Orbiting Jupiter

by Gary D. Schmidt

You can tell all you need to know about someone from the way cows are around him.

“Do you know which one is Jupiter?” “Jupiter?” he said. He looked at the stars. “Jack, I have no idea.” He pointed. “Maybe that big one?” “Over there,” said Joseph. He was pointing up above the mountains. “How do you know?” said my father. “I always know where Jupiter is,” he said. My father looked at him. That same sad look in his eyes.

I nodded. I was supposed to. Joseph was supposed to nod too. He didn’t. “Do you understand that, Mr. Brook?” Joseph stood. “I have to get to class,” he said. Mr. Canton reached for him. Joseph dropped his pack and immediately his back was against the wall and his hands up. The way he was breathing . . . “Don’t touch him,” I whispered. “Please, please don’t touch him.” Mr. Canton looked at me, then back at Joseph. “So you better get to class,” he said. I picked up Joseph’s backpack and handed it to him. His eyes never left Mr. Canton, but he took the backpack and he followed me out of the office—a half step behind.

During the day, the air glistened with hovering ice. At night, the stars were razor sharp. At dawn, the sunlight went straight up in a hazy column. And sunset closed the day with a quick wink. No kidding. One minute it was bright daylight, and then you turned your back and it was full dark, like it was trying to catch you.

That was how Joseph heard for the first time that Madeleine, whom he loved, was gone.