Winter was right. I was too old now for her to pick me up, for her to have to keep helping. I was going to figure this out on my own and solve my own problems for once.
I snuck out of the trailer, even though I knew Mom wouldn’t be home anytime soon, because everyone in our row at Treasure Trailers is a big gossip, according to Gloria. The shed was in an empty lot behind the landlord’s house, with a bunch of other sheds. It took a few tries before I found the right one.
I started to go through boxes and trash bags. Under a box of photos, and under a box marked ASSORTED WIGS, was the IMPORTANT STUFF box. I opened it up and began looking. I checked every single scrap of paper, even things that would never have my dad’s name on them, like the invoices from our last dentist visit three years ago. (Cavities are expensive.)
I found out a lot of things looking through that box, like where all the Food Bank cards had disappeared to. I was beginning to think that maybe Mom had been really serious about keeping Dad a complete secret. But then I found Winter’s birth certificate, and there on the same line as Name of father was Robert Carlisle. So I stopped looking at every tiny scrap and started looking for my birth certificate.
It wasn’t much farther down.
Name of child: Star Bright Mackie. That was me. I used to hate my middle name until I found out Winter’s is Gloria.
Name of mother: Carlotta Janine Mackie.
And then, Name of father: Francis Tangelo.
I could have been Star Tangelo. Or Star Mackie-Tangelo. Or Star Tangelo-Mackie. It was hard to decide which one was best, since they were all better than plain old Star Mackie, but I probably would have liked Star Tangelo, because then nobody would have called me Star Trashy.
I checked outside, and it wasn’t dark yet, so I still had a bit more time to snoop around. I dug through the rest of the box, and there, almost at the very, very bottom, I found it.
An envelope. Mom’s name was right there in the center, and there was no letter inside, but that didn’t matter. The date on the stamp was from seven years ago, but that didn’t matter either. What mattered was the address in the upper left corner of the envelope, under the name Frank Tangelo.
My father’s address.
Dear Dad,
This is your daughter, Star Mackie. I’m ten years old now and in fifth grade. My teacher is horrible, and I hate him. The boy who sits in front of me is also horrible, and I hate him, too. I would have written you a letter much sooner, but Mom wouldn’t tell me who you were.
I just want to know a few things:
1. If you knew it was my birthday, would you send me a birthday card? If you already know my birthday, why didn’t you send me one? Is it because of Mom? Because I don’t care what she says anymore. (My birthday is July 9, by the way.)
2. Did you know I have a sister? I think you should know, because Winter (my sister) has a different father, and he knows all about me. I even got to meet him. Weird, huh? Maybe we should meet, too!
3. Do you have brown eyes?
4. What is a club I could start that everyone would actually want to join? I have already tried the Trailer Park Club and the Emily Dickinson Club, but they aren’t working.
5. When Mom was pregnant with me, did she eat disgusting things? Like cucumber and horseradish sandwiches? I would ask Mom, but I think I’m not going to talk to her for a while.
Hope you are doing well.
Love, your daughter,
Star Mackie
It was the easiest letter in the world to write. In fact, I could have written more, but I didn’t want the envelope to be too heavy or for him to get bored while reading it and decide that maybe he’d rather be eating a grilled cheese sandwich or something.
I had it stamped and ready to go and dropped it into the collection box down the street. Hope was beginning to spin again, and when I woke up the next morning, my head wasn’t throbbing anymore and I didn’t feel like spending another entire day at Treasure Trailers, so I got dressed and ate a piece of peanut butter bread on my way to school.
I got there early enough to have to drop my backpack off by Mr. Savage’s door. Some of the girls from class were there, folding fortune-tellers from a big stack of old homework assignments. I tried to shoo away the loneliness that came to perch, and I finally just walked away.
I made my way to the playground, to the bench by the united States map, to wait for the bell to ring. But the second I sat down, Eddie appeared, his feet planted right in the middle of California. “Where were you yesterday?” he asked.
“Sick,” I said. I wondered if I should cough or something, but I didn’t bother.
“Oh,” he said, sitting down next to me. “’Cause you never showed up for club, and Langston and I sat there like fools for, like, a half hour before Miss Fergusson said it was obvious no one was coming.”
Denny and Genny weren’t even there? I guess they knew I was sick, so they hadn’t shown up. “Sorry,” I told Eddie.
“That’s okay,” he said, and he spit on the ground. “Miss Fergusson says we can have her room today. Are we still gonna read something by Emily Dickinson, or did you find any better poems?”
“I …” I didn’t know what to say. “I don’t …”
Sighing, Eddie leaned back and stretched his long legs. “If you really want to do Emily Dickinson again, that’s fine.”
The bell rang, and I didn’t move.
Eddie didn’t either.
I was still ready to cancel the whole club, but now, with my letter on the way to Dad, the Ferris wheel was slowly piecing itself back together. Hope was starting to make its way around again, and I figured I could at least have one more meeting.
As the monitors blew their whistles and pulled kids off the jungle gym so they could line up for class, I told Eddie I’d see him after school in Miss Fergusson’s room.
I was even sort of excited.
Genny sat next to me at lunch, planting her organic pudding in the empty slot on my lunch tray. “It’s too bad you were sick yesterday,” Genny said. “The lady from the art museum came in and showed us how to draw bats.”
It would have been nice to know how to draw a bat, but otherwise I didn’t feel that I’d missed very much. Genny asked what I was going to be for Halloween, which was on Friday. I took an extra big bite of pudding so I wouldn’t have to say that I had kind of forgotten.
“I want to be a bird warrior woman,” Genny told me, “but we don’t have enough feathers. Or enough glue. And Mom says I can’t glue feathers on my head.” It didn’t seem to bother her that much. Nothing ever bothered Genny. It must be nice, I thought, right as Genny said, “I wonder what Eddie will dress up as.”
“You can ask him after school,” I said as Denny sat down, sliding a chocolate milk into Genny’s waiting hand.
“It’s Tuesday,” he said, and he gave me his most serious glare.
“Miss Fergusson said we could use her room today, since I was gone yesterday.” I couldn’t help smiling as Denny ripped the top off his milk. “It was Eddie’s idea.”
“We have to go home,” Denny said. “We don’t live in a trailer park, so our parents actually want us to come home after school.”
I was building up a couple of choice words when Genny spoke up. “We just have to text Mom, that’s all. Text her after school.”
But there was no way Denny was going to do that, so I suggested that Genny text her mom herself. “I can’t,” she told me. “I don’t have a phone anymore. I kept losing it. Denny’s the responsible one.” It sounded like a compliment, but Denny shook his head, scowling.
I should have asked in my letter if Dad has a cell phone. Not that I could text him, since I don’t have one, but at least then I could call sometimes. I made a mental note to put it in my next letter. And another mental note to find out how long it takes for mail to go from California to Oregon.
The rest of the day dragged on and on, and Mr. Savage, who was in some kind of beard-scratching frenzy, made us read about th
e Mayflower straight from our history books. When I was learning about the Oregon Trail back in Oregon, everyone in class got to play a game in the computer lab. But we only have one computer in Mr. Savage’s class, and it’s brand-brand-new and doesn’t have any games on it. Also, no one ever made a game about the Mayflower, and if they did, it would probably be really boring.
When the bell finally rang, and we finally got to Miss Fergusson’s room, and everyone but the five of us had finally cleared out, we moved our desks together in their usual circle and sat down.
No one said a word. They were all waiting for me. Eddie with his arms crossed, Langston with his feet on the desk, Denny with a mile-long glare, and Genny with her pencil poised and ready to take minutes. Even Miss Fergusson, at her desk, was looking up at me from her grade book.
I reached into my backpack and felt around for at least ten seconds before I remembered that I had ripped all the pages out of my club notebook. “Oh,” I said. “I don’t have any poems with me.”
From her desk, Miss Fergusson called out, “You want me to print you some?”
“Uh, no,” I decided. “Today … Eddie’s gonna take over.”
Langston started laughing, then stopped when Eddie shoved him out of his chair. “You want me to lead?” Eddie asked. “What poem are we doing?”
“You get to decide,” I told him. “It’s your choice.”
“Any poem?”
“Any poem.” I figured that’d shut him up for a while.
He thought for a moment before rushing over to Miss Fergusson. After a few clicks of her mouse and some quick typing, her printer began spitting out a page, which Eddie then grabbed and brought back to the group.
“Here,” he said, slapping the sheet of paper onto Denny’s desk. “Do something for a change.”
Denny scowled, but his fear of being punched must have won out, because he began to read.
Hold fast to dreams
For if dreams die
Life is a broken-winged bird
That cannot fly.
“Wing-ed,” Eddie corrected. “It has to be two syllables, otherwise it won’t sound right.”
Denny continued.
Hold fast to dreams
For when dreams go
Life is a barren field
Frozen with snow.
It was beautiful and short and reminded me of Emily Dickinson, except not as old-fashioned.
“I think this poem is a better version of Emily Dickinson’s poem about hope,” Eddie told us.
“And,” Genny said, scribbling in the minutes, “they’re both about birds.”
I didn’t say anything. I wasn’t going to argue that Emily Dickinson’s version was still better, because I didn’t think I had to.
“That’s true,” Eddie said. “And also, Emily Dickinson said hope perches, but in this poem, dreams can fly.”
“Who wrote it?” Genny asked. Her pencil hovered above her paper, ready to write down the name.
“Langston Hughes,” Eddie told us.
Heavenly Donuts. There was no way. I turned to Langston and said, “You wrote that?” He smiled at me until Eddie informed us all, through a fit of laughter, that Langston couldn’t write a grocery list. Langston Hughes was some other guy, a famous poet who was, like Emily Dickinson, dead.
“Oh.” I remembered. “So you’re the one named after the famous poet.”
“Someday people will say that he was named after me,” Langston insisted.
This time both Denny and Eddie rolled their eyes.
We talked a bit more, mostly about the difference between dreams and hope, which we eventually agreed were basically the same thing. Because, as we had to remind Langston, the dreams mentioned in the poems were not the dreams you have when you go to sleep. “We should do what we did before,” Eddie said, “when we said what hope was. But this time we can replace it with dreams. We’ll see if they’re still the same.”
“Metaphors,” Miss Fergusson called out from her desk. Her head was still buried in her grade book, but her voice carried across the room. “When you compare one thing to another thing by saying they’re the same, even though they actually aren’t, that’s a metaphor. That’s what you were doing last week.”
“I knew that,” Eddie called back to her. “Anyway, I said hope was a rock,” he told us. “And I still think that applies to dreams. And the more I’ve thought about it, the less stupid it sounds.”
It was Denny’s turn next, but he just said, “Pass.”
Langston said he’d forgotten what he’d said about hope in the first place, but after Genny reminded him that he’d talked about a dirty window, he chewed on his fingernail and thought. “Dreams are different,” he said, finally. “Dreams can be clean windows. You can see through them better, but the glass is still in the way.”
Genny made us wait while she wrote hers down:
Dreams. Alive, but dead.
They can’t breathe or blink, I think.
They live in your head.
Another haiku?
“So, Star. Do you think dreams can be a Ferris wheel?” Genny asked.
I wasn’t sure. “I think dreams are different,” I said. I thought about it for a minute, and that’s when I got it. “Dreams are a letter,” I said. “You fill it with all your thoughts and feelings and wishes. But then you have to send it away, and you’re not sure when it will get where it’s going or if you’ll get anything back at all. But you have to send it to find out.”
Eddie was looking smug over at his desk, but I thought my answer was the best.
Once Genny finished up with the minutes, we ended the meeting and moved the desks back into their regular formation before heading outside. It was colder now, so we all stood around putting on our jackets. “That was fun,” Genny said. “No offense, Star, but sometimes Emily Dickinson makes me sleepy.”
I tried my best to not look as offended as I felt.
Eddie told me he had a whole bunch of new poem ideas to share for our meeting next week, too. He was practically grinning, and he looked like a completely different person. A person who had never punched anyone in his life. “No Robert Frost,” he was saying. “We’re gonna stay away from that fool for as long as we can.”
What was he talking about? “This is the Emily Dickinson Club,” I reminded everyone.
“Well, today it was more like the Langston Hughes Club,” Genny said, reading from the minutes.
“It’s the Emily Dickinson Club,” I said again. “We can’t go changing it now. Besides, if we did, then Eddie would have to run it.” I didn’t know nearly as much about poetry as Eddie did, but I was pretty sure I knew more than he did about Emily Dickinson.
“What if we take turns?” Eddie asked, stepping closer to me. Still grinning, like he wasn’t trying to take over the club.
I looked over at Genny to see what she thought and caught her adding to the minutes. “Don’t put this in,” I told her.
“It seems important,” she said.
“It’s not important, because Eddie is not in charge, so he doesn’t get to make any decisions,” I said. I turned back to Eddie and found that his smile had vanished.
“You’re so stubborn,” he said, pushing past me. “C’mon, Langston.” And the two of them stalked off. Well, only Eddie stalked. Langston strolled along beside him.
“Whatever,” Denny said, when Langston and Eddie were out of sight. “This club would suck no matter what it was about.”
“Denny!” Surprisingly, Genny’s face turned bright red. “Don’t be such a crab!”
“It’s the truth,” Denny said, glaring right at me. “Why do you think nobody wants to be in your stupid club? It’s not because of Emily Dickinson. It’s because of you. No one likes you.” Then he turned to go. “Come on, Genny. This club’s over.”
I’d already known that Denny hated me. And I guess I’d known that no one else in class really liked me either, since they hadn’t stopped calling me Star Trashy. But it st
ill hurt to hear it said out loud.
“I like the club,” Genny said.
“It doesn’t matter,” I said. “I mean, he’s right. It’s not like we’ll ever get anyone else to join. This club is just a waste of time.” I sighed, trying to keep myself from crying. “Plus, now Eddie hates me, too.” If only I hadn’t sent my letter to Dad already. Maybe he could have told me what to do.
Genny was seething next to me. Denny’s words had nested in my throat, but they’d just made Genny mad. “He’s wrong. Okay, Star? You’ll see. Don’t worry. ” She ran after her brother.
I wanted to believe her, but Denny was right.
Nobody liked Star Trashy.
Star Mackie
October 30
Week 7 Vocabulary Sentences
Why am I still doing these?
1. I am desperate to talk to Winter, or anyone else even, but preferably Winter, because she’s the best at telling me that things will get better and how to make sure that they do.
2. I would even accept a Winter doppelganger. (And a Mr. Savage doppelganger, as long as he did not assign weird words.)
3. Plus, it’d be nice to know that Winter is okay. I can’t even fathom what she’s thinking—partly because she won’t tell me, and partly because it’s too hard to imagine.
4. It kind of sucks when you have no one else to talk to. It also sucks when half your club mates hate you, and it’s not like you can induce anyone else to join your club, because they don’t like you either.
5. Especially when they’re all too busy jeering at you. And after a while, it’s too easy to think that they’re right.
6. Mostly I just want a letter from Dad to arrive, because I feel like I’m standing at the margin of hope, and the longer the letter takes, the closer I get to the very edge.
7. Or like I’m on a Ferris wheel that won’t stop turning, and there’s this ominous feeling, like if I don’t get off soon, it’ll be too late.
8. I wish hope was more like a rampart, something I could build up to protect myself when bad things happen. That would be a lot more useful than something that just perches there, waiting, or spins, sometimes without stopping.
Hope Is a Ferris Wheel Page 10
