St. Lucy's Home for Girls Raised by Wolves by Karen Russell Page B

concession to the seven to ten demographic, a bunch of Wowie Zowie! Fun Facts scattered throughout each chapter. As in:

    Wowie Zowie! Fun Fact #47:
    Q: A shooting star is not a star, how does it shine so bright?
    A: The friction as it falls through air produces heat and light!

    As in, wowie zowie, we the authors of the
Starry-Eyed Guide to the Galaxy—For Kids!
have never actually had contact with anyone under the age of forty-two. Or, wowie zowie, if kids like Raffy catch you reading this book, they will crown you as King Nerd and announce the glad tidings of your coronation over the PA system.
    My dad’s version of the book, the staid, declarative
Guide to the Galaxy,
is nearly identical, except that the graphics are a matte black, and the same information is listed as Fact #47. I guess that’s what growing up means, at least according to the publishing industry: phosphorescence fades to black and white, and facts cease to be fun.
    The planisphere was a gift, too. It’s what we Junior Astronomers use to orient us in the night sky. Mine is shiny and compact and has the most accurate star compass on the market. It’s fallen out of my pocket and rolled near Raffy’s foot, and I quickly stoop down to retrieve it before he can see it flashing in the sand.
    “Whatcha found there?”
    “Nothing,” I squeak. “Just trash.”
    I panic. Oh God, I think, they are going to pry my fist open and expose me as a law-abiding astronomy lover. And before I’ve made any sort of conscious decision to do this, I feel myself winding up and chucking my planisphere into the ocean. My weak muscles tense and draw back, and then it’s over. Usually I throw like a girl, but tonight the planisphere goes rocketing from my hand. The waves are so dark that I can’t even see if it makes a splash when it hits the water.
    “You know, weirdo, there’s a trash can right over there,” Raffy says, pointing at the lidless can. “Say, what’s this?” He’s turned to the
Star-Gazer’s Log of Summer-Time Constellations
section in the back. The half-finished Alcyone page stares up at me accusingly.
    “Oh.” I blush. “That’s not mine. That’s my twin sister’s.”
    Raffy pulls out a pen from behind his ear. He crosses out “Constellations” and writes in “Crimes.”
    “Well, now it’s the official log for our crime ring.” He grins down at me. “You can be the secretary.”
             
    “Hey, Big Dipper,” Dad says when I finally get back to our hotel room. He puts down his drink and looks over at me with bleary eyes. “It’s past your curfew. I’ve been waiting up for you for hours.” But he sounds more proud of me than angry. “You must have
really
gotten lost in the stars tonight. Did you find Alcyone?”
    “Yes, sir,” I lie. “Five degrees south of Eta Carinae, right where you said she’d be.”
    “Great work, son!” he says, beaming at me. His voice drops to a whisper. “Don’t tell Little Dipper—it’s different for girls—but maybe we can talk about extending that curfew.” He winks at me. “There might be a few foxy new clusters around Cassiopeia tomorrow night, if you know what I mean.”
    I picture my planisphere glinting on the bottom of the dark ocean floor. Right now, I think, schools of tiny yellow fish are probably nibbling at the glow-in-the-dark stars.
    “Hubble hubble,” I say, raising my eyebrows. “Boy, would I love to get Cassiopeia on the other end of my telescope. Thanks, Dad.” We grin at each other, man to man.
    Parents can be so dumb.

    As I climb into my hotel bed, I have to hold on to the headboard to steady myself. I have the giddy sense that I’m hurtling towards some uncharted corner of space, a world full of bros and bitches and comical, ironical crime. I pull back the covers, preparing to sink into sleep. Then I scream.
    “Molly!” She is mummy-wrapped in the hotel sheets and staring right at me, her arms crossed over her flat chest. Anger seems to have inhibited