Shooting Star
Opal Fenster was trying to get comfortable in a sleeping bag on the side of a mountain on a cold December night. Her Aunt Frances said, “Camping builds character,” but Opal wasn’t buying it. Character could be found in a book or on a TV show, as far as Opal could see.
“Ouch!” she cried out as her spine landed on a rock.
This would never do.
“What’s wrong?” Aunt Frances grumbled, half asleep.
“What’s wrong?” Opal cried out. “Everything!”
“Nonsense.” Aunt Frances sat up. Opal could see her outline in the darkness; she looked like a shadow. “Look up at the stars, for goodness sake. God’s beauty right there for you to take in. In fact, if you look long and hard enough, you might just see a shooting star.”
“Really?” Opal was mildly curious about shooting stars.
Suddenly a beam of light landed on Opal’s face. She gasped. Could it be a shooting star so soon? She closed her eyes and opened them again to see it was merely Aunt Frances with the flashlight.
“Can you promise me a shooting star?” Opal asked.
“Silly girl,” Aunt Frances said. “One cannot promise shooting stars. They are a gift, awarded to patience—something, I might add—that you lack.”
Patience, Opal thought, was one of those adult words—code for “Be quiet.” Code for “Leave me alone”—right up there with “Don’t complain.” In fact, Opal had pretty much figured out that shooting star was a trick. It would never happen.
Aunt Frances turned off the flashlight. “Patience, dear Opal. Lie there and watch the sky. Just you wait.” And within seconds, Aunt Frances’ familiar snore filled the night.
So this is how it’s going to be, Opal thought.
She pulled the sleeping bag up around her chest and closed her eyes against the sky. No way was she going to fall for that shooting star trick. No way.
Comments
Commenting is closed for this article.
Nice!
Guri 12 December 09