Falling Stars (Shooting Stars 5)

"How much is here. Daddy? It's too much," I concluded, flipping through the big bills.

"Never mind that," Mommy said. "New York is expensive."

Daddy smiled at me, hugged and kissed me, and wished me good luck.

They paused at the door, looked back at me as if they were watching me leave on a boat or a plant, and then turned and walked out and down the stairs. I stood for a moment, gazing at the open doorway, tears now unabashedly pouring down my cheeks. My heart felt like a clump of mud. Just as I started to flick the tears off my cheeks, a thin boy with long, ripe-cornyellow hair down to his shoulders stepped in the doorway,

"You're not crying real tears, are you?" he asked with a croo

ked smile. He had a long, narrow nose, prominent cheekbones, and a round jaw with a slight cleft in his chin. His lips had a somewhat orange tint. He wore a light brown athletic shirt with the words Go Beet coven written in bold red letters and a piano keyboard in coal-black and milk-white beneath them. The shirt hung loosely over the waist of his very battered jeans, which had rips at the knees. His rather large feet were in dark brown Air Jordans with his sweat socks bundled loosely around his ankles. When he brushed back the strands of hair from his left ear, I saw a diamond stud in his lobe.

He stepped into my room without an invitation, his light turquoise eyes practically circling like a wheel of fortune as he looked at everything.

"These rooms are all about the same. I'm just across the hall." he said, smelling my real flowers. "but don't worry about noise."

I nearly jumped out of my own shoes when he stepped closer to the wall and slammed his fist against it to demonstrate. There was a dull thud.

"Whoever built this, built it to last a thousand years. You won't hear a thing and I won't hear a thing, so you can sob all night if you like."

"I'm not sobbing all night," I said. "I just said goodbye to my parents for the first time ever."

"Really?" He flopped into the chair at my desk so hard. I thought he would crack it in two. "I think I've said good-bye to my parents more than I've said good morning or good night. From the day I could walk and talk, they found places for me to go. Sometimes. I think they bribed my relatives to take me in for a weekend or so.

"My mother says I give her nerves." he continued, taking barely a split second to breathe, "How can you give anyone nerves? 'We're all born with nerves.' I told her." he continued, rubbing the arm of the chair with his fingers as if he was Irving to sand it down as he spoke. " 'I mean you make my nerves nervous.' she replied. Ever hear anything so stupid? Making her nerves nervous? What's your name?" he asked before I could respond.

"Honey Forman. "

"We hardly know each other." he said. "Really. I've been with aggressive girls before, but for you to call me honey as soon as we meet..."

"That's my name!" I exclaimed. Now he was giving me nerves. I wanted to tell him I understood what his mother had meant.

He sat forward, folded his fingers between each other, clasped his hands behind his head, and then sat back,

"Great. Every time I call you or talk to you, everyone will think we're lovers.'

"Not if I can help it." I shot back at him, and he laughed. ''Do you have a name or should I just call you Nervy?" I demanded, my hands on my hips.

"Very funny, Honey. I have a rather ordinary name. I'm afraid: Steven. I'm named after my greatgrandfather. Steven Jesse, credited with inventing, patenting, and producing a better candy-vending machine. It was the better mousetrap of its day, and as a result, my family became filthy rich.

"What's your specialty?" he asked before I could say a word or ask him another question. "Specialty?"

"We're all specialists here. Honey. I'm into piano. Back home. I'm known as the boy with the Mozart ear."

He ran his fingers over an imaginary keyboard and then hummed the notes to what I thought sounded like Mozart and said so. He held his hands in midair and smiled.

"What number?"

"I'm not sure... '"?"

"23, but that's very good. Are you here as an instrumentalist?"

"Violin." I said, nodding at my violin case on the floor beside him.

"Oh, right. I thought it might be a small machine gun," he joked and jumped up so fast. I stepped back.

He performed a stage bow.

"Proper introductions, then. I am. as I have said. Steven Randolph Jesse, child prodigy, musical genius-- in short, a mystery to my parents, who demonstrate no musical abilities. My mother is literally tone-deaf. My father's favorite song is Row, Row, Row Your Boat. I have a younger brother, who is currently the star halfback at our high school and listens to Ricky Maitin, N Sync, hip-hop, whatever, and thinks piano keys unlock the piano.