s car was in her driveway and I could see her bent over her flowers in the backyard. I pulled on Lucky’s leash so we’d be in front of her house as long as possible. “Nice day!” I called.

  She stood and looked over. “It is a lovely day! Tigerlily, can you stop for a minute? I have something for you.”

  Lucky’s head shot up and his tail wagged hard. He loves Dr. Katz. But on the way up her walkway, he lifted his leg on her petunias.

  “No!” I said, but some things can’t be stopped.

  “A dog’s gotta do what a dog’s gotta do. Isn’t that right, Lucky?” Dr. Katz smiled at me. “What I have for you is on the kitchen table. Do you want to come in?”

  “How about if I just wait here?” I was afraid if I walked Lucky to her house, he’d pee on every plant on the way. Or maybe even leave an Easter egg or two.

  When Dr. Katz came back outside, she had something small and square in her hand. “My dad has been cleaning out some old boxes, and he found a few of my high school scrapbooks. Your mom was in these two photos. I thought you might like to have them.”

  My heart jumped. I’ve seen all the photos that Mémère and Pépère have of Mama. Christmas photos. School photos. Graduation photos. Mama with me and Lucky.

  But here were two photos that I’d never seen.

  Dr. Katz handed me the first one. “This was taken on a school field trip that our high school class took to Boston. We were in the Public Garden. Your mom is wearing the red shirt.”

  I saw her even before Dr. Katz pointed her out. I would’ve known Mama anywhere. But this photo wasn’t posed like some of the other photos I’d seen. Here she just looked relaxed and happy, standing in front of a big tree with some friends.

  Dr. Katz passed me the second photo. “And this was one of the years she won Downeast Blueberry Queen. I’m sorry I don’t remember which year.”

  There was Mama with her blonde hair done up fancy, wearing her dark blue sparkly dress and big silver and blue crown. Mama won the Downeast Blueberry Queen Pageant three years running, and no one has done that since. She holds the record.

  I like that Mama has something special that people still talk about. The blueberry festival happens every year in late August, and it’s a big deal around here. Our corner of Maine doesn’t have as many tourists and events and stores full of expensive things, like you might find elsewhere along the coast. But we produce the most wild blueberries, and that’s Maine’s state fruit. So the festival is our chance to celebrate that. The pageant starts the festival and the queen represents our area at events all over Maine. So it’s a big honor to win.

  “This photo was taken the second time Mama won,” I said. “I can tell from the dress she’s wearing. Mémère and Pépère have photos from each year.”

  But they didn’t have this one. Here she was standing with another girl, and Mama had an expression on her face that I’d never seen before. Mama had a glint in her eyes and one side of her smile was higher than the other—like maybe she was thinking about some mischief. It tore at me inside. “Who’s she with?” I asked.

  Dr. Katz grinned. “Can you guess?”

  I looked closer. The girl’s hair was really long in the photo, but there was something familiar about her face. “Wait. Is that you? You were pretty.” I blushed. “I mean, um, you are—”

  Dr. Katz held up her hand. “Your mom was the pretty one. But that’s not what I admired about her. No French Canadian girl had ever won blueberry queen, and Danielle set out to challenge that. I remember her saying that she’d show them all. And she did.”

  “She showed them three times,” I said.

  “Yes!” Dr. Katz said. “Your mom wasn’t afraid to think big thoughts. That’s what I admired most about her.”

  I wished I could be big-thinking, too. Things happen to people like that—good things and bad things. But even a few bad things might be better than no things happening to you.

  Sometimes I wondered what Mama would have thought of me. Deep inside, I was afraid she might’ve been disappointed that I wasn’t more like her.

  I felt such a rush of fe
elings that my hand shook sliding the photos into my shorts’ pocket. “Thank you so much” was all I could say.

  “You’re welcome, Tigerlily. Now, let me have a quick look at Lucky’s eyes.” Dr. Katz cupped her hand under his chin and lifted his head to examine him. “How’s he doing?”

  “I think he’s getting blinder.” My voice dropped to a whisper without me even telling it to.

  “Really, if you think about it, it’s probably kinder to him that it’s coming on slowly.” Dr. Katz looked carefully at each eye. “Imagine how terrible it would be to wake up blind one day and not know why. This way, he gets used to it in stages.”

  “He remembers where things are at home. And he goes up and down the aisles at the store pretty well, unless there are lots of people,” I explained. “But on the stairs and in a new place he waits for me to go first.”

  “Smart dog,” Dr. Katz said.

  “Except once this week he didn’t hold back at all!” I said. “I was taking him for a walk and he got loose on the blueberry barrens, and I couldn’t get him to stop. I kept thinking he’d run smack into the trees if he made it to the woods. Then a Winthrop truck came along! I was so scared that he’d dart out in front of it.”

  Dr. Katz grimaced. “How’d you catch him?”

  “Salma—one of the kids from the blueberry camp—stopped him. Well, actually, her lunch stopped him!”

  Dr. Katz laughed, ruffling Lucky’s ears. “Must’ve been a good lunch. I’m sure it was scary, but Lucky doesn’t look any worse for the experience. In fact, he’s quite healthy for his age, considering everything.”

  “Did you find out how much that eye operation costs?”

  Dr. Katz sighed. “My friend said he’d give me a break on the price, but there are still follow-up exams, medications, and lab tests, on top of the surgery. All that together is over two thousand dollars, even with the discount.”

  I felt everything inside me crashing to the ground. That was so much. “I’m painting mason bee houses to earn the money, but it’ll take me awhile,” I said. “A long while.”

  Dr. Katz nodded. Then she smiled. “I didn’t even know that mason bees lived in houses.”

  Funny to think I knew something about animals that she didn’t. But no one brings bees into a vet. “They’re great pollinators. They’re good for the blueberry fields, but also good for regular gardens. And they live in holes, so Pépère makes the bee houses with lots of little, bee-size holes in the side. Then I paint the houses to make them pretty.”

  “I need some bee houses for my garden. Do you sell them at the store?”

  “Oh, you don’t have to buy one,” I said quickly. “I could give you one.”

  “No, of course I want to buy one. Or maybe a few. Bees are very important to a garden.”

  She seemed sure. “I do have three different styles to choose from,” I explained. “Blueberries and bees, flowers, and maple leaves. Oh, and then there’s a fourth style that I didn’t paint—Salma did. Her bee house has pink bees.”

  Dr. Katz smiled. “Pink bees?”

  I nodded. “It’s different.”

  “Different can be good,” Dr. Katz said. “It makes you pay attention.”

  On the walk back to the store, I kept reaching into my pocket to touch the hard edges of the photos. I couldn’t wait to show them to Mémère and Pépère. But when I got back to the store, Pépère was busy with a customer, and Mémère told me that a family from Connecticut had bought Salma’s bee house, along with a bundle of firewood for their camp and one of our blueberry pies. “The woman gave me her phone number,” Mémère said. “She’d like a few more bee houses to give as presents.”

  “Did you show her the ones in the gardening section?” I asked.

  “I did, but she liked the style of the one she bought,” Mémère said. “So when we have some more of those to sell, we should give her a call.”

  I didn’t feel like sharing the photos anymore. Every bee house we sold meant more money for Lucky, but I couldn’t help wondering if the lady would’ve bought some of my bee houses if Salma’s hadn’t been there, outshining mine.

  Making mine too ordinary to be noticed.

  Early the next afternoon, I looked up from painting to see my friend Hannah coming up the store aisle, carrying a bunch of empty grocery bags. “Hi, Lily!” she said.

  I smiled, but my mouth stayed closed. I used to feel a hundred percent happy when I saw her, but now there’s always a little bit of doubt mixed in.

  Lucky only felt happy, though. His tail wagged so hard it’s a wonder his whole back end didn’t lift off in the air like a helicopter. He has always loved Hannah.

  I’d hardly seen her since school let out in June. Her dad’s a lobsterman and she helps out on his boat in the summertime. But she doesn’t have to work on Sundays and stormy days, and I hadn’t even seen her on those days.

  As Hannah patted Lucky, I glanced out the store window to see if a lightning storm had rolled in while I was busy painting. Nope, just blue sky and sunshine. “How come you’re off today?”

  “My grandpa had a doctor’s appointment, and he needed my dad to drive him,” she said. “They invited me to go, but that didn’t sound like much fun. So Mom asked me to pick some bags of sea lavender. She wants to make some wreaths to sell at the blueberry festival. Want to ride your bike down the boat landing with me and help? Mom said there are some patches of sea lavender growing right there.”

  I looked at the clock over the door. It was already one o’clock. Would Salma come today? I didn’t want to miss her.

  But if I said no, Hannah might not try again. Maybe I could go with Hannah and be back before Salma got here.

  “Okay,” I said. “Let me put Lucky upstairs.”

  In the past, he could’ve run alongside my bike, but now I couldn’t risk him running into my wheels. It’s one of the things I can’t wait to do again after his operation—Lucky running beside my bike, both of us speeding along the back roads.

  “Oh, Lucky,” Hannah said as he pushed his nose into her hand. “Lily, if we walked, could he come?”

  I sucked my bottom lip. Walking would take longer. But Lucky was so happy to see Hannah … I could write Salma a note, just in case I was late.

  “That’ll work,” I said. “Would you run upstairs and get Lucky’s l-e-a-s-h for me? It’s where we usually keep it. I just need to leave a note.”

  I had to hold Lucky’s collar to keep him from following Hannah. He whimpered. “She’ll be right back,” I said to comfort him, but when someone leaves, Lucky doesn’t know if they’re going for one minute or forever.

  With my free hand, I reached over to the coffee station for a napkin to write on.

  I went for a walk with Lucky to help a friend, but a lady bought your pink bees house! She said she wanted a few more. So if you want to paint today, I’ve left everything here for you. I’ll be back as soon as I can!

  I set up the paints and brushes and stacked two blank bee houses on my table.

  On our way out, I told Mémère, “I’m going for a walk with Hannah and Lucky to the boat landing.”

  “Be safe,” Mémère said.

  I rolled my eyes. She doesn’t need to always say that. Really, how much trouble could I get into? Everyone who lives here knows Mémère and Pépère and me. If anything happened, word would travel so fast it’d beat me home.

  Occasionally, I feel like being a smart aleck and say, “Nope, today I plan to be reckless and crazy!” Mémère doesn’t think it’s funny, though. It usually ends in me staying home, going nowhere.

  “I will,” I said.

  Lucky pulled me down the road.

  “So what’ve you been doing this summer?” I asked Hannah.

  “Working a lot,” she said. “But remember my friend from church, Brandon?”

  Never heard of him, I wanted to say, but then she’d just start the whole story from when she met him. And I’d already heard that part a million times. “Yup.”

>   “He and I lit the candles together at church last Sunday. I was so nervous that my hands were shaking. I was afraid I’d set the whole place on fire! Afterward, he said I’d done a great job!” She smiled.

  “Wow,” I said, waiting for the rest of the story. Until I realized that was the story.

  “And next week, Mom and I are going to Boston to see my aunt Carol and get me a new dress for the blueberry festival,” Hannah said.

  Hannah is the reigning Downeast Blueberry Queen, but she’s only won once (so far). I can cheer for Hannah to win twice, but I secretly hope she never wins a third time. Other Maine fairs and festivals have pageants: Strawberry Queen at the Hillsborough Fair, Sea Goddess at the Maine Lobster Festival. But the biggest prize and the sparkliest crown goes to the Downeast Blueberry Queen. For the past year, Hannah has worn her big silver-and-blue jeweled crown at nursing homes, at schools, in parades, and at fairs all over the state.

  Ahead, a deer was crossing the road. He froze when he saw us. If he were close enough for Lucky to smell, I’d have to hold the leash tight. But the deer leaped away into the trees, his tail high.

  Lucky just kept walking along.

  I waited for Hannah to ask me what I’d been doing this summer so I could tell her how Lucky had run away and Salma helped me catch him and Mémère made me bring her a pork pie.

  But Hannah was only thinking about the pageant. “It will be hard if I don’t win Queen again. Everyone expects me to. That’s the problem with winning. People expect more from you the next time. So anything less than first is failing.”

  “At least you get to keep the crown you already have, right?” I said, surprised that she looked so sad.

  “Yeah. But it’s hard just to be a regular kid after you’ve been someone special.”

  “I’ve always been a regular kid.” I glanced at Hannah, hoping she’d say that wasn’t true. Instead she told me, “You could be in the pageant, too, Lily.”