Stella by Starlight (6 page)

One was the little bitty baby

Born in Bethlehem.”

The teacher kept adding more verses until they had completed all twelve:

“Children, go where I send thee

How shall I send thee?

I'm gonna send thee twelve by twelve

Twelve was the twelve that couldn't get help

Eleven was the 'leven that all went to heaven

Ten was the Joseph brothers

Nine was the nine all dressed so fine

Eight was the eight who stood at the gate

Seven was the seven couldn't get to heaven

Six was the six that never got picked

Five was the five that came back alive

Four was the four that stood at the door

Three was the three old wise men

Two was Paul and Silas

One was the little bitty baby

Born in Bethlehem.”

“Wonderful!” Mrs. Grayson said. “Let's do it again, but faster this time!” And so they did. Over and over, faster and faster, until they were all breathless with laughter and song.

Then Mrs. Grayson abruptly stopped playing. “I know it's not in the song, but how much is three
times
three?” she demanded.

“Nine!” Johnsteve responded quickly.

She nodded with approval, then looked at the students in the lower grades. “How much is three
plus
three?”

“Six!” Jojo chirped.

“She sure did figure out a way to do it!” Carolyn whispered to Stella.

To the older children she said, “Four times four?”

“Sixteen!”

“Twelve times twelve?”

“One hundred and forty four! Too easy,” Tony said.

“Excellent!” The teacher looked pleased. “Now, children,” she continued cheerfully, “let's begin our writing projects. I will collect them at the end of the day.”

Stella slumped in her seat. Writing. The perfect way to ruin a perfect morning.

Mrs. Grayson divided everyone into groups by grades. She tasked the oldest students with looking up each reference from the song in the Bible and figuring out who were the “eight who stood at the gate,” then writing about one of them. The little ones were told to write short word stories or poems about Christmas.

When Mrs. Grayson got to Stella's group of nine- to twelve-year-olds, she told them, “I want each of you to write an essay—an opinion piece. It should be one to two pages in length. Your best penmanship.”

Two pages?
Stella's stomach curled into knots.

Mrs. Grayson caught Stella's eye. “Just write down what you think about what happened last night,” she suggested. “Bumblebee belongs to all of us, and what happens here is important.”

Outside the classroom window stood an ancient apple tree, its branches gnarled and entwined. They'd all feasted on the fruit since the start of school, but the last of the apples had fallen in the past week. Stella gazed out at the few remaining leaves stirring in the sharp breeze. When she opened her notebook, her thoughts snarled like those tangled branches. Stella didn't like to write.

When she was in first grade, she had been the worst reader in the whole class. It had taken her longer than anyone else to figure out the connection between words in her head and the charts of both printed and cursive versions of the ABCs on the wall. Reading and writing had come slowly to Stella, in spite of her mother's wallpaper. Mrs. Grayson, so patient, had let Stella work at her own pace, but still she'd struggled with putting it all together. Even now, for sure, she'd never be the class spelling bee champion like Carolyn.

So instead of beginning her essay, Stella busied herself with getting ready to get ready. She had a system—pencils on the left, notebook on the right, books in the middle. She liked everything neat and lined up so the edges matched.

Not that any of that mattered, she thought glumly. A neat desk couldn't disguise the inside of her notebook, which was a jumble of half-finished work, scratch-outs, and mess-ups. Arithmetic wasn't so bad—numbers lined up in an order that made sense to her. But writing, oh Lordy.

It wasn't that she didn't have strong opinions on lots of things. She sure did! But putting them on
paper just wasn't her piece of cake. Or pie. Or pancakes with molasses, which she dearly loved. Writing was more like trying to chew an unripe apple—bitter and hard and not worth the effort. Worse—she even had a couple of bad grades in that notebook that she'd hidden from her parents, which she knew was dumb. Eventually her mama and Mrs. Grayson would get to talking at church, and her life would be over.

And it wasn't that her mind wasn't spinning with ideas—images of flames, of those stamping horses, wore sharp in her memory. It was getting them straight in her notebook. . . .

Mrs. Grayson gave her a questioning look, clearly noting Stella had yet to put one word to paper. So Stella finally picked up a pencil. She scratched out words. Started again. Erased half of it with her almost-nub-like gum eraser. Started again. Stopped.

Shoulders slumped, she stared back out the window. A breeze blew a few curled and ruddy leaves from the apple tree. Stella figured sticking those leaves back on the branches would be easier than trying to move the stuff in her head to the empty blue lines in her notebook.

9

I have
not
no idea where
bethlaham
Bethelehem is. I guess the wise men must of been pretty wise to find it.

When the baby Jesus was born, there was a
brite
bright light in the sky. It was a good star, the
prechure
preacher says. The kings and the wise men
followd
foulled
chased it.

Last night me and Jojo saw a fire that lit up the dark. It was a not good very bad sign. Scary. No
angles
angels showed up in the sky, and nobody sang any pretty carols.

The only wise men I saw were in my mama's kitchen.

Stella could think of nothing more to say. She frowned. She started to raise her hand to ask for help, but Mrs. Grayson was busy with the third graders, who seemed to be having no trouble at all with their writing projects.

Dunce!
She ripped the page out of her notebook, balled it up, and put her head down on her desk.

When Mrs. Grayson stopped by to check on Stella with a gentle hand on her shoulder, Stella mumbled something about a stomachache, and the teacher left her alone the rest of the afternoon.

Stella never finished her assignment.

10

“I must give this paper an F, Stella,” Mrs. Grayson told Stella sadly at the end of the day, catching her as she was walking out the schoolhouse door. “It's incomplete. It's got potential, but you gave up. Perhaps I should stop by your house with a plate of gingersnaps and have a chat with your mama.”

“Oh, please don't do that,” Stella begged in alarm. “I'll finish it tonight and bring it in tomorrow. I promise.”

“I know the writing part can be a challenge for you, Stella,” Mrs. Grayson said. “You read well. You think well. All you need to do is make the leap to putting it down on paper. And actually, the little that you wrote here is pretty good. But,” she added sternly, “you can do better.”

Wishing a hole big enough to swallow her would appear in the floor, Stella couldn't look at the teacher. “Yes, M'am,” she mumbled.

“Try this, Stella.” Mrs. Grayson pulled her pocketbook from the bottom desk drawer. “Write about
yourself
. You are the expert on you. I shall expect a finished paper in the morning, or I may be joining ya'll for supper tomorrow. Understood? Now get on home before your mama starts to wondering why Jojo got there first.”

Stella nodded, thanked the teacher, then hurried down the road. And thankfully, her mother was busy with the vegetable garden, so she didn't notice Stella slipping in a little later than usual.

Stella raced through her chores, making sure the carrots were sliced perfectly, the potatoes peeled thinly, and the table cleaned and shined for dinner. She felt jumpy—anxious for the night, hopeful that no fiery disturbances would mar the darkness this time, and worried that her mother would find out she'd gotten in trouble at school.

Hours later, after dinner, after Jojo's good-night book, Stella was still worried—it was taking everyone far too long to fall asleep! Stella waited and waited.
The blaze in the fireplace had died down to embers, only whispers and ashen shadows remaining of the roaring fire of a few hours ago. Jojo lay on his cot close to the hearth, with Dusty curled beside him. At last, Father started snoring loudly with gasps and grunts between—when Stella teased him about it each morning, however, he'd swear that he never made a noise.

And finally, slowly, ever so slowly, Stella tiptoed across the floor, carefully avoiding the floorboard that she knew would creak. Nobody stirred. The dog raised his head briefly but went back to sleep.

Stella grabbed Papa's work jacket from the nail by the door. The door itself did not squeak when she opened it. She'd thought ahead—after dinner she had oiled the hinge with a dab of lard. Now she smiled as she pressed the door shut and inhaled the crispness of the night air. But still wary, she stood still. She listened. Silence. She waited. Nothing.

The night sky was an inky blue-black blanket strewn with thousands of crystal-bright stars. A half-moon added even more light. When she was satisfied that all was well, she sat on the second step and reached under the third, searching deeper and deeper
until her fingers found what she was searching for. She pulled out the school notebook that she'd stuffed under there after school, as well as a package wrapped in a piece of worn leather. Inhaling the rich animal smell of it, she unwrapped it slowly. There lay Stella's treasure—an old cigar box.

She lifted the lid, the scent of tobacco wafting out, and sifted through the items inside—dozens of yellowing and curled newspaper articles she'd torn from Papa's discarded newspapers, from news stories not pasted on the wall. She'd started collecting them after a school assignment last year.