Every Soul a Star (7 page)

“I can’t part with anything!” I yell.

“I’m sure that’s not true,” she calls back. “All your magazines are a fire hazard, and they’ll have to go.”

All my
Vogues
and
Vanity Fairs
? All my
Entertainment Weeklys
? “They’re only a fire hazard if someone lights them on fire!” I squeeze my eyes shut tight against the tears.

Mom ignores my very logical argument and says, “Any item of clothing you haven’t worn in two years goes in there since you’ll have outgrown them.”

I’m already the tallest girl in the eighth grade. Chances are I’m not growing much more. It took years of saving my allowance and birthday money to build up my wardrobe, and all the belts and shoes and bags and jewelry to go with them. “I better keep everything,” I argue. “You know, for Melanie.”

Silence from the other side of the door. We both know Melanie would never wear my clothes. It wouldn’t kill the kid to wear something other than old jeans and t-shirts once and a while.

After another hour of feeling hideously sorry for myself, I bring the boxes into my room. Melanie has already filled one up and placed it outside her door. I’m sure no one expects me to donate anything since they’re always saying how materialistic I am. Well I’ll prove them wrong! I pull down everything from my shelves, the trophies from summer camp that everyone wins even if you’re the worst athlete there, the dried-out arts and crafts projects, my old collection of four-leaf clovers, trophies and dusty candles and seashells and broken toys. I toss them all into the biggest box and push it into the hall without a second glance. I don’t know why I’ve kept that stuff so long anyway. None of it says anything about who I am today.

It takes two hours, but I manage to cut out all the pictures from my magazine collection that I want to keep. Clearly I’ll have plenty of time to tape them into my Book once we get to Purgatory, which is how I’ve begun to think of the campground. We learned in English class that Purgatory is the place where souls go to wait before being sent on to their final destination. That’s like me. My life is being put on hold for three whole years. It’s so unfair.

I continue tearing through my room, pulling clothes out of drawers and off hangers. Who knew I had so many shoes? But when I’m done going through all my clothes, I’m still left with not being able to part with most of it. I start to go through my CD collection and then realize all of them are loaded on my iPod. I pile them neatly in a box and slide it next to the other one outside my door. Melanie still only has the one box. Granted, she had a lot less stuff than me to begin with, but whose fault is that? Not mine.

I don’t say a word at dinner. Dad had picked up pizza, which is apparently something else that I won’t have for three years since not even Domino’s delivers to Purgatory. Melanie chatters on about how excited she is to learn how to use a telescope and to hike through the trails and it’s all I can do to keep from crying again.

The garage sale is horrible. I watch from my bedroom window as our furniture and dishes and silverware get snatched up by strangers. It’s not like it was even that nice to begin with, since Mom and Dad were never big on buying fancy things. But still, it was
ours.
Who knows what the furniture in our new house will look like? Supposedly the people who are there now are leaving most of it for us. I watch as the pimply guy from the local record store buys up all my CDs for one dollar each. I’m sure he’ll sell them for a hefty profit. Someone even buys my old soccer trophy from camp! What’s wrong with these people?

When the last bookshelf has been carted away, Mom and Dad count the money at our kitchen table, which is practically the only thing they didn’t sell. When all the crumpled bills are sorted into piles, they do a little dance around the kitchen.

“Now we can buy that new spectrometer,” Mom says gleefully.

“Not to mention pay our bills and moving costs,” Dad says, twirling her around. “We should have done this years ago!”

I don’t point out that had we done this years ago, we’d have no where to sit or put our stuff and nothing to cut our food with. Mom gets on the phone with the people who will be renting our house, and Dad goes out to the driveway to tinker with the van. He’s going to leave a few days early with all their research equipment and meet us at the closest airport, which is still four hours away from Purgatory. He asked if I wanted to drive with him, but since I’m currently not speaking to anyone, I don’t think I’d be very good company. Plus there’s no way that van isn’t going to break down on the road, and I don’t need to be a part of that.

The next few days pass in a haze. I feel like a zombie in my own life. The house is bare. All our stuff, including my clothes and Mel’s precious books, has been sent ahead. Dad is gone. Melanie is so excited to fly that she is able to talk of nothing else. Claire is still in Florida, but the rest of the A-Cliquers come to pay their last respects. Lara Rudy asks if I’m taking my pink Abercrombie t-shirt with the lace on the bottom. I had actually packed it in the one small bag Mom is letting us each bring on the plane. I figure if I give it to her, maybe she won’t try to steal Claire from me. So I dig into my bag and hand it to her. She squeals and runs into the bathroom to put it on. Lara’s only a 7.5 on her best day, so at least the shirt won’t look better on her than it did on me.

Waking up on the last day in our house is the hardest. I don’t want to get out of bed. Melanie runs in and jumps on the bed. “Get up, get up, it’s time to go!” Then she hops off and skips across the room. Honestly, the girl is more like five than eleven. I make it downstairs in time to hear my mom say into the phone, “Thank you again, but as I’ve said, it’s not going to be possible. We’re moving quite far away. Thank you for your interest in Bree.” Then she hangs up and seems surprised to see me standing there.

“What was that about? Who was on the phone?”

She looks like she’d rather not say, but I don’t budge. “That was someone from some class they said you went to on modeling?”

I redden, then press on. “And?”

“They were just calling to offer you a place in a course they’re giving.”

“Really?” I KNEW that woman had noticed me!

“Don’t get too excited,” Mom says, putting out the last of the bagels. “I’m sure they call everyone who attended. It’s probably a scam.”

I open my mouth to argue, but what if she’s right? I can’t even ask Claire if she got the call, because if she didn’t, it would be awkward.

“Can I still do it?” I ask, holding my breath.

“What do you think?” Mom says.

“I think this whole thing bites!” I say, and storm out. My iPod remains on from the moment we leave the house to the moment the flight attendant says to turn off all electrical devices. I’m squished between Mom and Melanie, who is chomping loudly on honey-roasted peanuts and pointing out each type of cloud as we fly overhead. When we first came on the plane we had to walk through first class and it was soooo nice. Roomy leather seats. Foot rests. And a cute guy in a college t-shirt checked me out. I might be the best-dressed person on the plane in my strappy sandals and pink cami and wraparound skirt. Everyone else looks like slobs in sweats or jeans or shorts. I firmly believe one should always look their best, no matter what the circumstances are. If I wasn’t being sent to Purgatory, I might have flirted with College T-shirt Guy.

Melanie keeps poking me and reading passages from a book about eclipses. “Listen to this one,” she says, not waiting for a response. “In the middle of watching a solar eclipse, this woman says, ‘If it could be repeated every day for a year, I would never budge from where I stood.’ That must mean it’s pretty amazing.”

“Trust me,” I say, closing my eyes, “I’ll be able to budge.”

Dad is waiting for us in baggage claim when we arrive. He looks tired, but he perks up when he sees us. Melanie goes running into his arms. I grunt a hello. I look for College T-shirt Guy when we land, but I don’t see him. Flirting would at least be something to do. Even the airport is in the middle of nowhere. Cornfields and distant mountains and cows. It feels strange to see Dad’s van parked in front of such an unfamiliar place. It bucks and grunts as he turns the key, but it feels a little like home.

After a few hours we arrive in a little town that as far as I can tell consists of two streets with a diner, a video store, a Laundromat, and a tiny market. We pull into the diner. I’m surprised to see the parking lot is full.

“We’re about fifty miles from the Moon Shadow,” Dad says as a little bell rings to announce our arrival inside.

“What’s the Moon Shadow?” I ask hoarsely. Then I clamp my mouth shut, remembering my vow of silence.

“That’s the name of the campsite,” Melanie says, bouncing on her heels. “Because during a solar eclipse the moon’s shadow covers the earth. Isn’t it a great name?”

“Fab,” I mutter.

A waitress appears and leads us to the one empty booth. I bet they don’t even have bottled water here. I’ll die of thirst before I drink a soda. I can’t help wondering who all these people are. Some old, some young, some even speaking foreign languages. They can’t possibly all live out here. As if reading my thoughts, she waves her arm around the room and says, “Eclipse chasers. Come a few weeks early. I ’spect you all doing the same?”

Melanie and I slide into the booth as Dad says, “Actually we’re here to take over the Moon Shadow Campground.”

The woman hands me a plastic menu and then pauses. “Really now? I didn’t know the Summers family was leaving. Where they goin’ then?”

“We’re not sure,” Dad says, looking to Mom, who shakes her head.

“The Midwest, I think,” she says. “This all happened very suddenly. In fact they’re not even expecting us for another week. We figured we’d come a little early so we can learn how things are run before the eclipse.”

Another WEEK? We didn’t have to be here for another week? I fume into my menu, which is sticky with ketchup.

Once the waitress leaves, Dad nudges me and says, “You might want to try the meat loaf with gravy fries. It gets cold up here in the winter. You need to put some meat on your bones.”

I stare at him as if he’s just suggested I sprout wings and fly through the air. I can’t put meat on my bones and expect to be ready to model when we get back to civilization. Then it hits me. Maybe being in Purgatory is, like, my test. It’s not easy being a model. You have to watch what you eat all the time; you have to compete with all the other girls; you have to stand really still while bossy designers nip and tuck clothes around you. Plus you get really jet-lagged flying around the world. If I can handle this, I’ll know I have what it takes to put up with all the hardships that go with life as a supermodel. Maybe it won’t be so bad. After all, I can appreciate natural beauty. It will give me plenty of time to practice my runway strut. And without the smog from the city, I bet my complexion will be totally clear.

Oh, who am I kidding? It’s gonna suck.

JACK

3

The ride to the bus is quiet. I’m in the backseat of Mom’s Toyota, staring out the window. Most of the town is still asleep. Mike is in the front seat as usual. You’d think that since we’re in the car because of me, he’d let me sit in the front. But no. He never thinks of things like that.

“I’m not pushing you into this, right?” Mom says, glancing at me through the rearview mirror. “It’s your choice to go?”

Mom has asked me this three times since Mr. Sil-ver’s call. “Yes, Mom, it’s my choice. Don’t worry, I’ll be fine.”

“I’m not worried,” she says. But she clearly is. I don’t have a great track record with school trips. In sixth grade she had to come pick me up from Six Flags because Timmy Johnson bet me I couldn’t eat ten hot dogs. I ate eleven, and threw up all over the tilt-a-whirl and half the riders. Then last year my history class went to a museum, and I thought a piece of modern art was a trash can and spit my gum into it. That didn’t go over well either. But I’m older and wiser now. I plan on keeping a low profile and staying out of trouble. Plus Timmy Johnson—or anyone else—wouldn’t bother to bet me anything now since they don’t notice me at all.

We pull into the town hall parking lot and I see the bus idling in front. I feel a little flutter in my stomach, followed by a big flutter. Mom gets out, but I don’t move from my seat. I pat the pockets of my jacket to make sure my book and sketch pad and Game Boy are still there. Mr. Silver is standing by the side of the bus, checking people in with a clipboard. Am I crazy to be doing this? What if I’m totally useless and Mr. Silver fires me and Mom has to drive hundreds of miles to pick me up? I don’t want to let her down again. I don’t want to be grounded again. For me being grounded means I can’t go into the treehouse.

Mike gets out of the car, and I have no choice but to follow. He’s already grabbed my duffel from the trunk by the time I reach it. He plops it on the ground in front of me. “I have something for you,” he says, handing me a red folder. “I thought you might want to learn a thing or two about eclipses before you got there. You know, so you won’t feel left out.”

I open the folder and flip through the pages. There are three articles: “Elements of a Solar Eclipse,” “What to Look for During a Total Solar Eclipse,” and “Three Thousand Miles for Three Minutes of Totality.” There are diagrams and photographs, too. I couldn’t be more surprised. “Where did you get these?”

“I downloaded them early this morning.”

We stand there awkwardly for a minute, looking around the parking lot. Mike was right, most of the people taking bags out of their cars are over fifty. But there are a few younger groups, and one family with a kid who looks around six years old. Mom approaches with Mr. Silver. I’ve never seen him in shorts and a t-shirt before. He looks younger than he does in school, not much older than my mom. I hold my breath. Now he’s going to realize he’s got the wrong guy. But he just swings my duffel over his shoulder and says, “Ready for the adventure of a lifetime?”

I glance at Mike and he gives me a little shove. “I guess I am,” I reply, clutching the folder. Mom gives me a hug and slips five twenty-dollar bills in my hand. “For emergencies,” she says. “And snacks.”