What Stars Are Made Of

by Sarah Allen

  “And what about the Smithsonian contest?” Talia said. “You still have five days before the deadline.”

  I put a finger on my locker. “But I didn’t get Cecilia in the textbook.”

  “So? You still have five days to do a teaching project and finish your letter.”

  “Five days? That’s not very much time. Plus, I don’t know what my project would be. I can’t do poems like you or play music or do painting or drawing or anything.”

  “Oh please,” she said. “Libby, you’re one of the smartest people I know. No way you can give up on twenty-five grand, girl. Even if you don’t win, you have to try. You can totally think of something kick-butt to do.”

  “What is it with you and butts?”

  Dustin Pierce was at his locker down the hall.

  Hadn’t he learned anything?

  I started walking toward him.

  “Hey,” Talia said. “Don’t, he’s not worth it.”

  I kept walking.

  “Hey, Dustin,” I said.

  He looked at me and huffed. He was quite a bit taller than me. “Oh no, it’s FrankenChin.”

  “Who’s your favorite basketball player?” I asked.

  Dustin and Talia both stopped talking. Dustin’s forehead crinkled in confusion. “Huh?”

  “You like basketball, right?” I said. “That’s your thing, isn’t it? So who’s your favorite player?”

  “Well, Michael Jordan is the best of all time. Duh.”

  “Okay, so do you think Michael Jordan wasted his time putting butt pictures in people’s lockers? Do you think he spent time thinking up mean names and things to call people or do you think he maybe focused on something more productive?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “While you’re sitting here being a butt-obsessed butthead, some other kid is practicing free throws or learning plays or … something. I dunno. But if they’re practicing and you’re butt-picturing, who’s gonna be better at basketball?”

  Dustin slammed his locker and rolled his eyes. “Whatever.”

  When I walked back to Talia she was shaking her head at me, grinning. “You are so weird,” she said.

  “I know,” I said.

  “Back to the Smithsonian contest…,” she said.

  I thought about the private, best-friends thing Talia had just told me and I finally thought of the right thing to say. Maybe practicing Silent Questions also helps you become better at figuring out what to say when you have to say out-loud things.

  “Okay, Talia. I’m not giving up on the contest, but I need someone to help me with a new master plan. Would you maybe want to ask our moms if we could have a sleepover this weekend and I’ll try and have a new idea for us to start working on? And I’ll submit it on Tuesday. And also, there’s something I want to show you … if you’re not scared of needles.”

  She’s Got the Whole World in Her Head

  With new gel pens and an open notebook, I armed myself for some brainstorming so I’d be ready when Talia came over to help me put a new plan together. I walked around the house with the brainstorm cloud hovering over my head, my toes squooshing into the carpet like roots trying to pull ideas out of the ground. After months of working so hard on the old plan, it was hard not to get discouraged. So many people were counting on me. I was counting on me.

  What could I possibly do in one weekend that would be worthy of winning? Worthy of Cecilia?

  I wandered out into the living room where the baby slept in her mechanical swing, Mom, Dad, and Nonny nearby in the kitchen chatting about their days. Pacing back and forth kept the blood flowing, kept me feeling like I was trying something, even if the idea sparks seemed to slip away as soon as I saw them.

  I tried lying down on the floor and staring up at the ceiling. I tried lying on the couch upside down. I did jumping jacks and played my stomach like a drum. The big idea door had closed, but there had to be a cracked window somewhere, right?

  Where did plans and ideas come from, really, anyway? Maybe ideas were recipes the same way our bodies were. Recipes of the things we did and the people we knew and the stuff we learned. Every person’s brain had ingredients other people’s didn’t. Nonny’s brain had piano and babies and a special way of talking to friends on the phone. Mom’s had the best pineapple upside-down cake in the world, and Ms. Trepky … well, Ms. Trepky’s brain had a whole lot of stuff, which was probably why she was a teacher.

  And Cecilia Payne’s brain had held stars.

  What about mine? What did I have to work with? I looked around the living room, this time as if everything from the side table to the smell of roast coming from the kitchen was a potential ingredient for a fantabulous new idea.

  Baby Cecilia was awake. Wide awake, staring at me with her round brown eyes. Her hands clasped and unclasped, and she watched me like everything I was and everything I did was exciting and utterly brand new, which, to her, it was. What must it be like to have a brain like that, so open and filling with bright new bursts every second? A whole universe inside there, growing. This Cecilia had stars, too.

  Cecilia’s brain had stars.

  Her brain had stars.

  That was it. That was it! I froze in front of baby Cecilia, staring back at her, letting the idea settle in and take root before I moved too much and jostled it loose. Neither baby Cecilia nor I blinked while I watched the idea whirl around and form into something I could see.

  The idea was audacious, oh yes. And it was going to work.

  I bounced over to baby Cecilia and gave her a gigantic smooch on the top of her head.

  When Talia came over, I would be ready.

  Watch out, Smithsonian, I thought. Libby has a brand-new plan.

  What Brains Are Made Of

  When Talia came over the next day for a sleepover, I told her my new idea.

  She said it was audacious.

  (And in case you were wondering, she is not scared of needles.)

  I didn’t know if the Smithsonian people would think this project was as grand as getting someone in a textbook, but the idea was weird, and as fun to make as Mom’s cotton-candy pie. I had to at least try.

  The plan was going to take all weekend. It was All Hands on Deck.

  When you have a new audacious plan, you have to take it step by step:

  Mom called Principal Lopez to make sure this plan would be okay. She said it would.

  Dad went to the store and bought three long black poster boards. Put together, they were twelve feet long.

  Dad also went to the printer’s and got nice copies of lots and lots of small, grape-size brain PET scans Talia and I had found on the internet. PET scans are a special type of picture that doctors take of someone’s brain, and they glow a plethora of neon colors—blue, green, yellow, orange. When we were laying out the pictures and the posters and everything, Dad started getting excited, talking to me about layout and composition.

  And when baby Cecilia was sleeping, Nonny helped us cut out all those brains.

  It took the entire weekend, but by Monday, I had my project ready.

  And it was quite the project.

  Imagine this: You’re walking down the hallway of your school, and you see a long, long black poster hanging on the wall by the front office. At first the poster looks like the night sky, with perfectly measured constellations. You see the Big Dipper and Orion’s Belt and Capricorn.

  When you step closer, you see that what you thought were bright neon stars aren’t really stars at all.

  They’re brains.

  Brains glowing in a black night sky.

  Now that’s something you won’t forget.

  And next to the brain-sky poster is another poster, a poster of a watchful, determined woman in black-and-white. You learn that her name was Cecilia Payne, and that she discovered what stars are made of. You learn about her job, about the people who helped her and the people who didn’t. You learn that stars are made of a bunch of whizzing chemicals, and that thoughts ar
e made of that, too. Plus something neon colored and maybe a little bit magic.

  Magic like black holes and dreams and heartbeats.

  Magic like teachers and chromosomes and friends.

  You might look at the constellations and think, What are MY stars made of?

  One Month Later

  From: Sabaa Bukhari

  To: Libby Monroe

  Subject: Smithsonian Women in STEM Contest Notification

  Dear Libby Monroe,

  I am delighted to inform you that you have been selected as one of our divisional winners in the Smithsonian Women in STEM contest. As a result, your school will be the recipient of a five-thousand-dollar grant for STEM education. This year, selecting our division winners and the grand prize recipient was particularly difficult due to the number of incredible entries we received, and we are so pleased that you are among our winners.

  Your letter about Cecilia Payne exhibited knowledge, skill in research, craftsmanship, and passion. These are attributes we look for in our winners. We were so intrigued by your description of the brain-star sky display you put up at your school, and while we loved the photos, we wish we could have seen it in person. Your writing sparkles and inspires.

  Again, congratulations! I am certain the world is going to see great things from you in the future.

  Sabaa Bukhari,

  Smithsonian Institution

  When I Showed My Family the Email

  My dad said: “Albert Einstein, look out!”

  My mom said: “I didn’t know it was possible to be this proud of my kids.”

  Nonny said: “This is huge! You are remarkable, little sister.”

  Thomas’s message said: Did you ever know that you’re my heeeeero!

  Baby Cecilia said: “Gaaa.”

  My best friend, Talia, who was over for dinner said: “Second place is amazing and plus it means you’ll be ready to kick butt in the next contest.”

  My brain said: I DON’T KNOW WHAT’S HAPPENING.

  My brain said: Is this a Good Pile thing or a Bad Pile thing?

  Was this Winning?

  Or was this No Grand Prize for Nonny, Definitely NOT Winning?

  On an Ordinary Sunday

  Mom and Dad were visiting a friend who was in the hospital. At home it was just Nonny, me, and baby Cecilia.

  Only a couple of days before Thomas’s contract was up and he and Nonny and Cecilia would fly back to his parents’ house in Chicago, and he would start looking for another job.

  Lots of people had complimented my display at school. Ms. Trepky gave me extra credit, even though she said I didn’t need it, and Ms. Lopez said she was very proud. I was proud, too. Winning in my division was wonderful, and I tried my best to only be grateful. But I still had that thought in my head wishing I could have done more for Nonny. Done everything that she deserved.

  Had I proved anything to that Inside Mirror version of myself, or had I not?

  I was out in the front room working on math homework (blech). I heard Cecilia cry. She had this low, bleating cry almost like a lamb, which somehow made it even more heartbreaking. When after a few minutes she hadn’t stopped crying, I hurried down the hall to the bedroom.

  Nonny never got mad when I woke her up from naps, so I wasn’t worried about peeking my head through the door. Nonny wasn’t asleep. She was pacing over by the window, bouncing Cecilia up and down in her arms. Cecilia’s fists were clenched and her mouth was open in that wail that tugged your heart around like a dog on a leash. Nonny had baggy eyes and major bedhead.

  “Everything okay?” I said. I knew it wasn’t, but I didn’t know what else to say.

  Even Nonny’s voice seemed stretched. “I just finished feeding her and I’ve burped her and everything. She doesn’t want to stop crying, let alone sleep.”

  So I walked over with my arms out and before Nonny could protest too much, took the baby out of her arms, being careful to support Cecilia’s little head like Mom had shown me. I’d had enough practice that even walking around with the baby in my arms didn’t scare me anymore.

  “I got it,” I said. “You sleep.”

  “That’s sweet, Lib, but…”

  “No,” I said. I tried to gesture at the bed with my head. “Sleep.”

  Nonny sat on the bed, but didn’t lie down.

  Cecilia gave a hiccup in my arms. “Nonny?” I said.

  She looked at me, hand in her hair, Silent Question on her face.

  “I’m sorry I didn’t win,” I said. “I tried really hard.”

  “Win?” she said.

  “The Smithsonian contest. I mean, I won the division, but the grand prize was twenty-five thousand dollars, and that could have been for rent or a house or … Thomas could have come home.”

  Nonny stared at me. Her hair was messy, but her eyes were bright. I bounced baby Cecilia a couple of times.

  “That’s what you…,” Nonny said, then stopped.

  “I’m sorry it wasn’t enough,” I said.

  Nonny patted the bed next to her. “Come sit,” she said.

  I brought Cecilia over, still holding her high and bouncy, and sat next to Nonny on the bed.

  “Libby,” Nonny said. “I’m going to say something and I want you to listen, okay?”

  I nodded. I thought of another Hard Reading Word: apprehensive.

  “There’s really only one thing I want for my daughter. The ways Thomas and I figure out how to take care of our family—and we will—don’t matter. I know I’ve … I’ve been anxious and stressed about money and job stuff, but we’re going to figure it out. But you know what does matter? What I want more than anything for my daughter to have in her life?”

  Nonny put her hand on the bed so her arm was around me, and took Cecilia’s fingers in her other hand.

  “I want,” she said, “for my daughter to have someone brave to look up to. Braver than I could ever be. Someone so selfless they don’t even realize it. Money has nothing to do with what I care about, as long as my daughter grows up to be like you.”

  That’s when something inside me multiplied, expansive and warm, a quiet supernova. I held Cecilia tight to me, and leaned in to Nonny. The three of us sat that way for a long moment in Silent Closeness.

  I’d been wrong before. Defending the eagerly defenseless didn’t mean that nobody got hurt, or that you didn’t get hurt. Because hurt was just there, part of the grass and the trees and the clouds and the burning stars. What defending meant was taking in the wounded when the hurt did happen, never budging, never wavering no matter what. Being a constant, bright North Star in a twisting, swirling sky. The scars and bruises given or taken were just part of the star chart.

  And nobody was luckier—nobody had brighter, warmer, more glowing North Stars of their very own—than me.

  “I’m going to miss you,” I said.

  “Desperately ditto,” Nonny said. “We’ll video chat all the time.”

  Cecilia’s wails started again and I bounced her up and down. I put a soft kiss on the top of her head. “Can I … can I help right now?”

  Nonny’s shoulders slumped, tired. “Yes, please,” she said. “Thank you, thank you.”

  “Okay, one second.”

  I laid baby Cecilia on the bed and as her wails ramped up, dashed out to the front room and grabbed a book. When I came back, Nonny was lying next to the baby, stroking her head like she was trying to smooth Cecilia with calm.

  I lay down next to them and blew raspberries on Cecilia’s belly, which distracted her enough that her wailing volumed down to occasional meeps. Then I held the book over Cecilia’s face. She liked the bright cover.

  I opened to the first page.

  “‘This little piggy went to market,’” I read.

  I took Cecilia’s tiny fingers in mine. “Hmm,” I said, “yours actually aren’t very piglike yet, are they? Especially for a baby. Your piggies are still small. They’re actually called phalanges. And the
part right here below your knuckles are your metacarpals.”

  When I looked at her face, she was staring at me. Those big, brown, gold-flecked eyes were wide. The doctors had said she was doing well, but it was those gold flecks that really told me she was going to be okay. Girls with gold in their eyes were here to do important things.

  She wrapped her hand around my finger. I read a few more pages of our book. Then baby Cecilia yawned, and then I yawned. Nonny’s eyes were already closed, and she was breathing deep. When I finished the book baby Cecilia’s eyes were closed, too. I watched her stomach rise slowly, and fall. Rise and fall. I laid my head next to hers and closed my eyes.

  What You Do with History

  Even though it wasn’t my birthday or anything, on the day of my Cecilia Payne presentation, Mom made me chocolate Malt-O-Meal for breakfast. Dad put a doodle in my lunch bag, a sketch of me and Cecilia Payne swinging from the two long arms of a star.

  I knew my PowerPoint rocked. I had worked and worked on it until it was worthy of its subject. I was ready.

  “She was born in 1900 on May tenth,” I told my class. I showed them pictures of Cecilia with her flapper curls and dresses. She was smart and stylish. Dustin didn’t even have anything to make fun of.

  “She studied astronomy. She was the first female department chair at Harvard. She figured out that stars are made up mostly of hydrogen. So essentially, yes, Pumbaa in The Lion King was right, stars are big balls of gas.”

  I heard giggles, which made me happy.

  I told them about how Cecilia studied the structure of the Milky Way. I told them about how she was the first person to earn a doctorate degree from Radcliffe College.

  “A while ago I actually tried to get her into our textbook,” I said. “I know that wasn’t part of the assignment, but I mean, she discovered so much about stars so I thought she should be in it. It didn’t go so well, though.”