The Trouble with Shooting Stars

by Meg Cannistra

  “Fine. I guess you’re right.” I slide off the couch and head upstairs to grab my purse.

  “See what happens when we parent together?” Mom says when she thinks I’m out of earshot.

  “The kid actually listens.” Dad laughs. “We’re a persuasive team.”

  I pause on the stairs, a smile tugging at my lips. They’re actually agreeing. Talking instead of yelling. Maybe there’s room to be hopeful. Maybe everything—my parents, my best friend, my family—isn’t such a lost cause.

  • • •

  Coming to the mall on the Saturday three weeks before Christmas wasn’t one of my Mom’s better thought out plans.  After circling the parking lot for twenty minutes, we finally squeezed into a spot between two poorly parked SUVs. Mom said it was lucky it only took us that long to find parking.

  She takes hold of my hand, grinning down at me as if she were one of the Three Wise Men who got to see the baby Jesus. “Are you having fun?”

  I look at the entrance to the mall. People spill out of the doors by the dozen. “Mom, we haven’t even gotten inside yet.”

  “Just checking. We can leave if you start to feel uncomfortable.”

  “It’ll be fine,” I say, trying to convince myself as much as I am her. My face is clammy underneath my plastic mask and grows warmer every time someone glances our way.

  “I only have a few stops to make this trip anyway.” Mom consults the shopping list on her phone. “We need perfume for your grandmother, a shaving kit for Rocco, and a picture book for Giovanna’s baby.”

  “The baby hasn’t even been born yet,” I say. “It can’t read.”

  “A baby can still enjoy a good book, just like everyone else.”

  We make our way through the entrance and are greeted by the cavernous halls of the Staten Island Mall. Giant gold ornaments tied off with red ribbons and sprigs of comically large holly hang from the ceilings. Store windows display large snowflakes and fireplace setups that showcase their holiday gadgets and clothes. Christmas music echoes throughout, just loud enough to be heard above the hundreds of excited shoppers. Last year, as a holiday treat, Mom took me Christmas shopping in the city—where every block was jam-packed with people. We stopped and posed in front of the tree, then got frozen hot chocolate at Serendipity. I haven’t been back there in a while. I haven’t been anywhere, and neither has Mom. She looks so content just to be bustling from one shop to the next, taking in the crowds and the decorations.

  So far being in the mall doesn’t seem as bad as I thought it would. No one’s stopping to gape. People are too busy finishing up their Christmas shopping and shoving their way through the crowds to pay attention to me. It’s a relief not being at the center of all the stares and whispers for a change. Mom looks my way every couple of minutes to make sure no one’s bumping into me or my mask too hard, but soon we settle into the mall’s chaotic pace.

  Mom and I follow the flow of shoppers past a couple of kiosks selling hair straighteners and remote control helicopters and a delicious-smelling pretzel stand, cinnamon and salt wafting within a twenty-foot radius. A humongous Christmas tree decked out with lights, strands of silver beads, and tiny crystals sits right in the center of everything. Beneath it is an old man in a Santa suit, taking pictures with kids and handing out candy canes.

  Mom squeezes my hand, and I squeeze back. “Are you having fun now?”

  I nod. Our trip to the mall almost seems normal. After Halloween, Christmas is my favorite holiday. It’s been hard feeling any holiday cheer. So far, only our living room is decorated. Dad usually puts up the lights outside, but he can’t this year. As cheesy as the mall’s decorations and music are, they feel right. Even the crowds of people pushing by and hurrying from store to store make it feel like Christmas.

  “Let’s buy caramel corn on the way out,” Mom says. “Dad will like that.”

  We reach the department store on the other side of the mall. Mom weaves us through the maze of people and makeup counters until we find the one that makes Granny Ranieri’s favorite perfume.

  “Your grandmother has smelled like lily of the valley ever since I can remember.” Mom smiles. “Sometimes vanilla when she was baking or gravy when she was making dinner, but I’d always smell her lily of the valley perfume when she’d tuck me in at night. She even sprays it on the clean sheets.”

  I close my eyes, conjuring Mom’s perfume. A bold smell—woody and strong. When I was little, I fixated on the squat dark-purple bottle of spicy-smelling water on her vanity. One day I knocked it over and the musky scent exploded in my parents’ bedroom—so pungent it made my eyes water. Too much of a good thing. The perfume left a stain on the wooden floor and permeated so deeply that you can catch a faint whiff of it if you breathe deep enough.

  She still wears that same kind. One dab behind each ear, a dab to the pulse point on her neck, and two for each wrist. A ritual as sacred as star sweeping.

  The woman behind the counter wraps Granny Ranieri’s perfume in a silver piece of tissue paper before placing it in a shimmery silver bag and tying it off with a dark-blue velvet ribbon. She hands the bag to Mom, and as we turn to leave a voice rings out from the shoe department on the left side of the store.

  “Sofia? Luna? What a surprise,” Mrs. Whitmore shouts, running over to us with shopping bags dangling from her arms. Mom squeezes my hand and I squeeze back. Behind Mrs. Whitmore are Emily Whitmore, Isabella Mantoni, and Aubrey O’Connor—three girls from my grade. They’re popular. Nice in that way that wool socks from your nonna are nice—prickly, but you’re forced to like them or else you’ll get in trouble. One time Isabella let me borrow a pencil in math class. She’s nicer than Emily or Aubrey. Aubrey made fun of me about my face being too greasy in front of the entire cafeteria, and Emily is always trying to one-up Tailee’s science grades. They’ve all made sure we’re on a list of the few girls never invited to their sleepovers or birthday parties. It’s safe to say we don’t talk much.

  My legs feel wobbly. I dig my nails into Mom’s hand.

  The group stops a few feet short of us like the mere sight of my disfigured face can cause complete immobility. “Oh, dear. Your face.” Mrs. Whitmore touches her own cheek as if to double-check that she’s not the one wearing a plastic compression mask. She’s a tall woman with smooth white skin. Her hair is the kind of natural, golden blond women like my mom pay good money to replicate in salons. And she’s got a tiny nose that slopes in that pretty way models’ noses slope. A tiny little button of a nose. No beak for her. There’s no need for her to fear that my scars and burns have leapt onto her normal, unblemished face. “You’re too pretty for a mask like that,” she says.

  Emily whispers in Aubrey’s ear, and they both giggle.

  My shoulders slump forward, and I curl lower into my jacket. I let my frizzy curls fall over my face. My whole body shrinks. Everything inside me shifts in an attempt to take up less space. To make myself smaller. The incredible shrinking girl, withering away from the embarrassment of a single comment.

  Mom’s eyes narrow, her lips pressed tightly together as she weighs the pros and cons of making a scene. Her anger registers in the twitch of her right cheek and the tightness of her hand in mine.

  “Hello, Jessica.” Mom’s voice is low, a voice I’ve only ever heard once before, when a boy ran over my foot with his bike and his mother blamed me for being in his way.

  “Sofia, it’s been so long. We heard about the accident. Emily was so upset, weren’t you, hon?” Mrs. Whitmore nudges Emily, her smooth and straight, equally golden-blond hair bouncing as she nods.

  My legs start to shake, and a lump forms in my throat. I swallow, but it won’t go away.

  “Thanks for your concern.” Mom’s voice is even, unshakable. She squares her shoulders. “But we’ll be fine.”

  “We haven’t seen you in church.” Mrs. Whitmore tilts her head to the side, her perfectly plucked eyebrows scrunched together. “Why is that?”

  “It’s been hard ge
tting there.”

  “Now’s not the time to stop going.” She smiles, revealing a smear of lipstick on her teeth. “We’ve been praying for you. We all pray every Sunday.”

  The girls giggle again. Aubrey winces as she stares at me, like she’s daring herself to look at a house fire.

  We’re standing in the middle of the walkway, and as more people push past, more begin to stare. A man slows down a bit to eavesdrop, and I swear he squints at me to get a better view of my face, elbowing his wife to take a look.

  Emily pokes at her nose and points at me. She whispers something to the other girls. The word “ugly” slices through the space between us.

  Ugly.

  A dull, heavy feeling hits me in the chest. The word Mom and Dad have tried to protect me from. The reason Mom hid all the mirrors in the house.

  Ugly, ugly, ugly.

  “Excuse me?” Mom snaps, her face stop-sign red. “All that praying and not an ounce of compassion? Real nice.”

  “Mom, stop,” I plead.

  People within earshot stop to gawk. My throat tightens. Before she can start yelling again, I wrench free from my mom’s grip and push my way through the crowds, zigzagging between the makeup counters and out into the mall.

  The mask feels too tight. My coat is too hot. “Jingle Bell Rock” blares around me, but it is no match for the booming sound of my heartbeat in my ears.

  Ugly. It’s the word that I always thought bubbled up in people’s heads when they saw me. The one they quickly tamp down with forced smiles. It’s why Nonna Bianchini started to cry at Thanksgiving. The fear that I’m ugly. That the world will be tough and mean now that I’m no longer normal looking.

  My face is numb. So are my hands and feet.

  I kneel in the corner by a potted plant and try to catch my breath. I try to hold on to the air. A heaviness pushes down on me, and it feels like I’m being buried alive. My throat still feels tense, making it hard to breathe. All the air in my lungs is stuck and pushing against my ribs. Each nerve in my body is on fire.

  Everything’s a blur.

  The world is dizzying and bright and loud. “Luna?” Mom’s voice calls out, sounding far away. She scoops me up under my armpits and brings me to my feet. “Luna, honey.”

  Mom pulls me into a hug and rubs her hand on my back in big circles. “Oh, my Luna. I’m sorry,” she whispers. “I’m so sorry.”

  After a few moments my heartbeat steadies and I’m able to catch my breath. Feeling slowly comes back to my body. The world stops spinning. Mom’s pulled me back from inside myself, grounding me.

  “Why’d you have to yell?” I ask, my voice muffled against her shoulder. “Now everyone in class is going to find out and make fun of me.”

  It’ll catch like some sort of viral disease, and after my first day back in school everyone will know. Not only will I be the ugly one, but I’ll be the ugly one with a loud, angry mom.

  “I’m not going to let people treat you that way,” she says. “You deserve respect.”

  “I’m ugly now.” The word sticks in my throat like a splinter digging deeper into my flesh. “I don’t deserve respect or anything else.”

  Mom holds me out at arm’s length and wipes the tears and snot from my face with the end of her sweater. “You’re not ugly.” She shakes her head. “And you absolutely deserve respect, Luna.” She’s got tears in her eyes too, and her face is still that brilliant red. “I’m so sorry you got in that wreck, that you had to start dealing with horrible things like this at such a young age. The world isn’t always kind, especially to those who don’t look or behave the way others think they should.” Mom takes a deep breath. She looks tired, fed up. Her dark-brown eyes meet mine. “I wish you could see what your Dad and I see.” Her eyes soften, and she squeezes my shoulders. “We can go home now if you want. Let’s go?”

  “But my present for Tailee,” I whisper. The present that could make things right between us.

  “There’s still time,” she says.

  I look around the mall. At the throngs of people fighting to get through to stores or to see Santa. It’s too much. I’m not ready for another encounter.

  I take Mom’s hand and we walk through the crowds. Santa waves and shouts from a plywood North Pole as “Carol of the Bells” provides background music for the holiday-shopping festivities and our exit. Mom squeezes my hand, and I squeeze back. We exit through the revolving doors, and I breathe in the cold winter air, letting it dry up the remaining tears on my cheeks.

  Francis Andrews

  187 Marigold Court

  Staten Island, NY 10301

  Hi Luna,

  My name is Francis Andrews, but my friends call me Fran. My dad opened your picture, but he thought I’d like it so he left it on my bed and I saw it after getting home from school. You sent us the one of tiny little stars being tossed into the air by some kids in their backyard. It reminded me of the illustrations in picture books, except it didn’t feel like a cartoon. It all felt so real. Like the drawings in Jumanji. Magic happening in an ordinary place, not on some faraway snowy mountain or in a world you get to through a wardrobe.

  I want to know more about the kids in your drawing. And the stars. Why did they fly all the way down from the sky for them? Why not fly to a castle or a skyscraper or a navy ship? Something exciting? The kids look pretty ordinary. Like they could live right here on our block. It’s weird, but I guess magic like that can exist anywhere, even in a small Staten Island backyard.

  —Fran

  Chapter 17

  After the mall, Mom promised not to tell Dad what happened. We both thought it would be better he not know. She spent the rest of the afternoon trying to keep my mind off Emily and the others. We baked more cookies, and she taught me how to decorate her way with the different-colored frostings. Dad was busy adding finishing touches to the decorations. Snow slapped at the house, knocking on the windows and doors as if it wanted to come in and help us get ready for Christmas.

  But Mom and Dad didn’t argue once. They even laughed and made jokes. No one shouted. No one cried. And as the snow kept falling around us, we remained steady. When we finished the last batch of rainbow cookies, Mom helped Dad onto the stair lift and both of them went upstairs into the guest room, where Dad’s hospital bed is set up. They’ve been in there for a while, door closed, their voices only whispers. A good sign. Both of them are loud when they get angry. Whispers mean conversation. They mean calmness. And maybe with enough calmness Mom will put her wedding ring back on.

  Staying busy almost helped me forget the way everyone stared like I was some sort of sideshow act. And the way Emily spit out the word “ugly” like it was something rancid. Almost. I nestle deeper into my comforter, my sketch pad balanced on my knees and a hot cup of tea resting on the windowsill.

  Ugly, ugly, ugly.

  My chest starts feeling heavy again. That same heat moves up my neck and over my face. I take a deep breath and rub the tears from my eyes. That’s the one thing I don’t like about the nighttime. Sometimes it’s so quiet, too quiet, that all you can hear are the painful little thoughts calling from the darkest corners of your mind.

  I shake my head until Emily is erased from my brain, like a drawing on an Etch A Sketch, and move the curtains farther back to look out into the storm. It’s only ten o’clock and Alessandro’s window is barely visible. After what happened last time—and with the ship probably still needing some repairs—it would be impossible to take off in the blinding white of all this snow. No flying tonight. Once again I’m grounded, tethered to the earth like a penguin—all the aspirations to fly but not the right set of wings.

  I sketch a group of little penguins at the bottom of the paper. Just like the ones in the Central Park Zoo, all of them playing under a big moon. And snow drifting onto their heads, freckling their oily black feathers with white specks.

  Ugly, ugly, ugly.

  A faint light catches the corner of my eye. I put my sketch pad aside and press my face
to the glass, straining to see the foggy glow emanating from Alessandro’s window. The light swings back and forth and bounces off my window. It must be a flashlight.

  I open my window, and a gust of wind throws wet snow onto my comforter and into my tea. “Gross.” I look into the cup at the wet clumps slowly melting into what was once a warm, milky cup of chamomile.

  “Luna!” Chiara yells. Her voice sounds far away, drowned out by the wind howling through the trees. “Luna, wanna come over?”

  It takes me a moment to see them through the heavy snow. Finally, I spy Alessandro and Chiara framed by a halo of light pooling from the window.

  “Come over?” I yell.

  “Yes!” Chiara waves her arms in a windmill motion. “Come for a sleepover.”

  The last time I went to a sleepover was the weekend before that awful Wednesday. I spent the night at Tailee’s house. We swam in her pool all day and then stayed up eating s’mores and watching horror movies, even though Tailee’s afraid of everything. “I like when the monster is just out of view and then pops right up in front of the main character,” she said between bites of gooey marshmallow and melted chocolate. “Jump-scares like that make me feel like I just got off the biggest, wildest roller coaster.” At one point in the middle of the night we played with her mom’s old makeup. Tailee used it to make herself look like a zombie and scared her little brother. We laughed so hard our stomachs started to hurt.

  Somehow I doubt a spazzatrici sleepover will involve makeup and horror movies.

  I listen for my parents. The whispers have stopped. Quiet. They must have already gone to bed. I’ll be back before they even know I’m gone. And it’s not like I’ve told them about the times when I’ve left earth. Going to the neighbors’ for a sleepover is a lot safer and seems like less of a punishable offense.