My mounting concern must be apparent because Mrs. Percy quickly lines me up in front of the target and demonstrates the proper throwing motion.
“It’s all in the aiming and the snap of the wrist,” she explains. “You want to grab it by the tip and put as much spin on it as you can when you release it.” She demonstrates a few practice snaps before letting the first Star fly. It slices through the air and into the target.
“We’ll have to experiment and find out which style works best for you—?over the shoulder or from the side, near your waist.”
Mrs. Percy hands me a Star. It’s heavier and sturdier than I’d imagined. Nothing like Father’s small, weighted darts that fit into my hands like skipping stones.
I carefully touch the point of the Star with my gloved finger. “These seem”—?I hesitate—?“like they could be dangerous.”
The look that crosses Mrs. Percy’s face is not exactly comforting. “Yes, most definitely,” she says. “If thrown at a person—?in self-defense, of course—?they could even be fatal.”
In self-defense.
“Now,” says Mrs. Percy, and I step up to the line. “Let’s begin.”
During our card game on Thursday evening I notice that Miles has lost another tooth. I still feel bad over confronting him about Mother’s ring, and he hasn’t spoken a word to me since.
“Miles—” I say, wanting to make amends after the game is finished, but he ignores me and shuts the door to his room. I get ready for bed, take an aspirin for the headache that won’t seem to go away, and feel under my pillow to make sure the Star I wrapped is still there. Which gives me an idea.
I pull out Mother’s book. While I’m waiting for Miles to go to sleep, I scribble a few more notes in my new list:
Scents:
Thou losest thy old smell. —?As You Like It
Eyes without feeling,
feeling without sight,
Ears without hands or eyes,
smelling sans all. —?Hamlet
When the moon is low and bright between the oak branches outside my window, I sneak into Miles’s room with a nickel in my hand. He hadn’t called attention to his new missing tooth, and I’m not sure that Mrs. Cliffton noticed. Maybe a contribution toward a new Sub-Mariner comic will help mend things between us. I carefully tear out a sheet of paper from the notebook that lies open on the floor next to his bed and write:
Forgive me? ?
Love,
Your Sister
Miles is sleeping, his mouth turned down and drooping, his hair smashed against his forehead. His hand is curled around the edge of his blanket. When his mouth twitches, I wonder jealously if he is dreaming.
Thankfully, he’s a deep sleeper. Sliding the coin and note under a pillow weighted by his head isn’t as easy as I thought it would be. I feel a tooth there, just as I’d hoped, and pull it out in exchange.
On my way out the door I pause over his sketchbook. Now that I’ve torn out the front page, I can see a drawing and writing underneath. I bend for a closer look.
I’m relieved to see that the first drawing is something other than Mother’s grave. Instead it is a sketch of a winged tooth fairy. She carries a satchel spilling over with teeth, and she’s riding in a carriage made from a hazelnut shell.
I turn the page.
Mother, he’s written. I don’t know if you can see this from where you are now. But I thought you’d like this riddle.
He’s drawn a small, lifelike frog, with mossy shades of greens and browns. Underneath he’s written:
Why are frogs so happy?
(They eat whatever bugs them!)
