Lessons From the Kissing Booth

As soon as it gets dark I think that every bright star is the North Star, every constellation a dipper. The night that we went to look at space I learned that I have precisely no idea where the North Star is, in awe of the woman who, without even stopping to consider, could point unerringly to anything in the sky with her magic green laser and tell us the story of it. It's lucky that I don't have to navigate anywhere, since each evening I am positive that any number of wrong stars are the right one, and I would likely lead us off the edge of the map were I behind the wheel. Heading toward Ultima Thule is only an adventure if you're planning on going there; otherwise, you're only teetering dangerously on the edges of cliffs you don't even know are there.

I could point at the sky and tell you the story of whatever is up there too, of course, but it would be the wrong story for the wrong sky.