Chapter 1
It’s hard to pinpoint the exact moment a journey starts. Not everyone steps onto a yellow brick road like Dorothy or flies away on a ship like Peter Pan. Instead, it’s regular old days that somehow skid away from regular without any planning or warning. At least that’s what happened to me.
My destiny begins in a sticky booth at a Tacoma, Washington, Panda Express. Well, I guess if we’re getting technical, my destiny started when I was born. Or maybe before I was born, like when my parents met or … the dawn of time? Look, I don’t know the exact moment, but I can recognize a turning point when I see one. And Thursday is a doozy.
“You know this food isn’t good for you, right?” my aunt Maggie says. “The sugar content is too high.”
I bite into my orange chicken, which I make sure doesn’t touch my noodles. Dad never takes me out to eat. If he gets home in time for dinner, he cooks an omelet or sloppy joes. When he’s not home, which is often, I make cheese and crackers for my ten-year-old brother, Ridge. Maybe grilled tuna sandwiches if I’m feeling fancy. This week with Aunt Maggie cooking for us while Dad is in Las Vegas for business has been the culinary highlight of my life. Tonight she let me choose the restaurant, even if she made a face when I picked Panda Express.
“Thanks for taking me,” I say. “Are you going to eat your fortune cookie?”
“I’m off white flour.” She tosses it across the table. “Knock yourself out.”
So here’s where the destiny stuff starts. My first fortune says, “Smile like you mean it.” Of course I throw that nonsense away. But my next fortune says, “You will soon receive monumental news of a personal nature.” I’ll hang this one on my mirror with other favorite quotes and sayings. Because I have been waiting for monumental news all day.
I check my phone again. Still no evite.
“If you sit there staring at your inbox, the email won’t come,” Aunt Maggie says. “That’s science.”
“Science would look at the probability of the email coming at this time of night based on Talia’s schedule. Or it would look at Talia’s parents’ work schedule, if they’re the ones sending the evite, or their household internet speed—”
Aunt Maggie holds up a hand. “I get it.”
I don’t think she does. Get it.
Two booths over, a group of teen girls burst into snorts and giggles. One girl’s hair frames her face as she snaps open a fortune cookie. Whatever it says must be important because they go silent as they pass the fortune around, considering. Then this other girl, who wears a ring on each finger, flicks a noodle, which lands on her friend’s cheek. More laughter.
They’re all glowy hair and glory eyes. No one has their phone out. They have no idea I’m watching them. Nothing else is happening in their world besides that moment. They could be in Tacoma or Tucson and still they’d be surrounded by light.
And that light, that belonging, is what I’ve been waiting for all day, all year, my whole life. I’ve had some friends here or there, kids I sit by at lunch or in art class. But nothing strong enough to seal off the galaxy. Which is why getting an invite to Talia Huang’s twelve-year-old birthday party is such a big deal. It’s a cake-decorating party at a bakery so she can only invite five girls. I usually get invited to the whole-class-can-come parties, but not the VIP lists.
I might be close now, finally, with sixth grade ending next week. Talia sits by me at lunch and she even mentioned her birthday the other day. She didn’t come right out and say she was inviting me, but … why else would she mention it? Plus, we’ve started walking home from the bus together. She texted me a funny meme the other day (and I spent fifty minutes coming up with a cool reply). Being friends with Talia—birthday-invite kind of friends—would ease me into a friend group for the rest of middle school. High school! College roommates! Bridesmaids!
Unless … I’m number six on her list of friends. Then I wouldn’t make the cut. Or maybe she told me about the party because she wants me to work at it? I unclench my fists, which tend to ball up whenever I think about not-so-great possibilities. Ones that might happen but probably won’t. My old therapist, Dr. Matt, called it “negative thought patterns.” He also taught me breathing exercises, but I always worry I’m not doing them right, so I keep holding my breath, which starts more negative patterns, and … anyway. I’m fine.
“Stella?” Aunt Maggie nudges my foot. “You there?”
I smile an automatic smile to make her feel better, but not so much me.
“I’m going to say this,” she says. “Your worth isn’t defined by an invite, okay? If you go, you go. And if you don’t, well … you’re wonderful just how you are, okay? I deal with this in my business, where women put so much happiness on social success, and that’s not where joy comes from.”
Okay, Aunt Maggie. This is a lady who is “off white flour” and probably sleeps with full makeup. Who totally devoted the last ten years of her life to building a major corporate website for small female-owned businesses. She wears pantyhose. Pantyhose. Aunt Maggie can say she’s loosey-goosey all she wants, but she still makes me sit on a blanket to keep her car seat clean.
The girls stand. I take inventory of their hair, clothes, nails, shoes and file it all away in this mental space of things-I-need-to-improve-about-myself. Maybe I can start with my hair, which isn’t brown or blond, isn’t curly or straight. It just is, like my clothes, which all get the job done, but that’s not the point of fashion, is it? Should I start wearing rings on all my fingers too? Get a signature jacket? Cut swoopy bangs?
“You ready to go?” I get up too, not wanting to lose their light. “The internet here is garbage.”
“Yes.” Aunt Maggie pauses like she’s going to say more, then nods. “Let’s get home. There’s something I need to show you.”
The sky is a kaleidoscope of oranges and purples with a clear view of Mount Rainier. Aunt Maggie plays her music on the car ride home, the alternative rock that Mom loves. They used to go to concerts together in Seattle. They were often mistaken for twins—same toothy smile, same wild brassy hair. Mom still has her nineties band T-shirts. Or I’m guessing she does. She moved out last year and it’s been four months since I’ve seen her T-shirt collection or even, you know, my mom.
Aunt Maggie’s energy is nervous, which makes me nervous by association. I name the trees as we drive—douglas fir, maple, oak, more douglas fir. Meanwhile, Aunt Maggie keeps clearing her throat like she’s going to announce something. One time she chokes on her spit and starts coughing.
We pull up to the house, which surprisingly has Dad’s car in the driveway. Aunt Maggie scrunches up her nose. “It’s the first, right? He told me he’d be back on the second.”
“You probably got the dates mixed up. Dad wouldn’t.”
Ridge runs out to our car and pounds on the window. His brown floppy hair is matted from gaming headphones. Dad monitors our screen time, but he doesn’t check our usage when he’s out of town. Ridge probably played more of his favorite video game, Cosmo Kingdom, this week than he has in months.
I push open the door. “Oh my gosh, what?”
“Dad’s home.”
I point to his car. “Obviously. No more video games for you tonight.”
“No, listen. Dad’s here.” Ridge grabs my shoulder. “And he’s not alone.”
Text copyright © 2023 by Lindsey Leavitt, LLC
Illustrations copyright © 2023 by Ericka Lugo