I cry some more. I don’t know why. I keep seeing that hug. It was different from any other hug they had. I wonder if Mom felt it, too.
“Thanks for sending the meteorite,” I say. “It’s a good friend. But I’d really like if you could just do this for me. I’d make sure to never get in trouble again. I’d never be mean or curse at anyone. Ever.”
The stars send a message.
All of them form the shape of a huge diamond ring.
It’s not elementary school anymore so nobody sends us a letter about what we might need for school. Mom and I looked at my schedule on the computer and I’ll have seven classes a day. All with different teachers. I picture myself trying to hold seven books and seven notebooks and trying to get to my classes in three minutes between bells. I think about how much I’ll miss recess. I think about how much I’ll miss Jilly even though she can be too clingy sometimes.
“You’re going to get a boyfriend,” she says to me. “And then you’re gonna be kissing and going on dates and holding hands and stuff.”
“I’m not getting a boyfriend.”
“Or a girlfriend, I guess,” she says.
“I’m not getting a girlfriend, either.”
“Eventually you will,” she says. “And eventually you’ll be holding hands and kissing.”
“You sound like those girls who used to get married at recess. Don’t be one of those, okay?”
“I already got married at recess,” Jilly says. “Twice.”
“Twice?”
“First time it didn’t work out so well. Dylan What’s-his-face. The one who moved to Alaska.”
“Wasn’t he, like, first grade?”
“Yep. First grade. We got a legal divorce before he had to move. The recess lady told us she put her stamp on it,” she says. “That way we could move on and find another spouse.”
“Oh, Jilly,” I say. “Please stop thinking about boys and getting married. You’re ten!”
She shrugs. “Seems normal to me. Everybody else is doing it.”
I am definitely from another planet.
Mom takes us to the store for school supplies. Jilly has her list and gets all her stuff inside of five minutes and then begs to go to the toy section even though she knows she can’t get any toys.
I want a cool lunch bag that’s insulated and there’s one with a nebula on it. Mom sees me looking at it and says, “Do you like it?”
“My old one is fine,” I say.
“That’s not what I asked.”
“It’s cool,” I say. “But it’s, uh.” I can’t figure out how to say this because it’s irrational. The lunch bags are divided into two sections. This one is in the “boys” section. Nebulae are boy stuff, I guess. In middle school.
“You should get it if you like it,” Mom says, and tosses it into the cart. “If you change your mind, you can always put it back.”
All I can think of is Leah Jones telling me I have a boy’s lunch bag. I don’t know why I care so much.
The binders are simpler. Just colors. Bright and simple. I grab two and a pack of notebook paper and two spiral notebooks. Mom asks if I need index cards. “Sure,” I say, all the while looking at the lunch bag.
After I get some pencils and a sharpener, Mom and I go to the toy section but Jilly isn’t there.
I check all the aisles twice and Mom checks the video game aisle and I run through the other places Jilly likes to look and she’s not anywhere.
I’m over by the frames and pillows when I hear Mom call, “Jilly! Jilly!”
Her voice sounds like she’s never hiked a single trail in her life. Like she’s never chopped wood with a bowie knife.
I find Mom and say, “You go to the checkout. Sometimes she goes up there to look at gum.”
I take off toward the men’s section and I call her name. I round the corner to the underwear and women’s clothes. I look between the gym clothes and the socks. I pivot and go back to the toy section in case I missed her the first time. She’s not there.
I take off toward the grocery section.
I can’t find her anywhere. But then I hear her giggling.
The pet food.
That’s where I find her.
She pulls me in close.
“Dad’s here. With his girlfriend. He’s hiding,” she says.
I grab her by the arm and say, “Make this look real. I’m going to pretend to be mad at you, okay?”
I yank her down the main aisle of the store and Mom sees us coming because she’s peeking her head up and around the racks of candy and gum and magazines.
After Mom whisper-yells at Jilly and Jilly cries real tears at the checkout, the checkout lady gives me and Jilly stickers and Mom a sympathetic look.
The whole way home, we’re as quiet as roadkill.
Later, in my room, while Jilly pets the meteorite, I ask, “Was she pretty?”
“Not as pretty as Mom.”
“Was she nice?”
“She didn’t say anything,” Jilly says.
“What were they shopping for?”
“I don’t know. Shampoo or something?”
“What were you doing in the shampoo aisle?”
“I wanted to see if there was hair dye. I want blue hair for fifth grade.”
I look at her like she’s irrational.
“I never told you because I knew you’d look at me that way,” she says.
“How was she less pretty than Mom?”
Jilly thinks about this a second. “I don’t know. She was … like … she was all floofy. Not like Mom.”
“Floofy?”
“She was wearing flats,” Jilly says. “With little bows on the tops of them.” She looks conflicted for a minute, like she doesn’t want to judge or compare. “She was just different, is all.”
“Was Dad nice, at least?”
“He was mad that I was by myself. I told him you guys were in the next aisle so I wouldn’t get in trouble,” she says. “Then he rushed me to the pet food aisle and ran off with her to hide.”
None of this is right. Not Dad being scared to see us at the store. Not Jilly roaming around. Not both of us hiding the information from Mom that Dad has a girlfriend.
Lou has a fire pit down by the stream but we don’t use it much because the mosquitoes are relentless down there. But sometimes Mom has to cook on a fire and tonight is one of those nights.
The stars come out while we eat. Jilly looks up more than I do. No one mentions that I should be looking up, too. Plus, I know what the stars will show me if I look up. I know I made a deal with them. I just don’t know how to keep my side of the bargain. Especially now that Dad was in the store with his girlfriend.
“What are you looking forward to most?” Mom asks Jilly.
“Lunch and recess,” Jilly says. This is her standard answer. Jilly loves school and hates school. It’s a running battle. Mom and I stay quiet until she offers something that isn’t a joke. “I like social studies, I guess.”
“I wonder what you’ll learn this year,” Mom says.
“I hope they don’t divide us into girls and boys again to talk about periods and stuff. That was boring. And embarrassing.”
“You shouldn’t be embarrassed about getting your period one day,” I say.
“I’m not. I’m just embarrassed that they had to separate us! I mean, why can’t boys learn about periods? And why can’t girls learn about boy things? Wouldn’t it be better to know about each other?”
Neither of us answers because Jilly has entered the New-Jilly place-of-no-pauses. She talks constantly.
“Isn’t it cool that the trees might be talking to each other now? I mean, all these trees and they’re probably saying that the smoke from the fire smells bad or that they miss the moon or that they miss their friends who got pulled out in the storm last summer.” She breaks only to breathe. “You know, my feet keep peeling and I don’t know why. They don’t itch so I don’t think it’s athlete’s foot. I hope they stop peeling
soon because it’s weird. Also, did you know that there’s a new kind of soap that’s made of ashes or something? They say it makes pimples go away. Maybe you might need that one day, Lib. Not to say you’re going to be all pimply but that’s what they told us in that assembly—that one day soon we’d get pimples and I thought, well Liberty doesn’t have any yet so I’m probably safe for another few years. Did you get your period yet?”
“No,” I say.
“Well, then I’m safe from that too. Mom, can I ask you a weird question? Does it hurt to have a tampon inside your body?”
I hold back laughter because Jilly is so free and I used to think it was because she was a kid but now I realize that it’s because she’s just like that. Mom doesn’t laugh at all. She just says, “Nope. You don’t even feel it.” I’m glad Jilly asked because I was wondering, too.
Jilly takes a big breath like she’s going to keep her monologue running until I’m in college, but Mom turns to me and says, “What about you? What’re you most looking forward to?”
I can’t be like Jilly. It’s not that I don’t want to tell the truth, but the truth is wrong. That’s the best way I can say it. The truth is wrong. No more stars, no more dreams. All I can think about school is how I have to get the ring back to Leah Jones and how Finn Nolan will be at the bus stop with me every day from now on, just the two of us. I try to picture myself being friends with Finn again, but it’s hard because even though he was nice about me loaning him my homework, I’m worried that he’ll be super mean now that his family is going through what our family is going through.
“Probably biology?” I say.
Jilly gets a marshmallow from the bag and puts it on a stick and over the flames. The marshmallow goes on fire and she blows it out, stuffs it in her mouth, and chews as if she likes it. Now she’s trying to be me. I’m the one who likes burnt marshmallows.
“Dad has a girlfriend,” I say.
Mom stays quiet.
Jilly stops chewing and looks at me. Looks at Mom. Bursts into tears.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “But I couldn’t not tell you that.”
Mom’s holding Jilly now. Jilly’s calmed down because she wants to hear what Mom says. Mom doesn’t look hurt. She doesn’t look mad. She looks something else. I can’t figure it out.
“How’d you find out?” she asks.
“I saw them at the store,” Jilly says. “In the pet food aisle.”
Mom nods her head. Then she shakes her head. She looks at me.
“Jilly says she’s not as pretty as you,” I say.
“Not even close,” Jilly says. “And she doesn’t look like she knows how to collect kindling or gut a fish, either.”
Mom smiles. “I never much liked gutting fish.”
“I don’t even like eating fish,” Jilly says. “I’m glad we don’t have to anymore. And I never liked fishing, either. Patrick says we shouldn’t be living without a dad but I’d do okay if I never had to eat fish again.”
Mom takes a long breath. “Does Patrick think that women just shrivel up and die when they don’t have men? Probably. Is he wrong? Definitely.”
Jilly and I stay quiet.
“And I won’t make you eat fish ever again,” Mom says.
“How long have you known?” I ask.
“I haven’t liked fishing ever, really. But your dad did, and I’m not one to step in the way of another person’s happiness.”
“But you knew, right? About the girlfriend?” I ask. I still don’t know why adults change the subject so much.
She gives me the look she gives when something isn’t right to talk about in front of Jilly. Something in it tells me that Dad’s girlfriend isn’t new. Something in it makes me an adult who changes the subject.
“Stop just eating marshmallows,” I say to Jilly. “Let’s make Mom the best s’more ever.”
“I have the perfect thing!” Jilly says. She races into the house and leaves Mom and me by the fire.
“Sorry,” I say.
“Nothing to be sorry for. I wish he’d have found a better way to tell you is all.”
“I’m still sorry,” I say.
“I want you to have a good year in school and get used to this new arrangement. It’s been almost eight months since he moved out. We had a good summer, yeah?”
I feel instant shame. I didn’t have a good summer. I just had a summer.
“What?” she asks.
Jilly is still talking as she runs from the back door of the house, over the deck, down the steps, and toward the fire pit. She has a Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup in her hand and she’s waving it in front of her face. She stops and stands still and smells the air and says, “You know, campfires give me serious smeelings. I’m gonna miss summer.”
“Smeelings?” Mom asks.
“Smells that make feelings,” Jilly explains.
“I kinda want to wear this sweatshirt on the first day of school just to smell like camping,” I say.
Three days to school. I feel lighter now that we all know that Dad has a girlfriend. I hope the stars will keep their side of the deal. Life will go back to normal. I can go back to being Old Liberty.
I sit with the meteor before bed.
“I’m going to return the ring,” I say.
The meteorite says, “Good plan.”
“I think Mom and Dad will get back together. They’re meant to be together,” I say.
“Ya think?”
“Yep.”
The rock says, “But what about the girlfriend?”
“I don’t know. She probably isn’t really his girlfriend.”
“Be careful,” the rock says.
“What? Is she an ax murderer or something?” I ask.
“Just be careful about what you’re thinking, okay?” the rock says.
“You’re from space. Stars are in space. You always tell me the truth and the stars have never lied, either. I know what I’m doing, okay?”
The rock says, “Okay.”
Dad called us after dinner on Tuesday, the night before the first day of school. He talked to Jilly for about three minutes—well, she talked to him—and then she passed the phone to me.
“You ready for tomorrow? My little girl in middle school. Hard to believe.”
“Yep.”
“You know what saved me when I went to middle school? I paired up with the biggest kid I knew—”
“Bobby Heffner. You’ve told me that story before. I don’t think I’ll need a bodyguard, but thanks anyway.”
“You scared?”
“Nope.”
“You okay?”
“Sure. I’ll see you soon,” I said, ready to hang up.
“Whoa. Hold on. Where’s my Liberty?”
I didn’t like any part of that question. I’m not his Liberty. I’m my Liberty. I mean, look at my name—it actually means that.
“See you soon, Dad.”
“I love you,” he said. “Have a great first day, okay?”
I hung up.
The first day of middle school was like landing on a new planet. There were bells and late passes and bathroom passes and a locker that always seemed too far away from the room where I had to be next.
But I did it. I got on the bus home. When I got in, Mom asked me how it was.
“I don’t know. It was weird,” I said.
“Did you see any old friends?”
“Not really. There’s a bunch of new kids from the other elementary schools. I’m sure I’ll make new friends.”
“Teachers seem nice?”
“So far,” I said.
“You coming for the walk to pick Jill up?” she asked.
“I just want to take a nap.”
“You look so tired. Do it.”
I don’t even remember what we had for dinner last night.
Middle school is probably going to kill me.
That’s what I’m thinking today as I walk to the end of the lane to meet the bus at five past seven.
&n
bsp; Finn Nolan arrives a minute after me.
I say, “Hi, Finn.”
He pretends not to hear me and then we wait.
Neither of us is saying anything even though we’ve known each other since diapers and I’ve seen him have a nosebleed and the chicken pox and he’s seen me break my finger and walk into a tree and knock myself out once. Even though we’re both going through something kinda similar. But neither of us says anything.
When I step onto the bus at ten past seven, Finn walks by me to go sit near the back where the high school kids are. He looks like a different Finn Nolan. As we drive to school, I wonder if I’ve looked like a different Liberty Johansen for the last eight months, too.
I’m only late to Spanish class today. And I have a pass, so I’m not even technically late. I almost have my locker stops figured out and I feel more confident about where the bathrooms are.
During lunch, I go to the bathroom closest to the cafeteria, and standing at the mirror, drawing eyeliner around her eyes, is Leah Jones. Pretend-president of our old sixth grade class.
Finn Nolan and Leah Jones on the same day. The building suddenly feels the size of a garden shed.
I say, “Hi.”
She doesn’t say anything.
I go into a stall and listen for her to leave but she doesn’t. I get a little scared, but I stop myself. I think of the sound of running water and I finally pee. I get out, wash my hands in the sink farthest from Leah, and then I go back to lunch.
Mid–algebra class the classroom phone rings and Mr. Algebra tells me to head down to the main office. When I get there, I see Finn Nolan sitting in a chair. I sit down next to him.
“Hey,” I say.
“Hey.”
“Do you know what this is about?”
“What what’s about?” he asks.
“Why we got called down?”
Finn looks at me like he doesn’t know what I’m talking about, but before I can say more, I’m called into the vice principal’s office.
This guy is not Ms. S. from planet elementary school. This guy is far scarier. Bald. Mean-looking. Serious.
“Liberty,” he says. “I’m Mr. Scott.”
The Year We Fell From Space Page 9
