Catch a Falling Star (4 page)

one of those lions at the zoo that makes a quick appearance before

going back into the cave to lunch on some sort of severed piece

of meat.

Sweat trickled down my back. “Can we go now? You saw him.”

Chloe’s eyes were fixed on the door Adam Jakes had disap-

peared behind.

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“Chloe?”

She didn’t take her eyes off the set. “I’m going to see if he

comes out again.”

“Then I’m going to the river,” I told her transfixed frame.

“Blink twice if you can hear me.” No blinks. Shaking my head, I

left her standing there. I’d grab a drink at Eats and head to the

river to meet Alien Drake. That was enough celebrity sightings for

one day. Or for one life, for that matter.

Inside Little Eats, Dad stood at the counter, his back to me, talking

to a woman I didn’t recognize. He turned at the swish of the

kitchen door. “Hey, you. Back so soon?”

“Just grabbing a drink and heading to the river.” I filled a cup

with ice and tried not to stare at the counter woman.

Her dark hair was shot through with gray and frizzed out

around her head like she’d stuck her finger in a wall socket. She

had a pair of reading glasses hanging from a chain, wore a pair of

purple-rimmed glasses on her face, and had two more pairs of sun-

glasses stuck into her frizz. She was like a walking LensCrafters.

“So,” she said to Dad. “You can help me out?”

“I can make a couple calls. Maybe pull off some chicken

Caesars, maybe some cheese plates, some cookies.” She nodded

enthusiastically. Dad turned to me, his eyes the only thing betray-

ing that he’d been here since five a.m. “Can you hang out for a

second?”

“Sure.” I poured some lemonade over the ice and took a long

swallow.

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The woman scribbled a number on a napkin. “Here’s my cell

and, seriously, thanks for this.” She hurried out the front door.

“What’s up?” I asked, setting my cup down on the counter.

Dad picked up the phone and started to dial. “The movie

people need a second meal.”

“What was wrong with their first one?” I dragged a busing tray

to several of the blond wood four-tops that needed clearing.

He clamped the phone between his ear and shoulder. “They’re

running overtime and need to contract out for some extra food.”

He disappeared into the back, emerging again with three huge

bowls we used for mixing salads.

I stopped loading up the gray tub with dishes. “For tonight?”

He nodded, then said into the phone, “Henry, it’s Mike Moon,

over at Little Eats. Any chance you can have Steve run over some

romaine heads? Yeah, now. For the movie people.” He laughed at

something Henry must have said on the other end. “Yeah, right?”

He motioned for me to leave the busing. “Can you make some

Caesar dressing?”

Bye-bye, river trip. I disappeared into the kitchen.

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three

after I helped Dad organize the movie people’s second meal

and did all the dishes, I drove an extra salad over to my brother at

the Fast Mart. The night had cooled, and I shivered as bits of stars

began to peek through the dark. I watched him through the

scratched glass of the storefront. My brother — tall, broad shoul-

ders in an ash-colored T-shirt, his dark hair curling around his

ears. He hadn’t noticed me yet, so he didn’t have a chance to put

on the face he’d light just for me. The face he got before saying,

“Hey, little sis.”

The face he wanted me to think was his real face.

He was on the phone, his features pinched. Turning to lean

against the counter, he caught sight of me, his eyes widening. He

held up a single finger.
One minute
, he motioned.
Wait.

I turned from the window, studying the only other car in the

lot. A tricked-out white Honda sedan. A group of guys in beater

tanks laughed at something they were watching on one of their

phones. T.J. Shay’s friends. Which meant T.J. was somewhere

inside Fast Mart. My stomach clenched.

As if on cue, T.J. sauntered up to the counter, waiting for my

brother to get off the phone. He dumped his bag of Cheetos and

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bottle of Mountain Dew on the counter. T.J. and my brother had

been friends in elementary school, but by the time they hit middle

school T.J. had traded his Magic cards for 40s stashed in brown

paper sacks. By high school, he’d pretty much dubbed himself the

king of that certain group of rural white boys who fancied them-

selves gangsters. He’d tricked out his car and taken to cutting class

to hang with his older brother, Cory, who ran some sort of ques-

tionable “yard work” business but who never seemed to do much

more than occupy his garage.

Suddenly, T.J. reached across the counter and grabbed the

phone from my brother, who slouched back against the lottery

machine. T.J. nodded, said something to my brother, punctuating

whatever it was by chucking the phone at him. Seconds later, he

pushed through the doors, clearly not paying for his snacks.

I tried to keep my face blank.

As he sauntered by, T.J. gave me a brief once-over. “Carter,” he

leered.

“T.J.” I didn’t look at him. Eye contact with T.J. Shay usually

required a shower afterward.

The Honda squealed out of the lot as my brother joined me on

the sidewalk.

“Hey, little sis.” John pulled me into a bright-faced hug, smelling

of cigarettes and mint gum like he always did.

“What did T.J. want?” I noticed the stains of a fading bruise

under John’s left eye.

“Just needed to use the phone.” He angled his eye away from me.

“Did you remind him you talk into it rather than chuck it? I

mean, I know he’s not the sharpest knife in the drawer, but it’s

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really a simple sort of function.” I held my hand to my ear like a

phone.

John half smiled and avoided answering. “You see any of the

movie people yet?”

“They’re all over downtown like ants. You can’t miss them.”

He lit a cigarette behind his hand, as if it was the thing being

kept secret. “Did you see the famous one, the actor?”

I shrugged. “Chloe dragged me to the set today, and he came

out of a shop for about five seconds.” A stray lock of hair had

escaped my ponytail, and I tucked it behind my ear.

“That is so cool. I bet he’s loaded. How much money do you

think he has on him at all times?” John stared off in the direction

of T.J.’s exit.

I shrugged, not at all liking the direction of this conversation.

“I’m not really privy to Adam Jakes’s financial habits.”

John flicked some ash in the general direction of the outside

garbage can. “Maybe he’ll come into the café.”

“Actually, Dad and I ended up making a bunch of salads and

stuff for the set tonight.” I’d smell like garlic for two days to prove it.

He looked impressed. “Seriously? Like working for them? You

should have called me.”

“You were here.” I didn’t mention Dad wouldn’t have offered

him any work even if it hadn’t been last minute. “We just helped

out — some salads, a cheese plate, some cookies. We had about an

hour to pull it off. It’s not like we’re dining daily with Adam Jakes

and his entourage.” I coughed loudly and made a show of waving

the smoke away from my face.

He blew the next stream of smoke to the side. “Can you

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imagine having that much money? How much do you think he car-

ries around with him?”

“What did T.J. want?” I asked again.

His eyes darkened.

“Who was that on the phone?” I tried to get him to look at me.

He stubbed out his cigarette, turning serious eyes on me, his

body tense. “You a reporter now? You doing a cover story?”

I watched the sky as it bruised with evening, slipping toward

black, a thin slash of pale light still lining the horizon of pine trees

like a halo. Even from the crappy Fast Mart, our town could be so

beautiful. No wonder they wanted to shoot a Christmas movie

here. Maybe they came just to film that sky. I held up the salad.

“Have you eaten? I brought you some extra.”

He relaxed his shoulders, tapping out another cigarette but not

lighting it. “I can eat something here.”

“Nutritious.” I chewed my lip, already feeling the air loosening

between us, and held the salad to him. “Come on, despite the obvi-

ous appeal of a Ho Ho and Funyuns dinner, you love Caesar salad.”

He pulled his free hand from his jeans pocket. “Thanks, sis,”

he said, taking the bag. “I do love me some Caesar.”

The phone began echoing inside the Fast Mart, its trill muffled.

His eyes darted toward the sound. “I gotta get back.”

I didn’t stick around to watch him answer it.

I preferred my brother’s fake face.

The light in my closet had burned out. I ran to the basement,

grabbed a box of bulbs, and, returning, scooted a chair close enough

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so I could replace it. Extra Pickles watched me intently from his

perch on my bed, his tail thumping. “There,” I told him, the closet

flooding with light. He wagged his approval. I searched the shelves

for the old quilt I wanted to bring for star watching tonight. As I

pulled it from the top shelf, a pale satin bag slipped out with it,

landing first on my head, and then on the floor beside me. A

familiar tug pulled at my chest. Reaching down, I picked it up, the

fabric slippery in my hands.

My dance bag.

I’d shoved it back there over a year ago, not wanting to throw

it out with some of my other dance stuff. I turned it over, running

my fingers over the frayed dark blue stitching of my name in the

bottom corner. Inside, I could feel the rounded lump of my first

pair of pointe shoes. Mom had made the bag out of the costume I’d

worn in
The Nutcracker
the first time I danced Snow, the ice-blue

satin almost white. She’d stitched my first name and appliquéd a

lemon slice of moon next to that, a few bright stars pocking the

fabric around it. I’d carried it to class almost every day for five

years.

I tried to push the ache back down, away from where it pawed

at my heart, remembering Mom’s suggestion about checking in

with Nicky. When I’d quit, I’d filled two black garbage bags with

leotards, costumes, shoes, and posters, and told Mom to donate

them, but I couldn’t get rid of this bag or those shoes inside it,

so I’d pushed them far and away and forgotten about them behind

the quilt.

“Carter? You coming?” Chloe called up the stairs. “What’re

you doing?”

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“Nothing!” I hid the bag between some hanging clothes. “Be

right there.” Extra Pickles cocked his head, his ears alert. “Don’t

look at me like that,” I told him, clicking off the light.

“How’s John?” Alien Drake settled down next to me on the quilt.

Chloe peeked out from behind the telescope he’d positioned for

her, eyebrows raised.

We didn’t usually talk about my brother, but they knew I’d

just seen him. I studied the stretch of dark sky above me, my eyes

soothed by the dim twinkle of stars, the cool bath of night air. “It’s

been pretty mellow for a while, which worries me. You know

John. He goes through waves.”

Alien Drake gave my arm a squeeze, then moved on to dig

through the grocery bag we’d hauled onto the roof. After extract-

ing a bag of Doritos, he popped them open, the air infused with

sudden nacho cheese. Next door, the neighbor’s sprinklers went

on, drowning out the sound of the creek behind the house. “Did

he end up seeing that counselor? That one your mom found?” He

chewed a handful of chips. Alien Drake always seemed to devour

food rather than eat it, huge quantities disappearing in seconds.

“He did. At least we think he did.” My parents didn’t go with

him to the meetings anymore. “He said he did.”

I didn’t miss the look Chloe and Alien Drake exchanged.

At sixteen John had been diagnosed as a compulsive gambler

and had spent the last three years in and out of various support

programs. He’d burned through too much money to count and had

severed most of his relationship with my parents when he’d stolen

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from the café safe at the end of my sophomore year. Chloe and

Alien Drake had gone through most of it with me, talking to me

when I wanted to talk, but also just knowing when to
not
talk

about it.

Right now was starting to feel like one of those times.

“That’s good,” Chloe offered, peering back into the telescope.

Alien Drake must have sensed my unease because he changed

the subject. “Oh, I was going to tell you, I had a great idea for

our blog.”

Relieved, I sat up. “What is it?”

“Well, obviously we should mention something about

Hollywood being here. Sky stars. Movie stars. It’d be a good

topic.” Chloe and I waited for him to elaborate; sometimes it took

a while to see where Alien Drake was going with an idea.