Wish on All the Stars Page 2

  “Miranda, it’s not like it’s a horse and buggy,” I said as I fingered clothes in my closet, trying to figure out what shirts to pack. “Pretty sure they’ll have outlets at our seats.”

  “What are we even going to do all weekend?” she asked. “Do you think he has things planned?”

  “I hope so,” I said as I took a T-shirt and hoodie off their hangers. “But we can see our friends, too. What’s April doing? Aren’t you excited to see your best friend, even if you’re not excited to see your own father?”

  “She’s gonna be out of town. Her whole family is going to see Bruno Mars in Vegas. Doesn’t that sound fun? How come we never do fun things like that?”

  “Do you even like Bruno Mars?” I asked.

  Miranda got to her feet. “Is there anyone who doesn’t like Bruno Mars? But that’s not really the point.”

  “Well, who knows what Dad has planned. Maybe we’re going to have the best weekend ever. Maybe we’ll go horseback riding. Or zip-lining. Or he’ll take us to see an amazing musical like Wicked or Hamilton! Right? It might turn out to be the best weekend of our lives. Something we’ll talk about with our grandchildren years from now.”

  It made Miranda smile. “Grandchildren? I’d be happy just to have something awesome to post on Instagram.”

  “Believe, Miranda,” I said, reaching out and squeezing her arms. “Believe. And your wish will come true.”

  Except it didn’t come true. Not even close. First of all, the air conditioner on the bus went out, so it felt like we were riding through a humid swamp. Although if that had been the case, maybe I would have gotten to see some cool animals. Alligators. Monkeys. Something. Instead I just got to look at my sister, who moaned and complained the entire time.

  When we finally came to our stop, all I wanted as we headed toward the doors of the bus was to breathe some fresh air and get a cold drink. At least that’s what I thought I wanted, until we walked through the train station and realized our dad wasn’t there to pick us up.

  Miranda texted him right away. “I can’t believe he’s not here,” she muttered.

  “He probably just got stuck in traffic,” I said.

  “I’m starving,” Miranda whined. “Aren’t you starving?”

  “No. I’m not. I ate a granola bar and an apple that I brought along with me, remember? But you didn’t want anything, because apparently taking a granola bar from your sister’s snack bag is beneath you.”

  “Wait. Juliet. You have an entire snack bag?” She reached for my backpack. “Give it to me.”

  “Excuse me, dear, obnoxious sister,” I said, pushing her hands away. “You know in our family we say please and thank you.”

  “Give it to me!” she said louder as she tried to rip the backpack off my body.

  I may or may not have scratched her eyes out at any moment if Dad hadn’t suddenly appeared. “Girls,” he said in a hushed tone. “What’s going on?”

  “Miranda is acting like a spoiled three-year-old because she chose not to eat on the bus, even though I offered her something,” I told him.

  “Why are you late, anyway?” Miranda asked.

  “I’m sorry,” he said as he pushed his glasses up. “Traffic was really bad and I didn’t expect it to be that way. Anyway, I’m here now, so … can I have a hug? I’ve missed you two so much.”

  I leaned in and gave him a hug. The familiar smell of his aftershave made me feel like I was home. I’d missed that smell. When we finished, Miranda started walking toward the door that led to the parking lot. I looked at Dad and shrugged as if to say, “Whatcha gonna do?” He patted me on the back and smiled.

  “Was the bus ride okay?” he asked.

  “I guess,” I said. “It was stuffy, though, and I drank all my water. Can we get something to drink?”

  “I thought we’d pick up a pizza on the way home to have for dinner,” he said. “You can choose a drink there, okay?”

  “Should we call it in?” I asked.

  He looked at me, confused.

  “The pizza. So it’s ready when we get there.”

  “Oh. Right. Good idea.”

  I pulled my phone out of my pocket. “I can do it. Are we getting it from Tony’s? Hopefully?”

  “Yep!”

  When we walked outside, I took a deep breath. It was almost eight, so it was dark. Miranda stood waiting at the curb for Dad to lead us to his car.

  “It’s so good to have you girls here,” Dad said, taking my hand as he looked for cars before heading into the parking lot.

  “Okay, I’m going to call and order it. What do we want?” I asked.

  “Veggie for me,” Miranda said.

  I looked at Dad and wrinkled my nose. “How about a large half-Hawaiian and half-veggie?” he told me, knowing Hawaiian was my favorite. “I can eat either, doesn’t matter to me.”

  After we put our bags in the trunk, Miranda got in the back seat, so I took the front. I called in the pizza and then sat back and relaxed. Now if only Inca would text me so we could make plans, life would be close to perfect. I decided to send one more:

  Hey, I’m here!!!! Going to get pizza with Dad and M. Let me know when we can get together.

  “How’s school, girls?”

  Why do parents always have to ask about school? Sometimes it seems like it’s all they want to talk about when it’s pretty much the last thing I want to talk about. Ask me about the books I’ve been reading. Or what I’ve been painting. Or if I’ve eaten any good pickles lately (the answer to that will always be yes, though). Just … anything, Dad.

  “Fine, I guess,” I said.

  “Miranda?” he asked, looking in his rearview.

  “I passed my chemistry test,” she said.

  “Well, that’s good news,” Dad said.

  I decided to change the subject. “I can’t wait to see your apartment,” I told him. “Do you have our rooms set up or do you need us to help with that?”

  “Right,” Dad said. “About that. Unfortunately, the bedroom furniture I ordered for your rooms hasn’t arrived yet.”

  “You ordered furniture?” Miranda asked. “Dad, haven’t you heard of IKEA?”

  “I’ve just been so busy with work,” he said with a sigh. “It seemed like the easier option.”

  “So what does that mean?” I asked. “Where will we sleep?”

  “I borrowed some inflatable mattresses and sleeping bags from a friend,” he replied. “You can pretend you’re camping. Or glamping. Isn’t that what they call it?”

  I’d never heard of glamping. It sounded gross. Like an ugly, infected wound or something. Ew. Was he asking his children to pretend we were so severely injured that we couldn’t get into a bed, so we had to sleep on the floor?

  I decided I better ask. “What’s glamping, exactly?”

  “It stands for glamorous camping,” Miranda explained. “You know, you go to an amazing place like the Grand Canyon, but you sleep in a cabin with a bed and a heater instead of sleeping in a tent on the cold, hard ground.”

  “Oh!” I said. “That’s a lot nicer than an infected wound.”

  “Oh my gosh, Pooh,” Miranda said. “Disgusting.”

  “Well, I didn’t know. So, if we’re pretending to camp, or glamp, I guess, can we make s’mores?” I asked.

  “I have no idea how we’d make s’mores without a campfire,” Dad said.

  “We could look it up on this thing called the internet,” Miranda said sarcastically.

  “Maybe we can just buy some s’mores-flavored ice cream,” I said. I didn’t want Dad to have to do anything too difficult. This was our first visit since Mom, Miranda, and I had moved away to San Diego. I wanted it to go well. Better than well. It was supposed to be the best weekend ever.

  “Thanks, kiddo,” Dad said. “That’s probably more doable.”

  “Will we have time to stop at the store, though?” I asked. “With everything you have planned, it’s okay if we don’t. When you talked about camping, it just
made me think of s’mores, that’s all.”

  “We actually, uh, need to go to the store either tonight or tomorrow,” Dad said. “My fridge is pretty bare.”

  “Okay,” I said. “It’s fine, right, Miranda? We can squeeze it in with all the fun stuff we’ll be doing.”

  Dad cleared his throat. “Um. Juliet?”

  The way he said it, I knew. I knew what he was going to say next, and at the thought, it felt like my heart had dropped all the way to my toes.

  “Yes?” It came out like a squeak. Which I guess makes sense because I felt about as small and unimportant as a mouse in that moment.

  “I don’t have much planned, except visiting the new animals at the zoo,” he said. “Besides that, I thought we could watch some movies at home. Maybe bake some cookies together. It’s just that I’ve been working—”

  “So much,” I interrupted. “Yeah. I know. You already said that.”

  “You’re planning on seeing Inca, right?” he asked.

  “I hope so,” I muttered. Now more than ever.

  Texts to Inca

  *    Have you lost your phone?

  *    Did you do something so obnoxious your parents had no other choice but to take away your phone?

  *    Have you forgotten who I am? Juliet. Juliet Kelley. BFF. I think. I hope.

  *    Did you have to fly to Paris unexpectedly? If so, I hope you are having a croissant for me.

  *    If you suddenly have amnesia, I promise you want to know me. Text me back. Please? We’ll get together and I’ll prove it.

  Saturday morning, as I ate a bowl of Honey Nut Cheerios, Inca finally replied.

  You’re funny! Sorry, went to the Spring Fling dance last night. And today I’m going to Ariel’s birthday party. Maybe tomorrow I can see you? Before you go back?

  Inca went to a dance? That did not sound like the Inca I knew and loved. Inca was an introvert with a capital I. She liked staying in and watching movies or reading books, just like me. And why didn’t she invite me to go to Ariel’s party? Ariel and I were friends, too. We used to talk sometimes at school, and now she liked almost all of my photos on Instagram. She wouldn’t mind me coming. Would she? I wanted to ask, but I was afraid. Afraid Inca would say no and then I’d feel like I was even lower on Inca’s list of priorities. Like, ocean-floor bottom.

  Ariel probably hadn’t known I was going to be in town, so I couldn’t be upset that she didn’t invite me. Still, the left-out feeling was not fun. I wanted to see everyone. Sure, moving to San Diego hadn’t been too bad, since I’d met Emma on the first day and she’d made me feel so welcome. But Bakersfield had been my home forever. I missed it. And I didn’t want to feel like a stranger every time I visited Dad. Like someone who was walking up to the pretty display window of Macy’s and could only admire everything from the outside instead of going inside and actually shopping.

  I started and erased at least ten different responses to Inca. Finally I decided to keep it simple: Okay. Our bus leaves at 2:00. Hope we can make it work!

  She texted back and suggested we meet for doughnuts at our favorite doughnut shop and I was so relieved we finally had a plan. The shop was easy to get to by bus for both of us, so we didn’t even have to ask our parents for a ride.

  As I was putting my bowl in the dishwasher, I heard Dad’s voice coming from his bedroom. The door was cracked and I wasn’t trying to listen, I swear. But his apartment is about the size of our cottage on Mission Beach. That is, not very big. And just like at home, sound carried easily.

  “Thought maybe we could grab dinner tomorrow night,” he said in a soft, sweet voice. “I could pick you up at seven?”

  There was a pause.

  “No, they leave at two, so anytime after that is fine.”

  Another pause.

  “Okay, perfect. I’ll pick you up then. Look forward to seeing you, Andrea. Have a good day.”

  Dinner? Andrea? Was this what it sounded like? Like a man who wasn’t even officially divorced yet and was dating already? When Miranda and I had thought Mom had gone out on a date, I’d gotten a funny feeling in my stomach. And now the feeling returned. It felt a little like spinning around and around on one of those old park merry-go-rounds and stopping suddenly. Dizzying.

  Mom had sworn she wasn’t dating yet, just going out with friends and keeping things simple, but I hadn’t heard Dad’s feelings on the subject at all. Well, until now. What is it that they say? Actions speak louder than words?

  “Good morning, Juliet,” Dad said when he appeared a minute later, the familiar smell of his aftershave filling the room. He reached for a glass in the cupboard. “You sleep okay?”

  “I guess, except every time I moved, the slippery sleeping bag made an annoying sound.”

  “Ah yes,” he said. “I know that sound well. It’s all part of the camping experience.”

  Except we weren’t camping. Not even close.

  He rubbed my head as he passed by and grabbed the bottle of orange juice out of the fridge. “It’ll make you appreciate your own bed tomorrow night, right?”

  I was about to ask who he’d been talking to earlier when Miranda walked into the room, her hair looking like she’d had snakes sleeping in it. “You two are so noisy,” she said as she stifled a yawn. She sat down at the small kitchen table and put her head in her hands. I imagined a snake slithering out onto the table and shivered.

  Why was I thinking about disgusting, slimy snakes? Miranda had just opened a door and happily invited me in. This was my chance! “Yeah, Dad, I heard you on the phone earlier. Who was that? Someone named Andrea?”

  Dad took another drink of his juice and set it on the counter. “Oh. Well, uh, she’s someone I work with. We need to get together tomorrow and go over some things. That’s all.” He walked over to Miranda. “Can I get you anything to eat or drink?”

  “No, thanks,” she said. “I’m barely awake. The only thing I want is to go back to bed.”

  I looked at the clock. It was a little after nine. We had the entire day to fill. “When are we going to the zoo, Dad?”

  “I thought we’d go this afternoon.” He looked at Miranda. “You sure you don’t want anything? Oh, you know what? I think I’ll make us all some tea. How’s that? I bought some at the farmers’ market the last time I was there. Thought you girls might enjoy it when you came to visit.”

  Tea? He bought tea because he thought we might enjoy it? It was a little bit like me buying Casper a bag of dog treats because “well, who knows, maybe he’ll like it.” There were lots of things he knew for sure that we liked. Weren’t there? I told myself the important thing was that he’d thought of us, even if I’d had maybe two cups of tea in my entire life.

  “Miranda,” Dad said as he filled the kettle with water. “Would you like to help us make some cookies to go along with the tea?”

  I stared at him for a moment before I said, “Dad, you do know people don’t usually have cookies for breakfast, right?”

  He shrugged. “We bought the ingredients at the store last night, and you know what they say—there’s no time like the present.”

  Miranda was like one of those dolls with eyelids that go from closed to open by simply standing the doll upright. There was no question now—she was completely awake. She hopped out of her chair and exclaimed, “It’s backward day! Cookies for breakfast! I’m so on it, Dad.”

  “Well, in that case,” I said as I went to the fridge to get my jar of pickles.

  My favorite kinds of cookies

  *    Homemade sugar cookies (with frosting, of course)

  *    Snickerdoodles

  *    Grandma’s chocolate crinkles

  *    Frosted animal cookies (they’re cute AND delicious)

  *    Chocolate chip

  *    Peanut butter

  *    Mint Oreo

  Miranda and I grew up going to the California Living Museum (also known as
the CALM Zoo) as often as most kids go to the park. Since Dad worked there and sometimes needed to check on an animal over the weekend, he usually asked if Miranda and I wanted to go with him. Sometimes Miranda said yes and sometimes she said no. As for me? I always said yes. Always. I loved that place.

  I have so many happy memories from the zoo.

  I used to run around the big glass cage of chipmunks because that’s what they did—they ran around in their cage. Their constant motion made me laugh. One time, one of them stood on a small rock and kept spinning around and around. It was hilarious. And when he eventually stopped, he turned and ran straight up one of the tree branches. I thought for sure he was going to fall off because he was dizzy, but it was no big thing.

  Feeding the mountain goats was something else I loved to do when I was younger. Dad would give me a handful of food and then I’d open my palm and let the goat lick the food off with his tongue.

  Miranda didn’t want anything to do with that. “It’s so gross,” she’d said one time as the goat fed from my hand.

  I’d giggled. “His tongue kind of tickles.”

  “Make sure you wash your hands before you even think about touching me.”

  Such a drama queen.

  Her favorite animals at the zoo have always been the black bears. I guess they’re kind of fun to look at, but I don’t get the appeal. They mostly just lie around. If I had to pick a favorite, it would probably be the barn owls. They have the sweetest faces, with the shape of a heart around their eyes and beaks. Some things I learned about barn owls at the zoo: 1) Instead of hooting, they click their beaks and hiss, and 2) One barn owl can eat more than a thousand mice in a year. Amazing.

  The barn owls at the zoo are the reason I started painting owls. It took me a long time, like years, to finally get to where I was happy with what my paintings looked like. I figured out the best thing to do was to keep the silhouette simple and change up the patterns and colors on the inside of the owl’s face and body.

  Walking through the entrance of the zoo, like I’d done at least a hundred times before, felt like coming home. If someone had asked me at that moment if I’d want to move in and live with the black bears, big cats, tortoises, owls, and goats, I probably would have said yes. There’s something really comforting about going to a place that’s been a big part of your life. And for the first time in a while, I didn’t feel anxious about what might happen next. I didn’t worry about what people might think of me. So much had changed in my life the past month, but not this. Not the zoo.