The Brightest Stars of Summer (2 page)

T
he movie had only been playing for a minute or two when Marigold started to get a bad feeling. She couldn't explain it, but as the music swelled and she watched the scenery unfurl on the giant screen—the turquoise sea, the rocky beach, the steep cliffs—she became a little queasy.

She had asked her mother once why sometimes she knew which way something was going to go, good or bad, right before it happened. Like the time she'd known that she was going to get that part on the TV show
Seasons
before she'd even stepped into the room to audition. Or when she'd felt in the pit of her stomach that seventh grade was going to be a really tough year even before the first bell rang. “That's your intuition,” Mom had said. “Your gut instinct. And you should always listen to it.”

Right now, her gut instinct was telling her that something was wrong. The first scene was supposed to take place at the edge of the forest, where a girl was sitting under a tree, reading a book. A girl played by Marigold. But the landscape in those fast and sweeping panoramic views suggested that the girl was being skipped over and the audience was being taken directly to the lagoon where the queen of the Night Sprites lived. The bad feeling landed in her belly like a penny at the bottom of a fountain.

Marigold had an important line in this movie. It was the first in the film: “Where does the magic of a summer evening come from? It's hidden deep in the twilight, though perhaps is closer than you ever imagined.” She had practiced it until it was like a favorite song playing on a loop as she walked to school or drifted off while doing homework.

Now, a few months after shooting her scenes, she was more than ready to hear that line outside her head. She was expecting it to fill the theater, just as she had envisioned so many times. But instead of her voice opening the movie, Xiomara's song flowed from the speakers.

Marigold's scene had been cut.

Wait. What?

This couldn't be happening to her! Or could it? Everyone said that bad things happened in threes. She didn't believe it, but here it was: the third bad thing.
The TV show Marigold had been on for six whole episodes had been canceled this fall. Then two weeks ago her agent, Jill, had announced that she was quitting the business and moving to Costa Rica to discover the meaning of life. Jill had assured her that a part in the summer's hottest blockbuster would mean that she'd be able to find another agent in no time, and Marigold had believed her. But now she wasn't even in the movie!

Marigold wanted to reach up, rewind the action, and zoom in on the tree under which she was meant to be sitting. But of course she couldn't. All she could do was grip her velvet armrests and try not to cry.

Marigold could still see that tree where they had filmed just two and half months earlier in Griffith Park, the huge park in the middle of Los Angeles. The tree had tangled, knotty roots that rose above the ground to create a shady, comfortable reading nook for a girl her size. On that perfect day in April, as one of Mr. Rathbone's assistants adjusted Marigold's costume, Marigold had wondered how many trees they'd looked at before they found this one.
It's the best tree,
she thought as she relaxed against the cool bark,
for the best day.

She'd arrived early on the set. A guy with crazy pants had done her hair and a lady with light and careful fingertips had applied her makeup. Marigold was more nervous than she'd thought she would be.
Her mouth was dry and her hands were clammy, but she wasn't so nervous that she forgot her lines. And when Mr. Rathbone called “Action!” Marigold was such a natural that she'd done the scene in just one take.

Marigold had returned from spring break ready to tell everyone about her big day. For weeks it was all she could talk about. It wasn't just because she wanted to relive her dream on a daily basis—it was also because she thought it would give her that something extra she needed to be accepted by the girls in her class.

Her intuition had been right about seventh grade. It was different from sixth in a way that was hard to put her finger on. It wasn't just because they were actually allowed to choose some of their classes (French or Spanish? pottery or dance?), or even that they were allowed to use their phones during the school day. It was something much bigger and more difficult to name.

In sixth grade, all thirty-five girls in her class at Miss Hadley's School had pretty much been friends. Some girls were closer than others, like Marigold and her best friend Pilar, but overall there weren't any groups. She didn't think twice about where she sat at lunch or who she walked to gym class with. And the birthday party rules from elementary school were still in place: girls invited either the whole class or just one or two close friends.

In seventh grade things changed.

The year had started off okay, but as the fall crept toward winter, cliques started to form. There was one group calling themselves “the Cuties” who were all on the swim team and who'd gone on a ski trip together over winter vacation.

In the week they'd spent at Mammoth Mountain, they seemed to have shared a lifetime's worth of secrets and what they called “location jokes.” Marigold learned these were jokes she'd only understand if she'd been at the
location
where the joke happened, and they'd all happened during the ski trip. By the time spring vacation rolled around, the Cuties were wearing their hair the same way, sitting together at the smaller lunch table (the one with only enough room for eight people) closest to the windows, and constantly saying the word “amazing.”

Marigold, who'd always been confident, was suddenly timid about speaking up in front of the Cuties—and she'd gone to kindergarten with most of them. She was also weirdly shy about using the word “amazing.” It was like those girls owned the word, which didn't make any sense. How could anyone own a word?

She thought there was no better way to get her classmates' approval than to make sure that they knew she was going to be in the
Night Sprites
movie. Her entire class had read the books, and it seemed like the whole world was waiting for the film, which would be released on July first—the day her life would change forever.

Marigold started talking about being in the movie every chance she could get: in homeroom, in the locker room, walking to class. “I just can't wait until July first!” she'd said more than once. This did get everyone's attention, but only for a few days. After listening to several stories about “the shoot,” the Cuties lost interest, and they still didn't invite her to sit at their table.

It wasn't until Pilar talked to her in the lunch line that Marigold finally started to understand.

“People think you're bragging,” Pilar said as she grabbed a yogurt and put it on her tray.

“Do
you
think I'm bragging?” Marigold asked. Pilar bit her lip as she selected a turkey sandwich. “Pilar?”

“Maybe?” Pilar said, looking up at Marigold from under her long, dark eyelashes.

“I think everyone is jealous,” Marigold said, picking out a ham and cheese on whole wheat. Pilar froze, her brow pinched. “I mean, not you, but everyone else. The Cuties for sure. They're such jerks.”

“They aren't so bad,” Pilar said, and then she checked to see if anyone had overheard. Marigold felt her throat constrict. Was Pilar becoming one of them?

It was true that Marigold had been spending less time with Pilar since she'd been cast in
Night Sprites
. She'd had a bunch of auditions that she'd missed school for, and she was now taking an improv class and a voice-over class in addition to her acting class. It was
also true that Pilar had asked her to hang out a lot and she'd almost always had to say no. Had Marigold been a bad friend without realizing it? Didn't Pilar understand how important acting was to her?

The truth, Marigold knew, was that she hadn't signed up for all the extra classes just because acting was her passion. It also gave her an excuse not to fit in.

“I'm so busy this weekend because I have auditions,” she'd said once when she wasn't invited to a birthday party. (Pilar had been invited to that one.) Another time she'd said, “I have to go to acting class after school today,” when she knew a bunch of girls from her class went to the new frozen yogurt place that let you sample every flavor, but didn't ask her to come along.

Marigold realized that even if Pilar did get more invitations, she probably still really missed having her best friend around. Marigold had an idea.

“Hey, do you want to try the Cupcake Café this weekend? We can do a taste test and see if the cupcakes there are as good as the ones at the Farmers Market.”

“I went last weekend,” Pilar said.

“Without me?” Marigold asked.

“It's been open for a whole month, Marigold.”

“But we were going to go together, remember?”

“I already asked you to go twice and you said you were busy.”

“I was,” Marigold said, her voice high and pleading.

“You're always busy,” Pilar said as she grabbed an orange juice and headed toward the seventh-grade tables.

“But I really was,” Marigold said, following her friend.

Pilar said “Hi” to the Cuties as she passed their table and they said “Hi” back, but to Marigold's relief, Pilar didn't sit with them. Instead the two of them sat at their regular table with the usual girls. But for that whole lunch period, Marigold felt like Pilar wanted to be somewhere else.

Now Marigold was the one who wanted to be somewhere else. Anywhere but here in this fancy, old-fashioned movie theater, watching her dream go down the drain. She grabbed her mom's hand.

“They skipped it,” she whispered.

“Maybe they moved it,” Mom said. A tear rolled down Marigold's cheek. “Do you want to leave, honey?”

“No! We need to stay in case it's in there somewhere,” Marigold said.

“We'll stay,” Mom said, and wrapped an arm around her daughter.

The rest of the movie was torture. Marigold couldn't enjoy a single scene. Zinnie, on the other hand, loved it. She was laughing like crazy when Xiomara entertained the ravens and crying when it appeared that all hope was lost. Marigold kept shooting her dirty
looks, but they were wasted—Zinnie didn't even notice. Not until the very end, when she turned to Marigold and, as if it was just dawning on her that something was amiss, said, “Hey, wait a second. Where was your scene? Did I miss it?” And Marigold had to cover her face with both hands to keep from screaming.

“Do you want to stick around and talk to anyone?” Mom asked, stroking Marigold's hair.

“I just want to go home,” Marigold said, still hiding her tear-stained face. “I want to call Pilar.” How could her dream be taken from her like this? How was she ever going to face her classmates? Now no one would know about her most perfect moment on earth, sitting under that tree, saying her lines like a real movie actress. Now the only people who would ever know that she was in the best, most successful movie of the year were the handful who had been there on that April day. It was, she thought, the cruelest location joke of all.

“Y
ou can have the rest of my bacon,” Zinnie said, offering her plate to Marigold. Zinnie knew that her bacon, as perfect as it was (extra crispy and deliciously drenched in maple syrup), couldn't make up for Marigold's terrible day yesterday, but she hoped it would at least make this day a little better.

“I wouldn't turn that down,” Dad said, taking the last bite of his fried eggs. “You know how Zinnie is about her bacon.”

“Honey,” Mom said to Marigold, “you need to eat something.”

In an attempt to boost Marigold's spirits, Mom and Dad had taken the girls to the Freeway Café for breakfast. Zinnie didn't even have to look at the menu. She knew she wanted the French toast special. Lily had a waffle with extra whipped cream and a cherry on top.
Dad got the fried eggs with grits on the side. Mom ordered flapjacks instead of her usual veggie omelet. But Marigold just asked for dry whole wheat toast and water—no ice. Zinnie thought it was the most boring breakfast ever, especially considering they were at the home of the doughnut breakfast sandwich (which sounded good and looked good, but gave Zinnie a stomachache).

“If Marigold doesn't eat it, then can we give it to Bowser?” Lily asked, referring to the little dog that was up for adoption that they'd seen on their way into the diner. The pet store next door was having its annual adopt-a-dog fair, and Lily had instantly fallen in love with a beagle.

“If Marigold doesn't eat it, I will,” Dad said, patting Lily's head. “Bowser is better off with dog food.”

“It's the perfect amount of burned,” Zinnie said, and pushed her plate toward Marigold, but Marigold just listlessly stirred her ice-less water with her straw and stared out the window. Zinnie almost didn't recognize her sister today. Marigold's eyes were puffy from so much crying, her hair was pulled back in a tangled ponytail, and she was wearing baggy leggings and an old sweatshirt. Normally Marigold wouldn't even sleep in these clothes. And nothing seemed to be cheering her up. Telling her jokes hadn't made Marigold feel better. Praising her acting skills hadn't helped. Offering to be her butler for twenty-four hours hadn't
worked either. Maybe syrup-soaked bacon would do the trick.

“The world's best older sister deserves the world's best bacon,” Zinnie offered one last time, glancing at Marigold to make sure the compliment had registered. Last night at dinner Zinnie had innocently mentioned that she thought the
Night Sprites
movie was good. She knew almost as soon as she had said it that it'd been a mistake. And sure enough, Marigold had declared her a traitor.

She still wasn't forgiven, because even now Marigold wasn't making a move toward the bacon. Zinnie decided to eat it herself.

“I thought that was for me,” Marigold said.

“But you didn't . . . ,” Zinnie said, with her mouth full. “I asked you and—”

“You shouldn't give someone something if you're only going to take it away,” Marigold said, bursting into tears.

“Sorry,” Zinnie said.

“Why was I cut?” Marigold asked, slumping into the booth and dabbing her eyes with a napkin. “I guess I'm just not a good actress!”

“You're a great actress,” Dad said.

“Sweetheart,” Mom said, placing a hand over Marigold's, “I know how disappointed you are. But I'm sure this has nothing to do with your talent.”

“Mom's an editor, so she knows,” Zinnie said.

“It's true,” Mom said. “Scenes are usually cut from movies because the director or the producers don't think they add to the story.”

“As artists, we have to pick ourselves up, dust ourselves off, and find a way to keep going,” Dad said. “And we have so much to look forward to this summer.”

The summer was going to be a busy one, and Zinnie couldn't wait. Marigold was going to an acting camp in Topanga Canyon, where she would be doing an actual Shakespeare play. Zinnie was going to a creative writing camp, called Summer Scribes, at Miss Hadley's. The camp was taught by Mrs. Lee herself. For two whole weeks the Scribes would be exploring L.A. for inspiration, reading great books, and writing, of course. Lily was taking swimming lessons and going to camp at the zoo.

But of course what they were all looking forward to the most was their family visit to Pruet at the end of the summer. They were going for three days, the weekend before school started. Zinnie didn't see how three days could possibly compare to last summer, when they'd had nearly three weeks of freedom and fun at Aunt Sunny's. There'd been clambakes, sailing adventures, and a dance at the casino—which was what the people in Pruet called the town hall. Zinnie had written a play. Marigold had found a boyfriend. Lily had swum in the ocean. And they'd all put on a talent show. It had been, without a doubt,
the happiest summer of Zinnie's life.

They all wanted to return for a nice long visit this summer, but things were different this year. Aunt Sunny had received a grant for the environmental organization she'd started, the Piping Plover Society, and she was overseeing the establishment of a bird sanctuary. It was a full-time job, so she wasn't available to watch the girls like she had last summer. And Aunt Sunny's cottage was a little too small for the whole Silver family to stay for longer than a couple days. Besides, Mom and Dad both had jobs in Los Angeles.

“Camp starts next week,” Mom said. “Think about how fun it will be to perform onstage with the Topanga Players, Marigold! You'll get to do Shakespeare.”

“Most actors prefer the stage to the screen,” Dad said.

“I can't go to acting camp NOW,” Marigold said. “I'm DONE with acting. Forever.”

“What?” Zinnie asked.

“Obviously Ronald was wrong about me,” Marigold said. Zinnie bit her lip. Ronald was Marigold's acting teacher, who didn't think Zinnie was talented enough to be in his class. Zinnie was not a fan. “And if Jill thought I was really so great, maybe she wouldn't have moved to Costa Rica. Even Mr. Rathbone thought the movie was better without me! Why would I want to keep acting?”

“I don't think now is the time to make that kind of decision, honey,” Dad said.

Zinnie was about to plead with Marigold not to give up—her sister's talent was nothing short of extraordinary—when Mom's phone rang. Zinnie felt her heart light up as Aunt Sunny's face with her round glasses and cheerful smile appeared on the screen. Zinnie really couldn't wait to see her. How was she going to wait until the end of the summer?

“Aunt Sunny!” Lily shouted and clapped.

“I'll call her as soon as we get home,” Mom said, tucking the phone in her purse. The Silvers had a strict rule about not answering phones at the table.

“Come on, Mom,” Zinnie said. “She never calls!”

It was true. Aunt Sunny preferred sending letters and postcards and, at least once a month, a package. Sometimes it contained a shell she'd found on the beach. Other times she sent books that she thought the girls would enjoy, or a treasure she had unearthed in her attic. On Christmas she had sent a bunch of ornaments that had been hers as a child. And of course in every package was a batch of her famous surprise brownies, which were rich, gooey, and chocolaty with a peppermint kick.

“We all want to talk to her,” Marigold said, her eyes brightening for the first time since yesterday.

“I think we can make an exception,” Dad said. “After all, it's Aunt Sunny.”

“Well, okay,” Mom said, happy to give in as she picked up the phone. “Hello!”

The rest of the family watched in silence as Mom listened. Seconds later, a huge smile broke out on Mom's face and a joyful laugh escaped her lips.