See You on a Starry Night

by Lisa Schroeder

  “No, but they could have looked it up,” she replied. “Or maybe they had help writing the email. Like an older sister or something. Because, remember, they really wanted to know what we were up to.”

  “Emma, I just don’t think so. Besides, I don’t want it to be one of them.”

  “Wait!” she said, sticking her finger in the air. “I’ve got it! Did you see how June stared at the bottles before she ran off? She was curious. And this note sounds like someone older than us, doesn’t it?”

  “Uh, I’m not sure,” I said. “But there were a lot of people on the beach yesterday. And we threw those bottles so hard. It couldn’t have just come right back from where I threw it.”

  She nodded slowly as she stared out at the ocean, like she was lost deep in thought. I stayed quiet until she turned to me and said, “We could guess and guess and guess, and there’d be no way to find out for sure. So you know what this means?”

  “What?”

  “We need to try and do what this person says. And then, hopefully …”

  “Hopefully, we’ll get to meet member number one of the Starry Beach Club?”

  Emma grinned. “Exactly.”

  *  Persistent

  *  Careful

  *  Tireless

  *  Eager

  *  Conscientious

  (Quirky or different is not a synonym for diligent. I’m worried.)

  “So we need to find someone to help?” Emma asked as we made our way down the boardwalk. A seagull flew past us, headed toward the ocean. “Like what? Help an old woman at the grocery store with her bags of groceries?”

  “Are we going to be Girl Scouts or wish makers?” I teased. “I’m thinking it should probably be something bigger. Much bigger.”

  I thought about telling her I was worried I might not be all of the things Some Kid wanted me to be. Okay, creative, yes. But the rest? Clever? Diligent? What if I wasn’t the type of person the kid had in mind for their club? But I decided not to say anything for now.

  Emma seemed to be thinking out loud. “Whatever it is, it should be something where we can be clever, sneaky, and creative. But how do we find something like that?”

  “I have no idea,” I said. “Just keep a lookout?”

  She giggled. “That sounds like a pirate. Ahoy, matey, go to the bow and keep a lookout. Hey, maybe it should be a pirate club instead.”

  “But the Starry Beach Club sounds so much more mature,” I teased.

  “Sophisticated,” she said.

  “Exactly.”

  We walked for a little while in silence. That’s when I remembered she’d wanted to tell me something.

  “Hey, what was it you wanted to tell me earlier?”

  “Oh! I almost forgot. I asked my mom if you could sleep over tonight. And she said yes.” She turned to me. “That is, if you want to. I just thought, since it’s spring break, why not?”

  I grinned. “I’d love to! I’ll call my mom later and ask her.”

  “Okay. Cool.” She pointed up ahead, to the parking lot of a grocery store, where the bookmobile was parked. “There it is!”

  “Wow. I love it.” Up close, the bookmobile was much prettier than I’d imagined. It had a mural painted on the side with the beach and the ocean and a boy sitting next to a giant sand castle, reading a book. And in big, blue letters it said BOOKMOBILE BY THE BEACH.

  “I know, right? Mr. and Mrs. Button let tourists use it and any of us locals who want to use it, too, even though there’s a library not too far. It’s just so cute, I like coming here instead.”

  “Mr. and Mrs. Button? What a sweet name.”

  Emma smiled. “Wait until you meet them. They are super sweet, trust me.”

  We walked up the steps and into the open door of the bookmobile.

  “Hello, Mrs. Button,” Emma called.

  There was a small wooden counter directly in front of the entrance. To the left of us were two long rows of wooden bookshelves, packed with books. It really did feel like a teensy-tiny library. On wheels!

  A short, round woman stood at one of the shelves, her back turned to us. When Emma spoke, she spun around and smiled. She had on a red T-shirt with big black letters that said READ.

  “Emma!” Mrs. Button said as she slipped her reading glasses off and stuck them on top of her head. “How nice to see you. And you’ve brought a friend.”

  “This is Juliet. She just moved here from Bakersfield.”

  “How wonderful,” Mrs. Button said. “Nice to meet you, Juliet. I won’t ask you if there’s a Romeo in your life. You are far too young for that.”

  I get comments like that about my name sometimes. I guess when there is a world-famous Shakespeare play titled Romeo and Juliet, it’s gonna happen.

  “Isn’t it interesting that both of you have names from literary masterpieces?” she continued. “Emma is the title of a book by Jane Austen. Oh, I do love Jane Austen. Pride and Prejudice is my favorite book of hers. It helped me through a particularly difficult time in my life. I will always be so very thankful to dear Jane. Her words were like a salve to my soul—exactly what I needed when I was feeling blue.”

  “Like chicken soup for your feelings?” I asked. As soon as I said it, I wanted to take it back. It seemed like a very strange—or quirky—thing to say.

  But Mrs. Button’s eyes got big and round, just like a pair of shiny brown buttons. “Yes, Juliet, that is exactly right! Oh, I love that so much. May I write that down in my notebook of beautiful things?”

  Loved it? Wow, maybe Mrs. Button was quirky just like me. “Sure!” I told her.

  She scurried over to her tiny desk and picked up a brown leather journal and a pen and scribbled the words down. As she did that, Emma leaned in and whispered, “She loves writing in her notebook of beautiful things.”

  It made me feel good that Mrs. Button had chosen something I’d said to put in that elegant notebook of hers. It also made me curious. What other kinds of beautiful things were on those pages? I was dying to know. But it was probably like a diary, in a way, and not really any of my business.

  “Oh, that’s so lovely,” Mrs. Button said. “Thank you, Juliet. Now please, don’t let me keep you from browsing for books. If you need help with anything, just ask. That’s what I’m here for.”

  “Do I need to fill out paperwork to get a card or anything?” I asked.

  “Yes, indeed,” she said. “It’s a simple form. Would you like to do it now or wait until you find some books?”

  “I can do it now.”

  She pulled out a clipboard with a form attached and a pen. I stepped over to the counter and put my name at the top of the form: Juliet Kelley.

  “Uh-oh,” I said. “I don’t have my address memorized.”

  “Just put the street name, that’s fine. The phone number is the most important. So we know how to get ahold of you if we need to.”

  I wrote the street name and my mom’s cell number, since I did have that memorized, and signed the bottom. Super easy.

  Then Mrs. Button handed me a paper card and said, “We do things the old-fashioned way here. Write your name on the bottom. Then when you find what books you want to borrow, bring them to me and I’ll check them out for you. You are allowed three books at any given time. For locals, like you and Emma, books are due in three weeks. Any questions?”

  “I don’t think so,” I said.

  When she smiled, the lines near her eyes crinkled. “Okay, then. I hope you find something wonderful to read.”

  “Where’s Mr. Button?” Emma asked.

  “He’s hoping to come by this afternoon for a bit,” Mrs. Button replied. “He hasn’t been feeling well.”

  “Oh,” Emma said, sounding disappointed. “I hope he’s all right.”

  “Thank you, Emma. He’ll be sad that he missed you.”

  Just then, a teen girl stepped inside. Mrs. Button turned to greet her, and as she did, Emma and I stepped back to the shelves to look at books.

>   “I’m going to see if they have any books about Vincent van Gogh,” I whispered. “I want to learn more about him.”

  Emma smiled. “Good idea. I think I’m going to see if they have any books about pirates. See if I can get some lookout tips.”

  It’s fun! Okay, but why is it fun?

  Books take you to faraway places.

  Reading a story is like watching a movie in your brain.

  Maybe you can’t be a wizard or a time traveler in real life, but you can imagine what it feels like while you’re reading.

  When I’m feeling nervous, a good book helps me feel better.

  When I’m feeling sad, a good book helps me feel better.

  Even if a book makes me sad, I don’t mind because I’m sharing my sadness with someone in the story.

  A book can be sneaky, teaching you things without you knowing it.

  A character struggling with the same problems you’re struggling with can make you feel a little less alone in the world.

  I guess it’s really true—a good book is like chicken soup for your feelings!

  Emma and I each found three books to read, including one I checked out called Vincent van Gogh: Portrait of an Artist. We chatted about our favorite books and music and other fun stuff on the way back to her house. When we got there, the brother I hadn’t met yet was sweeping the porch. I couldn’t help noticing how he had muscles the size of mountains. Or big hills, anyway.

  “This is Lance,” Emma said as we walked past him.

  “Hi,” I said. “I’m Juliet.”

  “Hey” was all he said.

  Inside, Thomas was vacuuming the front room.

  Emma motioned for me to follow her upstairs. When we got away from the noise of the vacuum, I asked, “Do you all have to do morning chores?”

  “We don’t have to,” she said. “But Mom makes a list every day of things that need to be done around the house. And everyone is supposed to pick one or two things off the list. Mom calls it the Step Up and Do It System. If you step up and do something from the list, you get to write your name on a slip of paper and stick it in the jar. Every Friday, Mom draws a name from the jar, and the person whose name is chosen wins a thirty-dollar appreciation jackpot. So basically, the more you work, the better your chances.”

  “That’s super creative. Maybe your mom should join our club.”

  Emma laughed. “Um, no. And let’s just keep this whole thing to ourselves for now, okay? I like having something none of them know about for a change. Something that’s all mine.” She gave my arm a squeeze. “Or all ours, I should say. You know what I mean?”

  “I think so.”

  It was probably hard being the youngest in a big family. Maybe that’s why writing a secret message in a bottle had interested her so much.

  We went into Emma’s room and sat on the floor. I set my three books down next to me and started flipping through the one about Vincent.

  “I figure you and I can make dinner tonight,” Emma said before she broke into song. “On top of spaghetti …” She smiled. “My favorite. And it’ll be pretty easy with Mom’s sauce that’s defrosting in the fridge.”

  “Then you can put your name in for the jackpot?”

  “Yep. Even though I won last week’s jackpot, so if I win again so soon, my brothers and sister are going to be really mad. Which is exactly why I want to try and win. Hey, when do you want to ask your mom about sleeping over?”

  “Can I text her with your phone?”

  “Sure.” As she reached for her phone, I stopped flipping pages when I reached a chapter called “Vincent and Friends.”

  “Do you think the person who emailed me really likes Vincent van Gogh’s artwork?” I asked Emma.

  “Probably. Why would they say so if they didn’t?”

  “I don’t know. It’s like—what are the chances of that being true?”

  “What are you worried about, exactly?”

  “I’m not worried. I’m … what’s the word when you feel like something’s too good to be true?”

  “Uh, I don’t know.” She started tapping on the keyboard of her phone.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Asking Lance. He’ll know.”

  It only took a few seconds before a message buzzed back. Emma read it and then said, “You’re skeptical?”

  “That’s it! I’m skeptical.”

  She handed the phone to me so I could text my mom.

  “Well, were you skeptical about moving here and making friends?” Emma asked.

  I finished my message and put the phone down between us. “Um … yes.”

  “And how’d that work out?”

  I laughed. “So far, so good.”

  “My dad always says, ‘Believe in the good. It’s a lot more fun than believing in the bad.’ ”

  I must have not looked convinced, because she continued, “Maybe Some Kid had been thinking about doing something like this for a long time, and then you gave them the push they needed to get started. Plus an awesome name for the club.”

  I ran my finger down the side of the book as I thought about it. “Hm. Maybe.”

  “You know what else I think?” Emma asked.

  “What?”

  “Maybe you shouldn’t worry about who the person is for now. It makes for a better story, you know? Girl throws a bottle into the ocean with a note that says how much she loves a famous painting. Some Kid answers back, says here’s what you do to join a secret club named after that famous painting. Girl does what she says and becomes a member of the club! See what I mean?”

  I shifted onto my knees. “But I’m so curious who it is, and if she—”

  Emma interrupted me. “Or he.”

  I groaned. “Or he, is really and truly a fan of Vincent like I am. Because I just … I hate being lied to.”

  I don’t know why I said that. It sort of slipped out accidentally. Like a drop of ketchup slipping off the end of a hot dog. I hoped with every inch of my heart Emma wouldn’t ask me about it. She was a curious person and she’d probably be really curious about what I meant, but I didn’t want to talk about it. Maybe someday I’d feel like telling her why I hated lies so badly. Not today, though. I stared at the book, avoiding Emma’s eyes, and counting in my head, wishing the moment away. One. Two. Three.

  Emma shrugged and didn’t look at me suspiciously or anything. “I think we have to wait and see, as hard as it is. You know, Some Kid might not even live around here.” She reached for the mints on her nightstand. “They could live across the bay or in San Francisco, even.”

  I felt my shoulders drop with relief. Could she tell I hadn’t wanted to talk about the lying? Maybe, maybe not. Either way, she was a good friend. That I knew for sure.

  “I don’t think so,” I said as I accepted the mints and popped one into my palm. “The bottle didn’t have time to go that far.”

  “Juliet?”

  “Yeah?”

  “There’s no way to know if they’re lying to us,” she said in almost a whisper. “All we can do is hope for the best. Do you want to believe they’re being honest?”

  Here’s the thing about Emma. When she talks to you? It’s like a soft, warm blanket talking to you, because all you want to do is wrap yourself up in it. Soothing.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Me, too. So I say, let’s believe.”

  Sometimes a comforting, warm blanket is exactly what you need. “Okay. Sorry to be so paranoid or whatever.”

  She smiled. “It’s fine. It’s not like you get an email every day asking to be a member of a very secret club.”

  When the phone buzzed a moment later, Emma reached for it. “It’s your mom. She says: ‘Sounds good. Have fun!’ ”

  Someone knocked on the door.

  “Come in,” Emma called out.

  The door opened and Mr. Muscle, I mean, Lance, stood there, grinning sheepishly. “Emma,” he said. “You didn’t answer back when I texted you. Can you please come help me with
the pie? You’re the best at rolling out the crust.”

  “No,” she said. “If I do it, how are you going to get better at it?”

  “But that’s the thing; I’m never gonna get better at it,” he said. “It’s beyond me. I’ve tried. You know I’ve tried.”

  She looked at me. “Lance loves to eat, but he always wants the rest of us to do the work.”

  “That isn’t true,” he said. He put his hands together and pleaded. “It’ll take you five minutes. Ten, tops. I already made the dough. I just need you to work your magic and get it in the pie plate.”

  Emma sighed. “What kind are you making?”

  “Peach. With some of the peaches Mom canned last summer. It’ll be so good. You know you want some. I already told Mom to bring home some vanilla bean to go with it.”

  “Do you like peach pie?” Emma asked me.

  “I’d say it’s my second favorite.”

  She leaned forward. “You any good at rolling out the crust?”

  “Uh, I’ve never baked a pie before,” I said. “My mom says that’s what grocery store bakeries are for.”

  Emma hopped up, unzipped her hoodie, and threw it on the floor. “All right, you win, Lance. Only because Juliet’s having dinner with us tonight and she totally deserves some homemade pie.”

  “Awesome,” Lance said. He looked at me as I got to my feet. “You should come around more often, Juliet. You’re a good influence on my sister.”

  Emma gave Lance a slight shove as she walked by him. “Yeah. You got lucky this time.”

  We went downstairs and I watched as she rolled out the bottom crust. “The key is to use lots of flour,” she told Lance and me.

  For the top crust, I helped her cut the dough into strips, which she crisscrossed over the mound of peaches.

  “It looks so good,” I said when it was finished.

  “That’s for sure,” Lance said as he picked up the pie and slipped it into the oven. “Nice work.”

  “You’re welcome,” Emma said as she poked her brother in the chest.

  “Thanks. You’re the best sister ever,” he said in a very sarcastic voice.

  Emma turned to me. “Aren’t you glad you don’t have brothers?”