Wish on All the Stars Page 6

Life is just not fair.

  Things I wish I could give Carmen

  *    A smile

  *    A visit with her dad

  *    A good book that will help her to forget her troubles

  *    Her favorite painting by Vincent van Gogh, Seascape near Les Saintes-Maries-de-la-Mer

  *    Citizenship for her mom

  That night, after I did my homework, I decided since I couldn’t give Carmen a painting by her favorite artist, I’d give her one painted by me. It wouldn’t solve any of her problems, but maybe it would cheer her up. I could only hope.

  The thing I love about painting is that once I start and get swept up in the creation and the colors, it’s a little like getting lost in a good story. The world kind of fades away and it’s just me and the canvas and nothing else matters for a while.

  I decided to paint her a picture of the beach. I painted the ocean and the sand and then, on the sand, I painted a little dark-haired boy kneeling next to a tall sand castle. I’m not very good at drawing people, but I painted him so he was facing away so I didn’t have to worry about getting his face right, only the back of his head. I also created the scene so it was like someone looking down at the beach from a high cliff far away. Hopefully she’d know I meant for the boy to be her brother.

  Mom came in just as I was finishing up. “May I take a peek?”

  She knew to ask ever since I got upset with her one time for looking without checking with me first. Sometimes I’m not happy with how something turns out and I don’t want anyone to see it. Other times I’m thrilled to share what I’ve done. But it depends, and I want to be the one who decides whether she sees one of my paintings or not.

  “Sure,” I said. “It’s for Carmen.”

  She walked around and stood in front of my easel. “Oh, Juju Bean, it’s wonderful. I love the way you painted the sun setting in the horizon. Is the little boy her brother?”

  “Yes,” I said. “His name is Oscar. He loves building sand castles. The first time I saw her she was at the beach and that’s what they were doing.”

  “I think she’s going to love it,” Mom said, pulling me in for a hug. “You’re a good friend.”

  “I wish I could do more,” I told her.

  “I know you do. But we need to remember that sometimes being a helpful friend doesn’t mean doing something, it means just being there. Listening. Comforting. And even doing fun things together to get her mind off her problems, yeah?”

  I nodded. She was exactly right. I needed to keep us focused on our club and making wishes come true.

  On Saturday, we had a Starry Beach Club meeting at the beach. It was a warm, sunny spring day, so we decided to meet for a picnic lunch. Emma brought turkey sandwiches; I brought some bananas, chips, and three dill pickles; and Carmen brought a blackberry Gatorade to share. We spread everything out on a blanket Emma had brought along and sat facing one another.

  “Juliet, I hung the painting you gave me in my room,” Carmen said. “It looks good. Oscar loves it, too. And that’s important since we … share.” She looked down and brushed sand off the blanket. “Our apartment isn’t big enough for me to have my own room. We have a sheet hung up in the middle, though, and he’s pretty good about staying on his side. I hung the painting by the door so we both see it when we’re going out.”

  “Did he know it was him in the painting when he saw it?” I asked.

  She smiled. “Yeah. He knew right away. He loved that you painted him and not me. Like that made him extra special.”

  “Did you give the painting a name?” Emma asked as she pulled the sandwiches out of a paper bag. “You have to name it. That’s what artists do, right?”

  “Um, okay. How about Don’t Get Sand in Your Shorts?” I thought on it some more. “Or The Invisible Shark.”

  “Wait, what?” Carmen asked. “What shark? I didn’t see a shark in the picture.”

  “Right. That’s why I said The Invisible Shark.”

  “Do I need to worry about the invisible shark eating my brother?” she asked.

  “You never let him go in the water anyway, right?” I asked. “So he’s fine. The invisible shark will leave him alone, I promise.”

  “Oh, good,” Carmen said, and the way she said it, like she had really been afraid of a shark getting her brother in a painting, made us laugh.

  “I have a better idea,” Emma said. “How about Happy Boy at the Beach?”

  “That’s perfect,” Carmen said. “And someday you’ll be famous, Juliet, and I can sell it for a million dollars. Invisible shark and all.”

  “Did you sign it?” Emma asked.

  “Yes,” I said. “I always do. But not because I think my paintings are going to be worth a lot of money someday. My dad asked me to sign the first painting I did for him and then I just kept doing it.” Realizing what I’d said, I reached out and gently grabbed Carmen’s hand. “Sorry. I’ll try not to talk about my dad. I don’t want to make you miss yours.”

  She squeezed my hand before she let go. “Please don’t. I feel like that’s asking the impossible.”

  “But if it makes you sad …” Emma said.

  “It’s okay,” Carmen said. “Really. I don’t want you to feel like you have to be careful around me all the time, worried you might say the wrong thing, you know? Now, can we eat? I’m starving.”

  As I ate my sandwich, I looked out at the ocean and imagined an invisible shark. Imagined something lurking there, something we couldn’t see. If we didn’t know about it, we had no reason to be afraid. But that isn’t how the world works. If only all sharks were invisible and they kept their distance so everyone stayed safe.

  If only Carmen had no reason to be afraid.

  Things that are invisible

  *    Hope

  *    Magic

  *    Dust mites (ewwww)

  *    Hunger

  *    Thirst

  *    Imagination

  *    Air

  *    Gravity

  *    Love

  “So,” Emma said. “I have to tell you guys something.”

  She sounded serious. I picked up a pickle and took a bite. “Okay.”

  “It’s not good,” she said with a little shake of her head.

  “Uh-oh,” Carmen said. “What’s happened?”

  “Mr. Strickland called my dad last night,” Emma said.

  It felt like someone had pounced on me from behind. Of all the things she could have said, I was not expecting that. “No way.”

  “Yep,” Emma said. “He told my dad we need to stop pestering him about things that aren’t any of our business.”

  My stomach felt queasy. Was this really happening? “Are you serious?”

  “Yep. He actually used the word pestering. Can you believe it?”

  “What’d your dad say?” I asked, munching on my pickle so hard, I had to tell myself to be careful or I might miss my target and bite my tongue off.

  “He told Mr. Strickland that the three of us felt strongly about the bookmobile and we weren’t doing anything wrong by asking him to think about changing his mind. I know because I was sitting right there while he talked to him. He rolled his eyes while he listened to Mr. Strickland go on and on about how hard it is successfully run a grocery store and he’s only doing what he has to do to stay in business. I couldn’t hear Mr. Strickland, but after they hung up, Dad told me that’s what he said.”

  “I can’t believe he called your dad,” I said. “Did he think you’d get punished or something?”

  “Yeah, he probably hoped I’d get grounded for the rest of my life so he’d never have to see me again. But that’s not all he said. Want to know the real reason he wants the bookmobile to leave?”

  I froze.

  “Why?” Carmen asked.

  “He wants to put something else in its spot.”

  “He does?” I said. “What? What is it
?”

  “He wants to put a giant hot dog stand there,” Emma replied. “He thinks the tourists are absolutely dying for hot dogs.”

  “Hot dogs?” Carmen said. “Gross.”

  “I’ll admit, I like hot dogs—but I’d pick a book over a hot dog every time,” I said. “Like, it could be the best hot dog in the world and I’d still want a book instead.”

  “What about pickles?” Emma asked as she picked hers up and munched on it.

  “That is the worst which-would-you-rather question ever,” I told her. “Please. Don’t make me pick one.”

  Emma smiled. “Okay, we won’t. So, what are we going to do now?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “But my family is never shopping at that store again. I’m so mad, you guys.”

  Carmen finished her sandwich and wiped her face and hands with a napkin. “There are a lot better stores we can go to anyway. It’s so expensive, you know? That’s why my mom doesn’t shop there.”

  “He’s a greedy, selfish man,” I said. “He probably thinks he’s going to make millions selling expensive hot dogs to clueless, hungry tourists.”

  “We should protest,” Emma said.

  “Protest?” I asked. “You mean, like, march in front of the store carrying signs?”

  “Yes!” Emma said. “We could make signs that say something like, ‘Books are better for you than hot dogs.’ ”

  “Except no one would understand why we were saying that,” Carmen said. “Since no one but us knows that he’s thinking about putting a hot dog stand there. It might make us look …”

  “Like silly kids,” I said. “Yeah, she’s right. We need to think of something else.”

  “Can’t we try and find a different place for the bookmobile to park?” Carmen asked.

  “The thing is, the Buttons like it there,” I said. “And it’s the perfect spot, really.”

  “So, we have to find a way to pay the rent,” Emma said. “Right? That’s the only thing we can do now?”

  “Seems like it,” I said. “Any ideas?”

  “How about squirrel monkeys with donation cups?” Emma joked. “Like in the olden days when men played accordions with monkeys on their shoulders?”

  “Oh, the poor monkeys,” Carmen said.

  “You should go to college and major in animal science and study the monkeys you love so much, Carmen,” I said. “You could become like another Jane Goodall. But with squirrel monkeys instead of chimpanzees.”

  “I’d love that,” Carmen said. “My mom works so hard, cleaning houses and working odd jobs, and I don’t want my life to be like that. I mean, no disrespect to my mom. I love her and she’s doing the best she can, but …”

  “It’s okay,” Emma said. “You don’t have to explain. We understand.”

  As we finished our lunch, we tossed around ideas about how we could raise money to help Mr. and Mrs. Button. Some of the usual fund-raising ideas were mentioned: bake sale, car wash, raffle for some fantastic donated prize. But they all seemed overdone and like they’d be a lot of work.

  “What about an event where we sold stuff?” Carmen said. “Not baked goods or things people have seen a million times. Good stuff, that people would want to buy. And then part of the money could go to the bookmobile?”

  “Like what?” I asked.

  “Like … your paintings?” Carmen asked.

  “Oh my gosh, yes!” Emma said, bouncing up and down on her knees. “That’s such a good idea!”

  All I could do was sit there and stare at them. I stared like an owl with two big eyes who just kept blinking and blinking as they talked about me and my paintings. They talked as if this was the best idea in the history of the universe. Meanwhile, all I could think about was how it was absolutely the worst idea in the history of the universe.

  I’m not sure how, exactly, but somehow I found my voice and owl girl became a regular girl again. “No,” I said, quietly at first. The second time, it was louder. “No. That is not a good idea at all. You guys, no one will want to buy my paintings. That’s banana pants. Seriously.”

  “It’s not banana pants, Juliet,” Emma said. “You are so talented.”

  “I understand why you might be nervous,” Carmen said. “What about this? What if we made it so it’s not just you, but other people selling things they’ve made, too?”

  “You mean, make it an arts and crafts fair?” Emma asked. “Usually those are in the winter, though. Around the holidays.”

  “Is there a rule they can’t happen other times of the year?” Carmen asked.

  “No,” Emma said. “We’d just need to figure out a way to make people excited about an arts and crafts fair in the spring, when they don’t have gifts to buy for anyone.” Suddenly, her eyes got big and round. “Wait, I know! Mother’s Day! We could make it an arts and crafts fair for Mother’s Day. Bring your mom and shop. Or Come and shop for your mom. Something like that? That could work, right?”

  I had to admit, it sounded like a really good idea, but every time I even thought about putting my artwork in a booth for people to see—and judge, because they would—it felt like I was about to break into hives. Plus, Mother’s Day wasn’t that far away. If I somehow managed to find enough courage to sell my paintings, would I have enough time to get ready?

  “Let’s keep brainstorming,” I suggested. “I bet we can think of something even better. Besides, where would we have it? We’d probably have to pay to borrow a space somewhere for the day and we need to raise money, not spend money.”

  Emma started putting our picnic stuff back into the bag she’d brought. “Maybe we could get someone to donate a place. You know who we can ask? Who might have an idea about that? Mr. Dooney. He knows a lot of people.”

  “Can’t we come up with some other ideas first?” I asked. I was begging my brain to think of something brilliant, but nothing came to me. Not a single thing. Oh brain, why do you have to fail me when I need you the most?

  Emma turned to me, and her eyes were loving. Kind. “Juliet, I know you’re nervous about selling your paintings, but it’ll be fine! You can even keep some of the money and buy something special for yourself. Like, I’m thinking we ask people to donate to a fund for the bookmobile based on what they sell. Because people might not want to do it if they think they have to give all the money they make. I don’t know, we’ll have to think about it. I’ll ask my parents about it, too, and see what they say. But I promise, it will be fine. People are going to love your work.”

  She sounded so sure, but there was absolutely no way for her to know that. I kept imagining what would happen if I put out a bunch of paintings and no one bought them. It’d be so embarrassing. Like, I’d rather burp during a quiet scene in a packed movie theater than not sell a single painting. Or walk around school with pants that had ripped in the rear. Okay, maybe not that, but still. Did they realize what it would feel like for me if I didn’t sell anything?

  Emma stood up. “Come on. Let’s go talk to Mr. Dooney and see if he has any ideas.”

  “Can I go swim with the invisible sharks instead?” I asked.

  “You’re funny,” Carmen said.

  The really funny thing? I wasn’t even joking.

  Things I can say to try to sell my paintings

  *    I’m eleven years old and this is my first art show and I don’t want to die of embarrassment at such a young age.

  *    This is a picture of my cat, Casper, and he will love you forever if you buy it for your home.

  *    This painting is only ten dollars. That’s less than the cost of most pizzas and it lasts a lot longer.

  *    I painted this cute narwhal for someone just like you. That is, someone who smiles just thinking about a creature called “the unicorn of the sea.”

  *    Make an offer. I’ll take anything over fifty cents.

  *    You can have five for the price of one. They make wonderful gifts. You can even give them to people you don’t l
ike very much if you want to.

  *    Don’t make me beg. Please.

  “Well, look who’s here,” Mr. Dooney said when we walked up to his house. He was sitting on his patio that faced the boardwalk, in the same spot where I’d first met him. He got up and came over to meet us. “What can I do for you, girls?”

  “First of all, Mr. Dooney, this is our friend Carmen,” I said. “Carmen, this is Mr. Dooney.”

  “Nice to meet you,” Mr. Dooney said.

  “Thanks. You, too,” Carmen said.

  “We’ve come to ask you a favor,” Emma said.

  “Well, isn’t that wonderful,” Mr. Dooney said as he took his striped cap off and rubbed his practically bald head. “I’m happy to assist if I’m able after you did such a nice thing for me.”

  Carmen spoke next. “We’re trying to find a way to help Mr. and Mrs. Button. Help them keep the bookmobile in their spot at the grocery store, you know? The new manager is going to make them pay rent. So we were thinking we’d organize a Mother’s Day arts and crafts fair. But we don’t know where we could have it.”

  “Yeah,” Emma chimed in. “We were wondering if maybe you know someone who might let us have it in a big space for free?”

  He gave his head another rub before he put his hat back on. “Oh, boy. That’s a tough one. Let me think on it, okay? And I can maybe do some asking around, how does that sound?”

  “That sounds really good,” Emma said.

  “I can’t make any promises, of course,” Mr. Dooney said. “Though I assure you, I’ll do my very best.”

  “Thank you so much,” Emma said.

  “Yeah. Thank you,” Carmen said.

  They both looked at me and I knew I needed to say something. “If you don’t find anything, it’s totally okay. We can come up with something else.”

  “Juliet,” Emma said with a little laugh. “It’s gonna happen. And you’ll be fine.” She started singing, “Don’t stop believing.”

  “Are you worried about something?” Mr. Dooney asked me.

  Before I had a chance to answer, Emma answered for me. “We told her she should sell some of her beautiful paintings, but she’s afraid no one will want to buy them.”