Free Shooting Stars by Allison Rushby

like I’ve just crawled out of a Dumpster.
    Still, what do I care? I’m not here to impress. There have been plenty of times I have just crawled out of a Dumpster and I haven’t cared how I look. Also, as Brad pointed out, no one’s going to be taking any shots. Well, except for me, of course.
    “Ready?” Katrina calls out from the bathroom, where she’s touching up her lip gloss.
    “Um, yeah . . .” I wildly look around me, trying to decide which piece, or pieces, of equipment to take. I decide it’s 68
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    going to have to be the fauxPod— it’s the only option for a workshop- style situation. And I don’t even know how I’m going to get away with this much. As cover, I grab my backpack, empty it out, and shove a hoodie, my fauxPod, and a bottle of water in there. Katrina comes out of the bathroom and checks out the baggage situation.
    “You’re taking a backpack?”
    I shrug. “Hoodie, water . . . Be prepared, I say.” Prepared to work, that is. And because I don’t want to think too hard about what I’m going to do over the next few hours, I change the subject. “Let’s go.”
    ★ ★ ★
    “Jo? Jo! JO!!!” With the fi nal “Jo” I get a dig in the ribs cour-tesy of Katrina’s elbow.
    “Huh?” I’d been busy staring at the back of Ned’s head, watching him laughing and talking to some other guy from Group B. Katrina had fi lled me in on a couple of the other people’s backstories already, but not this guy, who Ned seems to be getting along with pretty well. “Sorry, did you ask me something?”
    Katrina rolls her eyes. “Only about three times. I was just wondering what sort of workshop you think it might be.” I shake my head. “No idea. I just got here today, so your guess will be better than mine.” I give her a look. “It’s not going to be some torturous boot- camp thing, or something equally stupid, is it?”
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    Katrina makes a face. “I hope not. I’ve only done one other workshop since I’ve been here and it was great. It was this Italian cooking challenge. All the groups did it. We had to make pasta and pizza from scratch. It was heaps of fun.” Hmmm. A couple of shots of Ned with fl our on his nose wouldn’t go astray. I take a sly look at him again. “So who’s Ned sitting with?” I ask Katrina. “You haven’t told me about him yet.”
    Katrina takes a quick look. “Oh, that’s Seth. Car accident. He and his parents were fi ne, but his brother died.”
    “Oh,” I say. Everyone’s story has been condensed like this, into just a few short phrases. “Hannah, lost her mother to breast cancer, not coping well. Jamie, thrown out of three high schools, rebelling against strict stepfather. Tori, parents trying to get her to break contact with older boyfriend and concentrate on school.” It makes me wonder what they’ll say about me. Maybe, “Jo, no specifi c issue, general head case, face always glued to her iPod.”
    “Yeah, oh,” Katrina seconds, and we both stare at the back of Seth’s head for a moment or two. “Puts a lot into perspective, doesn’t it?” Katrina eventually says. “Especially if you’re just a whiny ballerina.”
    I give her a look. “You’re not a whiny ballerina.”
    “Okay, a whiny ex- ballerina,” she says, which makes us both laugh. Then we fall silent as the minibus turns right and pulls sharply into a driveway.
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    “What did that sign say?” I ask Katrina, jumping around to try and catch a glimpse as we pass by.
    In the window seat, she twists her long neck back to see if she can read it. “Something something gymnasium.”
    “Oh, great,” I moan. “We’re going to be climbing ropes and vaulting over . . . what ever it is you vault over.”
    “What do you