Starbird Murphy and the World Outside (28 page)

“It's not really a school thing. More of a neighborhood thing,” I said. I certainly didn't need a bunch of people from Roosevelt showing up and meeting vanloads of my relatives.

 
 

In every class I managed to get some aspect of apple pressing planned, even horticulture, where I discreetly mapped out a way to heat some of the cider in the café kitchen, so customers could have the choice of pasteurized or unpasteurized juice. I was starting to appreciate horticulture. Rory told Ms. Frame that I grew up on a farm and it turns out she did, too, and she asked me a bunch of questions about our crops that I couldn't answer because I never worked on the back lot. When she told me about her family's farm on Whidbey Island, her eyes got sad and faraway and it made me think of Fern. She said she would bring pictures of her family farm to show me.

Ben found me and Rory walking together after the final bell and gave me a stack of flyers. “They let me make copies in the office.”

The image was a gnarled fruit tree sagging under the weight of fat apples, with the words
apple pressing
vining their way up the trunk. And in the sky above, a flock of dark birds passed, holding stars gently in their beaks.

“You're incredibly . . .” Rory said, snatching one of the flyers from the stack before I could say anything. “Incredibly talented.”

“She's right,” I said, staring at the flock of birds.

“No, you're, like, really good,” Rory said. “Really ducking good.”

Ben blushed and wrapped his right hand around his left arm.

Rory and I had to hurry to history club, which was nearly unbearable on such a busy day. At least I could research the history of cider pressing, and maybe get some good ideas.

Teacher Ted greeted me. “Starbird, did you have a chance to check out that book yet?”

“No.” I glanced at Rory, who raised both eyebrows. “I've got something else going on.”

Ted looked a little crestfallen. “School project?”

“She's doing an apple pressing and you should come.” Rory grabbed a flyer off the stack I was holding and handed him one. “You should also tell your classes and your teacher friends.”

Before I could protest, Teacher Ted scanned the flyer. “Hey, guys, check this out.” He held it up to our group. “You can learn how cider is traditionally made. Extra credit if you're in my class.”

“Oh, it's not really a school thing.”

“It's no problem, Starbird,” Ted said. “Okay, gang, let's write some questions.”

That day, I found out that Washington state produces 42 percent of all the apples grown in the United States, that the apple is the state fruit, and that cider making was once a big business in the Northwest. And that secrets have a way of leaking out.

 
 

The Book of Names was actually a three-ring binder with a leather cover and the words
Book of Names
hand-painted on the front in cursive letters. Inside were at least fifty pages that had once been typed, but with many of the original details crossed out and handwritten in pen.

Each entry contained the following information: Name (cosmic names, about half of which I recognized), naming date, dwelling (Farm, B.C. Farm, Beacon House, or Bellingham Compound), contact information. There were other curious notes next to some names. They said things like,
Exiled 2008
or
On Mission, no return
, or some ominously read,
Lost
. Entries were organized alphabetically, and the entire book contained about two hundred names.

I sat in the kitchen of Beacon House with a little time to work before dinner. The book was in my lap, watching me screw up my courage to dial the first number. Luckily, since the names were listed alphabetically, the first ones were Adam and Adeona, both Farm dwellers. Gamma would talk to everyone on the Farm, so I could skip them. The third name was Adlai, from Story Night, whose dwelling was simply listed as
Seattle
, so I started with him. Adlai loved the idea of the apple pressing and said his whole family would help. He also offered to get flyers the next day and hang them at coffee shops in the neighborhood. I was off to a good start.

The fourth entry in the Book of Names was Andromeda Snow, whose residence just said
Bellingham
. I couldn't remember meeting Andromeda before.

“Andromeda?” I said when a woman answered the phone.

“Who's this?”

“I'm Starbird, from the Farm, well, Seattle, I guess, Beacon House, now, the café, you know. Anyway, we're having an apple pressing and we need—”

“Are you trying to get me back in the Family?”

“Back in the Family?”

“Don't tell me, let me guess,” she said. “EARTH is back and he wants us all up at the Farm in a hurry for some big Translation. Listen, Stargirl, EARTH abandoned us and we've moved on, so you can cross us out of your Book.”

“EARTH didn't abandon us, he's on a Mission.”

“Open your eyes.” She hung up the phone.

I still couldn't place Andromeda. She must have been one of the loose hangers-on, never really devoted to the Family. Adam said a lot of the pretenders left when EARTH did. I happily crossed Andromeda out of the Book of Names. In the space provided, I wrote
non-Believer
.

The next few names I could skip. Badger Ion and Bithiah were on the Farm, and Bathsheba Honey was with EARTH and Mars Wolf on the Mission. I could also skip Caelum Stone, although it made my heart flutter to think about Indus's brother at the apple pressing. Next was Cham and then a Family member named Clay Omega, whose residence was listed as
Seattle
, with a slash and the word
café
, next to it.

“Hello.”

“Is this Clay Omega?”

“Is this a joke?”

“No. I . . . my name is Starbird, I work at the café. We're planning an apple pressing—”

“You're pranking me, right? Do you know who I am?”

“This isn't Clay?”

“I was Clay long enough to be brainwashed into giving away my business. If you want to talk, why don't you tell EARTH or whoever he really is to give me back my café.”

“The Family's café?”

“Who the hell are you and why the hell are you calling me?”

My mouth turned to stone. I hung up. Then I took the phone off the hook again so he couldn't call me back. I was staring at the receiver when V walked into the kitchen.

“I'm thinking noodles for dinner,” she said, padding past me in slippers and a long dress. “How are the calls going?”

“That last one was . . . crazy,” I said, my hand a safe distance now from the phone.

“You can't toss a potato at a Family gathering without hitting crazy,” V said, opening a cabinet and taking out a water glass.

“Are you really a non-Believer?”

V paused with a cabinet door open. Then she closed it and walked over to me, putting her elbows on the kitchen island. “Sure you want an answer to that?”

I nodded.

“Venus Ocean, also known as Shelly Allen, was nineteen when she died on the floor of the barn, because EARTH said babies shouldn't be born in hospitals. She was three years older than you are now, and she died giving birth to me. Afterward, EARTH said that her death was the will of the Cosmos.” V's hair draped down over her dress and onto the island. She held the empty glass in both hands and looked at it.

“Maybe she would have died in a hospital, too,” I said.

“We will never know.”

“Why didn't you leave?” I asked. “I mean, when you were old enough?”

“If I lived on the Outside and my mom died in childbirth and my dad went crazy and started living in a tree house, what would have happened to me? Ward of the state, foster homes? In the Family I had Ephraim, and I had community.” V clutched her hair with one hand and pulled it back. “I told him about the apple pressing, by the way. He's proud of you.” She turned to the sink and filled her glass.

I didn't know what to say to comfort V. I wanted to say that I was sorry about her mom, but I didn't think that would make her feel better. I wanted to tell her that Ephraim would be okay, but how could I know if he would be okay? I turned back to the Book of Names, looking down to the next Family member on the list. Unfortunately, that name was Douglas Fir, and in the box next to his entry, it just said the word
Lost
.