“It pretties this ugly old tree up. Thing’s been around since before I was born,” says Uncle Mike. “It needs a little something to give it some life.”
The Bianchini Christmas tree is a sight to behold. Nonna and Nonno Bianchini bought it in a grocery store parking lot the year after they got married. They never believed in using a real tree because of the mess it left behind. Instead, they purchased a seven-foot frosted pink monster that rotates with the help of an incessantly buzzing motor that’s seen better days. The tree has survived more than forty Christmases and has been knocked down on Christmas morning at least three times. My cousin Tina says she remembers it catching fire one year, but I haven’t seen enough evidence to believe her.
We always do our best to gussy it up with ornaments, electric candles, strands of popcorn, and at least five pounds of tinsel—nothing really helps. But as hideous as it is, Christmas wouldn’t feel right without it.
Uncle Mike rips the loud, sticky piece of packing tape from the box. Bits of frosted pink tree poke out, the cotton-candy hue in stark contrast to the dull brown of the cardboard.
I help Uncle Mike set up the stand and bottom half of the tree, bending and fluffing up the branches while he works on freeing the rest of it. The thing about fake trees is that they’re built to be malleable, like a bunch of pipe cleaners all stuck together. A real tree branch would snap if you fussed over it, but fake ones are made to withstand the poking and prodding of Christmas decorating.
Uncle Mike screws in the middle part of the tree and then attaches the top. He plugs in the stand and presses the button to make it rotate. The motor kicks up with a rusty groan, whirring at a slow and choking pace.
We take a step back to stand by Dad for inspection. The tree reaches just about the same height as the bookshelf, but stands at a crooked angle, leaning a little more to the left like a broken spinning top. Its pinkness is loud against the eggshell living room walls and brown hardwood floors. Even our blue couches feel too quiet next to it.
“What do you think, Frank?” he asks, trying to keep the smile from his face.
“We’re going to need more ornaments this year.” Dad laughs.
I squint at the tree, taking in all its imperfections. Its broken branches, crooked angles, and rusty motor. The tree reminds me of visiting the moon with Alessandro and Chiara. Of seeing all its valleys and craters up close. It may not be the prettiest tree in Staten Island, but there’s something about the Bianchini Christmas tree that’s magnificent.
“I think it looks nice.” I take a step forward and brush my fingertips against one of the pink tree branches. “Not everything has to be perfect.”
“It’s just right for us.” Dad smiles. The scars on his face are a lot less noticeable than mine. The accident affected us differently. We carry our physical scars in different ways—his more prominent on his legs and arms, mine in my face and left hand. We carry the emotions the same. Slumped shoulders and wary eyes. But every now and then a real smile slips through.
Dad, me, and the Christmas tree—a trio of imperfect Bianchinis.
Uncle Mike claps his hands. “Let’s get decorating.”
I poke my head around the wall to look out the window. The sun bleeds yellows, reds, and pinks across the gray winter sky. Soon the stars and moon will be out. And a few hours after them, so will Alessandro and Chiara.
I lean forward to get a better look out the window. I’ll be out with them.
“Bring that box over here, Luns?” Uncle Mike asks while unknotting a set of green and red Christmas lights. He hands Dad another tangled-up bunch of lights to straighten out.
I take one more glance outside before picking up the box of tinsel Uncle Mike brought with him. I rip the worn piece of tape off the top and push my hands underneath the shimmery waves, pulling out two large handfuls, letting them drip from my fingertips. The strands catch in the lamplight, sparkling almost as bright as stardust.
It reminds me of the baby stars. Are they coming up with us tonight?
I stare at the clock on the cable box. Only four o’clock. It’s going to be more than a few hours before we can go up to the sky. Days are supposed to feel shorter in the winter. But when all I want is for it to be nighttime, they feel three times as long.
“First batch of sugar cookies is ready!” Mom places a plate overflowing with sugar cookies shaped like colorful ornaments, spiky trees, and fat Santas on the coffee table.
I breathe in the sugary, buttery smells of Christmas.
Mom hands me one of the ornament cookies. The frosting is a pearly blue and decorated with intricately drawn silver and dark-blue stars. Her cookies are the best-looking ones in our neighborhood. Every Christmas Eve, before Mass, we bring over boxes of cookies and homemade hot chocolate mix to the houses on our street. I wonder if Mom will keep that tradition this year.
“It’s beautiful,” I say. The star cookies glitter with the faintest bit of pearl dust, twinkling almost like the real ones. Alessandro and Chiara would love these.
“Well, you know how much I get into my baking.” She bites into one of the trees and wipes some crumbs from the corner of her mouth. “And you’ve been drawing so many celestial pictures lately. You inspired me.”
I bite into one and close my eyes. Sweetness spreads through my body and reaches the ends of my fingers and toes. Every part of me feels warm, cheerful, as if Mom mixed Christmas into the dough. They’re not as fantastical as a flying ship or as bright as the moon. But maybe her cookies are that small, everyday magic. The kind Uncle Mike talked about in the deli. Maybe he’s right. Maybe that magic is just as important.
“I’ve got a batch of Florentines in the oven,” Mom says. “Want to help me frost the rest of the sugar cookies while those bake?”
“I’m not the best at decorating cookies.” I shrug.
“You don’t have to be the best at it.”
“You could set up the nativity scene while your Dad and I figure out these damn lights,” Uncle Mike says.
Everyone looks at me, trying to gauge my mood. To get me into the Christmas spirit. But even Christmas can’t keep me from longing for nighttime.
“Or you could work on your history project,” Mom adds.
I glance out the window again. The sky is almost completely dark. My left hand tingles with that need to get my thoughts on paper.
“Maybe later.” I grab my sketch pad off the coffee table. “Is it okay if I draw for now?”
“Do it in the living room though, so you can spend time with everyone.” Mom brushes the hair from my face and kisses me on the forehead. “We like having you around.”
Mom makes her way back into the kitchen while Dad and Uncle Mike continue to untangle all the Christmas lights.
I snuggle deeper into the couch and rest the sketch pad on my knees. Mom and Dad have been strict about keeping me out of my room and spending time with them. Dr. Miles recommended that I spend a few more hours a day with my parents rather than running off to my room after doctors’ appointments and our morning walks. “Family bonding is important,” Mom said. But it seems like they’re scared to let me be alone. Worried I’m growing sadder. That I’m becoming more like the lonely Phantom with each passing day.
My stomach tightens as I think of Tailee not bringing my homework this afternoon. But I’m not a shut-in. Not really. You can’t be alone when surrounded by the stars. And I have Alessandro and Chiara. Two of the only people who don’t make me feel like I’m broken.
The charcoal feels like a natural extension of my hand, a sixth finger. Small stars appear on the white piece of paper. Little dots lined up in rows. Rows that build constellations. Constellations that light up the night sky.
How far away was the Lynx constellation from the moon? How bright did Ellie glow when she talked about wanting a puppy? It’s only been two nights but already I’m forgetting.
The shading isn’t right. None of it is. Drawing the heavens from memory is difficult when they slip t
hrough the cracks and fall away before I can capture them on the page.
I tear the drawing out of my sketch pad and roll it up. Uncle Mike winds a strand of lights around the tree while Dad sorts through the box of ornaments. Christmas music accompanies the scene. One of them must have turned it on when I wasn’t paying attention. The sugary chocolate smell of Mom’s Florentines fills the room.
Uncle Mike’s black boots sit next to the front door and are caked with white sidewalk salt. I tuck the drawing into one of them. It’s still a good drawing, even if it isn’t completely accurate. Maybe it’ll make him think about the spazzatrici.
Darkness sweeps across the sky and leaves no trace of the sun. Snow gently falls in soft little clumps. Not at all like Friday’s bad storm.
I press my head against the window, trying to see through the fat snow clouds and to form constellations out of the tiny, pinprick stars. But the clouds are too thick and the stars too far away to form any sort of patterns. Tonight it’ll be different. Once we push through the clouds, the night will be clear and the stars will be bigger. I’ll take my sketch pad and draw exactly what I see. And I won’t be stuck drawing magic from memory.
• • •
Dad’s cornicello sits under the lamp on a worn felt coaster. Capturing its curves and angles from sight is much easier than trying to pin down flying through the night sky. I squint at the drawing to capture the glint of lamplight bouncing off the tip of the cornicello just right.
Drawing with a model is always easier than drawing from a memory. Memories become feelings. Faint, intangible moments that change over time and are altered by emotions. But is that how it will always be when trying to capture something magical in a drawing? Maybe the night sky won’t ever look the way it really is. It’s always going to be influenced by feeling. It’s fluid and undefinable. Trying to explain magic is like trying to nail your shadow to the wall.
Pain throbs in my left temple. I put down my charcoal to rub my head. At least a dozen drawings litter the coffee table and couch. Magic might not have a definition, but that’s not going to stop me from trying to bottle it up in my drawings like stardust.
I hop off the couch and rotate my left wrist to get rid of some of the stiffness. Dad and Uncle Mike have buried the pink tree under gobs of silver tinsel. Old family ornaments and strands of red and green lights twinkle on the tree from underneath it . The tree struggles to stand under all the Christmas decorations, threatening to topple over. But the Bianchini Christmas tree is stronger than that. If it’s lasted decades of holiday cheer with my family, it’ll withstand a few pounds of tinsel and ornaments.
“What do you think?” Uncle Mike asks, eyebrows raised.
“It’s a lot,” I say. “Santa won’t have trouble finding it.”
“It looks like the Christmas spirit threw up,” Dad says.
Both him and Uncle Mike laugh.
Jokes are good. He’s happy.
The smells of pesto and chicken overpower those of cookies, and my stomach grumbles. I wander into the kitchen to see Mom chopping up zucchini and adding it to a pan of sizzling oil and garlic.
“Dinner will be ready in a few minutes,” she says. “Why don’t you wash the charcoal off your hands and set the table? Remember, Uncle Mike is staying for dinner.”
“I just have to put my sketch pad upstairs.”
I run up the stairs and toss my sketch pad onto the desk. The window is covered in fog and ice. My heart sinks. Written on the glass in small, loopy handwriting is a note.
No spazzatrici trips tonight. Papa’s still repairing the Stella Cadente.—Chiara
I open the window, and a cool breeze ruffles the curtains, wrapping itself around me. Alessandro’s window is dark. There are no fireflies floating by the window. The Sapientis’ house looks quiet and cozy, a hibernating rabbit in the middle of winter. I sigh, scrubbing Chiara’s note off the glass with my sleeve and closing my window once more.
“Luns?” Uncle Mike knocks softly on my door.
“Come in.”
He opens the door and sits beside me on the window bench, a leather-bound sketch pad in his lap. “What’s wrong?”
I shrug. “Just tired.”
“After our talk in the deli, I went looking through some old boxes.” Uncle Mike opens his sketch pad and leafs through the pages. “Look.” He taps his finger against the page.
Drawn in pencil on the yellowing page of his sketch pad is a zeppelin like the Sapientis’. “It looks just the same.”
Uncle Mike smiles. “I’d draw and draw when my pa would tell us stories of Stelle. I knew your sketch was familiar.”
The big bullet-shaped balloon, the rows of ribbon flowing from the carriage, and the gold-rimmed portholes on its sides. I grab the sketch pad from my uncle and turn through pages and pages of the zeppelin, each one slightly different. “These are incredible.”
Uncle Mike closes his sketch pad and leans back on the window bench. “I grew up different from your dad and the others. I always had my head in the clouds. Thinking no one understood me or my passion for art. I thought my pa hated my drawings. But when he gave me that plane ticket to Italy before I started college, he told me it was because of how proud my art made him. That was magic to me.” He ruffles my hair. “People can surprise you. They might see better than you think.”
Snow beats against the window. I touch my mask, the hard plastic warm against my fingers. It would be nice if people saw beyond my ugly mask and scars. Uncle Mike is wrong. It’s not a matter of seeing better; it’s a matter of seeing the truth. And to most people the truth is that I’m different. I take a deep breath, feeling the sadness well up inside my throat. If we could catch a shooting star, or if Alessandro and Chiara could somehow use their magic to fix my face, then maybe things could be normal again.
I could be normal again.
“Luna? Mike?” Mom calls up the stairs, her voice just loud enough to hear over the Christmas music. “Dinner’s almost ready. Time to set the table.”
Uncle Mike gets up from the window bench, and I follow. We walk downstairs in silence, my thoughts swirling with magic.
Angela Bellantuono
310 Rose Lane
Staten Island, NY 10301
Hi Luna,
Thank you for sending me this drawing. I was surprised to find it in my mailbox. It was nice receiving something other than bills and junk mail for a change. People don’t take the time to write letters anymore. Yours made my day just a bit brighter.
I have your drawing sitting next to the mirror on my dresser so I see it every morning while getting ready for work. Your depiction of the moon is beautiful. It’s rare that we get to see every little bit of it. Your drawing got me thinking about the man in the moon. How lonely it must be up there, staring down on earth without anyone around to talk to. That’s what I thought at first at least. It took me a day to even see the small shadow on the left corner of the moon.
Maybe I was too preoccupied with getting ready in the mornings, or maybe it really did take time for your drawing to sink in. But seeing the flying ship’s shadow bouncing off the side of the moon was a surprise.
I stared at it for a long time. The moon wasn’t so lonely after all.
With love,
Angela
Protector
Chapter 16
Mom hands me two aspirin with a tall glass of water and sits down at the kitchen table opposite me. “I wish your head felt better,” she says.
At our last doctor’s visit, Dr. Tucker gave me a tighter compression mask to wear since my face wasn’t healing properly. Ever since, I’ve been in a constant state of pain. The old mask was uncomfortable, sweaty, and a little snug. This one feels like a snake has wrapped itself around my head and won’t stop squeezing. Sleeping with it on isn’t an option. After my mom heard me pacing and groaning at four thirty in the morning, she came in and said I could sleep with the old, looser mask.
But now the new mask is back on, suffocating me.<
br />
“I wish it did too.” I pop the aspirin into my mouth and take a long drink of water.
“That should help.” Mom smiles. “You should come Christmas shopping with me. Getting out and walking around might help make you feel better too.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Oh, c’mon. It’ll be fun. We don’t spend enough mom and daughter time together.”
“I see you all day, every day.” I finish the water in my glass and bring it to the kitchen sink.
Mom sighs. “You know what I mean.”
I walk into the living room and plop down on the couch near Dad’s recliner. Mom follows after me. Her arms are crossed over her chest, the Bianchini Christmas tree a ridiculous backdrop. “It would be fun,” Mom repeats, this time in a singsong voice. The tree spins behind her. Its motor rasps like a man who spent days in the desert without water.
“Fun?” I picture the crowds of people staring at me. Some with a pitying shake of their heads, others laughing behind their hands. “Nope.”
“What’s the problem?” Dad asks, turning away from the weather forecast.
“Mom wants me to go Christmas shopping with her.”
He looks between Mom and me and shrugs. “You should go.”
My eyes widen. I catch a glimpse of Mom’s equally surprised face before looking back at Dad. “Really?” I say. “But you never want to go anywhere except for the deli.”
“I’m not the one going.” He smiles. “It’ll do you some good. And I could use some peace and quiet.”
“I know things have been tough for you and Tailee, but maybe you could find a present and bring it over to her?” Mom says. She rests a hand on the back of Dad’s recliner.
My stomach aches. It would be nice to be friends with Tailee again, but even the idea of trying to talk to her makes me nervous. Maybe if I get Tailee something really good for Christmas, she’ll want to be friends again. I lean forward on the couch. Christmas Eve is only three weeks away, so time is running out for the perfect gift. I should find presents for Alessandro and Chiara, too. We haven’t gone up to the sky all week because repairs are taking longer than expected. But I’ve helped them with the baby stars a couple of times. What kinds of gifts can you get spazzatrici at the mall?
The Trouble with Shooting Stars Page 13
