Catch a Falling Star

by Meg McKinlay

  “I know she’ll meet us at the bus,” I say, “and make biscuits and …”

  “Biscuits?” The mattress makes a squeaking noise. “What’s wrong with biscuits? I like biscuits.”

  Her voice is lighthearted, like she thinks I’m making a joke. And why wouldn’t she think that? Why wouldn’t I be? It’s not even Kat I’m angry at. It’s Newt. It’s Mum. Why couldn’t he be normal for once? Why couldn’t she be home on time?

  The lamp clicks on. Kat’s turned it on and she’s smiling because it’ll be much easier if we have a sleepover at her place. Because she can plan it out all perfectly and nothing will go wrong. No one will be late, or too tired, or missing, presumed …

  I reach over and turn it off again. It’s my room. I get to decide.

  “I don’t want to go to your place,” I say. “I mean, I do, but …” I don’t know how to say it. That this was meant to be my thing. Something I was doing, at my house, with my mum. “I know your mum can do it. I just …”

  I just want my mum for once. I want her here, with us – with me and with Newt and not spinning out there in the dark somewhere, in her steady, untouchable orbit.

  I want, I want. I can’t even say what I want. Maybe that’s why I end up saying something completely different.

  “We don’t all get fancy bread rolls made for us, you know.” The words spill out before I can stop them. It might not be Kat I’m angry at but she’s the one who’s here.

  There’s a sharp intake of breath. “What did you say?”

  I want to explain, only I can’t. I can’t tell her Mum’s never here, even when she is. It feels like it isn’t my secret to tell. And I can’t tell her about Newt – the way he twists me up with worry – because she already knows that and she’s sick of it.

  Neither of us has moved but the space between us feels further somehow, heavier.

  “Nothing.” There’s a lump in my throat so hard I can’t swallow. “Don’t worry about it.”

  “It wasn’t nothing,” Kat says quietly. “I heard what you said.”

  The silence is thick with something. I’m glad I can’t see her face, even gladder she can’t see mine.

  “I don’t get it,” she says finally. “I was only trying to help.”

  “I know that.”

  “I help you all the time, with lots of things. I lent you all those books and showed you my whole Storm Boy project. I got you that cardboard and you didn’t use it. You got an A+ and then you wouldn’t even show me. Plus, you never told me what you were doing. If I have a good idea, I always tell you.”

  Everything she’s saying is true, but …

  “I didn’t know it was a good idea,” I say. “I thought it might be really weird.”

  “Then you got an A+.”

  “Yeah, but–”

  “Forget about it.” There’s a brittle edge to her voice. “I’m going to sleep.”

  She flops back down on the mattress and rolls over, facing the door. Then a few seconds later, she starts speaking again. “I know you never asked about coming camping either, by the way.”

  “I did,” I say. “I …”

  “No, you didn’t. I heard Mum talking to your mum on the phone.”

  “I … there wasn’t any point. I knew I couldn’t go. Mum needs me to keep an eye on Newt.” I turn towards her in the dark. “You don’t have any idea what it’s like.”

  “Yeah, because you don’t tell me.”

  “Because you don’t want to hear. Because he’s eight, remember?”

  Even though we’re talking quietly, this is definitely a fight. I’ve made it a fight.

  Neither of us speaks. It’s like we’ve both fired shots and now we’re waiting to see what comes next.

  And what comes next is nothing.

  I pretend to be asleep until eventually I am. When I wake up groggily a couple of hours later, I wonder at first if the whole thing was a dream. Then I remember it wasn’t, and instead wish it was, and wonder what I’m going to say in the morning.

  The clock’s red dots say 12.35. Kat groans in her sleep, shifting this way and that. I wonder if she’s having a nightmare. Maybe she feels as bad as I do about what we said. Or maybe I’ve poisoned her with my chicken. I don’t know which would be worse. At least if it’s the chicken, she’ll get over it quickly. I don’t know what I’m going to do about the fight.

  I know she’s asleep but I reach down anyway. “Sorry,” I whisper.

  And then the loudest sound I’ve ever heard makes me jump out of my skin.

  It’s like the sky has split open. It’s like we’ve been under a dome and someone’s taken a giant hammer and cracked it right above our house. It’s like thunder rolling on and on, only with the volume turned up so that it feels like it’s inside your head and also all around.

  In the middle of it I hear Kat’s voice, half-awake, confused. “Frankie?”

  It’s as if a train is roaring through the house. The wind, the noise, the floor seeming to shake and every window rattling in its frame.

  Outside the window it’s light when it should be dark and then it’s light again and dark, a hundred stars falling, or maybe a thousand.

  And at first Dad’s in my head saying, You’ll see one, short-for-nothing. Trust me on this.

  A hundred, though?

  A thousand?

  But these aren’t like shooting stars – at least not the ones I’ve seen on TV. These are more like fireworks or little explosions … or something I’ve never seen before, not even on a screen.

  Over the hill behind the Shack, a bright orange ball is streaking across the sky, trailing sparks. And just as my sleep-blurred brain starts to focus – to know what this is because what else could it be? – I see the small shape running up the slope.

  Oh no, oh no.

  But also, Of course.

  He was always going to stay up, no matter what anyone said.

  “Frankie?” Kat says again, and she’s definitely awake this time.

  Only it’s too late, now. It’s too late to answer, because I’m already gone.

  Things That Fall From the Sky

  Something.

  A bright light.

  A boom.

  At the same time, only separate. Like lightning and thunder. Kids hiding under the covers. You see the flash, then wait for the rest.

  It’s okay, Dad always used to say. It’s nowhere near us. It’s safe.

  But this? This is close.

  How fast does light travel? And sound?

  Well, actually … Did you know that …?

  I’ll ask Newt when I catch him.

  If I catch him. If I can find him.

  Out here in the bush – in the darkness, in the light.

  Running and running and chasing.

  Things that fall from the sky.

  Skylab.

  Twenty-five

  In the distance, there are hundreds of fiery pieces.

  Thousands?

  Hundreds and thousands. I think of fairy bread, birthdays. Newt’s very own space station.

  Coming down now. Coming back.

  Re-entering. Arriving. Tumbling.

  Not sprinkling, but raining. Its broken pieces coming down hard and fast, like someone has shaken them up and hurled them from their fist.

  The rattle of dice in a plastic cup.

  White bursts of light that turn into red, like fireworks.

  Spectacular! Well worth staying up for.

  How far in the distance? How close?

  Well, actually …

  I should be under cover right now. I should be in a car or a house or an apartment. A school, even. I should be anywhere but here.

  The chances of being hit are …

  What were they again?

  Several huge chunks will fall to Earth …

  How many is “several”? How big is “huge”?

  The only thing between me and the sky is bush. Leaves and branches.

  And then not even that. When
I reach the neighbours’ paddock Newt’s already on the other side, the circle of torchlight bobbing wildly. He’s running faster than I ever knew he could. Over the fence as I watch, then out across the highway. The highway!

  I breathe out. It’s late. There’s no traffic at this hour.

  12.35 plus how much? The clock is far behind me. And Kat too.

  I wonder if she’s out of bed now. I wonder if everyone is. I wonder if Jeremy has his helmet on. I wonder if our ceiling is actually made of concrete.

  I pick up my pace, trying to keep Newt in sight. There’s no point calling. I know he won’t stop.

  Maybe it’s the way he’s running. That stumbling Storm Boy dash across the hills as if nothing can stop you, because it can’t, because you’re fixed on one thing only and it’s the most important thing in the world.

  Maybe it’s because I always knew, in some deep part of me. Because I was kidding myself thinking the puzzle added up to anything but this.

  There’s a burning smell in the air, almost electric. The bush is stirring around me – not just with night-time noises but others too. Birds have been dragged from sleep. They rustle and squawk, try their morning calls and then stop, confused. Dogs are barking somewhere, everywhere.

  Newt crests a hill and I lose him briefly, then pick him up on the other side. We’re heading towards the light, to where it was brightest. It’s starting to fade now, becoming a dull glow on the horizon, somewhere beyond the next hill, and the next.

  I have to catch him. Whatever this is, it’s my fault. Mum’s right – I haven’t looked after Newt, not properly, not the way I should have. It’s my fault he went to the Shack, that he found all that stuff. My fault he’s out here in the middle of the night, running, wishing on his very own Newtish star.

  I could have stopped this if I’d listened. If I hadn’t shut Newt down when he asked about Dad, about the plane. If I hadn’t turned away, said it didn’t matter.

  Exactly like Mum does.

  The thought strikes me like a small blow. It didn’t feel like that when I did it.

  I can fix this, though. I have to. When I find him, I’ll listen to whatever he wants to talk about, whether I want to hear it or not.

  I can’t see where I’m going. I just have to trust my feet and the ground. Stones and fallen branches. Rabbit holes. Darkness.

  At least Newt has a torch. At least he’s prepared.

  With a start, I remember his arm. I think of a bird dragging a broken wing.

  It doesn’t seem to be slowing him down. I stop thinking and just run.

  ***

  It’s four hills before I reach him.

  Four stick-scraping, ankle-twisting, falling-over-and-getting-up-again, steeper-than-I-remembered hills.

  I’m looking down, searching for his light. I’m panting, wondering where it’s gone and how I’m going to follow without it, when I see him.

  He’s sitting on the ground a little way along. The torch is off and he has his back to me. He’s tiny against the night sky, a small silhouette.

  I don’t know why he’s stopped but I’m grateful for it. I bend over as a stitch slices my side. My heart is hammering in my chest like it’s a wild thing, caged.

  Twigs snap beneath my feet but Newt doesn’t turn around.

  I stand beside him, looking out across the trees and paddocks that stretch for miles.

  Lights are coming on in houses. Headlights are nosing their way along roads. People are awake and wondering and coming out to see.

  This thing that’s happened, right on top of us.

  I squat down, smooth away sticks and stones from the ground beneath me, then sit.

  It’s that loud kind of quiet again.

  I wait.

  “It broke up,” he says finally. “It’s all in pieces.”

  For a second there’s something in his voice I’ve never heard before. Then he sucks in a deep breath. “I knew it would. It had to. Because of the atmosphere and the angle of re-entry and the velocity and …”

  It’s like he’s picking up speed with every word, talking himself out of something. Into something else.

  He nods, as if he’s listening to a conversation only he can hear. “Did you know that hundreds of pieces of Skylab might survive the re-entry process?”

  “Yeah, I heard that.”

  “That’s what I was doing,” he says. “Looking for pieces. I–”

  “Newt,” I say softly. “It’s all right. I know what you were doing.”

  He falls quiet, then looks up at me. Something passes between us. The air is heavy with things I don’t know how to say.

  I’ll never know how to say them, not properly. But do I need to? Do I need to snap my thoughts – my feelings – into tight little sections with perfect neat headings … or can I just start talking, trust the words to come out?

  “When I was little,” I say. “When Dad died …” I hear his little puff of breath, feel his body stiffen. “You know Gilligan’s Island?”

  He hesitates, then nods.

  “I thought Dad was there. Somewhere like that, anyway.”

  I tell him – about spelling out HELP with stones, about waiting and waving and the pilot coming low to give Dad a thumbs up.

  It’s okay, mate. We’ve got you.

  “I knew he was there,” I say. “He had to be somewhere.”

  “Yeah.” He’s fighting to keep his voice steady, a tightrope walker wobbling one way and then the other. “How old were you?”

  “Six,” I say. “And then seven and eight and … sometimes still now.” I pick up a stick and trace a line in the dirt. “I don’t really believe it any more, though. I just …”

  We’re on the tightrope together. I lean into him, press my shoulder against his. He’s still for a moment and then it’s like I feel something gather inside him.

  “I knew it wasn’t real,” Newt says. “I knew he wasn’t coming back. But I couldn’t … I had to come, just in case.”

  “I know.”

  “It was dumb.” There’s a break in his voice.

  “No, it wasn’t.”

  “It doesn’t even make any sense. I knew that the whole time.”

  “Yeah.” I nod slowly. I think about all those nights of trees and ladders and me on the ground with my arms out wide. I think about the Brookline Institute and twelve million people. Plus one, maybe. “But things don’t always have to make sense, you know.”

  He turns towards me. He looks at me with the strangest expression, like with everything that’s stuffed into that head of his, this is something that’s never occurred to him.

  And also like it’s a relief.

  He blinks and looks past me, at the spreading night sky.

  “Did you know,” he says, “that even if you wish for something really hard … I mean really, really hard … it still doesn’t make any difference?”

  He’s crying now – quietly at first, then louder, as if it doesn’t matter who hears.

  He puts his head on my shoulder the way he used to when he was little. And I let him.

  It’s okay, Newt. I’ve got you.

  “Yeah,” I reply. “Actually, I did know that.”

  Twenty-six

  After a while we get up and walk slowly down the hill. There’s a road at the bottom that will take us to the highway. And on the highway, there’s a steady stream of traffic now – cars and trucks and utes coming from town and from properties all around, all of them heading out towards where the light was brightest.

  To where Skylab fell.

  I take the torch on the way down and Newt holds onto me a bit – for balance, maybe. Or something else.

  “My arm hurts,” he says. “I didn’t notice it before, but now …”

  I nod. “We’ll walk along the highway. We’ll face towards town and–”

  There’ll be someone we know, I think – someone who won’t mind giving us a quick lift home. It’s the middle of the night, after all, and we’re two kids, one of whom ha
s suddenly remembered his arm is broken.

  We’re almost at the highway, when Newt points, his eyes wide. “Is that …?”

  For a second I think I must be dreaming. That none of this is real – the night and Skylab and Newt and me up on the hill. Because it’s our school bus, with Ronnie at the wheel, slowing for a second when he sees us as if he’s going to stop and pick us up and take us … where?

  He doesn’t stop. He shakes his head as if maybe he thinks he’s dreaming too. Then he accelerates around the corner and out of sight.

  That’s when I see the car – our old purple Datsun – coming towards us. Slowing like the bus did, only not at all like that because instead of accelerating when she sees us, Mum pulls off into the gravel, yanking the wheel so suddenly I think she’s going to skid, and then the door flying open almost before she’s come to a stop. And Mum climbing – almost tumbling – out, a jacket thrown on over her pyjamas, a wild look on her face.

  “Oh, thank God.” Something in her sags. She takes a step back and slumps against the car, as if she needs something to hold her up.

  I check both ways, then lead Newt across the road.

  “Are you okay?” Mum looks at him anxiously. “You can’t go running off like that! What on Earth were you thinking?”

  “He’s fine,” I say. “We’re fine. He wanted to see Skylab. I went after him.”

  Mum looks from me to Newt and her face softens. “You kids. You’re so–”

  Suddenly I just can’t. I can’t listen to how wonderful and mature and good at bouncing we are. I can’t tell Mum we’re fine, go back to the way things were.

  Brave, I think. And honest.

  “No, we’re not.” I sit down right there in the gravel by the side of the road, as if I’ve suddenly run out of steam, out of everything. Maybe I have.

  “We’re not tennis balls,” I say. “We’re not biscuits.”

  “You what?” Mum’s looking at me strangely and I can’t blame her. When I don’t reply, she runs a hand through her hair. “Look, we’re all tired. Why don’t we talk about this later?”

  She gestures to the car but I stay put. Newt doesn’t move either.

  “It’ll be easier in the morning.”