For each book we read, we were allowed
To paste stars next to our names—

Gold for fiction, silver for nonfiction.
I had silver mostly—stories of frontier heroes,

Dead presidents in tall hats,
And nurses bandaging soldiers like mummies.

In truth, I only read the back covers.
If my teacher, born before the invention

Of the musket, asked, "OK, what was it about?"
I was ready with a quick answer: "America."

One day, I found six of my fourteen stars gone,
My cosmic fate scratched off,

The light of my little body diminished,
Robbed of a chance to shine!

I turned to my teacher, Mrs. Sloan.
Had she pulled them off, one by one?

Or was the star thief a worse reader than me?
I shivered when I saw nice Mrs. Sloan

Writing names on the chalkboard,
Mine and Steve Lopez's, who had muttered, "Shit"

At the assassination of President Kennedy.
When I approached her, ready to confess,

"Yeah, I sort of cheated ... ," Mrs. Sloan slapped
Her hands of chalk dust and said, "Happy Birthday!"

Then I understood: Steve Lopez and I were
April birthday boys—cupcakes and a song for us,

A phony paddling as we counted our years.
Later, when I got up to sharpen a pencil

For a math quiz, I tallied silver and gold stars
And fumed at Steve Lopez's unaccountable row

Of shooting stars, some barely hanging on
By his awful spit. He was the star thief!

I ground my teeth at the thought:
We were born in the same month,

Skinny from rickets, bad at fractions and writing,
And early eliminations on rainy-day spelling bees.

But Steve had flunked third grade,
Was a year older. We lived on the same street,

Owned dogs that walked like old men,
And cowered under the beatings

Of mean mothers. I knew
Steve Lopez had no starry light inside him.

Idiot boy! He came in balancing three books
On his block head. When he tripped

And fell, I imagined stars behind his eyes,
All bloody red, not pretty silver,

Like mine.