Chiara looks at me. No, looks at the mask. Her eyes narrow. “Why do you wear that anyway?”
“Chiara!” Alessandro shoves his sister’s shoulder. “Don’t be rude.”
“What? I’m just asking a question.” She returns her brother’s shove.
“It’s fine,” I say. “Promise. It wasn’t rude at all.”
“See?” Chiara sticks out her tongue at Alessandro.
“You don’t have to tell us anything,” he says.
“It’s hard to talk about.” I cross my arms over my chest and burrow further inside my coat. “We were in a car accident, my dad and me.” I stare past Alessandro and Chiara and tell my story to the moon. Her light is soft. A gentle glow in the vast blackness of night. If I squint hard enough, I can make out her face. It reminds me of my mom’s or granny’s or maybe my own. “He wasn’t paying attention. We ran a light and another car hit us.” My throat tightens and I take a shaky breath, releasing the nerves collecting in my stomach.
“The airbags exploded, and I don’t remember much after that. Fire, heat, darkness. There were screams, but I don’t know who they belonged to.” I shake my head and close my eyes tight to keep the tears from falling. “I don’t know. I woke up in the hospital. Lots of pain in my face and left arm. Pain everywhere, really. Like my whole body was being torn apart and twisted. Totaled, just like our car. We flipped over and over, but I don’t really remember that either.” I open my eyes. The moon is still there, still listening, patient and calm.
The story rushes from my mouth, as if trying to escape being played on an endless loop in my mind. “I couldn’t draw for a long time. I was in physical therapy to fix everything, but I still feel broken. The mask is supposed to help my face heal. It’s like a cast for my face. There are burns and scars underneath, and in January I need to have surgery to fix my nose. It’s not healing right.” I sigh, exhausted from talking so much. The story lingers in the air, thick and cloying like syrup. I look at Chiara and Alessandro, waiting for a reaction. For them to tease me or look at me with pity or something.
Finally, Chiara smiles and shrugs. “Well, at least you didn’t die.”
“Chiara!” Alessandro nudges his sister on the shoulder again.
“Well, it’s true!” she says.
Laughter rumbles in my stomach and travels up my throat and out from between my lips. A deep belly laugh, one that shakes my whole body. It echoes through the heavens, loud and ringing. Chiara’s and Alessandro’s laughter joins mine, our giggles harmonizing. I double over, grabbing my stomach and gasping for air. Tears stream down my face. A lightness settles on my skin, cooling it, and seeps all the way down to my bones. I take long breaths, filling my lungs with cold air. The laughter slows and my shoulders stop shaking. Chiara and Alessandro grin, their own laughter coming to a stop. We stare at one another, their eyes on me and not on the mask. They still see me.
I don’t remember the last time I laughed like that. Not a polite laugh or a forced laugh, but a real laugh. Carefree and not worried about what’s going to happen next. It feels good. For once I feel good.
I catch my breath and wipe the tears from my eyes. “I’m just glad to be here.”
Alessandro grins. “Good, because we need to get back to work.” Alessandro pulls out his trusty moon tracker and fiddles with a few of its doodads to line up a location. “We’ve got one more stop to make.”
“I almost forgot!” Chiara claps her hands together.
“Where are we going?”
“Papa tracked down Ellie’s mama!” She organizes the jars of dust in crates. “She’s all the way off in Andromeda, but it’s not that far away. Ellie’s too small to travel that way on her own.”
“You’re going to bring them together?” I ask, helping Chiara with the jars. “Is that difficult?”
“Ellie’s young enough to move to another constellation. Since she’s technically not part of the Lynx constellation of stars, just an outer-lying star, she’ll be able to adapt,” Alessandro explains.
Chiara and I are quiet as we work, carefully placing the glass jars in crates padded with hay.
Ellie’s glowing little face greets us as we near the edge of Lynx. “You’re back early,” she squeals. “Did you bring me hermit crabs for Christmas?”
“We’ve got something better.” Chiara grins and holds out one of the big silver ladles for her to jump into.
“What is it?”
“A surprise!”
Ellie beams brighter. “I like surprises,” she says. “As long as I don’t have to wait too long to know what it is.”
“This’ll take only an hour at most.” Alessandro pulls out a piece of paper, reads off a few coordinates, and sets the new location on his moon tracker.
“How did your dad know where to look?” I whisper to Alessandro.
“We asked the other families for help.” He smiles. “The Chiavaroli flew up one of the nights we had a storm here to make sure the star we saw through our telescope was actually Ellie’s mama.”
“That’s really nice.”
He shrugs. “It’s Christmastime. And it’s the right thing to do.”
We zoom along to Andromeda, flying at top speed. Alessandro’s estimation was right. It took us just under an hour to arrive at the constellation. The zeppelin slows down, the ship rocking gently as we come to a halt. Ellie sits up in an attempt to get a better look over the side of the ladle.
“Where are we?” she asks. “This seems pretty far.”
“We’re at Andromeda.” Chiara brings her around to the bow. “Your new home.”
“What do you mean?”
“Ellie?” a small voice calls from the right side of the ship. “Ellie, is that you?”
The little star’s eyes widen. She squirms around in the ladle. “Mommy?”
Alessandro grabs another ladle and brings Ellie’s mom over to us. The star shines a light shade of gold. She looks similar to her Ellie, the same star age since they died at the same time, but her beady dark eyes gleam as she stares at her daughter. “Oh, my sweet girl!”
Chiara and Alessandro carefully let the stars out of the ladles. They float toward each other, colliding, their pointed bodies whirling and twirling around each other.
“Mommy!” Ellie squeals. “I can’t believe you’re here!”
“I thought I lost you forever. My Ellie.”
Ellie looks up at us. She beams so bright I have to shield my eyes with my hands. “Thank you so much!” The little star flips in the air and spins around her mom again.
“You don’t know what this means to us,” her mom says. “To be reunited after all this time.”
“You’re not lost anymore. You’re finally home.” Chiara smiles and pats Ellie’s head. “And maybe we’ll find a way to bring you hermit crabs!”
“Don’t push it, Chiara,” Alessandro says.
Ellie giggles. “There’s so much I need to tell you, Mommy.”
Her mom kisses her on the head and smiles. “We’ve got all the time in the world.”
I stare down at the pair and think of my own parents. My heart twitches, recalling how scary it was to see Dad in the hospital connected to all those whirring machines. A lump forms in my throat. I don’t know what I would’ve done if I’d lost him. How lonely it must have been for Ellie.
The timer rings out, the sharp bell alerting us that it’s time to head back to earth.
“We’ll return soon,” Chiara promises.
The two stars wave their good-byes. Both dazzling brightly against the darkness so that it’s miles and miles before we can no longer see them.
Luna Bianchini
236 Marigold Court
Staten Island, NY 10301
Wishing on a Star
Chapter 21
Christmas Eve is the loudest holiday—louder than Thanksgiving. So many kids running around, shaking presents, and sneaking cookies off the dessert table. So many opinions on how to prepare the dishes for the Feast of the Seven Fishes.<
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At least Dad’s been feeling better since the minestrone soup. Mom and I were both surprised at how excited he was to have the feast at our house. That’s worth all the commotion.
The kitchen smells of butter and garlic. “The scallops are going to burn if you don’t keep your eye on them,” Uncle Mike shouts above the noise. He points at the sizzling pan of scallops my aunt Therese is searing. “Quick. Be quick about it!”
Aunt Therese tosses her hands in the air. “If I cook them your way they’ll be rubbery.”
“I’ve never made a rubbery scallop in my life.”
“Oh, go fuss over your clams casino, will you?”
I sit at the kitchen table, helping my cousins Tina and Gloria run pasta dough through the pasta maker. Our hands are sticky and covered in flour as we hang the ready noodles from coat hangers to dry. The Feast of the Seven Fishes is one of the biggest holidays on our calendar. It’s supposed to be a celebration of the upcoming birth of Jesus, but I’m not sure why we also celebrate by yelling. Which is how my family’s feast usually goes.
“Take the dry noodles off the pasta rack, Luna, and bring them over to Aunt Giovanna,” Tina instructs. “We’re running out of hangers.”
I run the noodles over to Aunt Giovanna, who adds them to a boiling pot of salt water, then bring the makeshift pasta rack back to the kitchen table, where Tina and Gloria load it up with more fresh noodles.
“Surgery is the best possibility for Luna.” Dad’s voice travels out from the dining room and into the kitchen, barely audible above the commotion. I slink out of the kitchen and stand just outside the dining room. Both sets of nonni and my mom and dad sit at the table.
“But what if it makes things worse?” Nonna Bianchini says, her voice breaking. She has a tissue in her hand. My nonno puts an arm around her. “What if she doesn’t look the same?”
Anger wells up in my chest. But she could be right. I squeeze my eyes shut.
“That doesn’t matter, Ma,” Dad says. “It’s going to help her breathing. It’s not just cosmetic.”
“But my baby’s face,” Nonna Bianchini cries. “She was so beautiful.”
“Is beautiful.” Dad pounds his hand against the table. The room falls silent. My eyes widen. Dad’s never spoken to his mother like that before. “That kid is more than the burns on her face. She’s my brave little girl and has had to grow up real fast. The least we can do is proceed with this surgery and try. Try for her.”
A smile tugs at my lips. Mom stares at him, eyebrows raised. I want to throw my arms around my dad and hug him hard for standing up for me.
Granny Ranieri nods. “Medicine and surgeries have come quite far in recent years,” she says. “This isn’t the worst thing to happen, Favianna.”
I run back toward the kitchen. My heart beats fast. If my family’s going to try for me, then I’ll do the same for them.
• • •
We finish off the last of the feast just in time to head to church for Midnight Mass, bellies full of scallops, shrimp Alfredo, clams casino, four different kinds of fish, and pounds of pasta. My stomach rumbles in protest of the piece of cheesecake I ate. Every Bianchini gathering involves stuffing ourselves to the brim.
“Are you all right?” Mom asks as she hands me a stack of Christmas hymnals to pass out to the rest of our family. We stand in the cathedral’s lobby, waiting to sit for Mass. The lobby is decorated for Christmas, with a tree in the left corner, garland on the banisters, and a porcelain nativity scene sitting on a pedestal near the cathedral doors.
I pass the stack of hymnals to Gloria, who circulates them among the other cousins.
“My stomach hurts a little bit,” I say. “But it always does after the feast.”
“Are you feeling okay being here?” She puts an arm around my shoulder and hugs me to her side. “We can leave if you need to.”
I look at my family. There’s enough of us here that we’ll take up at least two pews. My family is loud. They laugh and talk with their hands. Their voices bounce off the walls of the lobby. Even with my bulky compression mask, no one will notice me in a group this loud and animated.
“I’ll be fine.” I hug Mom back. “I’ll let you know if I want to go.”
She pats me on the head before turning away to talk to Uncle Mike and Dad.
“Luna,” Nonna Bianchini calls over the din of conversations. She’s standing at the front of the lobby with Father Clementi, near the cathedral doors. She gestures at me to come over.
Father Clementi is one of the oldest people I know. Even older than my nonni. He smiles at me, his wrinkled face stretching out to reveal his yellowing teeth. Sometimes, when I’m bored during Mass, I count the gray hairs haloing his bald head. If I’m really bored, I count the white ones sticking out of his ears and nose. “How nice to see you, Luna. It’s been a while.” The lights from the Christmas tree on the left side of the lobby twinkle in his eyes.
“Merry Christmas, Father Clementi.” Father Clementi is nice, but it’s always weird talking to priests. He teaches religion at my school. He’s not bad, but dread still weighs on my shoulders. Whenever any priest wants to talk, it’s always going to be some kind of lecture about faith.
“Your nonna says you’ll be having surgery in January.” He nods toward Nonna Bianchini, who smiles at me.
I shouldn’t be surprised that she couldn’t keep my surgery to herself. Nonna Bianchini loves to talk. “It’s not a big deal.” I look down at my black Mary Janes.
“It’s important to discuss health matters with a man of faith,” Nonna Bianchini says. “We all need guidance in such situations. Wisdom.”
“Perhaps it would be best if Luna and I spoke alone,” Father Clementi says. “These matters are important, as well as private.”
Before my nonna can protest, Father Clementi leads me over to a bench near the Christmas tree and out of earshot of the rest of my family. I stare out the stained-glass window in front of us, barely able to see the stars beyond the colored glass. My heart aches for the stars. If only I could spend my Christmas Eve in the skies instead of discussing my health with Father Clementi.
“So tell me, Luna,” Father Clementi begins. “How are you feeling?”
The question digs under my skin. It’s the same question everyone asks, as if how I feel about the scars and burns on my face is a mystery. I stare at the creases in my palms. “Like anyone would feel, I guess.”
“I had surgery on my shoulder about ten years ago,” he says. “I’ll never forget how terrified I was. Surgery’s a big deal.”
“No one’s letting me forget that. My nonni won’t stop fussing over me. Nonna Bianchini is the worst.”
“That’s how she shows her love.”
“It makes me antsy.”
“You’re young. You will persevere, Luna. And God will watch over you.”
I take a deep breath and clutch the cornicello hanging from the gold chain around my neck. “Then why didn’t he watch over my dad and me during the car crash?” I ask. “Why didn’t he keep us safe then?”
Father Clementi nods. “Grief and trauma are part of our lives on this earth. Sometimes they feel unexplainable. People ask, ‘Why would God do terrible things to us if he loves us?’ That’s a hard question.” He takes off his glasses and wipes the lenses on the sleeve of his cassock. “These trials are meant to make us stronger. You Bianchinis are tough stuff. I remember when you were a little girl, playing out on the swing set during recess. You were determined to swing over the top of the swing set. Do you remember that one time you almost did it?”
I laugh. “I flew off. Sprained my wrist and scratched up my legs. Mom was so mad.”
“You were only seven. Even back then you were brave.”
“But what if I’m not brave now?”
“God will light your path. He will give you strength.”
The wrinkles on Father Clementi’s face look like the crevices in the moon. “I’m tired of people telling me to be strong.�
�� I look out the window. If only I could float from the cathedral and up into the sky.
Father Clementi follows my gaze and grins. “The stars are reassuring, you know. A long time ago, sailors used them to get home safely. They’re God’s light.”
Outside, the stars wink a little stronger, as if straining to see through the windows and into the cathedral.
He stands, the bench creaking under the shift in weight. “Time to start getting ready for Mass.”
“Thank you for speaking with me, Father,” I say.
“I pray for your health and recovery.” He passes through the growing crowd of people and disappears through a door on the right.
It’s been a long time since I’ve prayed. Father Clementi always says in religion class God won’t grant all your wishes. That’s not how prayer works. But he said God listens to us when we’re hurting. I clench my hands together until my knuckles whiten and bow my head.
“If you’re listening, God,” I mutter into my hands, breath hot against my skin, “I know we haven’t talked in a long time. But if you can hear me, please fix my face. I’m scared of surgery. If you fix everything now, I’ll be normal again and won’t have to go through with it.”
After a few moments, an usher opens the giant wooden doors to the cathedral and people begin filtering through to find seats. I quickly make the sign of the cross and hop off the bench.
Rocco stops just before the doors, his head swiveling from right to left before his eyes land on me. He smiles. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere,” he says.
“Father Clementi and I were talking.”
“We’re going to go light candles,” he says. “Come on.” Rocco grabs my arm and leads me through the throng of people and into the cathedral.
The cathedral is cast in the warm yellow light of hundreds of candles lining the walls and altar. Stained-glass windows are pressed into the stone like fingerprints, each one depicting a station of the cross. We walk down the center aisle between two long lines of wooden pews facing the altar and a large, wall-size organ. Our family stands on the left side of the room, huddled close together in the candles’ gentle glow. Uncle Mike hands me one of the already lit votive candles, and I use it to light another. Hot wax drips down its side and lands on a mound of hardened wax from candles that have already burned in it.
The Trouble with Shooting Stars Page 17
