Rodrigo Garcia y Robertson - Kansas, She Says, Is the Name of the Star

Amy stared out her bedroom window as the summer sun settled into the flat cornfields, spreading gold fire over the green sea of leaves. Her red hair caught the slanting light, giving her a fiery orange halo. Alert brown eyes searched for the first evening star. Amy ached to make a wish. Tonight she was twelve for the last time. Tomorrow was her birthday, and tomorrow evening would be her wedding night. Leaning farther out the second floor window, straining to see a star, Amy rehearsed her wish. She wanted to be eleven again, or even ten, with her wedding day years away. Amy was not in the least ready for marriage. Especially to some stranger three times her age—if she was lucky. What a ghastly thought. She would much rather shovel manure with a spoon.

But no one gave her that choice. Fat chance. Everyone acted like marrying some strange man was totally natural. No one saw it her way, not Mom, not Lilith, not Delilah, or Dot. Tuck and Nathan were boys, and naturally no help. And Dad had two teenage brides himself—one of them from Amy’s grade. So she appealed to the evening star, since no one else would listen.

There it was, a glowing speck, low in the north, just over the shoulder of the scarecrow at the edge of the cornfield. A real star for sure, too far from the sun to be Venus. From the house, the fence line ran due north, and the star was right where Polaris would be, but lower, and brighter. She made her wish at once, “Star light, star bright, first star I see tonight, save me from wedded blight. I wish I may, I wish I might, be nine again tonight.”

As if in answer, the star shone brighter, becoming plainly visible, instead of just a speck. Astounding, since there was no star that bright to the north. That had to mean her wish was granted, that somehow she would be set free.

Then the star fell from the sky. Trailing fire, but still blazing brightly, her star went straight down, disappearing below the northern horizon.

What in heaven (or out of it) was that? Nothing that she ever saw before, that’s for sure. Maybe she was fated to wed.

Not having the heart to search out a second star, Amy lay back down on the bed, though it was not yet dark. Tonight was her last night alone, in her own bed, in her own home, so she might as well make the best of it.

Breakfast came all too soon, and Amy was last to the table, where she was greeted by a rousing chorus of “Happy Birthday,” followed by a party, complete with cake and presents. Clothes from her mom and step-moms. Dot gave her a flower, and the boys had whittled her a whistle. Dad gave her his best leather traveling bag.

Amy did her best to be sociable, sitting down and thanking everyone for the presents, though she had small appetite for cake. Mother suggested that she try to enjoy herself, saying, “We won’t be together again for a long while.”

No lie. Amy replied, “I do not want to be thirteen.”

That was a mere statement of fact, but Mom took it as childish rebellion. “We cannot help growing up. I am much older than I would like to be.”

Only blonde Lilith tried to comfort her, smiling hopefully and pressing her bare foot against Amy’s under the table. Being youngest wife, Lilith could do little else. They were friends, and in the same grade because Lilith had been held back, twice. Nothing says family like doing your step-mom’s homework.

“You are at the age of consent,” Mother reminded her, as if Amy could have possibly forgotten. Dad added practically, “If we do not take you to Concordia to register, then the Bushwhackers will.” At least with Bushwhackers she had half a chance. Being older than all three of his wives combined, Dad took the long view, letting his women handle family issues. Yet he was always attentive and affectionate, being very fond of young girls, treating Amy a lot like a favorite grandchild. And he never laid a hand on her, preferring to correct with a belt.

“What is the use of consenting, if I do not want to?” Amy asked stubbornly.

“Consent just means it is up to you,” her father intoned. Mother added, “No one is making you marry.”

Delilah smiled wickedly across the table. “There is always the maiden’s academy.”

“Right.” From all that Amy had heard, the Concordia Academy for Reluctant Virgins made marriage seem a blessing. Delilah had married Dad at thirteen, and thought this was fussing over nothing. With a young daughter, and Lilith as a live-in babysitter, Delilah enjoyed herself immensely. Last night had been her night, and Delilah once told her step-daughter, “He looks old, but your Dad’s real active with the light out.”

Just what every daughter wants to hear. Amy sat in glum silence, wishing a tornado would tear the whole house away.

“Maybe no one will want you,” Tuck suggested. “I wouldn’t.” Nathan agreed, “Me neither.”

Small chance of that. Some girls were sent home, but not many. Lilith failed both fifth and sixth grade, but had no trouble getting married. Amy knew just by looking in the water pail that someone would want her, young as she was, and without her having to show a lick of sense, or even say a thing. When her party was over, Amy stalked upstairs to pack.

Delilah’s daughter Dot toddled after her, asking, “Are yew goin’, Aunti Em?” Dot could not say Amy, always calling her Aunti Em. It was too hard to explain to a toddler that she was not her aunt, but her half-sister. All she said was, “Yeah, Aunti Em is going.”

“Me miss yew.” Dot plainly meant it.

“Me too.” She would miss not just Dot and the family, but her whole life, which would very soon cease to be her own.

Glancing out the window, she saw the road stretching north past the cornfield, past the scarecrow, disappearing into the morning haze. She heard the boys bringing out the horses to hitch to the wagon. Concordia was a long ride off, and they would need to start before noon. Dot clung to her, saying, “No want you go!”

Squatting down, Amy got on a level with her half-sister, saying, “I will miss you very much.” For one wild moment, she thought she should take Dot with her, though she had no idea where she was going. But wherever it was it had to be better than here. And Dot was her true sister, the only other female born into the family. But Dot was also Delilah’s daughter, for better or for worse.

“Yew will come back?” Dot demanded.

“Yeah,” she gave her little sister a hug. “I will come back for you.” Dot had a good ten years before she turned thirteen; maybe then Amy could come for her. “Now go find your Mom.”

“Bye-bye, Aunti Em.” Dot scooted off, thinking it was a game. Amy wished it was. Stuffing everything she could take into a knapsack, she left her Dad’s leather bag sitting open on the carpet. Then she swung out the window and shinned down the drainpipe, something she had done hundreds of times in the dark, just never in daylight, and carrying a pack. Except for chickens scratching about, the yard below was empty.

She ducked into the smokehouse and came out with some hard sausage. As she filled her waterbag from the well, Amy took a last look at the house, which was tall and square, with big windows that made it look like a giant dollhouse. Two trees gave the only bit of shade for more than a mile around. When her bag was full, she cut across the chicken yard and went over the back fence, disappearing into the corn. Moving easily through the tangled green maze, she followed the big hand-plowed furrows to the corner where the road heading east to Aurora crossed the one that ran by their farm. This was where the scarecrow stood, wearing Nathan’s shirt and jacket, cast-off overalls, and a ragged straw hat. Pulling the shirt and overalls over her underwear, she tucked the jacket into her pack strap and put her hair up under the hat. From a decent distance she might pass for a boy, if it was a man looking for her. There was no room for her dress, so she buried her face in the fabric, smelling her mother’s scent, from when they hugged around the cake. Then she stuffed it deep between the cornrows and headed on her way.