Stella by Starlight (15 page)

Stella was happy for an excuse to close her notebook. “A hole?”

“Yeah. You know. Like a hidey-place hole. With snakes.”

“Snakes?”

“Yep.”

“I'm not sure,” Stella told her, thinking what a strange thing that was for the first grader to draw for the contest. “I reckon it would be round and dark, right? Why do you want to draw a hole?”

Hazel looked at her as if that was the silliest question in the world. “I've got twelve brothers and sisters,” she explained patiently. “When you live in my house, you gotta have a hidey-hole. That's what my story is about. So how do you draw it?”

Stella did the best she could, but she really had no idea how to create the picture that Hazel wanted. When school let out, Hazel thanked Stella and said she'd be able to finish it all by herself the next day.

On the way home, Stella was in no mood to joke or play around with her friends like she usually did.
Most of the boys had stayed late to pitch horseshoes in the school yard, but Tony joined her. Jojo trailed not far behind, picking up rocks and pitching them at tree trunks.

It was a perfect October afternoon, with the sun streaming through what remained of the russet leaves of the maple and beech trees that lined the road. But Stella focused on kicking up clouds from the reddish dirt at her feet instead. She hadn't written a thing for the contest. Not one single word.

“What's got you all cattywampus?” Tony asked her.

“I'm just missin' the summer,” Stella replied with a shrug. “Everything gets crunchy and fades away in the fall and winter.”

“Me, I like the fall,” Tony proclaimed, pretending the tree branch he'd swept up from the side of the road was a sword. “And I like the way you say stuff,” he said. “You're not ordinary. And not crunchy,” he added.

Stella smiled at him hesitantly. “Thanks, I guess,” she said, wondering what being “not crunchy” meant. “I was just thinking about the writing contest and what I can enter.” She hoped she didn't sound stupid.

“Words fall out of the sky like leaves, girl. Grab a couple and write 'em down.”

“You make it sound so easy,” she said, catching an apricot-colored leaf in midair as Tony whacked the mottled white trunk of a birch tree.

“Quit tryin' so hard. Just write what you see, what you think. That's all I do.” He scooped up an armful of leaves and showered them over her head.

“Quit it!” she said, brushing dust and specks from her hair, laughing.

“You'll think of something,” he said easily, brandishing his stick at an invisible enemy. “But me, I think instead of writing about baseball or football, I'm gonna write about a knight who slays a fire-breathing dragon.” He beheaded the dried blooms of a hydrangea bush.

“Sounds like a great idea,” Stella told him, steering clear of his pretense at knighthood.

“You could write about dragons too,” Tony said, now knighting a small boxwood bush.

“I'm lousy at writing make-believe stories.”

Tony tossed the stick aside, wiped his hands on his pants, and faced Stella directly. “So write a true
story!” he challenged. “Write about what you saw by the pond!”

“Oh, I couldn't!” Stella declared. “It's too dangerous!”

“Why the heck not? And by the way, did you know the head of the Klan is called a Grand Dragon?”

“He
is
?” Her palms instantly grew sweaty.

“So write your own dragon story. I dare you!” With that, he turned on his heel and ran ahead.

Stella kicked up red dust the whole rest of the way home, wondering if she dared.

25

Stella sat on her back steps. Though the sun was going down over the pond, it wasn't dark yet, so no one could scold her.

Should she dare? Should she dare write about the Klan? Sometimes people had to be
ready
for the truth, she decided. She pressed her notebook open flat. Maybe just whispering about the truth at first would be a better idea. She'd be—what did Mrs. Grayson call it? Subtle! She'd be subtle. But she'd do it for the contest.

Three drafts later, most of the scratch-outs and erasures eliminated, she finally put her pencil back in the box.

SLAYING DRAGONS

Dragons are not real. In storybooks, they
are usually blood-red, with shiny scales and sharp teeth. They have long necks and tails that swing hard enough to knock down any soldier. And wings. Dragons in books can fly.

Dragons are always fierce. Brave warriors, dressed in thick armor, go out with shiny swords to slay them. In those stories, dragons are never “killed.” They are always “slain” instead—not sure why.

Dragons in fables breathe fire from their mouths. They burn trees and bushes and farmhouses. Castles are harder to burn, I guess, but dragon flames make a really good picture in a storybook.

Knights in armor were real. But dragons—completely made up.

I think the Ku Klux Klan chose the dragon as their symbol because it is scary. The people around here who dress up in bedsheets and call themselves dragons are very real.

But didn't all the dragons from the fairy tales get slain?

26

Stella
hated
cleaning the chicken coop. Sticky, gooey, stinky poop everywhere. Gummed into the straw, ground into the dirt, stuck in the fencing, flung against the slats of the wall of their enclosure.
How do those dang birds
do
that?
she wondered, scrunching up her nose.

Her mother's boots clomped uncomfortably, even though she had stuffed the toes with old rags. The shovel kept slipping from her hands because Mama's gloves were too big. She
hated
it all. She entered the fenced area and shooed the thankless chickens to one side, blocking them with a large board Papa kept just for cleaning day. They clucked and squawked in protest, but for all Stella cared, they could be made into chicken soup that very minute.

Every other Saturday, this was her chore. She began by shoveling up all the soiled straw and wood shavings and depositing the stinky mess into Papa's wooden wheelbarrow. When it was full, she wheeled the load out to the compost pile and added it to the potato peels, onion skins, apple cores, and every other piece of food garbage that was tossed there every night.
Disgusting!
But Papa used the mess to fertilize everything that grew around the place. And because of that, Mama's tomatoes were the biggest in Bumblebee.

It took several barrows full to finish. Then she had to spread fresh wood chips and straw so the chickens could fill it with poop all over again. Ugh. But at least now it smelled fresh, and the chickens clucked with what she hoped was appreciation when she let them back into that side of the yard.

Mama came out of the house, glanced at the clean chicken area, and told Stella she'd done a nice job.

“Thanks. So do I still have to get all the ripe vegetables from the garden?” she moaned, sagging against the shovel. She was in a mood to trounce Jojo in checkers, not work outside all day. Plus it was
cold!

“You do if you plan to eat tonight,” her mother
retorted. “The spinach will grow well into December if we keep it pruned, and that cabbage by the fence is big enough to pick. You might even find a few bush beans. And pull me some of them collard greens—they'll be great with a few potatoes.”

“Aw, Mama,” Stella began.

“Quit with your bellyaching, child. I've got fish to clean and fry. You want my job?”

Stella hated touching fish guts even more than coop cleaning. “No, M'am.” As she trudged toward the garden, she suddenly grinned with relief. Carolyn Malone was half running up the road, clutching a large book to her chest.

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Mills,” Carolyn called out. “We got something really exciting in the mail today! My mother said I could bring it here for a bit to show you.” She held out the book and looked over at Stella with a grin of her own.

“Stella's got chores, Carolyn,” Stella's mother replied. “You done with yours already?”

“Yes, M'am,” Carolyn replied. “If I promise to help Stella finish hers, can me and her look at this for a few minutes? Please? I have to return it soon.” The two
girls looked at Stella's mother with pleading eyes.

Mrs. Mills glanced at the treasure in Carolyn's arms. “Hmm. This year's Sears and Roebuck catalog,” she murmured, wiping her hands on her apron. “That
is
truly special. I haven't seen the fall edition. My, my, my. Well, since it's here, let's take a minute to look at it, girls. Or we can clean the windows!” she added, winking. “Stella, go wash your hands first.”

“Thanks, Mama!” Stella tossed the boots and gloves into a corner of the porch and rinsed off in a jiffy. Then she and Carolyn raced inside before Mama could change her mind. Stella pushed three chairs close together while Carolyn carefully placed the catalog on the table.

“Oh, golly,” Stella breathed, gingerly touching the thick book.

The cover showed a painting of a white boy, maybe around twelve or thirteen years old, sitting at a desk doing homework. A desk lamp, brass probably, an inkwell, and various papers were placed around him. Behind the boy, as if it was on his wall or maybe in his mind, was a tall, majestic image of George Washington, standing in some clouds and looking serious and
presidential. Mrs. Grayson would love that picture.

“That's a painting by Mr. Norman Rockwell,” Stella's mother told the girls.

“Who's he?” Carolyn asked.

“A famous painter.” Peering closer at the picture, Stella's mother said, “It looks like the boy is writing an essay on Washington, who was born in 1732. 1932 is the two hundredth anniversary—I guess the folks at Sears and Roebuck are celebrating that.”

“Even fake boys on catalog covers got writing homework,” Stella muttered.

“Did you ever turn in your paper for the contest?” Mama asked.

“Yes, Mama. Yesterday,” Stella said, “but it doesn't matter, because mine won't get picked. Now, please, can we turn the page? I want to look at the clothes.”