Catch a Falling Star

by Meg McKinlay

  “Wow,” I say. “The rare double-tick.”

  Kat flips the poster over, then groans. “An A! So close. Maybe she really doesn’t give A-pluses.” Then she turns to me. “How did you go?”

  I haven’t checked yet. I’m not sure I want to. My project looks like nothing next to Kat’s. It’s just two sheets of plain foolscap stapled together, three of the four pages filled with tightly spaced writing.

  Kat frowns. “Where are the … oh!”

  When I turn it over, there are ticks after nearly every line. Big and small. Double and … triple?

  And at the very top, my mark, underlined and circled in red.

  A+.

  “Wow,” Kat breathes. “I don’t believe it.”

  Neither do I.

  Mrs Easton’s written a comment on the last page. I can see the red pen through the paper. But I don’t look now. I roll it up into a neat tube so it doesn’t get creased, and when the bell goes I tuck it into the side pocket of my bag.

  Kat is quiet as we walk to the bus, but while we sit waiting to leave, she turns to me. “Did Mrs Easton say you could do yours differently?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It’s … you didn’t have any headings or anything. And we were supposed to do Character and Setting and everything.”

  “I did all that,” I say. “I just did it differently.”

  She reaches down towards my bag. “Can I have a look?”

  “Oh, I–”

  Before I can finish, Ronnie spins around. “Hey, is your brother coming or what?”

  When I realise what he means, my stomach drops. Newt isn’t here. Not in his seat. Not coming towards us across the playground.

  I feel suddenly hot. Why didn’t I notice? I should have noticed.

  “Hang on,” I say. “I’ll … hang on.”

  While Ronnie drums his fingers on the steering wheel, I run and check Newt’s classroom. No sign of him or his bag.

  I check the toilets and sick bay and then the library.

  And that’s when I work it out. Because Newt might not be there but Mrs Harris is. And she says he came in at lunchtime looking for a book on the Greek myths. Which they didn’t have – at least not that exact one. They had one a bit like it but he wasn’t allowed to borrow it on account of 1001 Spectacular Science Facts for Junior Einsteins being long overdue.

  “Unacceptably overdue,” Mrs Harris says. “Do you happen to know where–”

  I don’t hear the rest, because I’m already out the door, Newt’s voice from last night echoing through my mind.

  Can we go sometime? I really need it.

  He wouldn’t have, would he?

  Yeah. Of course he has.

  I clatter up the steps of the bus, stammering at Ronnie. “Sorry! I forgot we’re not getting the bus today.”

  I’m sliding my bag out from under the seat when Kat grabs my arm. “What do you mean? You guys always get the bus.”

  “Not today. We’re … meeting Mum in town.” I stumble down the aisle without looking back. Ronnie’s already reaching for the lever that closes the door.

  “Good thing someone remembered,” he mutters.

  Kat stares out the window as the bus pulls away but I don’t meet her eyes. I loop both bag straps over my shoulders, my heart racing.

  It’s about twenty minutes to the library – if I walk. Maybe ten if I run.

  I run.

  My feet pound the footpath. My bag jolts on my back.

  I’m bound to catch him on the way, I think. Newt isn’t exactly the fastest runner.

  One more block and then I’ll walk a bit. That’s what I tell myself at every corner. And then I get to the next one and keep running.

  Why aren’t I catching him?

  What if I’m wrong?

  What if he’s back at school with his nose in a comic book, wondering where the bus went?

  I keep running. One more block, past the milk bar and the newsagent and the laundromat. Then another one.

  And finally I see him in the distance.

  “Newt!”

  I’m gaining on him faster than I expect, and a few seconds later I know why. He isn’t running towards the library. He’s running away from it, towards me.

  “Frankie!” He’s panting, red-faced, clutching a book to his chest.

  I slow to a stop and wait, letting him come to me. When he does, it’s all I can do not to shake him. “What are you doing?”

  “Sorry! Is Ronnie angry? We’d better hurry.”

  He goes to take off again, but I grab him. “It’s too late for the bus, Newt. It’s gone.”

  His face falls. “Sorry,” he says again. “I thought I’d make it back in time. It took ages to find the book.”

  It’s worse than I thought. He didn’t run off after school. He left class half an hour ago pretending to go to the toilet, and never went back.

  “I had to,” he says simply. “It was an emergency.”

  He’s holding the book in front of him like a shield. There’s a familiar picture on the cover – a man on a chariot being pulled by horses.

  I feel a surge of irritation. “How can the Greek myths be an emergency? It’s your own fault if you left your homework too late. You can’t just–”

  “Homework?” He gives me an odd look.

  And all at once I know why. It was Year Four when we did the Greek myths. It’s Year Four when everybody does the Greek myths. But Newt’s in Year Three, which means he’s not doing it for school, which means …

  I have absolutely no idea.

  “Never mind.” Suddenly all I feel is tired. Does it really matter why his Newtish brain told him he needed to actually have that actual story right now? Why a kid who’s always said you should focus on one thing at a time is suddenly studying antennas and Skylab and UFOs and … bears?

  All that matters is that we’re here, instead of where we should be.

  “Wait.” Newt’s eyes widen. “How are we going to get home?”

  “Oh, now you’re thinking about that?”

  “I was coming back!” he protests. “If the book had been in the right spot, I would’ve …”

  I don’t wait to hear the rest. I just set off again – slowly, this time, because there’s no hurry any more.

  “Come on,” I say. “This way.”

  Nineteen

  At the hospital we sit in the waiting room on hard plastic chairs.

  Newt reads his book and I watch the hand on the wall clock move slowly from one minute to the next.

  3.40. 4.00. 4.20.

  I wonder how long we should wait.

  I know this is the way Mum comes out, but maybe I should’ve gone down to the nurses’ station, got someone to let her know we’re here.

  I don’t want to interrupt her while she’s working but I don’t want to sit here until five o’clock either. If she knows we’re waiting, she might be able to finish earlier. Especially if I tell her about the chairs.

  I wonder why they make them so uncomfortable. Maybe it’s so you’ll only wait if you’re really sick. So you’ll get up and leave if you possibly can.

  I’d do that if I could. If there was any other way of getting home.

  4.30.

  Newt looks up from his book. He’s got a frown on his face as if he’s concentrating, trying to puzzle something out.

  “Hey,” he says. “You know how you said I could ask about Dad?”

  It’s so sudden, so out of nowhere. It takes me a moment to find my voice. “Yeah.”

  “I need to know what time they took off.”

  “What time they …” I stiffen. “You mean Dad’s plane?”

  He nods.

  “Why would you …?” I trail off. Nothing in me wants to know the answer to that question.

  “I told you. I’m working something out.”

  “I thought that was about Skylab.”

  “It is! It–”

  In the quiet of the hospital, his voice is suddenly loud. I
glance around, putting a finger to my lips. “I don’t know what time they took off. And you don’t need to either.”

  “I do. And you said I could ask about him.”

  “About him. Not about that.” I try to make my voice solid and steady, a thing that won’t crack. I look anywhere but his face – at the floor, down the hall and finally up at the clock again.

  4.31.

  4.32.

  It’s long enough. I stand up. “Wait here.”

  “But–”

  And then I walk away.

  In the corridor my shoes squeak on the shiny floor. From the rooms on either side come the murmur of TV and low voices, and every now and then a long electronic beep. Most doors are closed but some sit open, the beds inside hidden behind curtains.

  I haven’t been here for ages but it’s a small place and I know the way. At the end of this corridor there’s a desk with a glass window where the nurses sit and do paperwork. Even if Mum isn’t there, I can ask, get someone to find her.

  Voices float around me. TV voices. Visitor voices.

  Call now for a free measure and quote!

  You’re looking well, Meryl.

  Kellogg’s Cornflakes just seventy-nine cents a box!

  What a sweet little thing! Eight pounds!

  Only Milo has that unique chocolate flavour.

  Oh, you’ll bounce back before you know it.

  Bounce back.

  Is it the voice that stops me, or the words? Maybe both.

  The door to the room is ajar. I can only see a sliver, but it’s enough.

  Mum’s perched on the edge of a bed by the window. In front of her is one of those little tray tables on wheels. She’s leaning on it, writing something on a pad of paper. Across from her, propped up on pillows, is a girl with a leg in plaster. An arm too. In her other hand, she’s holding a plastic cup. She shakes it and scatters dice across the table.

  “Four of a kind! Nice!” Mum scribbles on the notepad.

  “Yeah, but only threes. You’ve got sixes two days in a row!”

  “Well, you had a Yahtzee on Monday!”

  “I think you’ve won again.”

  “Oops, sorry!” Mum’s voice is light, teasing.

  “Another game?”

  Mum hesitates a moment, then reaches for the dice. “Just one then.”

  The clock on the wall above them says 4.36. The second hand ticks slowly, like it’s moving through glue.

  “Mum?”

  Mum looks up and her eyes widen. “Frankie! What are you … wait, where’s Newt?”

  “He’s fine. He’s in the waiting room.”

  “What–?”

  “We missed the bus. So we came here.”

  It sounds so simple when you say it like that.

  “Ronnie left without you? He can’t–”

  “It wasn’t Ronnie,” I say quickly. “It was our fault. It was … we’re fine. If you’re still working, I can wait outside.”

  “No, no. I’m done for the day. We were just …” She smiles at the girl. “We’ll play another time, Louisa.”

  The girl nods. “It’s not like I’m going anywhere.”

  Mum follows me out, pulling the door shut behind her. As we walk down the hall, I hear the rattle of dice in the cup. I love that sound. But I can’t remember the last time we played Yahtzee with Mum. The last time we played anything.

  ***

  In the car on the way home, Newt’s glued to his book. Mum and I don’t speak at first. She plays the radio until it cuts out.

  Once it does, the silence is loud. It stretches.

  Eventually, she breaks it.

  “That girl … poor thing. She’s stuck there all by herself. Her mum works all the time.”

  So does mine.

  “They’re on a farm, about three hours out. It’s really hard for anyone to get in and visit.” She sighs heavily. “You understand, don’t you, love? There are just–”

  “Yeah,” I say quickly.

  … so many people that need helping.

  I don’t know what I thought that meant. That Mum was wiping tears and emptying bedpans.

  I know what I didn’t think. That she was playing games with other kids while I save Newt from spiders and talk him off rooftops and make endless grilled cheese.

  Mum twiddles the knob on the radio, even though she knows there’s no signal around here. Then she turns to me. “You’re a wonderful kid, love – the way you take everything in your stride. You miss the bus and you don’t miss a beat. You walk right in and find me.” She reaches over and squeezes my shoulder. “I’m so proud of you, the way you’ve turned out, the way you’ve …”

  I look over at her. “Bounced back?”

  “That’s exactly what I was thinking!” She laughs and ruffles my hair. “Maybe you’re psychic or something!”

  Newt glances up briefly. Our eyes meet in the rear-view mirror.

  “Yeah.” I resist the urge to lean forwards and fiddle pointlessly with the radio. “Maybe.”

  Things That Fall From the Sky

  The rattle of dice in a plastic cup.

  Your mum playing a game with someone who isn’t you.

  You understand, don’t you, love?

  Your mum working late.

  You understanding completely and then suddenly not at all.

  Things that don’t actually fall from the sky but feel like they do.

  These things.

  Twenty

  Tennis balls. Super balls.

  That’s what I thought people were talking about, back then.

  “They’ll bounce back,” they kept saying. “Don’t worry.”

  Eventually, I realised they meant us. Me and Newt.

  They’ll bounce back. Kids always do.

  And I couldn’t shake the picture of us being whacked all over the place like we were in a game of bat tennis, ricocheting back and forth over the net until someone yelled OUT!

  They’ll turn out fine. You’ll see.

  When I heard that one, I knew they meant us. But what I imagined instead was Newt and me as biscuits, coming out of the oven on a tray.

  Ooh! Look how they’ve turned out!

  I heard so many things back then, when Dad was missing and our lounge room was full of people. I wasn’t meant to, but I did anyway. With the hallway door cracked open, I could listen and still be out of sight. That way no one could ruffle my hair and tell me not to worry, in a voice stretched thin as wire.

  I was six then. I didn’t understand a lot of what I heard but there was one thing that came through clear as a bell. That it was important to bounce and turn out well. That it was important to be fine. And to make sure Newt was too.

  So I tried really hard and the more I did, the more Mum smiled and said, “Oh, love. It’s just so wonderful, the way you’ve bounced back.”

  That’s how I knew what I was doing was right, and that I had to keep doing it.

  ***

  “Oh, I know!” Mum says, as we twist spaghetti around our forks at dinner. “How about I do a roast when Kat comes over?”

  “Yes!” Newt says. “With crunchy potatoes?”

  “Of course! What’s a roast without crunchy potatoes?” Mum turns to me. “What do you think, Frankie … that’d be good, wouldn’t it?”

  My mouth waters just thinking about it, but I don’t reply at first. I know this is her apology but I’m not sure I want it. Not if it’s one night and then things go back to the way they were, the way they are.

  “Crunchy-bums!” Newt singsongs. “They’re the best!”

  Mum laughs. “That’s right! I’d forgotten you used to call them that.”

  Me too.

  I twist spaghetti around and around … and around some more.

  “Yeah,” I say finally. “That’d be good.

  ***

  I’m already in bed when I remember my Storm Boy project. With all of Newt’s drama, I haven’t even looked at it.

  I turn the lamp back on and go ov
er to where my bag hangs on its hook by the door. I unzip the side pocket and take the roll of papers out. Then I lean my back against the wall and slide to the floor. For a moment I sit still, my legs crossed, the papers in my lap. I’m nervous again but I don’t know why. I got an A+.

  I can almost feel that light touch on my shoulder, Mrs Easton’s voice saying Outstanding. I don’t care about the mark. I want to see what she says. I want to know what she thinks.

  I turn the page. She’s only written a couple of lines.

  I read them over and over.

  Brave is what she thinks. Brave and honest and real.

  This is a fine piece of writing, she says. A fine piece of thinking. And it’s strange because fine is such a nothing word, usually.

  I’m fine. It’s fine. The weather is fine. They’ll turn out fine, you’ll see.

  But here it feels like an everything word.

  A noise nearby makes me start. Someone out in the hall? Newt, making another late-night trip to the Shack?

  I open my door and flick on the hall light. There’s no one. And then I hear the sound again, and I breathe out.

  I was right but I was wrong too. It’s Newt, but he’s not going anywhere. He isn’t even awake. He’s making those snuffling little sleep noises he’s made since he was a baby. Mum said he’d grow out of it, but he never has.

  I open his door a crack, spilling soft light in from the hall. He’s so small under the heavy quilt, his fair head on the pillow, the mad-professor fuzz of his hair. On the wall above his head, there’s a map of the solar system. The nine planets in their endless rotations around the sun, the curving lines of their orbits.

  As my eyes trace their paths a thought comes to me like a whisper.

  That’s what we’re doing – me, Newt, Mum.

  Those cakes I made for Newt’s birthday. I didn’t get them right at first. I had to move a couple of lines because the cakes were touching. Mars and Venus. Neptune and Pluto.

  The planets don’t do that. They’re near each other but they don’t ever touch.

  They follow their own paths, which never cross.

  I’m not fine. We’re not fine. We haven’t been for a long time.

  I think I’ve known this for a long time too. I just don’t know what I can do about it.