Neil Armstrong Is My Uncle

by Nan Marino

  “So many things could go wrong,” says Muscle Man. “There could be an accident…a terrible one.”

  Mr. Pizzarelli doesn’t answer. The only sound is the slap, slap, slap of our shoes on the wet pavement. After we’ve taken a few more steps, Mr. Pizzarelli puts his hands on our shoulders. “They’ll come back,” he says softly.

  Clouds cover the sky, and I’m disappointed. The moon should be beaming. It should be a full moon, all swollen with pride. After all, tonight it’s the center of attention of the entire world. The stars should be twinkling in celebration. Instead, the moon is being shy, hiding in the clouds. And there’s not a star in sight.

  Finally, the moon peeks out. We all stop to take a look. “That’s a waxing crescent,” I say. I thank Kebsie for teaching me the phases of the moon.

  “Vinnie knew all the phases too,” says Mr. Pizzarelli. “He wanted to be an astronaut when he was little.”

  A car buzzes by, racing too close to the curb. Mr. Pizzarelli grabs our hands and holds us tight, like we’re precious butterflies about to fly away. And I know that Mr. Pizzarelli’s forgiven me for not giving him that message.

  “I’m gonna be an astronaut,” Muscle Man says for the fifth time that night, “and I’m gonna do it for Vinnie.”

  I’m not sure, but I think that Mr. Pizzarelli might have, for one tiny fraction of a second, smiled at that.

  We turn down Ramble Street. We pass Mrs. Murphy’s house. The roses from her garden make the air heavy and sweet. I bet with all the rain we had, she’ll wake up tomorrow morning and find some new ones in bloom.

  Then we walk past the Rattle’s house. The kickball waits on the front lawn.

  The Grabowsky’s house is shut up tight. The party must be over. Everyone is gone, and the house stands in perfect order, the way it always does. The streetlight casts a strange glow on the front lawn.

  “Look.” Muscle Man bends down and moves away the feathery blades of grass. Right in the middle of the Grabowsky carpet of green is a dandelion. He pulls it from the ground. With a sweeping gesture, he hands it to me, the way a grown man gives a lady a rose.

  It’s a tiny dandelion, nothing more than a golden bud. “Well, this little guy had a lot of nerve.” I giggle. I really don’t know why Mr. Grabowsky makes such a big fuss about them. Even though the leaves are raggy, they’re not really a bad-looking flower.

  Before I put it in my pocket, I notice that Muscle Man did not get the root. The dandelion will grow again.

  When we get to my house, we stop.

  “Do you want me to talk to your parents?” asks Mr. Pizzarelli.

  I shake my head. “Nah, I’ll talk to them in the morning. I’ll explain what happened then.”

  I turn toward the house. Mr. Pizzarelli and Muscle Man stand there, like they’re waiting for something.

  Halfway up the walkway, I stop. “Thank you, Mr. Pizzarelli, for walking us home and for the Coke and for watching the moon walk with us.”

  “You’re welcome, Tamara,” says Mr. Pizzerelli.

  I turn to the runt. “We got a game to finish.”

  Muscle Man nods. “We sure do.”

  But that’s not really what I want to say. I walk a few more steps toward the door before I turn around again.

  “Hey, Muscle Man.” I take a deep breath and hope to high heaven that my head doesn’t start to throb. “Thanks.”

  Muscle Man grins his stupid smile. “Anytime, Tammy.”

  There’s one more thing I have to do before I face my grounding.

  I wait until the moon shows itself one last time and lift my head up toward the sky.

  “Arrooo!”

  Text copyright © 2009 Nan Marino

  Published by Roaring Brook Press

  Roaring Brook Press is a division of Holtzbrinck Publishing Holdings Limited Partnership

  175 Fifth Avenue, New York, New York 10010

  www.roaringbrookpress.com

  All rights reserved

  Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress

  ISBN: 978-1-4668-0311-4