Every Soul a Star Page 3

  With one last backward glance, I hurry into the van and shut the door quickly behind me. In order to fit on the seat I have to push aside one of the many cardboard boxes filled with copies of Mom and Dad’s book, Dark Matters, which they store in the van for when they do speaking engagements. I glance in the back to see why the boxes aren’t in their usual spot and discover the back is filled with folding tables and poster boards.

  “What are those for?” Melanie asks, following my gaze. It always surprises me that she is interested in what my parents do. They and I have an unspoken agreement: I don’t pry into their lives, they don’t pry into mine. Works out just fine.

  My parents share a glance as Dad pulls up to a red light. Then Mom says, “That’s what we need to talk to you girls about.” Another glance. I swear my dad’s eyes are twinkling. I’m starting to get nervous. Mom continues, “We’re having a garage sale. In two days.”

  I relax into the seat. My parents get excited about the strangest things. “What’s the big deal?” I ask. “We’ve had garage sales before.”

  “This one is going to be a little bigger,” Dad says after a pause. Before I can ask what he means, he pulls the van into the park near our house and turns off the engine. It bangs and sputters before quieting. I cringe.

  “Are we going on the merry-go-round?” Melanie asks, bouncing up and down in her seat like a little kid. I roll my eyes.

  “Let’s go sit in the gazebo,” Mom suggests, only it’s more like a command. I can always count on her not to make us sit on the grass. She’s very squeamish about bugs. I don’t like them either, but for me it’s about the dirt. I’ve very anti-dirt. Especially in white.

  Melanie jumps out of the car and I reluctantly follow. How did my first day of summer vacation turn into Family Day? Mom has a thick blanket tucked under her arm, which she spreads out on the floor of the gazebo. She gestures for us to sit.

  Mom takes a deep breath and says, “Your father and I have some big news.”

  “I knew it!” Melanie yells, and pops up. “We’re moving! It’s finally happening.”

  I hear the words coming out of her mouth, but they honestly don’t register. A really cute guy with the broadest shoulders I’ve ever seen has started jogging on the path around the gazebo. He’d be a total ten if his shorts weren’t quite so short. They’re so last summer.

  Dad puts his arm around Melanie’s shoulder and squeezes. “Yes! And the best part is, we’re going to be staying at a campground. Managing the place, in fact, for the next three years while we’re doing our research nearby. You’ll love it there. You’ll learn tons of things you could never learn here in the suburbs. It’s going to be wonderful.”

  Something about a campground trickles into my brain. “Huh?” I ask, turning my head back to the group. “Did I miss something? Are we going on vacation? Because my job starts next week and I —”

  Melanie plops down next to me. “Bree! Didn’t you hear? We’re moving! To a campground! Isn’t it great? You used to love camping when we were little, remember? You won that nature trophy in camp and —”

  If I wasn’t already on the ground I swear I would seriously faint. I yell so loudly my voice echoes in my head. “We’re WHAT???”

  JACK

  2

  “Are you gonna stay in there all night?” Mike calls up to me from the bottom of the tree. I wish I actually could stay up here all night. Mom never lets me sleep in the treehouse. She thinks I’ll sleepwalk right out into the air.

  I pretend I don’t hear him over the loud chirping of the crickets. I focus on my book. I have two pages left of a Ray Bradbury short story. It’s about this girl who lives in a world where the sun almost never shines. She hasn’t seen it in five years. Then these bullies lock her in a closet when the sun is about to come out. I have to find out if they let her out in time to see it.

  “Jack!” Mike calls up again. “I can see you up there!”

  For the zillionth time I bemoan the lack of privacy. SD2 (Stepdad number two) left before we built a door to the treehouse, so there’s just an open hole where anyone can look in. I know my way around a toolbox, but I can’t build things from scratch. SD3 was more of a deep thinker. He couldn’t tell a hammer from a nail, but I can thank him for teaching me how to wake up in my dreams without waking up for real. He called it lucid dreaming. It’s because of him that I can fly. He taught me how to tell the difference between the real world and when you’re dreaming. And when you learn to recognize the difference, you can control your dreams. You can do all sorts of things, but I like to fly. When I’m flying, I don’t weigh anything at all.

  So far there’s been no SD4. I wonder what he’ll be like, if there is one.

  “Just ten more minutes!” I call down. “Hold your horses.”

  I turn back to the book. The girl misses the sun. I can’t believe it. I feel so angry and sad for her. I wish I could write stories like that, where you feel something after you finish reading them. I’m no good at writing though, but I’m really good at drawing spaceships and little green men. Not that I let anyone see them. If Mom knew I could draw she’d sign me up for art classes to “build my confidence” or “raise my self-esteem” or one of the other phrases I’ve overheard the guidance counselors say to her over the years.

  I close the book and stick it in the corner next to my stash of Ranch-flavored Doritos and Orange Crush. Mom doesn’t let me eat junk food since the doctor said I should watch my weight. But she never comes up here. Fear of heights, which works out well for me.

  I’m about to pop the top off a can of soda when I hear Mike climbing the rickety stairs to the treehouse. I’m surprised he hasn’t given up bugging me. Usually at this time his girlfriend Suzy is over and they’re in his room “studying.” Of course he’d be dating the pret-tiest girl in school. Who else? I’ll probably never get to “study” with a girl.

  The stairs give a final creak as Mike reaches the top. “Yo. I’m giving you a heads-up here. One of your teachers is on the phone. So whatever you did, you might want to think of a good excuse before you go back into the house.”

  I sit up at this news, almost hitting my head on one of the hard wooden beams. My mind races with things I could have done wrong. Yesterday was the last day of school. Did I skip gym? Well, sure, but it was the last day. A lot of kids skipped. Did I pick up my report card? Yup. My homeroom teacher handed it to me, and I chucked it in the garbage can on my way out. Then when I remembered how mad Mom was last time I did that, I went back in and dug it out. Ray Smitty had already thrown gum on it. Did I leave an old tuna sandwich wedged in the corner of my locker? No, but I know the kid who did. Did someone see me drawing that spaceship on my desk? I don’t think so. I had my Earth Science notebook up the whole time. Plus it was in pencil, so it’s not really a big deal.

  So why was one of my teachers calling me?

  I scramble down the ladder, narrowly avoiding the bottom step, which has a large crack running through it. It’s going to break under my weight any day now. I find Mom in the kitchen, holding the cordless phone toward me. Surprisingly, she doesn’t look mad. There’s a mixture of amusement and surprise on her face. Weird.

  “It’s your science teacher,” she says. “He has a question to ask you.”

  Okay, so if it’s Mr. Silver that means it’s about the spaceship after all. I wonder what the punishment is for drawing on school property. He already failed me, dooming me to summer school—what more can he do? Although to be fair, he really did give me a lot of chances to bring my grades up. If only I’d remembered to include Saturn in my model of the solar system, I might have squeaked by with a D. If only science wasn’t right after lunch. I get so tired after lunch. When I don’t make a move to take the phone, Mom pushes it into my hand. Bracing for the worst, I say, “Hello?”

  “Hello, Jack,” Mr. Silver says.

  It’s very surreal hearing a teacher’s voice on the other end of my phone when school is out for summer. Well, out for the kids
who actually paid attention in class. Maybe I fell asleep in the treehouse and am dreaming this whole thing. I push my feet into the ground, but can’t lift into the air. Okay, so I’m not dreaming.

  “Jack,” he continues, “I have an offer for you. I’d like you to participate in a very special scientific project this summer.”

  Oh, NOW I know what’s going on. Before he can say any more I jump in. “Mr. Silver, this is Jack Rosten. You’re looking for Jack Rosen.” Rosen gets straight A’s in science. Teachers confuse us all the time. But only our names. That’s the only thing that’s similar between us. I’m about to hang up the phone when he laughs.

  “I assure you, I know who I called. Would you like to listen to my proposal? If you’re not interested, no hard feelings.”

  “I’m listening,” I say, only half meaning it. I’m already thinking about getting back to my book. Plus I’m still pretty sure he has the wrong guy.

  “I’d like to offer you the chance to come with me on a two-week eclipse tour that I’m leading this summer,” he says. “You’d be my right-hand man. The kid who was supposed to come broke his wrist skateboarding. You don’t skateboard, do you, Jack?”

  I don’t answer. Anyone who knows me knows I’m not about to get on a skateboard. He continues as though I’ve responded, as though I’m possibly going to say yes to whatever it is he’s talking about.

  “Good,” he says. “Because this is a very important job. No room for broken bones. And I hope you don’t mind roughing it. Camping for two weeks isn’t for the faint of heart. I’m also going to need your help setting up the equipment, monitoring the telescopes, making sure the rest of the participants have what they need, things like that. I can’t pay you, but it’s free room and board.”

  What is this guy TALKING about? “Um, what are you talking about?” I ask.

  He laughs again. “Let me make myself clearer. I’m inviting you to join me and thirty others, for a two-week eclipse tour up north. I’ll be doing some scientific experiments during that time, and at the end is the big solar eclipse we talked about in class.”

  I remember him talking a few weeks ago about some eclipse. He seemed really excited about it. I don’t remember any details though, since we weren’t going to be tested on it.

  “And you know the best part?” he asks.

  I can’t imagine why he’s asking me, of all people, to do this. Maybe he lost a bet with the other teachers so he has to pick the most loser-ish kid. “What?”

  “The best part,” he says dramatically, “is that if you participate in the program, and write a short paper at the end, you’ll get out of summer school.”

  I blink.

  “Think about it,” he continues. “Two weeks in the wilderness, camping under the stars. And then witnessing firsthand a total eclipse of the sun, the most amazing spectacle in the entire solar system.”

  My heart starts racing. All I can think is, no summer school! I glance up at my mother, who smiles hesitantly. “It’s up to you,” she says in a loud whisper.

  I turn back to the phone. “Just so I heard you right, if I do this, I don’t have to go to summer school? You’re sure?”

  “I’m sure.”

  My mind races with the other things Mr. Silver said. Camping. I like camping. I used to be a Boy Scout until I was nine. That was the summer the kids joked about who they would eat if they were trapped in the wilderness. Guess who they said would feed the most people? I quit after that. Witnessing an eclipse? So it gets dark in the middle of the day. It gets dark every single night. Not sure what the big deal is. But who am I to say no to a chance to be outside for two whole weeks without Mom or Mike bugging me? And if it will keep me from summer school, heck, it’s a pretty easy decision.

  “When do we leave?” I ask.

  “Well, that’s the thing,” he says, hesitating for the first time. “The bus leaves from the town hall parking lot tomorrow morning at nine.”

  “Tomorrow morning?” I repeat. Mom hears me and kicks into gear. She reaches up and starts taking cans of food out of the cabinets.

  “I’m real sorry for the last-minute notice,” he says. “I can give your mom a list of things to pack for you.”

  “Can I just ask you one more thing?”

  “Ask away.”

  “Why me? Lots of kids would be better at something like this than me.”

  “How do you know that? I happen to think you’re the guy for the job, that’s all.”

  I find it hard to believe I’m the guy for ANY job. I just hope when he sees me he doesn’t realize he’s got the wrong kid after all. I give Mom the phone to get the packing list.

  Mike follows me down the hall to my room. “So what was that all about?” he asks.

  “My science teacher wants me to go on some eclipse trip with him,” I say with a shrug. “No big deal.” I say it like it doesn’t matter, but it kind of IS a big deal. One minute the summer is one way, and the next it’s a whole other way.

  “Sounds like a big deal to me,” Mike says, watching me as I try to yank my duffel bag from the back of my closet. It’s buried under my winter sweaters and a box of old toys. “Who else is going?”

  I stop pulling on the duffel’s handle. “I don’t know,” I admit. “I didn’t get a chance to ask.”

  “What if it’s you and the teacher and, like, fifty old people?”

  “It doesn’t matter.” I give the bag another yank, freeing it. I plan on keeping to myself as much as possible anyway.

  “Whatever you say.” Mike glances at his watch. “It’s gonna be quiet around here without your stupid Game Boy beeping and buzzing all day long. Why do you still play with that thing? Do they even make games for it anymore?”

  I grin. “Is insulting my GBA your way of saying you’ll miss me?” Mike pushes me around and all, but he’s always looked out for me. I unzip my bag, grimacing a little at the musty odor. I haven’t used it since the Boy Scouts voted me Best Dinner Option. “I’m sure Suzy will keep you company,” I point out. “Shouldn’t she be here by now?”

  “What’s it to you?” he asks, his voice suddenly hardening.

  “Nothing, jeez.”

  “Whatever,” he says, and stomps off down the hall.

  I shrug. I have bigger concerns than whether Mike and his girlfriend are on the rocks. Like whether I have enough batteries for my Game Boy to last two weeks.

  Mom hurries into the room, waving a piece of notebook paper. She rattles off the list so quickly the words blend together. “Long pants, shorts, t-shirts, long-sleeved shirts, hiking boots, umbrella, heavy jacket, hooded sweatshirts, sneakers, a bathing suit, underwear, socks, detergent, backpack, notebook, pens, pencils, ruler, calculator, flashlight, bath stuff, first aid kit, compass, pocket knife, bug repellent, sunblock, toolbox, sleeping bag, water purifier, snacks for the bus, canteen, and a camera.” She lays the paper on my bed and then plops down next to it. “It’s going to be a long night,” she says. “You’re sure you want to do this, right? You’ve never been away from home this long.”

  “I’m sure.”

  “Good,” she says, jumping up and pulling open my top drawer. “I think you’ll get a lot out of it. Going away with a big tour group is a very social experience.” She starts tossing socks onto the bed.

  I sigh. It always comes around to me being social. Or not social enough, to be specific.

  I pause from throwing my socks into the duffel to look at her. I forget sometimes how young she is because she’s really tired from all her jobs, and from taking care of us. She had Mike right after high school, so she’s a really young mom compared to other kids’ moms at school. Not having me around to worry about for two weeks will give her a break, even though she’d never admit it. Maybe she’ll find SD4.

  I leave Mom to work on the packing while I go out to the treehouse. It’s almost fully dark out now and I can see a few stars. It’s weird to think I’m going to be staring up at them every night, and studying them or whatever I’m suppos
ed to be doing. I usually avoid looking up at them at all. The stars just make me feel even more insignificant than I already feel.

  I hurry up the ladder and grab my stash of junk food, my book, my flashlight, and my dream journal. I hide the journal up here because I don’t want Mike to read it and make fun of me. Writing down my dreams makes it easier for me to recognize them when they’re happening. I can see patterns. SD3 said I’m a natural at it. No one else ever said I’m a natural at anything. I don’t know why he left. I don’t know why any of them left. SD3 had tried to interest Mike in the whole lucid dream thing, but Mike was too busy with his sports. It was our previous stepdad, SD2, who had taught Mike how to play baseball. Mostly what I remember about SD2 is that he smelled like onions and peppermint. Personally, I’d rather be able to fly than be a first baseman.

  I shine the flashlight around the treehouse to make sure I’m not leaving anything important. I’m about to click it off when I see a pinkish-brown stuffed ear sticking out from the corner. I quickly grab the bunny and tuck him under my arm with the rest of the things to bring with me. If anyone at the campground asks, I’ll say I’ve never seen the old, ratty stuffed bunny before. I sure as heck won’t tell them that it used to belong to my dad when he was a baby and that he left it in my crib when he took off. And I definitely won’t tell them that I say good night to it every night before I go to sleep.

  It’s just too pathetic.

  ALLY

  3

  I close the logbook and place it on the desk in Mom’s office. It had taken all day and most of the evening to get the Unusuals ready. I’m exhausted, but it’s been dark for an hour already and I’m itching to see Eta, Glenn, and Peggy. I need to talk to them about what my dad said about my necklace. Whenever I crossed paths with my parents today, I felt like they were always about to say something, and then changed their minds. Kenny thinks I’m just being paranoid. Kenny knows a lot of big words for a ten-year-old.