I pull out an envelope and take out the drawing. It’s the one I drew early this morning with the charcoals Nonna Bianchini gave me. It’s a picture of a boy in Grand Central Station. Commuters rush past him, hurrying to their trains, while he stands at the center of it all in a bright blue coat. Cradled in the boy’s arms is a bright star. None of the commuters see him or the star; they’re alone in the middle of a sea of people. I want to know if the Andersons see him. If they see any other magic that I might not.
I fold the drawing back up, put it back in its envelope, and place it in the mailbox.
I hurry on to the next house and place a different drawing inside. A breeze carries the scent of burning fireplaces with it. Fall and winter are my favorite seasons. They’re crisp, like they’ve got bite to them. Spring and summer are nice too, but nothing beats eating fresh apple-cider doughnuts and drinking a mug of hot chocolate while curled up on the couch. Or going upstate to pick apples and finding the tallest hills for sledding. But the best part is the trees and the way they transform. They change the entire landscape. It’s those great pops of reds and oranges amid the gray skies that are my absolute favorite part of it all. When they become skeletons in the winter, all spindly limbs, the landscape changes again. Mom and I go to the park in the fall to collect the prettiest leaves and press them between wax paper in books so they dry evenly.
It’s already transforming into winter. The trees are starting to look bare. We haven’t gone to the park yet and it’s already getting too late. A knot forms in my stomach. What if all the best leaves are gone by now?
I place another drawing in a green scaly mailbox shaped like a trout. If I get even one interpretation back, this walk will be worth it.
I pause outside the Sapientis’ house. Their house is bright white and sectioned off by intricate dark woodwork. Its roof is high, like a mountain. The big truck is still in their driveway, its side still a blank white instead of emblazoned with the name and fireflies I saw two nights ago. Could they have been the same as those fireflies in the woods yesterday?
Everything looks different, and it’s strange what a little sunlight can do to make it all seem so normal. As if I didn’t see that little girl make the furniture grow ten times its size. Or watch her and her brother throw stars into the air and catch them in laundry baskets.
My eyes fall on their mailbox and my hand instinctively touches the last envelope.
I sigh and shake my head, shoving the drawing deeper into my sketch pad. The envelopes have my name and address on them. They’ll know who I am. My heart leaps into my throat and I continue walking home.
Electricity tingles in my stomach and shoots down through my legs, compelling me to turn around. I run to the Sapientis’ mailbox. The envelope is like a brick in my hand. I take a deep breath and open their mailbox. It’s the best drawing I’ve done in a long time and the one that gave me the idea for my project. It’s of them in the forest with the stars.
I shove it in between the catalogs and letters, then race back to my house.
My parents left the garage door open for me. I pause at the door and hear muffled voices reverberating through it. Dad’s is low and forceful. Mom’s is higher but just as aggressive. My hands shake as I press the button for the garage door, and the motor creaks as it lowers to the ground with a gentle thud.
“Mom? Dad?” I shout while walking through the laundry room and into the kitchen. “Can we go to the park—”
Their eyes shoot toward me, as if they had forgotten I was only a few minutes behind them. They quickly look away. Dad stares down at his lap, Mom up at the ceiling. Their silence is so thick it fills the room like smoke, blackening our lungs and choking the words from our throats. Anger swells up inside me, traveling from my chest, up my neck, and onto my face.
I frown, heat flushing my cheeks. Neither of them can look at me.
“I’m going up to my room.” I’m gone before they can say anything.
Luna Bianchini
236 Marigold Court
Staten Island, NY 10301
I Know What I Saw
You didn’t see anything.
—A. S.
Chapter 6
Will you please fill those pie crusts with the apple and cherry fillings?” Mom gestures to the bowls of pie filling we prepared last night. She opens the oven and squirts another basterful of drippings over the turkey. “I’ll make a plate of pigs in a blanket and prosciutto for you and Dad in a second.”
“Do I have to?” I say.
She flashes me a look, and I get up from the kitchen table, shoving Alessandro’s note back into my sketch pad. Dad and I didn’t want to have Thanksgiving this year. Especially Dad.
Mom rushes around the kitchen, trailed by the smells of fresh rosemary and melted butter. It’s Mom’s first time hosting a family dinner in a long time. Her chance to trick everyone into believing things are normal around here.
It’s been a while since I’ve seen the entire family.
I steal a glance at my sketch pad, longing to analyze Alessandro’s note some more. His letters were sloppy, like he wrote it in a hurry. But his handwriting could just always be that bad. The A he used to sign the note is sharp and pointed.
I spoon the goopy cherry and apple fillings into their individual pie crusts and top them with the layers of crust Mom pre-rolled for me.
Maybe he was angry when he wrote it.
Or maybe he’s scared I know too much.
The phone rings.
“Will you get that?” Mom asks, hands greasy from prosciutto.
RUIZ blinks on the caller ID. My stomach flips. It’s Tailee. The phone rings again.
“Who is it?”
“I don’t know.”
My ears burn, the ringing like an alarm sounding out through our kitchen. Finally, the answering machine picks it up.
“Luna? I know you’re there. Please pick up.” Tailee’s voice is tinny coming through the speaker, but she sounds annoyed. I wince. It reminds me of that time Damian pushed me down on the playground in the second grade and she called him a jerk before helping me up. But that time her annoyance wasn’t directed at me.
Mom looks at me, eyes narrowed.
“Look, I just wanted to talk to you and wish you a happy Thanksgiving. You never want to talk to me anymore,” Tailee continues. “You’re never there when I drop off your homework.” She sighs. “I miss you.”
Tailee hangs up and the answering machine beeps. One missed call flashes in red. The knot in my stomach tightens.
“You need to see your friend, Luna,” Mom says. “All this time alone. It’s not good.”
“Where should I put these?” I pick up the pies.
“Your therapy appointment is tomorrow.”
“Umm-hmm,” I mumble.
“Did you hear me?”
“Yes,” I reply, putting the pies in the fridge and slamming the door shut.
“Take these into the living room.” Mom presses two plates with prosciutto and mozzarella pinwheels, pigs in a blanket, and crusty slices of bread into my hands. “Give one to your father, please.”
I nod.
“Tonight will be good for you.” She kisses me on the forehead. “For all of us. Baby steps, right?” Mom turns her attention to peeling a fifteen-pound bag of potatoes.
“We never eat that many potatoes,” I say. “We always have leftovers.”
“There are more mouths to feed. Cousin Tina’s bringing her boyfriend this year, and your aunt Giovanna is pregnant,” she says. “Not to mention all the usual cousins who’ll be here too.” Mom attacks the potatoes with a frenzy. Potato skins get everywhere and stick to the tile floor like discarded Band-Aids. Gross.
The grandparents and uncles and aunts should be easier to deal with than my cousins. My grandparents generally ruffle my hair, shake their heads sadly, or look at me like they’re about to cry. But they don’t say much else. I know my younger cousins will be curious. Staring too long, asking questions no
one really knows how to answer, or maybe even grabbing at my mask with their tiny hands. A shudder crawls down my spine. I swallow the fears and walk the plates of food out to Dad before I completely lose my appetite.
He sits in his favorite recliner, the same spot he spends most days now. He’s watching the football game. He used to watch football standing, pacing in front of the TV and swearing under his breath whenever his team messed up. Now, unable to, most of his anxiety over the game is directed at the recliner’s armrests—much to Mom’s annoyance.
“Mom put these together for us.” I place one of the plates on the end table next to him.
“Thank you, baby.” Dad picks at one of the pinwheels, pulling the prosciutto off and eating the mozzarella.
I sit on the couch and start leafing through my latest drawings of the Sapientis’ house. No activity. Again. At 4:37 this morning, I thought I saw another firefly glowing in the window across from mine. But when I went to grab my sketch pad off my desk, the light was gone.
Just what are the Sapientis up to on Thanksgiving? Do they even celebrate it?
Maybe Mom wouldn’t notice if I snuck off with one of the pies and brought it over to them. That way I’d be invited in and I could get a better look around.
“Aw, fumble!” Dad yells, leaning forward in his recliner.
I look up at the TV. “What does a linebacker do exactly?”
I put my sketch pad aside and dunk one of the pigs in a blanket into ketchup.
“They’re defensive players,” Dad explains. “They try to tackle whoever has the ball.”
The doorbell rings, and I jump.
Dad raises his eyebrows. “The circus is here.”
Everyone in the family has already seen me. But most, like Rocco and Gloria, haven’t seen me since the hospital. When I was hooked up to machines and my face was freshly scarred, pink and red, the skin shiny like an icy pond. I’ve got the mask covering up most of my skin now. I can’t look worse than I did then. Though I wouldn’t really know with all the mirrors gone. It’s hard getting a good look at yourself in the back of a spoon.
The doorbell rings again. I take a deep breath and place my food on the coffee table. Now is a good time to start practicing being brave.
“I’ll get it,” I holler into the kitchen.
I open the door and am greeted by both sets of grandparents. Nonna Bianchini reaches me first. She wraps me in her doughy arms and presses her bright red lips against my left cheek while squeezing me tight. She’s a short, round woman with pinkish-white skin, like Dad’s, and curly dark-brown hair. But despite being so small, she could knock the wind out of a hippo with her hugs.
“My angel,” she says, her accent slightly heavier than my other grandparents’. She was born in Tuscany and moved here with her parents when she was around my age—old enough so some of that Italian lilt still hugs her English. “It’s been ages since I last saw you.”
“I saw you two weeks ago.” My voice comes out in a gasp against her chest. “It really hasn’t been that long.”
“Too long when you live right down the street.” She lets go a little, holding me at arm’s length. Her brown eyes search my face and rest a moment too long on my mask. She clucks her tongue and cups my chin in her hand. “This is no good. I hate that this contraption hides your beautiful face.”
“You know it’s to help with the healing.” Granny Ranieri pushes through the door. She’s taller than Nonna Bianchini and stands as straight as a needle. Her gray hair is cut short; curls frame her angular face. Being from Sicily, her skin is darker, like Mom and me. She adjusts the gold-rimmed glasses that sit precariously on her sloped nose. “You’re looking better, Luna.” Granny Ranieri nudges between Nonna Bianchini and me and kisses me on the cheek.
“Thank you.” I adjust my mask carefully, making sure none of the burns or scars are showing.
Nonno Bianchini and Papa Ranieri push past their wives, each greeting me with a kiss on the forehead, and then off to the living room to sit on the couch until dinnertime. They care, but unlike my grandmothers, they don’t like to hover.
“You need to eat, you know,” Nonna Bianchini says. “To build up your strength. Has your mother been feeding you?”
She pinches the skin under my arm, and I squeak. “Yes, obviously.”
Nonna Bianchini shakes her head. “Not enough.”
We move from the entryway into the kitchen, where both grandmothers greet Mom with big hugs and kisses.
“You poor, poor woman.” Nonna Bianchini walks over to the oven and pokes around at the turkey. “So put out with my Frankie and Luna that you’ve barely had time to properly dress the turkey.”
Mom puts down the potato peeler and wipes the sweat from her brow with the back of her arm. “I’ve had plenty of time, Ma, but I could use both of your help.”
Granny Ranieri rubs Mom’s shoulder. “You’re doing a fine job. You’ve got a lot on your plate.”
“The turkey’s going to be great,” I say, looking between both of my grandmothers. I smile at Mom. Sometimes they don’t know how to talk to her. Or to anybody. “I’ll even have seconds.”
“Thank you, Luna.”
The doorbell rings again. But before anyone can answer it, the door swings open, and the sounds of Uncle Mike and the rest of the family trying to talk over one another flood into the hallway. Cousin Tina and her boyfriend; Aunts Victoria, Therese, Pearl, and Giovanna with her swollen belly; cousins Rocco, Joey, Gloria, Paulie, Rita, and Angelo; and Uncles Paul, Billy, Lou, Joe, and John all barge in and begin taking off their coats and shoes.
My heart flutters in my chest like a butterfly caught in a cage, banging against the wires trying to find a way out. The kitchen suddenly feels small. And warm, too. The skin under my mask itches. I look around, trying to find a way out and up the stairs to my bedroom, but my cousins are sitting on the stairs to take off their shoes.
“What’s the matter, Luna?” Granny Ranieri asks. “You look whiter than a fantasma.”
I shake my head. “I’m fine.”
“Bring the desserts and sides in here,” Nonna Bianchini shouts. “We need some help.”
Mom looks at me and gestures toward the entryway. “Go play with your cousins.”
I open my mouth to protest, but close it again. I swallow hard and look at my purple-and-blue socks. The only two my age are Rocco and Gloria. The last time they came over with my aunt, I hid in my bedroom and pretended like I was asleep. It’s one thing for them to see me in the hospital. That’s when the doctors were more optimistic about my progress. Like when Tailee came over that first month and things seemed okay. Now the mask has stayed on so long that everything is different and I can’t be the same cousin I used to be. That funny, chatty Luna is hidden somewhere inside, but she’s having a hard time coming out.
My lungs are heavy, filled with too much air. Sweat pours down my neck. It all feels too overwhelming. I close my eyes tight and wish myself away to anywhere but here.
“Luna? Are you okay? Do you need to rest?” Mom looks at me like she’s trying to stare into my brain. Sometimes it feels like she really can. I hate when she does this.
I shake my head and take a deep breath before walking into the entryway to greet them.
“Luna!” Rocco yells. He kicks off his sneakers and tosses his jacket on the floor. Even though he’s only six months older than me, Rocco stands nearly a foot taller. If he keeps up at this pace, he’ll be the tallest person in our entire family. He wraps me in a hug, nearly picking me up off my feet before putting me back down a little too gently. “I’ve missed you at school,” he says, taking a step back. “Everyone has.” Rocco directs his eyes over my shoulder, at the ceiling or the glittery cat on my sweatshirt—anywhere but my face.
“I missed you too, Luna.” Gloria kisses me on the unmasked cheek. She casts a worried glance at my face before running into the living room to greet our Papa Ranieri. Gloria is also already taller than me by a few inches. But everyone’s
always said how much we look alike. Twins. Sisters. But now, not anymore. My face feels hot.
The others stare at me momentarily, eyes locked on my mask. Some look nervous, others sad.
“Oh, sweetheart,” Aunt Giovanna says. She wraps me in a big hug and kisses my cheek. “I’m so, so sorry.”
Cousin Tina is next, her long brown hair combed and styled into one of the same poufy updos she used to do for me when she’d babysit. A sad smile, eyes filled with concern. She introduces her boyfriend, who looks at his shoes the entire time. She hugs me and rubs my back before following after Gloria into the living room. The rest of the family follows suit, either kissing my forehead or smiling politely before making their way into the living room or kitchen.
My stomach flips. The entire procession makes me feel like a circus attraction. I don’t want to make anyone sad. I don’t want anyone feeling bad for me. I wonder if the Phantom of the Opera felt this way too.
“How are you feeling, Luns?” Uncle Mike asks, squeezing my shoulder. He towers over me—Bianchini tall at five eleven.
I shrug. “Fine, I guess.”
Uncle Mike looks at me, really looks at me, his black bushy eyebrows knitting together. “Tonight will be okay. Pinkie promise.” He wraps his pinkie finger around mine. “I’ll even keep that ma of mine in line. I know how she can get.”
“Thanks.” I shake out my hair so it covers my burning cheeks. “I’m sorry.”
“Sorry?” he says. “Why are you sorry?”
“I don’t want everyone to feel bad.”
“Oh, honey. It’s not your fault.” He frowns. “I got to help prep dinner, but just come get me if you need me.” Before I can say anything else, Uncle Mike disappears into the sea of cousins crowding into the kitchen.
Rocco clears his throat. “Did it hurt?”
“The accident?” I ask.
He nods. His dark eyes are focused on the grandfather clock.
“Yeah.” I adjust my mask again. “It burned,” I say, unable to look at him. The scars on the right side of my face prickle at the healthy skin underneath. It’s a dull, constant pain that’s hardly noticeable until someone brings it up. My voice breaks, sounding not quite like my own—as if I’m outside my body and listening to some other Luna tell this story from far away. “It felt like suffocating. Like being torn apart, but then everything went black and I woke up in the hospital. I don’t remember much else.”
The Trouble with Shooting Stars Page 5
