Chapter 1

Julian hunched over his desk, shielding his notebook with his arm. He hoped it looked like he was taking notes as Ms. Hollin introduced the next book the class would be reading. But there were no words on his notebook page, just sketches of trees and lakes and old roads. Julian was trying to recreate one of his favorite maps from memory--an old county map drawn by people who had come to Michigan a hundred years ago searching for Great Lakes treasure.
      Julian concentrated on getting the lines just right. He imagined treasure hunters and pirates tromping through town in search of gold. He didn't bother paying attention to the title of the book that everyone in class would be reading over the next month. Everyone except him.
      Ms. Hollin called Isabelle and Hunter up to her desk to help pass out the books. The battered paperbacks had probably been read by hundreds of other students. Maybe Julian would get a copy with missing pages, and then he couldn't be blamed for not doing the reading.
      He knew he should try to keep up with the assignments, but what was the point? He'd spent his whole life trying to keep up, only to keep falling further and further behind. It wasn't fair. Reading was so easy for other kids, but to him, every page looked like a puzzle with pieces missing. Or worse--like someone had taken five different puzzles and jumbled all the pieces together into one big pile.
      Hunter slapped a book on top of Julian's notebook and shot him a smirk before moving on to the next desk. As soon as Hunter wasn't looking, Julian picked up the book to make sure it hadn't smeared his hand-drawn map. That's when he heard Isabelle whisper, "This is almost twice as long as the last book. There's no way Julian can read it."
      "Maybe his mom will read it to him," Hunter whispered back.
      "Don't be mean," Isabelle said. But it sounded like she was trying not to laugh.
      Julian shoved the book into his backpack without looking at it. He was so tired of the looks and whispers. He was tired of kids like Hunter treating him like he was stupid. He was especially tired of feeling like no matter what he did, reading never seemed to get any easier. He only felt dumber each year.
      At least Julian had a name for it now: dyslexia. Over the summer, his parents had taken him to a doctor, who told them that Julian struggled to read because his brain was different from other kids' brains--and that it wasn't his fault.
      Not that Hunter cared about any of that.
      After the diagnosis, Julian had spent a few days at reading camp--or "stupid kids' camp," as he thought of it--but it all went by so fast that it didn't really help him. Meanwhile all his classmates were outside at soccer camp or going fishing and canoeing in Michigan's clear, cool lakes.
      Now that he was back in school, Julian's teachers were giving him more time to do his work, but he still couldn't get the assignments done. And his parents were supposed to take him to see a specialist who could help him, but they'd already spent a ton of money on the camp, and Julian knew the appointment would be expensive too. He was dreading the visits anyway. He pictured himself sitting on a hard-backed chair in a dusty office, staring at the pages of a book while a mean old lady leaned over him and shook her head at his stupidity.
      But would an expert even help? Could anyone? Part of him wished his mom would> read the book with him--or, even better, for him.
      At least English was Julian's last class of the day. He had to survive only ten more minutes; then he could forget about books and get back to his maps.
      "For tonight, class--" Ms. Hollin called out above the rustling of notebooks and backpacks and zippers, "just read the first two chapters." She started straightening the stack of papers on her desk and cleared her throat.
      Julian felt her eyes on him.
      He sank lower in his chair. He knew what was coming.
      "Julian, please see me after the bell," Ms. Hollin said, tapping the stack of papers. Julian had a sinking feeling that there was supposed to be one with his name on it in the pile.
      A few kids snickered. There were more whispers from the back of the classroom, where Hunter sat with his friends. They loved it when Julian got in trouble for not doing his homework, or for not wanting to read out loud in class--which was all the time.
      He kept his eyes on the floor, imagining it curving into a slide that would carry him away from school and out to Silver Lake, where he could swim in the cool water and search for bullfrogs in the marshy grasses along the shore. He pictured himself scooping up a fat bullfrog, only to reveal a gold coin from a lost treasure in the mud beneath it.
      But the floor stayed flat and boring, except for a small beetle crawling under the desk in front of him. Julian watched the beetle. He knew he should've done the homework. But it felt endless and dumb, like digging a hole in the rain. Eventually, it was easier to just give up and set down the shovel.
      The bell rang, and the beetle barely escaped being squished by the stampede of kids leaving the classroom. The bug scurried toward the wall, where it slipped into a crack in the corner and disappeared. Julian wished he could shrink down and follow it.
      "Julian."
      He looked up. The classroom was empty, and Ms. Hollin had that expression his parents sometimes got, like couldn't he just try a little harder?> Like it was somehow harder on them than it was on him. It was usually followed by a sigh of disappointment that his dyslexia hadn't magically disappeared.
      Julian pulled himself out of his seat, slung his backpack over his shoulder, and went to the front of the room.
      "Do you have your signed reading log?" his teacher asked.
      Julian's heart dropped. Every week he was supposed to track how much time he spent reading at home and have it signed by his parents so he could turn it in for credit. He pictured the school library book sitting on his bedroom floor, a rumpled T-shirt thrown over it so he didn't have to keep looking at the cover. He'd started reading it. But even after a whole summer at reading camp, it took him forever to get through the first page.
      His parents tried to help him after dinner every night, but by then they were both exhausted from long days at work and distracted by everything they needed to do the next day. Every night, as they yawned their way through the lesson with him, he had to ignore the sounds of his brother's video games in the next room. Henry blew through his homework in no time at all and had the whole evening to do whatever he wanted. Julian usually wound up pretending that he understood and telling them he would finish reading on his own, just to let them off the hook. Once they went to bed, he was left alone, staring at the page until he gave up.
      Julian had known from the first day back at school that this year was going to be another failure. Just like last year.
      "Are you sure I didn't turn it in?" Julian couldn't bring himself to admit that he hadn't even gotten through the first chapter. Some of the other kids were already checking out their second book. He couldn't admit out loud that he was a quitter.
      Ms. Hollin tapped the stack of papers. "I don't have it."
      "I . . . I'm sure it's here somewhere." Julian began rummaging through his backpack. As he dug through the jumble of books and papers inside the dark mouth of his black canvas bag, his chest filled with frustration, tightening like a balloon ready to pop.
      Julian began to stack notebooks and homework sheets on Ms. Hollin's desk. Even though he knew the reading log was blank, he wanted to find it to prove that he was at least responsible. He may not have done the assignment, but he didn't lose things. Maybe he wouldn't get in as much trouble if he showed her that he still had the log.
      Julian took out his phone and an old map of the Upper Peninsula that he'd found at a garage sale the previous weekend. He added them to the pile of his books and papers teetering on the edge of Ms. Hollin's desk. Finally, at the very bottom of his bag, he found the reading log. He pulled out the crumpled sheet of paper, hoping against hope that maybe he'd gotten it signed after all. Maybe he'd convinced his dad to give him credit for effort after one of their long evenings at the kitchen table. But the only marking on the sheet was a smudge of dirt.
      "I'll do it tonight," he said. "I promise."
      Ms. Hollin opened her desk drawer. "This is the third week in a row, Julian."
      Julian bit his lip as his teacher pulled out a bright yellow detention slip. He hated that color. It was the yellow of sour lemons and the dandelions his mom made him help her pull from the flower beds every spring. It was the color of his parents' disappointment that, once again, he hadn't been able to keep up.
      Ms. Hollin wrote his name in neat block letters at the top of the paper and checked off "Saturday Detention." "I'm sorry, Julian. I know reading isn't as easy for you as it is for the other students, but you still have to complete your assignments. Make sure your parents get this."
      Julian slowly put everything back into his bag, carefully setting the bright yellow sheet on top. It was just the beginning of the school year, and it would be his third detention already. He walked home with his head down, feeling ashamed and embarrassed.
      He only looked up when he reached the old Winderhouser place. He took the route home along Stagecoach Road almost every day just so he'd pass this way. The leaning two-story house used to be light blue with black shutters, but the paint had gone gray with age, and most of the shutters were missing. The porch sagged under the weight of furniture, appliances, and boxes piled high. Chairs with missing legs, toys faded by the sun, and rusting lawn mowers lay scattered among the tall grass of the yard like hiding animals.
      People said a lot of things about the house and about old Mrs. Winderhouser, who used to live there. Some kids claimed that it was haunted or that she had been a witch. Julian didn't believe any of it. His brother, Henry, said mean things about the place--calling it a "firetrap" and "rat heaven." But that's because Henry couldn't see how amazing a little messiness could be.
      Julian set his backpack on the ground next to the big maple tree at the edge of the overgrown yard. As he pushed aside books and papers and took his notebook out of his bag, he thought about how boring Henry's neat room was anyway. But the Winderhouser place was full of treasure.
      He flipped to the back of his notebook, past the blank pages where his class notes should be, until he reached the sketch he'd started last week. It was a drawing of the crumbling house, as only Julian could see it. He continued penciling in every detail he could make out from his spot by the maple tree, drawing the treasures in the yard and piled on the porch, shading in the dirt and shadows that made all the objects come alive on the page.
      As he sketched, he made up stories about where each item had come from and the adventures it had seen before winding up here. He drew the dusty red-and-purple rug that was slumped over the porch railing, imagining it spread out on the floor of a thieves' den. He pictured the broken brass chandelier beside the steps hanging over a long wooden table where knights and kings stuffed themselves on huge feasts.
      Julian was almost done mapping out the entire front porch. He'd need to find a new spot where he could see more of the house. He'd gotten in the habit of crouching down by the maple tree because the wide trunk and leafy branches hid him from view, just in case Mrs. Winderhouser ever looked out her window. But he'd heard that she had recently passed away.
      The house had always been still and strange, but with no one living there, it seemed as if the whole property had fallen into a deep slumber. Julian glanced up and down the block. He didn't see anyone. He shouldered his backpack, tucked his notebook under his arm, and crept across the yard. He was curious about every object he stepped around, but he'd have to look closer another time. Today, he wanted a glimpse inside. He rounded the side of the house and peered through the window.
      Julian gasped. It wasn't just the porch. The room was piled high with boxes, bags, furniture, and trinkets as far as he could see. He began sketching as fast as he could, trying to capture everything. There was just so much. Mrs. Winderhouser was a collector of treasure.
      Julian tilted the notebook to get better light on it. He looked up and realized that the shadows falling across the page were from the setting sun. He'd completely lost track of time. He shoved the notebook back into his bag, glanced through the window once more, and took off running. Good thing he was only a few blocks from home or he would have been late for dinner.
      He slid into his seat at the round kitchen table across from Henry. His brother scowled at him for being the last one to the table, the same way he did every night, as if he were starving and it was Julian's fault. Julian and his brother had the same narrow face, hazel eyes, and spiky haircuts. It was like looking in a mirror at an older, meaner version of himself.
      Julian's parents passed around serving bowls of salad and spaghetti with meatballs. Julian took a piece of garlic bread and sprinkled cheese on his pasta. He'd just finished twirling the perfect forkful of spaghetti when his dad said, "How was school today, Jules?"
      The fork slipped from Julian's hand. The spaghetti plopped onto his plate, splattering the tablecloth with red sauce. His mom looked from the spots to Julian's dad to Julian. "Uh-oh," she said. "What happened?"
      His face growing warm, Julian pushed his chair back and went to get the detention slip from his backpack. He could feel his cheeks turning red as he handed the yellow sheet of paper to his mom.
      "Again?" His mom scanned the words quickly. Julian sank into his chair, wondering if reading had always been easy for her, too. She set the slip next to her plate. "Jules," she said pleadingly. "We've been over this--you just need to keep trying."
      "I did try," Julian insisted.
      Henry rolled his eyes. Julian glared across the table at his brother.
      "We know it's tough for you," his dad said. "But you've got to keep up with your schoolwork."
      Julian's shoulders slumped. "I know. I'll try harder."
      "Honey, I think we should make an appointment with that specialist--"
      Julian cut his mom off. "No--that's okay." He didn't want them to waste any more money. A specialist couldn't help unless he gave Julian an entirely new brain. "I'll try harder--I mean it."
      A pained expression flashed across his mom's face. "We know you're trying already, Jules." She sighed and eyed his plate. "Eat, please."
      Julian picked up his fork and pushed the spaghetti around, but he had lost his appetite. Silence hung around them for a minute, until Julian finally dropped his fork again with a loud clink.
      "Julian!" His dad shook his head. "That's not okay."
      With a grim laugh, Julian realized that he couldn't even eat his dinner right. No matter what he was doing, he messed it up. He looked down at the cold lump of meat and noodles and wished he could make it all disappear. If only he had a dog, he could sneak the meatballs under the table and pretend like he'd eaten them. Maybe then he wouldn't get scolded for wasting his dinner on top of getting detention.
      Julian had let everyone down. Again. He wished his brain was as good as everyone else's. He swore to himself that he was going to do better . . . somehow.

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Excerpted from Star by Jennifer Li Shotz
All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.