The Same Stuff as Stars

What was Angel to do? Bernie had messed up the star wish, and there weren’t that many first-star wishes you could make in the middle of Burlington, Vermont. If the streetlight hadn’t been broken, they probably wouldn’t have had this chance. And now Bernie had ruined it—canceling out her wish with his terrible one.

“I’m never going to speak to you again as long as I live, Bernie Morgan.”

“Good. Then you can’t boss me around no more.” He stuck his thumb into his mouth, but just as he turned to go back into the apartment, the lights of a vehicle turning into their dead-end street swept across the yard across the way. “It’s Mama!” Bernie said.

“Wait,” she cautioned, standing on the porch, squinting her eyes to try to see past the headlights. It was the old pickup, going too fast for this short street, making a wide turn into the driveway. It passed by the waiting children. Beside the kitchen entrance it slammed to a stop. Bernie, as though he’d forgotten he was in big trouble, raced down the drive to meet Verna as she got out of the cab of the truck. Angel followed behind.

“What are you doing up, boy?” Verna’s voice was thick but not unkind, so maybe she hadn’t drunk too much.

“We was waiting for you,” Bernie said.

If they all went in through the kitchen, maybe Verna wouldn’t even go into the living room. Maybe everything could be put off until after tomorrow. Angel didn’t want to mess up Saturday morning. Not after Bernie had ruined the star wish. Verna would have to know eventually, but maybe they could get through tomorrow morning without a blowup.

***

Angel undressed in the living room by the light of the bare bulb in the hall. It wouldn’t do to turn on the living room light and attract Verna’s attention. She took the cushions off the couch. The wet one really stank. If she turned the burned side over, though, maybe it would be days before Verna noticed. For tonight she’d hide them between the back of the couch and the wall. Maybe by morning it would be dryer and not so smelly. She yanked hard and lifted up the couch seat, turning it into her bed. Mama had told her not to leave the sheets on, but Angel usually did. It was so much trouble to put them on every night, and Verna hardly ever noticed, whatever she might say.

Angel took off her clothes and laid them on top of the dresser in the closet. In the morning she’d put them away properly. She got her pillow off the closet shelf and pitched it onto the couch. Then she fumbled in the top drawer of the dresser for her nightshirt, really just one of Verna’s old T-shirts, and slipped it over her narrow shoulders.

She could hear the murmur of Verna’s and Bernie’s voices coming from across the hall. They sounded almost cheerful, so Bernie hadn’t told Mama what he’d done. That was for sure.

As she settled down under the rough sheet, she remembered the dishes. They weren’t even soaking. The leftover macaroni and cheese would be stuck on like cement. She ought to get up and finish washing them and putting away the leftovers, but she couldn’t make herself. She was tired. Besides, Mama had been drinking. Even though tomorrow was Saturday, she’d want to sleep in as long as possible. Angel would have time to clean up in the kitchen and give Bernie his breakfast before Verna was up.

***

Angel made sure the water was boiling hard before she poured it on the heaping spoonful of powdered coffee. She stirred it well and then carried it into the bedroom.

Verna was sprawled across the width of the double bed. Her bleached hair with its dark roots was damp with sweat. Her face, which could really be pretty when she fixed herself up, looked tired and unhappy even when she was asleep. Whenever Angel got mad at Verna, she tried to make herself remember how hard Verna’s life was, had always been. Angel and Bernie had only been in foster care twice, and they had been back with their mother for almost a whole year. Verna had never lived with her real mother or father. She’d spent time in eight different foster homes and a group home before she ran away and married Daddy. She’d hadn’t even finished high school. How could anyone expect her to know about being a good mother? She couldn’t remember having a mother of her own.

“Mama?” Angel said. “I brought you some coffee.”

“Oh, crap, don’t tell me it’s morning already.”

“It’s past eight, Mama. If we don’t get there before ten...”

“Okay. Okay. Get Bernie something to eat and get his clothes on. I’ll be ready in a minute.” She flopped over on her stomach and put her pillow over her head.

“We’ve already had cereal, Mama, and Bernie got himself dressed.” He’d picked out his own T-shirt and pants—not the ones Angel would have chosen, but she wasn’t going to fight that battle this morning. She was hardly speaking to him since last night’s near disaster.

“Well, give me a minute to get my own clothes on.” The pillow muffled her voice. “You can get him washed up. I’m sure he needs that.”

Angel put the coffee down on the bedside table. The TV was blaring cartoon noises from the living room. She went to the door.

“Bernie, Mama said for me to get you washed up. You need to turn the TV off.”

“I thought you wasn’t speaking to me no more,” he said prissily.

“Weren’t. Weren’t speaking to me. Oh, shut up and come here. I got to wash your face.”

“No.”

“Bernie, don’t be a baby. You’re seven years old.”

“I can wash my own face.”

Angel sighed. He wouldn’t do it right. He’d just swipe the rag across his nose. He wouldn’t get any of the dirt off. She went into the bathroom, brushed her teeth, and washed her own face more carefully than usual to make up for not washing Bernie’s.

Bernie was still on the living room floor staring at the TV, his mouth open like the beak of a baby bird waiting for the worm to drop in. His body blocked the closet door. “Move,” she said. He shifted his legs without taking his eyes off the screen.