I fell asleep thinking about how folks had been relying on star shine for centuries before Sass’s Genuine Sweet came along.
When I woke up, Pa was snoring drunk—in front of the television, this time—wasting electricity paid for by the Tromps. I switched the thing off and told him, “Go to your own room,” but he was well past hearing.
The miracle flour was still in the kitchen and as quick to replenish as ever. The stars hadn’t taken that away. I made a batch of biscuits—plain, no starlight to them—and left a few on a plate by Pa’s head. The rest I took with me to school. That way, I wouldn’t have to go to the cafeteria for lunch, with its wish-hungry people and food smells and—
Travis, I suddenly recalled. I’d left him the whole night to sleep on the thing he’d thought I’d said. There, at least, was one thing that could be made right.
I took the back road to his house, past the Binset place, by way of Hound Dog Trail. When I got there, Miz Tromp was sitting on her bench swing, using her feet to push herself back and forth, back and forth.
“Howdy,” I said.
She looked a little startled, as if I’d disturbed her from her thoughts. “Oh. Genuine. How are you, honey?”
I didn’t have a civil answer to that, so I said, “I got biscuits. You want one?”
She shook her head forlornly.
“You all right?” I asked.
“I guess,” was all she said for a time. “Travis’s father called.”
Hearing about another person’s shakeup sometimes has a way of sweeping clear your own inner floor. I was instantly worried for Travis. He’d been troubled that Tom would leave Miz Tromp like his pa had. But instead, here was Travis’s actual pa, come to stir things up again. What could it mean but trouble?
“What did he want? Is it bad? Is Travis all right?”
Her reply was too slow in coming. “Travis is all right, I think. His dad wants him to come visit.”
“Oh. Well, that’s not so—”
“And maybe to live with him. In California.”
“California!” I exclaimed. “That’s so far away! Surely Travis doesn’t want to go!” After all, he was still so mad at his father. It was hard to imagine he’d even want to visit, much less stay with the man.
“It’s a powerful thing,” Miz Tromp mused, “to feel wanted. After all these months and years of being so heartbroken that his daddy didn’t want him”—she paused, then repeated—“it’s a powerful thing.”
“So, Travis might r-really do it?” It wasn’t possible! It wasn’t right! We’d only just got to be . . . friends!
“He’s flying out next week. For a visit. ‘To start,’ Travis said. So, yes. It seems he’s thinking about it.” Miz Tromp dropped her chin. “And to make matters more complicated”—she bit her lip—“Tom wants to open an alternative healing retreat. In Sass. And he says he loves me.”
I stopped to replay her words in my head, just to be sure I’d understood her right. “Uh. That was quick.”
“Foolish quick,” she agreed. “Ridiculous quick. But here’s the crazy thing. I like him, too. And I’d probably tell him, Great! Come on!, except that—how can I even think of falling in love, with all this other stuff going on? Travis moving to California? At least I’d have to go and make sure things are okay. I mean, I don’t think Kip would get a wild hair and leave Travis on the roadside or anything, but still. We haven’t seen Kip in years. I’ve at least got to make sure things—make sure Travis is all right!”
She threw up her hands. “Genuine! What if this is my wish coming to pass? What if it got divided up? A man for me: Tom. A daddy for Travis: Kip. What if, somehow, this is the best good?”
My head spun. I was angry and getting angrier. All shall be well! Yeah, this worriment looked mighty well, all right.
“So, I guess what it comes down to is this.” Miz Tromp set her chin in her hands. “Do I owe you your vegetables now? Is Tom the wish you fetched for me? Is Kip the daddy for Travis? If only I knew for sure, things might seem . . . clearer.” She set her eyes on me and waited for an answer.
I didn’t know what to say.
Just then, Travis appeared at the door. He took one look at me, turned around, and walked away.
“Travis!” I was already on his heels when I called out, “Excuse me, Miz Tromp!”
I reached his bedroom door just in time for him to slam it in my face.
“Travis!”
I knocked. I pounded first with my fists and then, gently but sincerely, with my forehead. “Travis. Please open up.”
He didn’t even do me the courtesy of telling me to get gone.
“Travis,” I spoke to the door, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. What you think I said wasn’t what I meant to say.”
Not unlike the stars the night before, his only reply was silence.
“I wasn’t saying I didn’t like you. I was saying I didn’t like either of you.” I heard my words and knew they’d come out all wrong. Again. “Dog my cats, Travis, that’s not what I meant. I meant . . . there you two were standing over me, getting ready to signify all manly, and I just didn’t want any part of either of you, right then. Not because I don’t like you, but just because I was so, oh, I don’t know, far away. You understand that, don’t you? Please understand that.”
I waited to see if he’d say something. Finally, a sound came from his room, sort of a shushing, sliding sound.
A window opening! He was climbing out!
I raced out of the house, called out a quick goodbye to Miz Tromp, and caught Travis just as he was catching his balance against a trellis beside the house.
“Stop!” I shouted.
He stopped, but he turned his face away.
“Don’t you know,” I pleaded, “if you’re moving away, we got to make our peace. I never liked anyone before, the way I like you—”
“What about Sonny?” he grumbled.
“Sonny’s with Jura,” I told him.
“That don’t mean you don’t like him.”
“You’re right,” I conceded. “It doesn’t. But I don’t. Like him, I mean. I like you. I like you.”