Clear Skies

by Jessica Scott Kerrin

  Copyright © 2019 by Jessica Scott Kerrin

  Published in Canada and the USA in 2019 by Groundwood Books

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior written consent of the publisher or a license from The Canadian Copyright Licensing Agency (Access Copyright). For an Access Copyright license, visit www.accesscopyright.ca or call toll free to 1-800-893-5777.

  Groundwood Books / House of Anansi Press

  groundwoodbooks.com

  We gratefully acknowledge for their financial support of our publishing program the Canada Council for the Arts, the Ontario Arts Council and the Government of Canada.

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  Title: Clear skies / Jessica Scott Kerrin.

  Names: Kerrin, Jessica Scott, author.

  Identifiers: Canadiana (print) 20189067357 | Canadiana (ebook) 20189067365 | ISBN 9781773062402 (hardcover) | ISBN 9781773062419 (EPUB) | ISBN 9781773062426 (Kindle)

  Classification: LCC PS8621.E77 C54 2019 | DDC jC813/.6—dc23

  Design by Michael Solomon

  Interior illustrations by Emma Sakamoto

  In memory of Sheila Barry,

  now among the stars

  ONE

  Arno slapped a pound of wet clay into the shape of a ball, then plopped the ball onto his desk with a satisfying whump. He peered at the open astronomy book beside his lump of clay to read the instructions once again.

  Divide the clay into ten equal parts.

  “Okay-dokey,” Arno whispered.

  He was being quiet so that he could hear his dad’s yellow-and-red Sony transistor radio.

  It was 1961. The Space Race between the Soviet Union and the United States was in full swing. Over the past few years, artificial satellites had been launched. The Saturn I rocket, meant to carry human beings into deep space, was well under construction. Soviet pilots had even flown into low Earth orbit as test trials.

  Which country would be the first to safely land someone on the Moon and bring them back was anybody’s guess.

  And in all this excitement, a brand-new observatory was opening the following night in Arno’s hometown. It had been built in a wide field on the outskirts where there was no light pollution to interfere with the powerful telescope housed in its dome.

  Arno desperately wanted to go to the opening, not only because he planned to become an astronomer when he grew up, but also because his hero, Jean Slayter-Appleton, was flying in as the honored guest to cut the ribbon.

  Jean Slayter-Appleton wrote a weekly column about astronomy in the newspaper. Her column was called “Clear Skies.” She ended every article with those two words.

  Clear skies were what every astronomer wished for when they set up their telescopes to point at the stars.

  Arno clipped all of her articles for his notebook, which contained his deep thoughts about how the universe worked. He would quote fascinating facts from her column whenever he got the chance.

  Arno paused to listen to the radio. The station was giving away three invitations to attend the opening of the observatory for contest winners and their guests. All he had to do was be the first to call in with the correct answer to an astronomy-related question that the announcer would ask some time throughout the morning.

  For now, only surf rock music about girls and cars blared from the transistor radio. Arno turned back to his lump of clay and divided it up like the instructions told him to do. He read from his book again.

  Mash six of the parts together and put that on Jupiter’s sheet of paper.

  Arno had already spread out nine sheets of paper on his desk. He had written the name of a planet on each one.

  He mashed the six lumps together as instructed and set it on Jupiter’s paper. He paused to listen to the radio.

  More surf rock.

  Mash three of the parts together and put that on Saturn’s sheet.

  Arno did so.

  Divide the remaining piece into ten equal parts.

  Arno did that, too, just as his frisky dog pitter-pattered into Arno’s bedroom.

  Comet immediately sniffed the wet clay on Arno’s desk and wagged his tail like an exclamation mark.

  “Leave it,” Arno warned, pushing Comet’s nose away.

  Comet was little and he couldn’t reach the top of Arno’s desk, but still. Arno had once caught him sliding a kitchen chair toward the counter so that he could jump on it to reach some fresh-baked cookies cooling on the racks.

  Comet perked his triangle-folded ears but backed down. Muttering, he trotted over to the foot of Arno’s bed and flopped to the floor, his head resting on both front paws while he watched Arno’s every move.

  Arno paused. The radio music had stopped.

  The announcer was delivering news and the weather, which called for another unbearably hot August day.

  Arno held his breath. Was the contest about to begin?

  No. After the weather came sports and then more surf rock music.

  “Blast it!” Arno exclaimed.

  Comet lifted his head, saw that nothing was happening, then rolled onto his side and closed his eyes for a nap.

  Arno returned to his book, which helped keep his jitters in check.

  Add five parts to Saturn’s lump. Mash two parts together and put them on Neptune’s sheet. Mash two more parts together and put them on the sheet for Uranus. Take the remaining piece and divide it into ten equal parts.

  Arno carefully followed the instructions. Four of the nine planets in the solar system were starting to take shape on their respective pieces of paper.

  “Okay, Arno. I’m heading out now.”

  Arno looked up. His dad was standing at the door in his blue-and-white delivery uniform. Comet scrambled to his paws, then dashed across the floor to greet him, his tail wagging furiously.

  “I’ve already fed Comet his breakfast,” his dad said, bending to give the dog a pat. “So don’t let him fool you.”

  “Uh-huh,” Arno said, turning back to his project.

  “Remember to make your bed. And promise me you’ll get outside,” his dad added. “Today is going to be too beautiful to waste.”

  “I won’t waste it. I’m building an accurate model of the solar system.” Arno held up a wet lump of clay.

  “Right,” his dad said, checking his watch. He went over to ruffle the top of Arno’s head. “I’ll be home for lunch.”

  Arno was half listening, what with the demands of building planets and monitoring the radio at the same time. He only vaguely heard the sound of his dad’s van pulling out of the driveway. It had big logos on both sides.

  Stinky’s.

  Arno’s dad ran a diaper-cleaning service. People left bins of soiled cloth diapers and empty baskets on their front steps for pickup. His small fleet of vans cruised the suburbs, replacing them with empty bins and baskets full of soft, freshly laundered diapers.

  Arno used to like riding shotgun, but today he sighed in relief as the van drove off without him. He remembered the last time he helped with deliveries.

  Arno had been rearranging the towering stacks of baskets in the back of the van while his dad rang the doorbell of a new customer. A sudden wind pushed the van’s back door shut with a surprising bang, trapping Arno inside the airless, windowless space.

  Arno froze. Everything was black. At first he only heard the sound of his breath. Then his heart started to pound in his ears. He clutched at his chest, which began to feel tight, as if something was pressing down on him. He couldn’t c
atch his breath. He imagined the baskets toppling on top of him if he so much as budged.

  And what if they did? He’d be crushed! That thought was so frightening, he couldn’t even call out for help. Instead he frantically banged on the walls of the van until his startled dad rushed to his rescue.

  That wasn’t the only time Arno had panicked. His first attack happened back in the spring when one of his older twin brothers, home from college, wrestled Arno to the ground after he discovered that Arno had drunk the last of the milk, leaving his brother nothing for his cereal.

  “Serves you right for sleeping in,” Arno taunted.

  His brother tried to give Arno a wedgie, but Arno squirmed so furiously that he resorted to pinning Arno down with a heavy wool blanket over his head. It was a new move.

  Arno would have preferred the wedgie. The thick blanket pressed against his face as if already soaked in his sweat, entombing his every breath and trapping his one and only thought. He was surely going to die if he didn’t escape quickly.

  His brother sat on Arno in victory and whooped.

  “Get off!” Arno tried to yell, but the words stuck in his throat.

  “Say uncle!”

  But Arno couldn’t. Instead, he burst into hysterics. It even frightened his brother, who rolled off and apologized.

  Arno hoped his fright was a one-time thing, but after his second panic attack in the van, he looked up his symptoms at the library.

  Claustrophobia.

  A fear of tight spaces.

  So? Everyone was afraid of something, Arno figured. His mom was scared of birds in the house, so she badgered him about keeping the screen door shut. His dad was scared of horror movies, so he would only take them to drive-ins that showed musicals or comedies.

  Both of them coped by avoiding the things that frightened them. It seemed to work.

  And that’s what Arno would do, too.

  Just avoid tight spaces.

  No big deal.

  * * *

  Arno listened a beat, his hands wet with clay, as his dad put the van into first gear and drove away.

  Freedom! Arno smiled.

  Arno’s mom was away, helping his Aunt Faye with her new baby in Ferndale. It meant that Arno had the whole house to himself, at least until lunch. He had no intention of going outside in the scorching heat. Not until his solar system was done, at any rate. And making his bed was at the rock bottom of his list.

  Arno returned to his book.

  Take nine parts and add them to Saturn’s lump. Divide the remaining piece into two equal parts.

  Arno did so, all the while listening for the radio announcer to come back on. Comet, who had followed Arno’s dad to the door, returned to Arno’s room and eyeballed Saturn.

  “Don’t even think about it,” Arno warned without glancing up from his book.

  Comet reluctantly sat, as if he was on the lookout for the right moment.

  Comet was sly.

  And patient.

  Put one piece on Earth’s sheet. Divide the remaining piece into ten.

  Arno paused to admire the completed globes. Earth was so tiny compared to Jupiter! He hugged the book to his chest in a moment of pure happiness. Each chapter promised a hands-on activity guaranteed to help unlock the universe. And he had the rest of the summer!

  Arno set the book back down and continued to read.

  Mash nine pieces together and place on Venus’s sheet. Divide the remaining piece into ten equal parts.

  The endless music continued to play, as if the radio announcer had gone on a long coffee break.

  Mash nine parts together to make Mars.

  Arno admired his work some more. Meanwhile, the music ended and the announcer returned to the mike.

  This was it! Arno stood, ready for the question.

  “Our sun is like the vast majority of stars, a gigantic ball of hydrogen and helium elements all held together by gravity and creating light and heat in a process called nuclear fusion. But, dear listener, how old, exactly, is our sun?”

  “It’s 4.5 billion years old!” Arno shouted.

  Jean Slayter-Appleton had written about it in one of her columns. She had also written that the Sun accounted for ninety-nine percent of all the matter in the solar system, and that the rest of the planets, moons, asteroids and comets added together made up the remaining one percent. That was why they revolved around the Sun. It had the most mass and therefore the strongest gravitational pull.

  But that was beside the point.

  Arno dashed into the kitchen and was about the grab the telephone mounted on the wall to call in his answer when he realized that his hands were covered in wet clay. He ran to the sink to wash them. By the time he called the radio station’s number, all he got was the busy signal.

  Too late.

  “Blast it!” Arno shouted in the empty kitchen.

  He returned to his room, his incomplete solar system somehow looking less exciting now. The radio announcer was congratulating the winner. He went on to say that the Sun was 109 times wider than Earth and that it was middle-aged.

  “I knew that, too,” Arno muttered. “The Sun’s going to burn out in five billion years, give or take.” Arno turned to Comet, who always listened with fascination to anything Arno said about the universe. “And when it does, it’s going to swell until it engulfs the orbits of Mercury, Venus and Earth to eventually become a white dwarf star.”

  Comet applauded with several tail wags.

  The radio returned to playing music.

  “Blast it,” Arno said again, shoulders slumping.

  Comet trotted over to lick his hand.

  “It’s okay, Comet,” Arno said, scratching behind the dog’s ears. “It’s not over yet. There’ll be two more chances. We just need to be vigilant.”

  Comet shook his ears. Vigilant was his middle name.

  Arno picked up the remaining piece of clay, which was very small indeed. He read from his book.

  Divide the last piece into ten equal parts. Mash nine of those pieces to make Mercury. Place the only piece left on Pluto’s sheet.

  “Wow,” Arno said. “Look at you, teeny tiny Pluto. You’re barely a planet at all!”

  But wait. Where was Saturn?

  Arno wheeled around to survey his room.

  “Comet!” he shouted, just as his dog, Saturn in his mouth, dashed under Arno’s bed. “Give it back, Comet!”

  He knelt down to peer at Comet. Comet scooted farther back into the darkness. He gently held Saturn by the tips of his pointy little teeth.

  “I mean it, Comet. Bad dog! Give it back!”

  Arno thrust his arm under the bed like he meant business, but his sweeping hand came nowhere near Comet.

  “Don’t make me come after you!”

  Comet thumped his tail in glee but otherwise didn’t budge.

  The solar system was nothing without Saturn. Arno peered under the bed to survey the situation.

  It was dark under there. It was a small space. He might get stuck with no one home to rescue him.

  And then what?

  His heart started to race, just like it had at the thought of tumbling baskets back in the van. He remembered the feeling of the heavy wool blanket over his head. His neck became clammy and his mouth went dry.

  Parched, even.

  The doorbell rang.

  Comet dropped Saturn like yesterday’s newspaper, then scooted out from under the bed to race to the front door.

  Arno studied Saturn’s location. It was still way out of his reach, and the bed was too heavy to move.

  He stood.

  “I’ll get it later,” Arno muttered.

  He went to answer the door.

  TWO

  Buddy Clark stood at the door with beads of sweat on his forehead and a peeling nose fro
m a nasty sunburn. He was wearing shorts and his ridiculous cowboy boots. They made his knobby legs look even skinnier.

  “Hey, Arno.”

  “Hey, Buddy.”

  “Hey, Comet.”

  Comet jumped up on Buddy, who held out his hands for Comet to lick, which Comet vigorously did.

  Buddy took Comet’s enthusiasm as an invitation to come in. He rough-housed with Comet for a bit, then galumphed down the hall, not bothering to take off his dopey boots.

  Comet scampered after him, his claws making clippity-clip sounds on the polished linoleum floor.

  “It’s going to be another scorcher,” Buddy said over his shoulder as he beelined it to Arno’s kitchen. “Is your mom still away?” He yanked the fridge door open and peered inside.

  The fridge was chock-a-block full of tinfoil-covered meals that Arno’s mom had prepared before she left.

  “Yeah,” Arno said, trailing him into the kitchen after retrieving the transistor radio from his room. He set the radio on the kitchen counter. “Careful you don’t scuff the floors.”

  Buddy still needed reminders like that. It drove Arno nuts. If Buddy wasn’t the only other boy on the block who was Arno’s age, Arno probably wouldn’t have to spend so much time with him.

  But summers were long and friends were in short supply, so there they were.

  “Got any Tang?” Buddy asked.

  Buddy brought up Tang whenever he could. His dad worked for an advertising agency that got celebrities to say they used various products to boost sales. NASA planned to send up different foods with astronauts to see how eating was affected in low gravity. His dad was trying to convince NASA that astronauts should include Tang in those experiments.

  “No Tang,” Arno said, but he was thirsty, too. “I’ll make lemonade.”

  “Lemonade?” Buddy scoffed. “Get with the times, Arno. It’s the Space Age. Once NASA signs up with Tang, it’s going to be everyone’s favorite instant breakfast drink. It has real orange flavor.”

  Unlike Arno, Buddy wanted to be an astronaut when he grw up. When he found out that NASA’s new Manned Spacecraft Center — the home of Mission Control Center for the US human spaceflight program — was located in Texas, he begged for a pair of cowboy boots for his eleventh birthday. They lived nowhere near Texas, but he had been parading around in his stupid boots ever since.