Chapter 1
Dreams that won't come true ache like broken promises. A heart’s deepest desires adrift in a gust of howling wind—we struggle to grasp them, praying our wishes become reality, but someone always steals them away like a selfish thief. The painful longing bores deeper, yet our bewitching ray of hope never dims.
The conjoined Banfear triplets bent around a large trash can at the side of the stage and retched. The three identical sisters, Elliana, Bellamona, and Gabriella, took deep, controlled breaths, attempting to banish their overwhelming anxiety. All three were petrified of what was to come.
A pretty, auburn-haired woman in a red dress and white sneakers encouraged them. “You can do this,” she cheered. She pulled the girls away from the garbage bin and ruffled Mona’s shaggy, shoulder-length blonde hair, but improving it was hopeless. “Girls, you’d have a much better chance of making friends if you worked harder on your appearance. Some makeup would cover your acne.” She inspected their outfit and cringed.
The triplets wore a handmade white T-shirt with three collars and six short sleeves. Each girl had the face of a member of the pop-rock vocal trio, the Bee Gees, on her chest. Gabby was born connected to Mona’s left side, while Ellie was attached to her right. Most people didn’t realize the girls were conjoined until they observed their five-foot-wide shirt up close. Then, it all became clear.
The woman bent closer to the triplets, who stood an inch above five feet. She pulled down on the bizarre garment, attempting to enhance it, but eventually gave up. “I guess this’ll have to do. Ellie, Mona, Gabby, please listen closely.”
Six amber eyes peered at the former college cheerleader.
She pointed to the stage. “Walk out there and be courageous and assertive. Fight the fear. Show those kids that the Banfear triplets will be heard.”
“Okay,” Mona said, her voice trembling.
A television news reporter posed at the edge of the stage in the packed Hollywood High School auditorium. Her short chestnut hair and coral dress shone under the bright lights. A young man positioned himself in front of her, with a video camera mounted on his right shoulder. The kids behind her screamed and waved. A dazzling teenage girl with blonde hair tied in a neat ponytail stood beside the journalist. Her violet pantsuit accentuated her tanned skin, while her perfect teeth were as white as the pricey pearls around her neck. A stern man in a black designer suit that matched his perfectly coiffed hair waited beside her.
The reporter raised her microphone. “This year, the wildly popular TV talent competition, Your Shooting Star, will debut its teen edition. After hundreds of auditions, producers have chosen the top five bands to compete for fame, fortune, and the right to call themselves America’s Teen Shooting Star. One of the contestants, Empress, is composed of students from Hollywood High School. With me at the school’s year-end concert is Twyla-Violet Higgins, the lead singer of Empress, and her father and manager, renowned attorney Edward Higgins. Her band will soon close the show at this annual event. Twyla-Violet, how does it feel to be in one of the five groups chosen to compete on this famous TV show?”
“It’s a supreme honor. Since age four, I’ve dreamed of winning the competition and launching a successful show business career. With the new teen edition, I can begin my march to superstardom sooner.”
Smiling, the reporter paused until the screaming crowd quieted. “Many of our viewers will remember you from the popular Lemon Quench soft drink commercial that catapulted you to instant stardom eight years ago. But just as fast, your career as a child model fizzled. Do you see the televised competition as a chance to stage your big comeback?”
Twyla-Violet bit her tongue and hid her contempt for the ignorant ninnyhammer. “I was eight when I starred in that commercial. I’ve come a long way since then.” She looked into the camera. “Empress will become America’s Teen Shooting Star for 1978.”
The reporter turned her head sharply and peered at the triplets, who were still absorbing the auburn-haired woman’s motivational speech. “Are those the conjoined girls who appeared on The Marsha Gibraltar Show?” Before Twyla-Violet could reply, the journalist hurried away with her cameraman in pursuit of a bigger story.
If Twyla-Violet’s cold, blue eyes could deep-freeze human tissue, the Banfear triplets would instantly become three conjoined snow girls, never to uglify her beautiful world again. She emitted a guttural squeal of frustration. “Those loser freaks,” she muttered.
“Handle this situation now,” Edward barked at his daughter, and then walked away.
The reporter shoved her mic in Mona’s face. “You’re the Banfear triplets.”
Wide-eyed with fright and intimidated by the camera’s light, she replied, “Yes, ma’am.”
The reporter moved the mic to the woman standing beside Ellie. “Are you their mother?”
“I’m Audrey Tanner, the school’s guidance counselor. I’ll also be the band chaperone on the teen edition of Your Shooting Star.”
The reporter turned back to Mona. “Tell us how your life has been since you appeared on Marsha Gibraltar’s TV show in 1970.”
Mona shrugged. “We’ve grown up like normal kids.”
The journalist shook her head. “But you’re not normal kids—you’re quite special. The world wants to know more about the extraordinary lives of the only conjoined triplets ever documented.”
Ellie looked at the floor. “Our lives aren’t extraordinary.”
“And we’re not special,” Gabby said softly.
Twyla-Violet and her drummer, Brenda, a muscular girl with long red hair, stood behind a drum riser onstage. Three stools were positioned thirteen inches apart behind a small orange drum kit. An orange electric guitar and an orange bass guitar sat on stands in the rear corners of the foot-high platform. Three vocal mics on short boom stands had been placed around the drums. Twyla-Violet turned the pegs on the guitars, detuning them, while Brenda used her tuning key to detune the drums. Three female students, working as stagehands, stood in front of the drum riser and pretended to adjust the mics to hide Twyla-Violet’s treachery from the audience.
The reporter got nosy. “Why haven’t you girls undergone separation surgery after all these years?”
Audrey gave her a cutthroat gesture. “The girls are performing next.”
Annoyed, the journalist and her cameraman walked away.
Audrey broke into a cheer dance, jumping up and down, kicking her legs, and waving imaginary pompoms in her hands. “Go, triplets! Go! Go, triplets! Go! Go, triplets! Go!”
The embarrassed sisters glanced around them, hoping no one had seen their guidance counselor make a public spectacle of herself on their behalf.
“Extremely motivating,” Mona lied.
Four male students pushed a wheeled drum riser holding Empress’s extensive drum set, which sparkled with violet metal flake, and parked it behind the triplets.
The crowd stomped the floor with loud, synchronized impatience.
Mona pulled her sisters into a U-shaped huddle. “Ignore their laughs and focus on our performance,” she whispered. “We might finally win them over.”
Skeptical, Gabby and Ellie frowned.
Audrey gestured for the girls to go. “You’re on!”
The triplets slipped sideways like a long caterpillar between the wall and Empress’s drum riser. They shuffled onstage to the rear of their equipment, their knees shaking inside blue bell bottoms.
The stomping died down to nerve-wracking silence. Some kids in the audience snickered at the triplets, while others laughed loudly.
Gabby and Ellie strapped on their guitars and placed the stands on the floor behind the drum riser. Ellie played a left-handed bass so that her headstock wouldn’t be in Mona’s face. The girls stepped carefully onto the rear of the platform and sat on the drum thrones.
Mona removed a pair of drumsticks from a bag that hung from the floor tom and mumbled into her mic, “Hello, everyone. We’re the Banfear Triplets.” The teenagers’ cackles grew louder. “We’d like to play ‘Boogie Child’ by our idols, the Bee Gees.” She struck a two-count on her hi-hat.
The triplets kicked into the song, played it as they had done countless times in their garage, and sang like sweet songbirds.
The dulcet tones of their melodious voices surprised the audience.
A girl in the front row with braces, black pigtails, and a crimson-and-white HHS Math Club T-shirt jumped from her seat and shrieked, “Sing it, sisters!”
Mona freaked. Her drums sounded like she was hitting a barrel of oil with a baseball bat, but she never flubbed a note singing. Gabby quickly tuned her screeching guitar while she sang the Bee Gees hit in perfect three-part harmony with her sisters. Ellie sang like a pro and adjusted her bass guitar, which sounded like a bowling ball bouncing down a staircase. Mona’s lead vocals were superb, and she played the drums with precision, but the audience howled with laughter at the harsh sound of their out-of-tune instruments.
Their sole fan—the only one who cared—frowned at her rude classmates while she whistled and cheered, attempting to turn the tide of humiliation drowning the Banfear triplets.
The monitor engineer on stage left, a tall boy with short dark hair, grinned. Twyla-Violet kissed his chiseled, handsome face. He changed the EQ settings on the sound console, causing squealing feedback each time the triplets attempted to sing into their mics.
The three girls looked at him, pleading for help with their eyes, but kept performing.
The boy scratched his head and pretended he didn’t understand what was wrong.
As the ringing in the sound system became more piercing, the kids in the audience put their hands over their ears and winced in pain.
Twyla-Violet smirked at the pitiful triplets she despised, enjoying their embarrassment.
Audrey dashed to the monitor console and glared at Twyla-Violet, confident that she was the architect of the sabotage. Twyla-Violet strolled away, grinning gleefully. Audrey pantomimed an angry protest over the loud noise to the sound engineer, who pretended to search for a solution.
Throwing in the towel, Gabby jerked the cable from her guitar. Ellie ripped out her jack plug and slung the guitar cord behind her. Mona threw down her drumsticks and bumped elbows with her sisters, prompting them to stand. Humiliated, Ellie led their sideways leap from the riser. But she ran too fast, yanking on the part of flesh and cartilage that joined her to Mona at their sides. Mona screamed in pain. Gabby grimaced and yelled in agony as Mona jerked her off the platform.
They zipped around the stage curtain like a baby squirrel being chased by a hawk and crashed into the shiny, violet kit belonging to Empress, knocking drums off the riser in every direction. The triplets hit the floor, their guitars clanging beneath them.
Brenda stared at her wrecked drum kit in shock as her face smoldered with anger.
Twyla-Violet stormed up, towered over the triplets, and screamed, “Look at what you did to our drums, Caterpillar!”
Terrified, the girls crawled away from the furious bully.
Twyla-Violet planted her violet boot in front of them. “Stupid, ugly Caterpillar!”
Gabby turned their Volkswagen van into the two-lane driveway of their house, two blocks from Hollywood High in Los Angeles. Born as the triplet on the left, she was the only one able to drive. They had bought the vehicle with money they earned working as seamstresses over the past four years. The fifteen-year-old bus was affordable, and the front bench seat fit them comfortably. It was pink and white, resembling the Cadillac once owned by Elvis Presley, the king of rock ’n’ roll, who had died unexpectedly ten months earlier. Papilio Seamstress Services was stenciled in white letters on the pink paint of the front doors. Beneath each logotype was a white logomark of three conjoined butterflies with two forewings and two hind wings.
Gabby drove past her father’s blue Ford station wagon, always parked in the right lane out front, past the left side of their white ranch house with gray trim to the matching two-car garage in the rear corner of their spacious backyard. At the end of the driveway, she parked alongside a four-foot-high olive-green fence and gate, which extended twenty feet from the corner of the garage to the corner of the house, and then killed the engine. The triplets gazed through the windshield at the garage.
Ellie sighed. “So much for finally winning them over.”
“At least we tried,” Gabby replied.
Mona, the fulcrum in the middle, always in charge, nudged Ellie to exit the vehicle. “Let’s unpack our instruments after we put dinner in the oven.”
The triplets eased out of the front door on the right side onto the concrete driveway. Ellie opened the side door, passed two Bee Gees lunch boxes to her sisters, took the third one, and closed the door. They went through the gate into the backyard. When they entered the rear entrance of the house, an enormous white mass of fur bounded toward them. The Great Pyrenees lost his footing, slid across the green linoleum, and nearly knocked them over. The empty lunch boxes crashed to the floor. The dog erupted into a blissful fit at the sight of his beloved friends.
“We missed you too, BeeGee,” Mona said.
The girls hugged and kissed the big dog, then followed him to the arched doorway of the den that had been their father’s home office for as long as they could remember.
Benson sat at his desk reading a thick manuscript on a wooden desktop easel. He tapped away on an IBM Selectric typewriter he had placed in front of it. A photograph of Benson and his triplets as children was placed beside the machine. As handsome as a movie star, Benson had shaggy blond hair and rare amber eyes, two traits he had passed on to his three daughters. A classical guitar made of spruce leaned against his desk, while oak bookcases covered three walls from floor to ceiling. One was filled with Benson’s favorite literature, written in the foreign languages he had mastered. Another contained his cherished classical, jazz, and rock ’n’ roll records. The third shelf was packed with 8mm and Super 8 home movies of his daughters, which he had been shooting since their birth. Bach’s Chaconne from the Partita for Violin, No. 2 revolved on the turntable, filling the den with captivating music.
“Hi, Dad,” the triplets said in unison as they entered behind BeeGee.
Benson looked up from his work. “Papilio, you’re home.”
The girls moved sideways behind their father, each kissing his right cheek.
Mona observed the manuscript. “Anything new in the world of literary translation?”
“I’m struggling to meet this tough deadline, but I’m enjoying translating this Spanish novel into English. It’s an exciting spy story set during the Spanish-American War but a very long book that also needs editing. It’s a tough dual job.” Benson picked up his guitar and played along to the record. “I’m still miffed I couldn’t attend your concert, but I couldn’t reschedule my meeting at the publisher. The author is only in town from Madrid for a day. And they’re pushing me hard to deliver this manuscript early so I can start on another promising novel they’ve acquired. I’ll be working day and night for the next six and a half weeks. But tell me, Papilio, was your performance brilliant?”
Mona looked at Gabby, then Ellie, and said, “Everyone loved us.”
Benson put down his guitar and jumped from his chair. “I’m so proud of you. As you know, I performed in that concert each year I attended Hollywood High.” He pulled his daughters around him in a half circle and hugged them. “I’d bet your friends are as pleased as I am.”
Ellie nodded. “They took us to Starbright Café, that new place that opened in January, for strawberry milkshakes.”
Gabby smiled up at Benson, who towered over them by a foot. “Fun celebration.”
Benson released them. “I’m thankful you have so many good friends.”
Mona took a deep breath of hope but braced herself for more disappointment. “Dad, did you have your monthly update call with the private detective? Any news about Mom?”
Benson's smile faded as he sat down. “I spoke to him earlier today. I’m sorry, Papilio, but he hasn’t learned anything new.”
Ellie rubbed BeeGee’s back. “Maybe something’s preventing Mom from coming home; she could be seriously ill.”
BeeGee looked from Benson to Papilio as if he could sense their pain.
Benson wrung his hands. “I know you don’t want to hear this, Papilio, but she might have another family by now, which might prevent her from coming home. Did you ever consider that?”
Mona frowned. “She’s still married to you.”
He peered at his daughters. “Children born out of wedlock are common in this day and age.”
Gabby glanced out the window above Benson’s desk. “We can feel her out there.”
Benson sighed in frustration. “You might be feeling a ghost.”
“She’s not dead,” Ellie insisted, becoming upset.
Benson turned back to his typewriter. “I’ve got work to do.”
“We’ll find her,” Mona proclaimed, “one way or another.”
Papilio entered the garage, moving crabwise through the standard door. BeeGee trailed behind them. Their favorite place had enough musical equipment to outfit the Hollywood High School band. The album cover of the Saturday Night Fever soundtrack was propped on the workbench beside a record player. The girls had painted the carpet with red, blue, and yellow squares to resemble the multicolored disco dance floor depicted on it. Quadraphonic speakers hung on chains beside little white spotlights in the room’s four corners. A large mirror ball dangled from the ceiling. Barry, Robin, and Maurice Gibb smiled at the triplets from a large poster on the roll-up door.
“Can’t wait until Your Shooting Star begins on Sunday,” Gabby said.
Ellie chimed in, “One day, after Dr. Greene finally separates us, we can go on the show.”
“Competing would be amazing,” Mona said, “but sometimes I wonder if the surgery will ever happen. I don’t even want to attend our annual physical in four days; the dread of more disappointment is unbearable.” She looked up at the disco ball above them as though it were a crystal ball illuminating the future. “I can see us now on Your Shooting Star, separated and normal like the other girls. Everyone loves us, and no one ever makes fun of us again. Mom sees us on TV, famous and victorious, and is no longer ashamed of us. She’s so proud of us that she finally returns home.”
BeeGee looked at the shiny ball, then at Mona, and snorted loudly.
“Let’s pretend,” Gabby suggested, flicking the switch for the fluorescent lights and flipping up another one.
The four white spotlights beamed at the revolving mirror ball, spinning bright stars around the space. Two red floodlights set the room afire like a disco inferno.
Ellie led them behind the drums they had set up earlier while the chicken roasted in the oven. “Singing always makes us feel better when our hearts are blue.”
Papilio sat on the stools, surrounded by a small but adequate sound system. Mona picked up a pair of sticks from the snare drum and twirled them in her fingers. Gabby and Ellie strapped on their guitars.
Mona glanced at the Bee Gees poster and told their imaginary audience, “We’re the Banfear Triplets, and we’re proud to perform ‘Night Fever’ on Your Shooting Star.”
Papilio tackled the hit song and sounded tight. They sang in perfect harmony, enjoying the brilliant music of their favorite band, which made their lonely lives worth enduring. Mona played the small drum kit effortlessly, holding down a solid beat. Gabby and Ellie leaned into her and drew passion from their guitars. Their union of three filled the garage with musical magic.
BeeGee, their companion for the past eight years, reared like a stallion and barked in appreciation. The colossal disco dog danced on his hind legs to the music as the bright stars from the mirror ball flew around him like a swarm of fireflies. His 160-pound body glowed red from the fiery disco lights.
Papilio smiled at him, pleased to make their only friend happy.
BeeGee stumbled and fell forward onto the drum kit, causing the cymbals and microphones to fall over. The loud popping of mics hitting the floor boomed through the PA system. The girls stopped playing and covered their ears. The dog landed on the snare drum, practically knocking Papilio backward off their stools.
“BeeGee!” the triplets exclaimed in unison.
Papilio stood and carefully helped him off the drum set. The snare drum fell over, striking the floor with a loud bang.
BeeGee stepped away from the kit and sat on his haunches in front of the wrecked equipment, refusing to make eye contact with Papilio. The triplets maneuvered around the drums and leaned in front of the dog. BeeGee lowered his head in shame and extended his right paw to Mona.
She took it and kissed his regal crown. “Don’t worry, big buddy. We’ll always love you, but try not to be so clumsy all the time.”
BeeGee licked her chin, whimpered, and wagged his tail.
Papilio stood tall, their heads high, and basked in the roaring applause of their fictitious fans. They then joined hands, bowed deeply, rose, and triumphantly held their arms high in their lonely disco.
The counterfeit glory rushed through Mona like adrenaline. “Thank you for making us your shooting star!”
