Chasing the Milky Way (3 page)

I start so badly that I drop one of the dishes in the sink. It splashes a lukewarm wave of water onto my stomach and legs. It's Izzy. Mama grumbles as she goes into the living room. I grab the towel from the handle on the oven and press it against my soaking pants.

“Smoky,” Izzy says, coming over to the counter. She taps the cupcake closest to her.

“Yeah. They cooked a little too long.” I throw the towel on the counter. “Let's get ready for school.”

We go to our room. I change and get Izzy into a pair of semi-clean clothes.

“Backpack,” I say, lifting it up. She adjusts it on her shoulders. I grab mine and we head toward the front door. As we pass through the living room, I see Mama lying on the couch, hugging a pillow. It's funny to be jealous of a pillow. But for just a second I am. For just a second, I want Mama to wrap me in her arms and say, “Happy birthday, baby girl. I love you.” But I can see that that's not going to happen, not right now.

In the kitchen, I sift through the piles on the table, finding Mama's seven-day pill container underneath the papers. I shake it. The pills rattle, so I know she has plenty. I set it in the clear spot right in front of her stuff, so maybe she'll see it and get it into her head to take them.

“Ready?” Izzy grasps my hand.

“Ready,” I say, as I pull the door closed.

“Hey, Lucy?” Izzy skips down the steps and I notice her ponytail is already working its way around to the side of her head.

“Yeah? Hold up.” I grab it and pull it to the top, then tighten it.

“Happy birthday, anyway,” she says.

I give her shoulders a squeeze. “Thanks.”

But to be honest, it's not my birthday I'm worrying about. It's T-minus thirty-five hours until liftoff and seventy-four hours to competition. I wonder if Mama is going to be good enough to go. Without Gram we have no backup plan. We're piloting our own ship.

“O
N YOUR MARKS.”

I lean forward and turn the pencil one more time, setting the canister on the floor.

“Get set!” Mrs. Shareze stands at the opposite end of the classroom, holding her clipboard, as we line the other side with our bottle-bottom racers.

“GO!” She throws a tissue into the air. I let go of the can. The pencil and the torque of the rubber band inside send it flying across the floor.

“Go go go!” Cam shouts as our racer bumps a can to the right. It spins off the track and ours takes the lead. A second later our racer peels across the finish line and the end-of-day bell rings at the exact same time.

“Cam and Lucy win!” Mrs. Shareze shouts, her voice a little hoarse from a cold, and the rest of the kids groan. Some groan because they didn't win and some groan because it is us that won. Cam grabs hold of the counter and does a back kick in celebration, and Mrs. Shareze's face goes from smiling to pinched and crumpled.

“Feet on the ground, Mr. McKinney!” she says, then in the same breath, “Everyone please collect your belongings, place your desks back into position in the middle of the floor, and line up for buses.”

I go up to the front of the room to grab our racer.

“Can I borrow a laptop again tonight?” I ask, picking the can up off the floor.

“Yes you may. How's your robot coming?” she says as she walks over to her desk and puts her clipboard down on it.

“We're a little behind on programming, but he looks pretty sharp!” I tell her. I can't wait to show PingPing to Mrs. Shareze. She runs our robot club at school and I think she's going to be really impressed with what we've been able to do without any kits. I put the bottle-bottom racer on my desk and then push it across the floor to its spot next to Cam's desk.

Feet stampede past me as kids line up at the door. I pull out my backpack and put the laptop inside.

“Can we go?” Destin Hoffsteader asks from the front of the line.

“Yes. Go ahead,” Mrs. Shareze says, clasping her hands. She turns back to me. “Lucy, will you stay behind for a minute?”

Destin sticks his tongue out at me as he pushes the door open, and my classmates spill out into the hallway. Cam stands around in the back of the room, his hands tucked into his pockets. But I can see staying still is taking a lot of concentration.

“I'll meet you at Mission Control,” I say. He nods and ducks out the door. I turn to see Mrs. Shareze going over to her desk. She coughs into her elbow just like it shows on a poster in our classroom. It's supposed to stop the germs from spreading on everything, like door handles and countertops and computers. I'm thinking I appreciate that because I don't want to be getting sick for BotBlock. She rummages around in the top drawer and I wonder what she keeps in there. If it's good or bad or what.

“Listen if Destin said I did somethi—” I start, but then stop as Mrs. Shareze holds out her hand. A cream-colored envelope dangles from her fingertips.

“Happy birthday to my star student,” she says.

My stomach shakes and I take a deep breath. “For me?” I take the card in my hand.

“I can't forget my most involved student's birthday.” She winks and heads to the hook on the wall. She pulls her bag off the hook and puts it over her shoulder. I hold the envelope between my fingers. A birthday card. She heads for the door and grabs a few Kleenexes from the back counter. She sneezes into one as she steps out into the hallway.

“Thank you,” I shout as the door begins to shut. I swing my bag to my shoulder and hurry after her. “Thank you!”

She turns and smiles. A second later I bust out of the school and into the sunny afternoon.

As I take a shortcut up Fielders Lane I think that this day is really looking up. I eye the big yellow sun through the early summer leaves. I'm going to stop in my favorite spot in the park and read the card that Mrs. Shareze gave me
for my birthday.

I jog past the gates of Sickle Park and drop my bag between the big roots of a maple tree. I sit up against it and watch the sunlight land in soft puddles around me. A few helicopter pods spin like confetti to the ground. I run my finger under the seal of the envelope. I tear it just a teensy bit, by accident, and pull out the card. The front is bright yellow and says
Happy Birthday.
Before I even flip the card open, a picture falls out. It's a picture of someone in a space suit. Sally Ride. I recognize her immediately.

Mrs. Shareze knows how much I love Sally Ride. I stare out past the maple and birch trees at the pond in the distance. With a name like Ride it seems like you'd be thinking about movement all the time. Not like my name. Lucille Peevey. It has the word
pee
in it.

I look up at the treetops shifting and moving in the wind, and I imagine my new name. Something amazing. Something really great like Lucille Anna NASA. Lucille Anna Engineer. Lucille Anna Scientist. That's what my name should be.

Before I do anything else, I pull my ratty school binder out and push the picture of Sally Ride into the front cover, so she's staring out at me. I put it back into my backpack safe and sound, then I pick the card up and flip it open.

Dear Lucille,

Albert Einstein once said

“Imagination is more important than knowledge. For knowledge is limited to all we know and understand, while imagination embraces the entire world, and all there ever will be to know and understand.”

That quote reminds me of you. Keep thinking. Keep dreaming. Keep imagining and looking for answers in your new year. Shoot for the stars.

Happy Happy 12!

Best Wishes,
Mrs. Shareze

I hold the card to my heart and close my eyes, feeling that warm sun on my face.
Shoot for the stars.
My brain starts making a video behind my eyes. Cam and I are standing on a stage with our hands in the air. PingPing200 is between us. All the news reporters are pushing their way to the front of a cheering crowd to get our speeches and autographs. We're champions and every single person knows it.

What will you do next?
they'll ask.

What colleges will you be attending?
they'll want to know.

Thank you, baby girl, you fixed everything,
Mama will say.

“Oh look! It's Looney Lucy.”

My world crashes in and I blink my eyes open, recognizing the voice as the card gets taken out of my hands. It's Destin. He has two boys with him, who stand a little farther back and look at me like I might jump at them. I lean into the maple and scramble to my feet.

“You give me that back right now,” I say, coming up to his level. I reach for the card.

“What are you going to do about it, trailer trash?” he says as he pushes his hand into my face. One of his fingers slides into my mouth, against my gums, and I twist my head to get away. The back of my head hits the tree and smarts, but I use it to my advantage and brace myself against it, lift both feet, and kick. He flails backward and trips over a tree root as I wipe at my mouth, trying to get the salty, sweaty palm-taste of Destin Hoffsteader out.

His buddies go to help him up and he drops the card. I dive for it, but the breeze seems to be on his side. It picks it up and spins it downhill. I grab my backpack and head after it. But it rolls farther. Faster.

“You stupid idiot. You tore my pants!” Destin shouts after me.

I don't respond, keeping my eye on that card turning and turning down the hill toward the duck pond.
Please no, please don't go for a swim.
I race after it, but it seems like that card doesn't want to be caught. It runs ahead of me. I reach the edge and stop. Just as I do, I hear Destin, breathing heavily, coming up behind me.

“Hope you know how to swim, Looney.” I feel his foot hit the back of my knee.

I scramble for something to hold on to, but the only thing my hand can reach is the edge of that card. I close it in my fingers and fall like a bag of bricks into the pond. I feel my bag swing and pull hard against my neck. Like an anchor, it takes me down. Cold water invades my shirt, my jeans. My clothes billow out. I push my arms down, trying to control the rush of water. It's everywhere. I hit the muddy floor and push up, breaking through the surface. I gulp for air and try to clear my eyes to see if Destin is coming after me. But he's not. He stands on the bank clapping his hands.

“Get lost,” I sputter, but it doesn't sound very bold with all the water coming out. There's mud on my arms. There's mud in my shirt. I pull a reed off my sleeve. I try to blink my eyes clear.

“Gladly,” he says, and walks up the hill like he's marching up to a podium. He slaps hands with the two boys standing at the top. I wonder what I ever did to them.

I step through the mucky water toward the edge of the pond. Slow and sliding more than I'd like. As I rise, I loosen my fingers. The card in my hand is soaked and bent. My bag makes a loud
schwakk
sound and seems to release a bucket of water into the pond behind me.

Then I remember the laptop.

Mrs. Shareze is going to kill me. Worse. I won't be able to program PingPing tonight. Not if the laptop is destroyed. I swing the bag to my right shoulder and hug it to my chest, squeezing the last of the water out of it.
Please don't be ruined,
I think.
Please, please. Don't be ruined.

T
HERE ARE NO BIRTHDAY BANNERS.
I notice that as I dash through the dark kitchen, over a few piles of books and clothes, and into my bedroom, but I don't have time to care at this very second. I grab a towel off the end of the bed and lay it flat on my blanket. Then I pull the laptop out and put it carefully on the towel.

“Nonononononono,” I say as I pry it open and fold the sides of the towel in. I wipe down the keyboard, but it just seems to move pockets of mud from A to L. I pull a dry corner and gently press the towel to the screen. Pock marks bloom as I pat and lift, pat and lift. Maybe I could let it dry, then scrape off the dirt? I put it in a warm spot near the window, hoping the heat will lick away some of the water. I place the ruined card next to it. Then pull out the soggy binder, and slide the Sally Ride picture out of it. I wipe it down very carefully, trying not to rip the picture in half.

“It'll be fine once it dries,” I say to myself as I go to the door of the bedroom to get another towel. Really, I'm not so sure.

I'm just drying the last of the water off me when Izzy walks in. I don't remember her leaving the house this morning wearing a crown, but now she's got one on. Not a paper crown like they would have made as a craft. It's the rim of one of those big pickle containers, but now there are little beads stuck to it.

“How was school, Izz?” I ask, tossing the towel and lifting the backpack from her shoulders.

“Well,” she gives her arm a flourish, “I had to go to the principal for bossing my people!” She points her nose up in the air.

“Your people?” I say. I pull a shirt over my head and grab a pair of shorts off of the floor.

“Yes, from planet Claymon in galaxy Nomora!” Izzy says.

Queen Nomony of planet Claymon is one of our Mission Control characters. And, boy, can she be bossy.

“To the principal's office?” I say, thinking this sounds all too familiar. We head for the dining room. “Tell me the truth. Was Mrs. Sunberry one of your lieges?”

I turn and see Izzy's shoulders slump forward. “Maybe.”

“Maybe?” I say, flipping on the kitchen light. Mama groans as she covers her eyes and sits up at the table. I didn't even notice her on the way in.

“Yes,” Izzy confesses.

“You know you can't boss your teacher around and get away with it,” I say. I go to the sink, fill up a cup of water, and set it in front of Mama. A few pieces of paper spill off the side of the table and hit the floor. I don't bother to pick them up.

“How was school?” Mama says quietly, grabbing the cup and taking a sip.

“It was fine,” I say. Izzy looks at me. I raise my eyebrows.

“Jus' fine,” Izzy says.

I watch as Mama puts her sunglasses on. She wedges her fingers in between the blinds and flicks them open, peering out.

“What are you looking for?” I ask.

She just grimaces and clicks her tongue. I reach for her pillbox. Her hand shoots across the table and she swipes it before I get to it. “Stop it!” She yanks it back. I let it go.

Izzy's eyes widen.

“Suit yourself,” I say. “You want a sandwich?”

She has her journal out in front of her and she ignores me to write. Mama is working on something big, and if she can finish it, she'll get another job teaching; we can have a better life. Mama said as soon as she's done with her project, she's going to say good-bye to the Stop and Shop forever. She's been filling the pages of her journal a lot recently. She was writing on a laptop, until it disappeared. She said something about them bugging it and stealing her ideas. I have a feeling it is outside next to the dishes.

“Izz, why don't you go and start your homework,” I say. “I'll bring you a sandwich.” She gets up and heads for the living room door.

“Goddamn government medications,” Mama says. “Trying to dull me out.”

“It's not that,” I say, thinking that's weird for her to be saying, since last month she was saying how great she was doing with Dr. Vincent. I pull the Wonder Bread out of the bread box. I grab the mustard from the fridge and layer it on the bread.

“I have a great brain, Lucille. You don't even know!” She slams a fist on the table, sending a few more papers to the floor. Then she flicks the blind open again.

“I know, Mama,” I say, sliding the mustard to the corners and back across to the other side.

“Gifted,” she says.

I turn toward the sink to throw the knife into the dish bin, and take the opportunity to roll my eyes before I turn back her way. Not gifted enough to wish me a stupid happy birthday. I slap two pieces of bologna onto the bread, press another slice on top, and put it in front of her. It sits lopsided, half on a book and half off.

“Cheap, cheap,” Mama grumbles, scratching her forehead.

“Well, until we win the lottery,” I say.

“Win the lottery? It's rigged by the government. Taking all my money. Stopping all my cards. Goddamned go—” The word
government
dies away as she slams her journal closed and covers it with both of her hands. I want to say that the government didn't stop her cards. I want to say that she stopped her cards when she maxed them out buying crates of books from Barnes and Noble. Or when she bought the Mustang and sold the house. The government didn't have anything to do with that. Mama's looking pretty sad and I feel a twinge of guilt that I have money in the carport that she doesn't know about, but it's better to invest it into something than use it to pay off a tiny chunk of a lot of debt. I switch to a more cheery topic.

“Can you believe I'm twelve today? That we're heading out to the coast in just two days?” I start, but Mama picks up the stack of mail sitting next to her and sorts it like she doesn't even hear me. I feel a little stinger pierce the center of my belly.

Maybe she's playing at forgetting. Like she has a big surprise planned or something. A tiny voice in my head is telling me not to be stupid, but a much louder voice is saying that it's still a possibility.

I pull out four more slices of Wonder Bread. I make a bologna sandwich with mayonnaise for Izzy and one with mustard for me.

“Garbage, garbage, garbage,” Mama says, sorting the bills into a pile. I watch the envelopes stack up.
Third Notice. Final Notice. Third Notice.

It's no use stopping her right now. I run some water over the knife and put it in the dish rack.

“Ah,” Mama says. “I know someone who'll be excited about this.” I try to see if it's a birthday card she's holding in her hand, but she slides the envelope across the table out of sight. Then she sneaks her journal over to the side and I see her press the envelope securely between the pages.

“Well, if nothing else is going on, Izzy and I are gonna go do our homework,” I say, walking toward the door.

“Yep,” Mama says. “Brush up your hair, looks a mess.”

“Thanks,” I say, watching her put her journal into her oversized jacket pocket. She zips it up and pats it with her hand, then she looks back out the window.

“You should eat your sandwich,” I say. “We'll be right in the living room if you want to join us.” I swing through the door. Izzy has cleared off a spot on the coffee table, her homework packet out in front of her. First graders don't get a lot of homework, just a weekly packet. Of course, she's not doing it. Instead, she's examining her crown.

“Your feast, my queen!” I say, sliding the plate to the right and left under her nose until I drop it softly on the coffee table.

She looks up at me, eyes wide and shining. She grabs half the sandwich and takes a big bite. I pick up a half of mine and Izzy nearly spits her piece out onto the floor.

“Hold on,” she says, grabbing my plate from my hand.

“Huh?” I drop the half-bitten sandwich onto the plate as she jerks it away from me.

She goes back into the kitchen. I hear doors opening and slamming.

“Are we being invaded?” Mama asks. “Are they coming for us?!”

“No,” Izzy says. “Got it.”

When the door swings open again, Izzy is standing there. My bologna sandwich now has a small birthday candle sticking out of it.

“Happy birthday, Lucy,” she says, holding it out to me.

My heart jumps. I grab the plate. “I love it.” I have a little galaxy of tears starting to form in my throat, and I swallow them down hard. “This, my queen, is the most beautiful cake I have ever laid my eyes on!”

Izzy giggles. I set it down on the coffee table and we both lean over it. Izzy pulls her pickle jar crown off her head and places it on mine. I feel the plastic scratch at my hairline.

“Don't forget a wish,” Izzy says. My throat gets a little tight because that is usually Mama's line. I glance back to the door.

“In just a sec,” I say, stepping over to it. I push it open a crack.

“Mama, we're going to do the birthday wish!” I say.

“Oleander seeds, the morning weeds,” Mama replies. I'm not sure what that means, but I can see she's busy working something out.

I step back, letting the door slide shut, and go over to the coffee table. A little bruise blossoms right over my heart.

As I look down at my unlit candle, I'm almost certain that birthday cake wishes are bonkers. Especially birthday cake wishes on unlit candles on bologna sandwich birthday cakes made at the Sunnyside Trailer Park, but I close my eyes and I blow out that imaginary flame on that imaginary cake. And for a second, for just a second, I let myself believe in the silliness of wishes.