A Handful of Stars

Everyone says it was over instantly. I hope that’s true. I hope it happened so fast that she and the moose didn’t have even one second to be scared.

  “It’s too bad she didn’t stay in Florida,” Salma said. “We don’t have moose there.”

  “Yeah, but after Florida she went to New York. That’s where she met my dad. So if she had stayed in Florida, I wouldn’t be here,” I said. “I don’t remember her, though. I was only two when it happened.”

  And that feels like the biggest cheat. I had her every day for two years, but I don’t remember. I wonder sometimes, if time travel were real and I could magically go back and meet her when she was my age, would we like each other? I’ve always been scared that I’d like her, but she wouldn’t like me back. She’d think I was boring.

  Salma put her arm through mine. “Mama says people can feel it when you think of them. It’s like a warm feeling that suddenly comes over them,” she said. “So I think of Luna every day.”

  I don’t know if that’s true, but being with Salma made me want to believe it. I imagined Mama as hard as I could: my big-thinker, blueberry queen Mama, packing Lucky and me in her car to come home to Mémère and Pépère.

  Could Mama feel that warm feeling? Was she somewhere in Heaven above the stars, knowing she was in my heart?

  “Maybe you should plant tiger lilies here,” Salma said.

  “I don’t think the cemetery association lets you plant things. They need to be able to mow,” I explained. “Plus, lilies grow wild along the roadsides here. They’re weeds.”

  “Only because somebody said so,” Salma said. “Lilies are proud and sassy. They don’t know they’re weeds.” She gave me a huge grin. “And the cemetery association couldn’t keep weeds out, right? Weeds grow where they want.”

  I imagined a patch of tiger lilies under the ground all winter and blooming every summer for Mama. A burst of orange among the blue, green, pink, and gray.

  The sun was getting lower over the trees on the far side of the barrens. Salma went to work near the fence. With one hand she held her rake and the other swung free, her gold nails flashing in the sunlight. I wondered if she’d painted them herself or if her mom had done hers, too.

  I picked up the extra rake and joined her. Most times when I gathered berries I picked them one at a time with my fingers. The rake felt heavy as I pushed the tines into bushes near the ground and pulled up and back through the tiny branches. “Raking is so much faster than picking.” I tipped the rake so the berries would roll down and collect near the handle.

  “Much faster,” Salma said. “But my arms and shoulders feel it every night. Ever since you showed me the star on the top of the blueberries, I imagine that I’m gathering stars, not blueberries. Bins and bins full of stars.”

  Holding the rake above my bucket, I watched the leaves blow off sideways in the breeze as the blueberries rolled down, plinking into the bucket. “Did you ever read that picture book, Blueberries for Sal? It’s from a long time ago. Sal is a little girl and her mom takes her blueberry picking.”

  “No. Is her name Salma?”

  “Maybe,” I said. “I don’t think it says—just Little Sal. Anyway, Pépère used to read me the story. I still have the book.”

  It was Mama’s book. Sometimes I opened it just to see her name written inside. “Little Sal and her mom go blueberry picking on a hill, and Sal keeps eating berries,” I explained as we raked. “Her mom walks too far ahead and she thinks Sal is still behind her. But Sal has slowed down because she’s eating blueberries. Also, there’s a mother bear and her cub, Little Bear, eating berries on the same hill. Neither mom knows the other is there. Sal ends up wandering over near Little Bear’s mother and Little Bear goes over near Sal’s mother. Both moms think it’s their own baby behind them until they turn around.”

  “Then what happens?” Salma asked.

  “They both get a big surprise! Then they get their own kid back.”

  I wish that book were real, except for the bear parts. I wish Mama could just turn around and realize she’d gone too far ahead without me. Then she’d come back to find me.

  “Is that all?” Salma asked. “That’s the whole story?”

  All? “Well, yeah. It’s a happy ending. Everyone was back where they belonged.”

  “It’s only a happy ending if you like where you belong,” Salma said. “Do you always want to live here?”

  “Maybe when I’m grown up I’ll live somewhere else,” I said. “But Mémère and Pépère are here. I’d want to be able to see them and come here to visit Mama. So I don’t think I’d move too far away.”

  “I wish I felt like that,” Salma said. “One of the worst parts of moving around is that the only place I feel like I really belong is in our car. I like the idea that if I won the pageant, it would matter that I’d been here. I wouldn’t just be another kid who came to rake blueberries and then everyone forgot.”

  “I won’t forget you. And neither will Lucky.” A pinprick of guilt poked at me because Salma was helping me make money for Lucky’s surgery, and she had reasons she needed money, too. But Lucky’s surgery cost so much. There wouldn’t be any extra that I could give her. It hurts to want two things, but know that you can’t have them both. But I couldn’t give up on Lucky. He needed me.

  “You can visit me and Luna when I get my little house someday,” Salma said. “You can bring Lucky with you.”

  I nodded, but I knew the truth. Lucky was already old. He wouldn’t be with me when I was a grown-up. And neither would Luna. Dogs don’t last that long.

  But we were just pretending, and Salma said that when you pretend, the world can be any way you want it to be. “When I come, I’ll bring Lucky and some blueberries to make blueberry enchiladas,” I said.

  “And I’ll wear my crown from the pageant!”

  The sun was low in the sky by the time we’d filled our big bucket with berries. Lucky waited patiently at the gate as I clipped his leash back onto his collar.

  “You can tell your pépère that you picked blueberries with Sal!” Salma said. “And Lucky is our bear.”

  “And we have a bucket full of stars.”

  “Minus one,” Salma said, popping a blueberry into her mouth. “Now the star is inside me.”

  She handed me a tiny blue-black berry. “Wish before you eat it.”

  My first-choice wish would be to go back in time and fix things that had already gone wrong. But not even wishes can do that.

  I couldn’t choose between Lucky and Salma, so I picked a second berry, a rosy-pink one. One wish for Lucky. One wish for Salma. So they could both have what they wanted.

  I put the blue-black berry in my mouth and bit down. A warm blue explosion, tasting of earth and sunshine. Let me raise enough money to fix Lucky’s eyes. Then, on the rosy pink one, I wished, Let Salma win Downeast Blueberry Queen and get that savings bond.

  Walking home, we ate more warm berries, until our teeth were full of seeds and our lips and fingers were blue. Red berries and blue berries. Black ones and purple ones, and even a few that were striped. Sweet and tart and in between.

  Filling us with stars.

  The day before the pageant, I took out my copy of our to-do list:

  1. Cook the blueberry filling for the enchiladas. (Lily)

  2. Make tortillas. (Salma)

  3. Choose three bee houses to show off for the talent part of the pageant and practice what to say about them. (Salma)

  4. Pick up Salma’s dress at Hannah’s and let Salma borrow my white sandals. (Lily)

  5. Finish painting the last few bee houses so they’ll dry in time for the festival. (Lily)

  6. Pack up everything for the festival. (Lily)

  7. Ask Péperè to drive Salma to the arts and crafts barn by 4:00 for hair styling. (Lily)

  8. Be at the church at 6:30 for the pageant. (Salma)

  9. Cross fingers. (Both)

  Making the blueberry filling ahead would save us time. Then I could just heat it up on f
estival day. As I cooked, the whole house smelled bluelicious, like it does when Mémère and I bake pies. When I was done, I set the huge pot of filling to cool on top of the microwave (the only place I was sure Lucky couldn’t reach it), and turned off the stove.

  “Stay,” I told Lucky as I headed for the door. But he whimpered and wrinkled his brow. “Okay, come on.”

  Lucky jumped around the kitchen with so much joy that I had trouble clipping his leash on.

  It would be smarter to leave him home, because the next thing on my to-do list was get Salma’s dress. I wasn’t sure how I would hold Lucky’s leash and carry that heavy dress. But I’d just have to figure it out when I got there.

  As I led Lucky down the stairs, I saw Pépère talking to Miguel. Mémère was over at the cash register ringing up a blueberry pie for a family of tourists. “I’ll be back in half an hour,” I called to her. “I have to pick up Salma’s dress for the pageant.”

  “We have schedules for the Downeast Blueberry Festival in a pile under the bulletin board,” Mémère said sweetly to the family. Then she looked at me. “Call if you’re going to stay awhile. Be safe.”

  Mémère can carry on several conversations, even in different tones, all at the same time. “Why are you taking that dog with you?” she asked. “He’ll get that dress all dirty.”

  “He’s not going to wear it,” I said.

  Wrong thing to say. Mémère’s look was scalding. “Pageant dresses are looked at very carefully by the judges. What if Lucky steps on it or makes you fall down carrying it? You can’t just throw a dress like that in the washing machine!”

  I huffed. How would she know?

  Sometimes understanding comes in little drops, and other times it rushes in like the tide, rolling everything over as it comes. Mémère must’ve helped Mama in the pageant.

  Had they gone shopping for a dress together?

  Did she help her get ready?

  Maybe that’s why Mémère always took care of the store on festival days. I assumed it was because someone had to. But maybe it was just too hard?

  My chest felt heavy with words I wished I could say and questions I longed to ask, but Mémère was telling the tourists to have a nice day.

  As Lucky led the way outside, I wondered if Mémère had been proud of Mama winning the pageant? Mama must’ve answered her questions really well to win three years in a row. I wish I knew what they’d asked her. Even more, I wish I knew her answers.

  It hurts not knowing the big things, but it also aches not knowing the little ones. What was her favorite zoo animal? What famous person did she wish she could meet? It wouldn’t even matter what her answers were, I’d just like to know.

  When I saw Dr. Katz in her garden, I pulled Lucky’s leash back.

  “Hello!” Dr. Katz called. “What a gorgeous day for a walk.”

  “Yes, I’m heading over to Hannah’s to pick up a dress for the blueberry pageant.”

  Dr. Katz put down her trowel and stood. “Are you in the pageant?” she asked, dusting the dirt off her jeans.

  “No, my friend Salma is in the pageant, and Hannah’s loaning her a dress. I’m going over to get it,” I said. “But I’ll have a booth at the festival! I’m selling bee houses and blueberry enchiladas.”

  “Wow! That’s wonderful.” Dr. Katz came across her yard toward us. “I’m glad you’re selling your bee houses. I haven’t had a chance to come to the store to buy some, but I’ll be at the festival. I’m volunteering at the Humane Society’s booth giving free rabies shots. I’ll stop by your booth when I get a chance.” She reached her hand out so Lucky could sniff her. “Let me look at those eyes.”

  I waited, my heart beating hard, while she examined Lucky. “How do they look?” I clenched my teeth, bracing myself in case it was bad news.

  “No worse, but no better. Really about the same.”

  Whew! There was still time to save him. “I’m hoping to make lots of money at the blueberry festival for his operation.”

  She opened her mouth, but I held up my hand. “I know! It might not work. But as Pépère says, ‘You never know what you can do until you try.’ Right?”

  She nodded. “Yes. But please just remember that it’s a lot to put an old dog through surgery.”

  “Being blind is a lot to put him through, too,” I said firmly. “And this is his big chance. I’m going to do everything I can for him.”

  Dr. Katz smiled. “You’re strong-willed like your mother, Tigerlily.”

  Strong-willed? I didn’t think of myself that way, but Dr. Katz seemed sure. “Do you know that you’re the only person I let call me Tigerlily?” I told her. “Because you make it sound like it’s a good thing.”

  “It is a good thing,” Dr. Katz said. “Tiger lilies are beautiful flowers, and it’s a beautiful name. Your mom chose it. I think she’d like to hear it.”

  I wanted to see my name as beautiful, like Mama and Dr. Katz saw it. A flower, not a weed. “With most people, it’s easier to be Lily,” I said. “But you can keep calling me Tigerlily.”

  She nodded. “I’ll see you at the festival, Tigerlily.”

  Stopping to see Dr. Katz meant I was a little late getting to Hannah’s. But that was okay. I could just grab the dress and get back quickly. I still had things to do.

  I expected her mom to answer the door, but Hannah herself did. “Hey! I thought you’d be fishing!” I said.

  “We came in early so Mom could do the final fitting for my pageant dress.”

  Lucky jumped around Hannah’s kitchen, so happy to be with her that he knocked a magazine off the table with his wagging tail.

  “I have Salma’s dress ready.” Hannah took a garment bag down from the pegs in the kitchen. I was relieved to see the blue sparkly dress was zipped up safely. It couldn’t get dirty and it’d be easier to carry.

  “Do you want to see my dress? Mom was just steaming it,” Hannah said. “This year I wanted to stand out by wearing a different color.”

  A sparkly silver dress with a blue sash hung next to the refrigerator. “Wow. It’s so shimmery,” I said. “Like a fish.”

  Her smile dropped.

  “A pretty fish. Like a trout in the sun.” Wrong thing to say. This was not going well. “Or like sun sparkles on the ocean!” I added quickly.

  “I just hope I made the right choice to go with silver.” Hannah ran her tongue over her bottom lip. “Winning last year means people expect more from me this year.”

  I wondered if Mama worried about that, too. Did each year feel harder than the year before? How’d she keep going for three years in a row?

  “So are you cheering for me tomorrow night?” Hannah asked. “Or for Salma?”

  I was surprised to see worry in Hannah’s eyes. At first I didn’t know how to answer it. Both of my friends wanted to win.

  But then it surprised me how clearly the answer came. “Salma needs to win more,” I said.

  Hannah looked away from me. “Okay. I’ll see you then.”

  Walking home, Lucky pulled on his leash, wanting to hurry. I had so much left to do, but I couldn’t make my feet go faster. Hannah and I had been two peas in a pod for a long time, but she had left that pod first.

  Now I had, too.

  That night, I sat down at my painting table and picked up the last two blank bee houses. I stenciled maple leaves in autumn colors on the first one. Then I picked up the blueberries and bees stencil.

  And I paused.

  I wanted these houses to sell. This didn’t seem like a good time to try something new. I still didn’t want to waste a bee house with an artistic mistake.

  But I put down the stencil anyway.

  The front of the bee house wasn’t any bigger than usual, but somehow it felt huge. I didn’t even know what color to start with.

  Salma wouldn’t worry about that. She’d just pick up any color and begin. So I chose orange. I painted six wide, long petals, fanning out from the center like a sunburst. I added a spattering of tiny b
lack dots.

  Staring at it I saw something that I’d never noticed before. Those orange petals made a six-pointed star. On a flower that grows where it wants. A flower that doesn’t know it’s a weed.

  I painted more orange star flowers, covering the whole front of the bee house. It wasn’t perfect or neat. Not one tiny bit ordinary. Then I picked up my littlest brush and painted my name in teeny letters down at the bottom.

  TIGERLILY.

  For most of the year, the fairgrounds looked like a ghost town, boarded up and forlorn, but for a few glorious days every late August the boards came down and the whole place burst into life.

  Pépère and I loaded up our truck with a table and signs and Salma’s pageant dress and sandals and the three bee houses she’d picked to show for her talent. Then we set off for the camp to pick her up.

  As the truck bounced along the road through the barrens, my heart beat so hard I wondered if Pépère could hear it. “Did you ever get nervous when Mama was in the pageant?” I asked him.

  He smiled weakly. “Like a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs. She always did well, but it’s hard to be in the audience. You want to help, but at that point, there’s nothing you can do but hope.”

  “But by the third time she entered, you must not have been nervous. Right?”

  He shook his head. “It didn’t matter. I always wanted her to get what she wanted. It didn’t matter how many times. She wanted to win and I wanted it for her.”

  “Why’d she want to win so bad?” I asked.

  “She always liked to prove a point,” he said. “In her day, the kids who were from French Canadian families didn’t mix much with the other kids. But she was smart as a whip and pretty as a picture. And when Danielle wanted something, there was no talking her out of it.” He sighed. “Not that I ever tried. When you love someone, you want what they want. She wanted to show everyone that French Canadian girls were as good as anybody else.”

  “It’s hard to imagine anyone felt that way about French Canadians.”

  Pépère nodded. “Times change. And it’s good that they do. But it only happens if someone is brave enough to be first.”