Every Soul a Star: Chapters 1–2

It should be pointed out that Kenny's only knowledge of civilization besides our books is based on what he can glean from the ancient black-and-white television at the general store, and since the only show that comes in is the soap opera Days of Our Lives, he thinks civilization is very dramatic.

They knew that a decade later, hundreds, maybe thousands of people would travel to this exact spot to be a part of something that hasn't happened in mainland America for over seventy-five years and won't happen again for a hundred more. And this flock, this throng of people, would need a comfortable, safe place to stay, wouldn't they?

My physicist parents are certified geniuses with, like, a zillion IQ between them and all these grants to study things like dark matter and antimatter, which are apparently very different things.

Failing science class gave me a one-way ticket to summer school. It's humiliating. Having to sit in a stifling hot room with a bunch of my fellow rejects learning for the millionth time what the different types of rocks are called.

You're supposed to ponder some big question like what you should be when you grow up, or if a tree falls in the woods and no one is around to hear it, does it still make a sound?

In the back room of the Art House is Alien Central, where campers can monitor the computer that sweeps the sky for alien radio transmissions all day and all night.

Up the hill from the Pavilion with all the picnic tables and grills, we have the Star Garden, where guests can try out a bunch of different telescopes and binoculars that astronomers have donated to my parents over the years.

I know the difference between a reflective scope and a refractive scope, and the names of most of the craters on the moon.

I can point the campers in the direction of newborn stars in the Orion Nebula or a dust storm on Mars as easily as telling them which way to the restrooms.

And if we're lucky enough to see the dancing lights of the Aurora Borealis, I'm out there with hot chocolate and warm blankets.

If pressed, I can explain that the reds and oranges and greens that billow down from the sky are different types of gas atoms and molecules colliding with solar particles.

“First of all," I reply, “this was no little spider. It had a presence. It had a soul. A mean soul, intent on eating me. And second, I am not sleeping when I'm out there on my lawn chair. I am intently stargazing. And third, I don't ever want to see that creepy chart of yours again. I had nightmares for weeks the last time you left it open on the kitchen table."

When my grandfather was ten years old, a rock fell from the sky and grazed his left ear.

At first his mother was convinced the rock had been thrown by a mischievous neighbor boy named Hank, but an investigation determined that Hank was "indisposed" at that time, which was the polite way of saying that Hank had eaten some bad carp that he had fished illegally from the river behind the glue factory and had been stuck on the toilet since dinner.

Now my grandfather's father, he was a nice guy, played ball with his son, went to church on Sundays, but he never did have much aptitude for science.

There are pictures of models to clip from magazines for my Wish Book, boys to follow around in the mall, and sleepovers with Claire and the rest of the A-Clique.

It's weird that a kid who is so relentlessly happy all the time screams in her sleep.

A lot of the Vogue-lady's speech is about signing with a reputable modeling agency, and other things my parents won't even consider until after high school.

But she also tells us how we're supposed to walk (one foot directly in front of the other, heel to toe, like walking on a high beam), how to hold ourselves (eyes looking forward, neck long, back straight), and what to think about while our pictures are being taken (exude a "cool sense of peace and confidence").

Melanie opens her mouth to respond, but right then our parents pull up in their embarrassing beat-up brown van. They use it to haul their equipment, even though I have begged them to get a car I wouldn't be mortified to be seen climbing in or out of.

“Hop in, girls," Dad says cheerily, leaning his head out the window as the engine idles loudly.

In order to fit on the seat I have to push aside one of the many cardboard boxes filled with copies of Mom and Dad's book, Dark Matters, which they store in the van for when they do speaking engagements.

They and I have an unspoken agreement: I don't pry into their lives, they don't pry into mine.

"Let's go sit in the gazebo," Mom suggests, only it's more like a command.

I can always count on her not to make us sit on the grass. She's very squeamish about bugs. I don't like them either, but for me it's about the dirt.

I hear the words coming out of her mouth, but they honestly don't register.

For the zillionth time I bemoan the lack of privacy.

SD3 was more of a deep thinker. He couldn't tell a hammer from a nail, but I can thank him for teaching me how to wake up in my dreams without waking up for real. He called it lucid dreaming.

"Two weeks in the wilderness, camping under the stars. And then witnessing firsthand a total eclipse of the sun, the most amazing spectacle in the entire solar system."

“Long pants, shorts, t-shirts, long-sleeved shirts, hiking boots, umbrella, heavy jacket, hooded sweatshirts, sneakers, a bathing suit, underwear, socks, detergent, backpack, notebook, pens, pencils, ruler, calculator, flashlight, bath stuff, first aid kit, compass, pocket knife, bug repellent, sunblock, toolbox, sleeping bag, water purifier, snacks for the bus, canteen, and a camera."