What Came From the Stars by Gary D. Schmidt

that lay flat. The beaches copper in the slanting light.
    And the leaves!
    Tommy and Patty should be sitting at the kitchen table, with new scrapbooks open and their
Field Guide to Trees and Shrubs of New England
at the ready, their mother softly handling the bright shapes—the red maples, the yellow sassafras, the scarlet oaks. Patty should be clipping off the corners of envelopes to mount the leaves into the scrapbooks—the mottled sycamores, the red and white pine needles, the golden birch. They should be turning each page carefully, carefully, so as not to crinkle the drying leaves—the rusty beeches, the browning ashes, the blushing apples. Their mother should be smiling.
    It was that kind of fall.
    Perfect, perfect, perfect for the Plymouth Fall Festival.
    But hardly anyone in Plymouth noticed.
    They were waiting for the shrieking winds at night. And what came with them.

    A week after the storms, Tommy’s father rented a chain saw and cut up the downed pines. Then, Saturday morning, they burned the sappy branches on the beach. And as the branches turned to embers, Mrs. Lumpkin’s surveyors came to plant the yellow flags—again. Mrs. Lumpkin herself drove up in her yellow Mazda to watch. She never looked at Tommy Pepper’s home, not once the whole time. If she had, she might have seen Tommy and Patty watching through the front windows.
    On Sunday afternoon, the Peppers raked up the rotting seaweed below their house—rucca!—and the broken crabs and shells, and buried it all beneath the sand. They set up the red hurricane fences again, and the pieces of fencing that couldn’t be fixed they burned on top of the pine ashes.
    On Monday, Mr. Burroughs worked hard at pretending that everything in Plymouth was exactly as it was supposed to be—which might have been easier for him since he lived across the bridge in East Sandwich. But it was a lot harder for Tommy and everyone else to pretend, especially since on Sunday night, the steeple of First Congregational came down and its doors were thrown open and its pews covered with seaweed.
    In Plymouth, everyone listened for the winds.
    Even during the day, in William Bradford Elementary School, they all listened for the winds.
    “Today, we’re beginning our unit on the solar system,” Mr. Burroughs announced. “Who can name the eight planets in order?”
    James Sullivan raised his hand. “Do you think the storms have anything to do with all the houses getting broken into?”
    “That is something the police are working on, I’m sure, Mr. Sullivan. Let’s let them do their job. Can anyone name the eight planets?”
    Alice Winslow raised her hand. “The storms must have something to do with the break-ins, because they both began the same day. Whoever is breaking in probably uses the noise to cover their entry.”
    “Let’s stay focused,” said Mr. Burroughs. “Can anyone name any of the giant planets?”
    “But how can they depend on storms coming every night?” said James Sullivan.
    “Any of the inner planets?” said Mr. Burroughs.
    “And what’s with all the seaweed?” said Jeremy Hereford.
    “Any planet at all?” said Mr. Burroughs.
    Patrick Belknap drew his accordion close to him. “No one’s going to touch this,” he said.
    “The planet we’re on right now?” said Mr. Burroughs.
    “Maybe we could use an accordion for bait,” said James Sullivan.
    Mr. Burroughs sat down.

    That night, another storm. Terrible winds. High waves. And three more houses broken into south along the coast.
    Then, on Tuesday, a house broken into in broad daylight—with no storm at all.
    On Wednesday, four more in the afternoon—with no storm at all.
    Three more patrol cars came, this time from Brookline.
    But Plymouth began to be very afraid.
    Though no one had made any announcement, the parents of William Bradford Elementary started driving their kids to school and back. Mr. Zwerger sent a letter home to let parents know that there would be bus service even