Free Lost Stars by Lisa Selin Davis Page A

hovering over the shovel, raising her right foot to press the shovel’s mouth deep into the perfectly moist soil.
    Tonya was especially adept at this work and not particularly approving of my tendency to lean on my shovel and watch her. She made mechanical, almost rhythmic movements, the shushing sound of the shovel going in and the maraca-like cascade of the dirt falling off it. But when I took up my own shovel and tried to do the same, barely any dirt graced the end of it. I had to practically jump on it to get it below the surface of the dirt, and then it took all my strength to push it through and get a half shovel’s worth of the soil. Apparently this was very entertaining, as several of the other kids had temporarily suspended operations to watch me wrestle a shovel.
    â€œI’m like a foot shorter than the rest of you,” I said.
    â€œNothing to see here, folks,” Tonya called out.
    â€œThis does not seem legal.”
    Tonya responded to my observation with a snort. “This is your
job.
”
    â€œNot by choice,” I replied, to which she just shook her head. Well, add her to the list of people I’d disappointed. She looked over at Kelsey and Jimmie, who were having a contest to see who could shovel the most dirt.
    By the time Lynn came over to inspect my work, I’d already given up. I was leaning against my shovel, inhaling the sharp scent of pine needles and the cloudy smell of dirt circulating through the air.
    â€œCaraway,” Lynn said, hands on thighs, half crouching to get down to my height, “I know this is hard work, but there are ways to appreciate it. Doesn’t it feel good to be actually contributing something to the world?” I managed not to point out that our contribution was digging—​in some ways the opposite of a contribution. A subtraction. “Doesn’t the weight of the shovel just feel so good in your hands?”
    â€œNot really,” I said. “My hands have leprosy.” I held them up to show him the still-scarred skin. Two of my calluses had sloughed off, though I had to admit that the occasional application of jewelweed seemed to be helping.
    I could see I was wearing him down, that his optimism was eroding much as this path had, and it gave me a rumble of satisfaction inside. I could make anyone hate me. Maybe I sucked at construction work, but my power to alienate was intact.
    But for some reason I picked up the shovel and I thrust it into the ground where it filled with that dark, sparkly soil, soil made of elements that had been here since the dawn of Earth, and then I hoisted it out and deposited it onto the growing mound. And, okay. It did feel kind of good. But it wasn’t like I was going to say that.
    Â 
    When I called Soo later in the week, her voice sounded faraway and sad. Boy trouble, I figured, and braced myself for listening to the boring details.
    â€œWho died?” I asked. “It’s awful quiet over there.”
    â€œNobody died,” she said. “We’re just sworn to silence like a bunch of monks. We’re going to stop being teenagers and become monks.”
    â€œI have no idea what you’re talking about,” I said.
    Soo’s mother had declared a moratorium on the basement until we swore to be quieter so she could hear the full romantic bass of Ricardo Montalban’s accent when she watched reruns of
Fantasy Island.
This had happened earlier in the week, on one of those nights when I was sequestered in my room.
    â€œWhat are we going to do?” I asked. “Piece of Toast can’t live without its practice space.”
    â€œNot funny,” said Soo. “We’re going to soundproof the basement.”
    â€œWhat does that entail?” I picked some dirt from my fingernails and rubbed the spot on my nail that was beginning to turn black.
    â€œWe’re getting all this foam stuff that we’re going to install.”
    â€œAnd who’s