What Stars Are Made Of

by Sarah Allen

  Take that, her face said.

  I did my best to draw a small Frankenstein in the middle of my chocolate handprint, complete with scarred chin. It wasn’t very good, but I thought the point got across.

  Talia and I looked at our artwork. Then she looked at her hand, then at me, and then raised her messy, chocolaty hand. I raised mine. We gave each other a splatting, goopy, chocolaty high five.

  We grabbed our stuff and ran into the girls’ bathroom down the hall, laughing like maniacs. Friend maniacs.

  Friends and Consequences

  There’s a first time for everything, I guess.

  Even a trip to the principal’s office.

  Talia and I sat on the other side of her desk, our hands between our knees. Principal Lopez looked at us, her bright red nails drumming on the desk.

  “Girls,” she said. “I know you two are smarter than this. Talia, I haven’t known you very long but I know you are a smart girl. And Libby.” She sighed. “I’ve known you since you were in kindergarten. This is not behavior I thought I’d see from you.”

  I kept staring at my knees. I couldn’t look at her.

  She was right. That was why I felt so bad. It was like something hadn’t been working in my brain. Hadn’t been connected. I hadn’t thought one tiny little bit about what might happen after we poured the sand. Why hadn’t I thought about that? Because I was only thinking about making Talia feel better. About making her happy.

  About making her my friend.

  And now here we were, waiting for our moms in Principal Lopez’s office.

  “Why didn’t one of you come and tell me what had happened? With Dustin and the pictures,” asked Ms. Lopez.

  “How did you—” Talia said.

  “Another student saw him do it,” said Ms. Lopez. “You kids think you’re so sneaky, but we know. So why didn’t you tell us yourself?”

  For a second nobody said anything. Then in a voice like a snapping turtle Talia said, “Like anyone would have cared.”

  I gulped, nervous that Talia was brave enough to talk like that to a grown-up. I thought Ms. Lopez might get angry, but when I glanced up at her face, she looked sad.

  Ms. Lopez leaned forward over her desk, her arms out. “Talia, are you listening to me? I need you to listen.” She put a hand flat down on her desk. “If anything has happened before, anything like this, and the adults you spoke with didn’t believe you, or didn’t take you seriously, then I want you to understand something. They were wrong. I want you to know that I will do my best to listen. I will always care.”

  Talia sat very still. Her ears were red.

  “You should know,” said Ms. Lopez, “that I have already spoken with Dustin and his mom, and heard his side of the story. I’ve got a letter of apology for you, Talia. He will be out of school for the next three days.”

  Then there was a knock on the door. When it opened, Mom walked in along with a woman who looked exactly like a grown-up Talia.

  Mom had that nervous crease along her forehead. She mumbled, “Oh my goodness,” and put a hand on my shoulder. Mrs. Latu said in a loud voice, “Now what’s going on here?”

  Principal Lopez explained what had happened. She explained about the big pile of sand in the hall that the janitor was cleaning up. I hadn’t thought about the janitor having to clean up the sand. She explained about the chocolate frosting. She explained, too, about the pictures of butts in Talia’s locker and how Dustin had already been sent home.

  “Girl, girl, girl,” said Mrs. Latu, shaking her head. Her voice sounded stern, but her hand was softly patting Talia’s thick, curly hair.

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” Mom whispered.

  I didn’t know what to say. Telling Mom that I’d kept quiet because Talia had told me to sounded too much like an excuse. Like I was blaming Talia. When really the sand was all my idea.

  “Look,” said Ms. Lopez. “It’s been taken care of. I’m going to send you girls down the hall to help clean up, and then home for the day, okay? And when you come back I expect a letter of apology from each of you. Tomorrow you’ll be back and ready to learn, yes? Without the sand?”

  Talia and I nodded.

  “And if anything like this happens again, please, please, come talk to me first. I am here to help you with exactly this kind of thing.”

  Mom promised that I would talk to her next time. Ms. Lopez stood and said goodbye, and we left her office.

  We walked slowly down the hall, Talia and I keeping our eyes to the ground. Mom’s hand stayed on my back, and it did make me feel a bit better. It helped me breathe easier. This wasn’t a good thing, but it could have been worse. I could have been expelled. Or sent to prison.

  “What does BB stand for anyway?” asked Mrs. Latu, as we neared the dreaded locker.

  Talia glanced at me and we caught each other’s eye. To my surprise, she was grinning.

  “Beach bum,” she said.

  Some Dead White Dude

  The next day, I was eating lunch in the library again, but this time it was different.

  This time Talia was eating lunch with me.

  We were lounging in the beanbag chairs by the magazine section. Talia’s mom had sent her with a big Tupperware of rice with chicken and pineapple and a sweet sauce that smelled so good it made me shiver.

  “Your mom seems like a really good cook,” I said as I ate my peanut butter banana sandwich.

  “Yeah,” Talia said.

  “My mom owns a bakery. We should do a combo dinner sometime.”

  I was scared that somehow that would be the wrong thing to say, but Talia said, “My mom could do pork. Does your mom make coconut cream pie?”

  “The best.”

  We both turned back to the open notebooks on our lap. I’d gotten better at remembering about Silent Questions, and earlier that day I’d figured out something new about Talia. We were both writers. At least kind of.

  “How’s it going?” I asked her.

  She groaned. “I hate sonnets,” she said.

  Talia had signed up for the Creative Writing elective. She told me she was really excited about it at first, but that they were just doing boring stuff like essays and descriptive paragraphs. And sonnets.

  “I keep trying to tell Mr. Gradey that rap counts. That Logic is poetry. But he won’t listen.”

  I looked down at my notebook. I had a good chunk of my letter written, about how Cecilia had influenced the world, but I couldn’t figure out how the letter should start. I wanted the first paragraph, even the first sentence, to be so wham-bam amazing that they would have to give it the grand prize.

  “How’s yours coming?” she asked.

  “I thought I knew what to say, but it’s harder than I thought,” I said.

  “What’s yours for again?”

  I cleared my throat. She’d liked my other plan, my sandy-locker plan, but I didn’t know what she’d think about Cecilia Payne.

  “It’s for this contest at the Smithsonian. Ms. Trepky told us about it once, on the day you came. They’re making a new Women in STEM exhibit, and you do a project to teach people about a woman scientist you think people should know about, and then you write a letter about it and submit it, and the winner gets twenty-five thousand dollars.”

  Talia choked on the piece of chicken she was eating. “Twenty-five thousand dollars?”

  “I know.”

  “Dude. You’ve gotta win this.”

  “I know. Then I could use the money to help my sister when her husband is looking for a better job.”

  I said it without thinking, and then right away wondered if this was one of those wrong things to say. One of those times when what I thought or said was strange or weird, and I didn’t know it until afterward, when people gave me funny looks. I’d keep the Universe Deal to myself, but now Talia knew why I wanted that money, and I had no idea if she’d think I was being naive or dumb or silly.

  But she didn’t. She nodded, looking thoughtful and focused, if I was
reading her face right. “Who are you writing about?” she asked.

  “Mine’s about … well, there’s this woman—her name is Cecilia—and she was a professor at Harvard a long time ago and she figured out what stars are made of. Like the chemicals and stuff. Then another professor sort of took credit. It’s a little complicated. But anyway, she’s not in our textbook. And I think she should be.”

  Talia leaned back in her beanbag. “She figured out all that about stars, and she’s not in our textbook? That’s dumb.”

  “Exactly!” I said.

  She looked up at the ceiling for a minute, her long dark hair billowing around her face like a cloud of thought.

  “Start simple,” she said. “Say, ‘Listen, I may be a young girl, but I’m writing to you about something very important.’”

  I paused, my pencil held above the paper. “Hey, that’s really good.” I scribbled the words down before they left my brain. I’d type everything out nice and neat later.

  She sighed again. “And yet I can’t come up with a freaking thing to say about … what did he call it? ‘Petrarchan love.’ I don’t know what to say about some dead white dude.”

  “Hey,” I said. “That’s what your sonnet should be called.”

  “What?”

  “‘Some Dead White Dude.’”

  Talia laughed so hard she snorted. “Oh man, Mr. Gradey won’t like that very much. I’ll do it.”

  She crossed out a few lines she’d written and wrote “Some Dead White Dude” in big letters. I hoped I wasn’t getting her in trouble again. My dad says it’s important to be a Good Influence Friend, and I couldn’t tell if I was being one or not.

  But by the end of lunch, she had her poem written.

  And by the end of lunch, I had my letter.

  How Grown-Ups Listen

  I had waited what felt like days and days after sending the email to Knight-Rowell Publishing, and still hadn’t heard anything. That’s when I decided to call.

  A woman with a high-pitched voice answered. “Knight-Rowell Publishing. How may I assist you?”

  I cleared my throat. I had my answer ready.

  “Hello. May I please speak with Trent Hickman?”

  That was the name on the title page of my textbook. Right next to Edited by.

  “I’m afraid Mr. Hickman isn’t available for phone calls, but I would be happy to take a message for you.”

  I imagined this woman in too-high heels that made it hard to walk and hair pulled so far back you could see up her nose.

  “Well, I really need to speak with him,” I said. “When would he be available?”

  “I can take a message for you and he will get back to you as soon as possible. What was your name?”

  Her voice sounded even higher.

  Maybe he had his own separate email, and my note from the form on the website hadn’t gotten to him. “What about his email?” I said.

  “I’m afraid I can’t give out that information, but if you’ll tell me your name I’ll pass along the message.”

  I fell back onto my bed. “Libby Monroe.” I told the woman I needed to speak with him as soon as possible, and I gave her my phone number.

  “And what is this about?” she asked.

  “It’s about Cecilia Payne,” I said.

  I waited for her to say something else, to say goodbye and hang up, but she paused for a second and then asked, “How old are you?”

  I was 98 percent sure this was not a woman who took twelve-year-olds seriously.

  “Please have him call me,” I said.

  Then we hung up.

  I was 98 percent sure he would never get my message.

  I looked at my poster of the Milky Way. If he never called it only meant I’d have to try something else. A star didn’t stop burning just because some space debris got in its way. Maybe an actual mailed letter would work. After a bit of looking around on the website, I found the Knight-Rowell Publishing address. I got to work writing another letter, a letter especially to Mr. Trent Hickman about a certain smart woman scientist who I thought should be in his textbook.

  Second Draft

  I printed and carefully folded my letter to Mr. Trent Hickman, and put it in the mailbox, sending my words and wishes out into the world. And the words didn’t stop there, either. I also gave Ms. Trepky my Smithsonian Cecilia Payne letter to look at.

  Look how much progress we’re making, I told Cecilia. Ms. Trepky is going to help me help you.

  The very next day, Ms. Trepky was waiting for me by the door after class. She had a manila envelope in her hand. “Libby, may I see you for one moment?” she said.

  I slid my book into my backpack and zipped up slowly, waiting for everyone else to leave. When I laid my letter down on Ms. Trepky’s desk the day before, I hadn’t been nervous. But now she was holding the words I’d written, worked so carefully on, ready to tell me all the things that were wrong with them. Worth it, of course, because this had to be the greatest writing ever, but still. Walking toward her and her feedback felt a little like walking into surgery.

  Ms. Trepky set the envelope in my hands. “First,” she said, “I wanted to tell you that you did a fantastic job. Your enthusiasm is infectious and makes reading about Cecilia a joy. Your explanations are clear and your descriptions evocative.”

  “Really?” I said.

  “Absolutely,” she said. “I want you to remember that when you open this envelope. I didn’t hold back, Libby. I know you’re taking this seriously, and my feedback reflects that. I wrote up a short edit letter that you’ll find stapled to the front, and then I made in-line notations as well. Don’t be overwhelmed when you see the red marks. Every professional writer gets these edit letters and red marks to make their work sparkle. This truly is an excellent first draft, and I look forward to reading the project portion of the letter as you complete it.”

  I looked at the envelope, half expecting it to start bleeding red ink. If Ms. Trepky thought I could handle this like a professional, I would. My last two classes of the day were going to be stare-at-the-clock classes while I waited to get home and get to work.

  “Thank you,” I said. “Thank you so, so much.”

  “My privilege,” said Ms. Trepky. She sounded like she meant it.

  When I finally got home I didn’t pause for a snack but went straight to my room and opened up the manila envelope. I flipped past the edit letter and saw the red marks like a very bad case of the chicken pox.

  Step by step. I’d just have to take it step by step. First thing was the edit letter, talking about big things like smoother transitions in certain parts, or suggestions for the next part of the letter, getting specific about how Cecilia inspired me, a girl with Turner syndrome.

  So much to do. So much shifting and rearranging before I even got to the red pox. I kept at it, slicing and dicing, cleaning and polishing.

  Red started swirling behind my eyes and I knew I needed a break. Time for that missed snack.

  On the way back to my room, a cup of grapes in one hand, I stopped in front of Nonny’s room. She was talking to someone.

  “… isn’t under your jurisdiction, though. You shouldn’t have to cover for people so much.”

  I had to scoot close to the door to hear. It sounded like she was on the phone with Thomas.

  “I know,” she said. “Yeah, I … that’s … I hate the way they’re treating you. I know, but I wish there was something else … I hate this.”

  I put my hand on the wall.

  “I wish you were here,” she said.

  My cup of grapes and I went back to my room. I sat on my bed, staring at those red marks.

  If swimming through that red ink could get Nonny her wish, I’d dog-paddle my way across the Pacific Ocean.

  Houston, We Have a Problem

  The air outside got colder and colder, and I still had zero response from Knight-Rowell Publishing. No response to my emails, or my letter. That’s when Nonny’s nausea started getting worse.
I texted Talia about it and she said that her mom got sick a lot when she was pregnant with her little brother and sister, and that it was pretty normal. To me, though, this didn’t seem like Normal Pregnant Sick. This seemed Very Not Normal.

  I paced nervously from my bedroom to the living room, hearing Nonny vomit and dry heave in the bathroom. Every time I saw Nonny’s gray face and heard those gasping, retching sounds, I thought, This is what failure looks like. This is what it sounds like, hints at what could happen if I don’t get this right.

  Nonny barely had the energy to stand up. She hadn’t kept anything down in almost thirty-two hours. I was keeping track.

  Are you trying to warn me, Cecilia? I thought. I know all the things that can go wrong. I won’t let them. I will work harder and harder. As hard as it takes.

  This was way bigger than tea and marmalade.

  I found Mom in the kitchen kneading dough with a Grand Canyon furrow between her brows, barely even noticing what her hands were doing. The dough looked pulverized. It looked like I felt.

  “Mom, what can we do?” I said.

  She looked at me for a few moments, then picked up her phone. Half an hour later we were at the hospital. Mom, Dad, and me, waiting with brow creases and fidgety feet in a too-small room while nurses put an IV in Nonny’s arm.

  The attendants kept saying, “She just needs fluids, she’ll be okay.” And I believed them, like I normally do, but it was the first time I didn’t like being around doctors and nurses. In fact, I hated it, because it meant my sister was less safe than if she’d been able to drink a normal glass of water in the first place.

  After a few hours with fluids, Nonny looked more relaxed. Less shaky. But she looked exhausted, with dark purple circles under her eyes. Even though she did look a little better and was breathing more normally, I knew I never wanted to see her like this again. I would rather be the one in the hospital bed myself. A million times rather.

  And even though I trusted, this time, that she would get better, somehow it still felt like seeing a glimpse of what the future would be like if I failed in my deal with Cecilia Payne. What if I didn’t win the grand prize and couldn’t calm Nonny’s financial black hole? And what if Thomas never found a good job and I couldn’t help them?