Free Lost Stars by Lisa Selin Davis

screw. He said this with all the authority of a parent, as if cautioning us not to take candy from strangers. As if he were preparing us for life.
    First we would practice the simplest of tasks: hammering nails into wood. What could be so hard about that?
    Almost immediately, I whacked my left index finger with the hammer.
    â€œJeesh!” I said, lifting my hand up to blow on it.
    â€œFirst thing to know is to get your hand out of the way,” Lynn said.
    â€œI’ll be sure to violate the laws of nature next time so the nail can stand on its own.”
    â€œJust tap it a tiny bit, applying some pressure,” he said, demonstrating. “And then hold it nearer the bottom and give it a couple of solid, but not wild, whacks.” His went in with two pounds of the hammer.
    â€œYou have arms like the Hulk,” I said. “It might take me more than a couple.”
    â€œJust keep trying,” he said. And I did. After three nails, I sort of kind of did it okay, even though my index finger was throbbing.
    Then we worked on drilling the screws into wood, and after that, we each took turns, under heavy supervision, with the circular saw. Except that Tonya was so good at it that she became the heavy supervision.
    â€œYou ready?” she asked Jimmie, who nodded meekly as she fired it up. Poor Jimmie—​he was even less likely to have a girlfriend than I was a boyfriend. “Slow and steady,” she said, gliding his hands forward.
    When it was my turn, I put on my protective eyewear, which was giant on my tiny head, and I had to step on a wood block to get the right height. “I don’t need help,” I said to Tonya, but it was pretty terrifying when I flipped the switch on this giant monster of a tool that ate its way so quickly through a solid piece of wood. It seemed to be moving without me and then I kind of got the hang of it, gliding it across the wood until I reached the other side. I felt this terrible, embarrassing thrill that I immediately wanted to discard.
    â€œRye Bread, what are you
doing?
” I heard Tommy’s voice calling. He had apparently decided to drive by at this inopportune moment. The benefit of not having to work.
    I ignored his fading cackle until he’d driven away. Then I put the saw down and announced, “I’m done.”
    Â 
    Later we moved on to what Lynn called “leveling the ground,” but I was pretty sure it was ditch digging, whacking at mounds of black soil. We were back on the path between the calcium deposit and the observatory, a path so worn and eroded that it turned into muddy slush anytime it rained.
    â€œThe best time to work with the earth is when it’s slightly moist,” Lynn told us. “Not too dry, not too wet.” To demonstrate, he inserted the end of the shovel into a mound of dark dirt and hoisted it up, shushing the dirt off gently toward the tree line. “We are truly blessed today, because even though it hasn’t rained, there’s enough moisture in the air to loosen the soil.”
    â€œPraise the loam!” I said, but only Tonya—​ever a fan of earth science—​chuckled. What was it about boot camp that made me so unfunny? Tonya resumed her look of superiority. “So, Lynn, why is it better if the soil’s moist? Wouldn’t it be easier if it was dry?” I said this skeptically, as if I didn’t believe Lynn, as if, with my grade-ahead-in-science brain, I understood more about the particles of soil than a psychologist-plus-youth-construction-chain-gang leader.
    â€œIt’s the same as a blender,” Lynn said placidly. “You need some moisture to allow it to move. It gets compacted when dry and too heavy when wet.” He paused. “Does that answer your question, Caraway?”
    â€œCompletely,” I said. I could somehow feel Tonya rolling her eyes.
    â€œTroops, fall out,” she called as she assumed her position,