Shine!

  The motion carries unanimously.

  We divvy up the tasks and head to our homerooms. I’m not even thinking about Ainsley or the Excelsior Award, because I’m having too much fun thinking about all those rescue dogs making dozens of Mrs. Gilberts happy.

  But then I go visit Dad during my independent study time.

  He tells me about his meeting with Dr. Throckmorton.

  “It was for all the music and performing arts teachers. There have been so many complaints from parents—including, of course, the Braden-Hammerschmidts and Mr. Breckenridge—that they’ve decided to do the spring talent show early this year. On March fourteenth.”

  “That’s next week,” I say. “One night before the Excelsior Award winner is announced.”

  “Exactly,” says Dad. “It seems that talent will likely play a major role in the Excelsior judges’ final deliberations.”

  Welp, I think, buh-bye, Excelsior Award.

  Even if Siraj was right, that I was “in the lead” because I won the science fair, that lead has vanished. There are clear-cut winners at talent shows—just like there were at the athletic competitions.

  “But I don’t have a talent,” I mutter.

  “Sure you do, kiddo. Your talent is making me proud.”

  I arch my eyebrows. That is such a Dad-ish thing for him to say.

  “Maybe I could learn how to juggle….”

  “Just keep doing your best, hon. That’s all any of us can do.”

  I slump off to my next class.

  Dr. Throckmorton makes the big talent show announcement over the PA system.

  “Yes!” we hear Ainsley shout from the room across the hall. “I’m going to crush it!”

  I slump to lunch with my friends.

  Kwame and Tim are both thrilled that the spring talent show has been moved up.

  “They’ve already asked me to emcee again,” says Kwame. “I need to start working up some fresh material.”

  “Can the emcee win the talent show?” asks Emily.

  “He can if he’s as funny as I am! I get a full five minutes to do a comic monologue at the top of the show.”

  “I don’t care about winning,” says Tim. “I just want my dad to see me saw a lady in half.”

  “You think he’ll be there?” I ask.

  “I really hope so,” says Tim.

  “He’s gonna love your new trick, Tim,” I say.

  “Maybe I could solve a complex equation at a rolling chalkboard,” says Emily. “That would really wow the crowd.”

  After Kwame and Siraj finish lunch and leave the table, Tim turns to Emily. “Are you really going to do math for the talent show?” he asks.

  “Um, no.”

  “Then maybe you could be the legs of the lady I saw in half.”

  “What?”

  “Don’t tell anybody, but I need two helpers to do the trick. Piper will be the one onstage with me, and—”

  “Excuse me, Piper Milly?”

  It’s Ainsley. She’s baaaaaack.

  “Dr. Throckmorton needs to see us.”

  “Us?”

  She nods and smiles. “It’s about the science fair.”

  I’m sitting in Dr. Throckmorton’s office, sinking into a padded leather chair, facing the headmaster’s hulking desk.

  Ainsley is perched on the edge of her matching chair. Smiling.

  “Miss Milly?” says Dr. Throckmorton, his hands forming a thoughtful pyramid underneath his nose.

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Question: Did you read all the rules and regulations regarding this year’s science fair exhibits?”

  “To be honest, I sort of skimmed them….”

  “We didn’t,” says Ainsley.

  We? I wonder.

  She, of course, clarifies.

  “My father’s lawyers went through those rules with a fine-tooth comb.”

  “Miss Milly,” says Dr. Throckmorton, looking extremely stern behind his owl glasses, “in the future, you would do well to familiarize yourself with all the rules and regulations governing any competition you might choose to enter. I call your attention to section twelve, ‘use of firearms and weapons in science fair projects.’ ”

  “Weapons?”

  “You had a marble shooter!” says Ainsley. “A robot with a trigger that shot glass projectiles. It was a cannon! You could’ve put somebody’s eye out with that thing.”

  “B-b-but—”

  Dr. Throckmorton shows me the palm of his hand.

  I don’t think I’m allowed to protest whatever decision he’s already made.

  “According to section twelve, and I quote: ‘To ensure the safety of the student and any people or animals in the vicinity of the project, a student with a project using firearms or other weapons must have a Research Advisor approve his/her plans prior to using the weapon.’ Did you receive this prior approval, Miss Milly?”

  “No,” I say. “But Ms. Oliverio shot a marble at my moonscape. Does that count?”

  Dr. Throckmorton shakes his head. Slowly.

  “You leave me no choice, Miss Milly,” the headmaster continues. “Since you violated the rules of the competition, we must rescind your first-place victory.”

  “That means they’re taking away your blue ribbon,” says Ainsley, pretending she’s being helpful. “You didn’t win. You lost.”

  “B-b-but…,” I sputter.

  “Do you wish to formally protest Dr. Throckmorton’s decision?” asks Ainsley in her phony helpful voice. “Maybe you should talk it over with your father first.”

  Dr. Throckmorton flips open a binder to study a color-coded chart. “I believe Mr. Milly has a free period coming up….”

  In a stomach-lurching flash, my mind races back to Christmas Eve.

  The parents of the a cappella kids more or less forced their old director, Mr. Glass, into an early retirement. A bunch of parents angry about me could probably do the same thing to Dad.

  And Dr. Throckmorton would be on the parents’ side. Especially the superrich ones. The ones who donate money to the school. The ones who build the school its auditoriums and stadiums.

  “I don’t see any reason to involve my father,” I say. “I’ll tell him what happened.”

  “Wise decision,” says Ainsley.

  “I hope this experience has taught you a very valuable lesson,” says Dr. Throckmorton.

  It sure did, I think. The next time I go up against Ainsley Braden-Hammerschmidt, I need to bring my own team of lawyers.

  “The science fair results will be officially adjusted,” Dr. Throckmorton continues. “The three recipients of honorable mention ribbons—Siraj Shah, Emily Bleiberg, and, of course, Ainsley Braden-Hammerschmidt—shall be declared the three co-winners.”

  “Maybe we should have a runoff,” suggests Ainsley. “Sudden-death overtime?”

  “No,” says Dr. Throckmorton. “I consider this matter closed.”

  Ainsley shrugs. “Fine. I’ll crush it at the talent show.”

  She doesn’t really seem to care about winning the science fair. She’s just happy that my title’s been taken away.

  And that, now, I definitely don’t stand a chance at winning the Excelsior Award.

  “I didn’t know the robot was against the rules,” I tell Dad when I finally see him after school.

  “I guess we should’ve read them as closely as Ainsley and her father’s lawyers did.”

  We’re driving home in a dreary drizzle.

  “Piper?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I’m sorry I don’t have lawyers like Mr. Braden-Hammerschmidt.”

  “That’s okay. He probably can’t play the piano.”

  “Probably not. But he could hire someone to play it for him. Heck, h
e could hire a whole orchestra….”

  An ugly thought creeps into my mind.

  This is all Tim’s fault.

  Tim’s the one who insisted that I use his marble-shooting robot. He’s the one who looked so sad when I told him I didn’t need it. He’s the one who made me break the rules I didn’t read but probably should’ve.

  This is definitely all Tim’s fault.

  “I guess I won’t win the Excelsior Award next week,” I say when we pull into our driveway.

  “Sorry, kiddo,” says Dad.

  Then we just sit there.

  “Whoever wins first place in the talent show will probably win the Excelsior Award, too,” I say.

  Dad nods. “Maybe. Are you thinking of entering it?”

  “I was going to do a magic act with Tim,” I tell Dad. “He was going to saw me in half.”

  “Tim’s the one who gave you the robot marble shooter, right?”

  “Yeah” is all I say, but I’m thinking: THIS IS ALL HIS FAULT! TIM WAS MAD AT ME??? I’M THE ONE WHO SHOULD BE MAD AT HIM!!!

  Tim made me lose the science fair and the Excelsior Award!

  If I do a stupid magic trick with him at the talent show, it will just remind everybody about why I was disqualified and why I had my blue ribbon ripped away.

  “By the way,” says Dad, “I’m helping Brooke prep for the show.”

  “That’s great,” I say.

  “She’s the only student who asked. She wants to do one of the tunes I’ve been tinkering with for my musical. You know, ‘Maybe Tomorrow.’ It really shows off her vocal range….”

  I’m only half listening to Dad.

  Because I realize that Hannah was right all along. Ainsley Braden-Hammerschmidt and Brooke Breckenridge are from a different galaxy than the one mere mortals like me inhabit. Those girls are superbrilliant stars you could see blazing from a billion light-years away.

  Me?

  I really don’t have a talent to show the world.

  I’m like that theoretical brown dwarf star or gas giant planet lurking at the far edges of our solar system, way beyond Pluto.

  Nobody can see it.

  Some doubt that it’s even there.

  That night, I text Tim to let him know that I won’t be assisting him onstage at the talent show.

  You’ll have to find somebody else to saw in half.

  Then I give him the angry-face emoji and type in screaming all caps:

  YOU MADE ME LOSE THE SCIENCE FAIR AND THE EXCELSIOR AWARD!!!!

  “Sorry,” Tim texts back. “I didn’t mean to do either of those things.”

  Later, Hannah comes over.

  “Since when did you start reading Shakespeare?” she asks, after poking through the books on my desk.

  “Oh, there’s this teacher at Chumley Prep…”

  She nods. “Like in that movie. Prep school teachers love dead poets. It’s a thing.”

  “I guess. Anyway, there’s this competition for something called the Excelsior Award.”

  “They’re giving away Alka-Seltzer?”

  “No, Hannah. It’s for the student who excels the most during the winter term. I never really thought I had a shot. But then I won the science fair and people started telling me that I could win the big award, too. I started believing them.”

  “Seriously?” says Hannah. “But those rich kids excel at everything. And the ones who don’t? They can pay people to excel for them!”

  * * *

  —

  The car ride to school the next morning is extremely quiet. Neither Dad nor I say a word. He’s not even humming any show tunes.

  I figure he’s quiet because he’s feeling sorry for me. I’m quiet because I know I’ve let everybody down. Siraj and the others were really counting on me to win one for the Hibbleflitts team.

  I avoid Tim all day.

  I’m still angry at him and his dumb robot.

  I do congratulate Siraj and Emily on their new status as science fair co-winners.

  “It is a Pyrrhic victory at best,” says Siraj.

  He reads the Huh? on my face.

  “It is a hollow victory,” he explains. “Achieved at too great a cost on spurious grounds.”

  My face is huhing again, so Emily jumps in.

  “Ainsley’s complaints were not genuine or true. That toy marble shooter wasn’t a weapon. You should appeal Dr. Throckmorton’s decision.”

  “And who would she appeal to?” asks Siraj. “Dr. Throckmorton is the headmaster. That means he is the head. There is no higher authority. His word is law.”

  I learn that Siraj has agreed to help Tim do his sawing-a-lady-in-half trick.

  “I’m going to be the feet,” he tells me. “I just have to wear the exact same socks and shoes as Emily. She’s going to do your part.”

  I just nod.

  * * *

  —

  After school on Friday, everyone is scurrying off to different rooms and rehearsal spaces to work on their acts for the talent show.

  I’m hurrying along, too—mostly because I just want to go home and curl up in a ball on my bed.

  As I’m heading up the halls, I come across a woman who’s rummaging around in a big rubber garbage barrel. She’s also sobbing.

  And, of course, I have to stop and see what’s wrong.

  “This is the worst day of my life!” she says.

  All I can think is Join the club.

  “I’m Ms. Rhodes,” the lady tells me through sobs and sniffles. “I’m a substitute.”

  Kids keep streaming past us.

  “I lost my grandmother’s antique bracelet in the trash! The clasp broke, and the whole thing slipped off!”

  “You sure it didn’t just fall on the floor?” I ask.

  “No. I heard it plunk against rubber. It’s in the trash but I can’t find it!”

  I check out the garbage in the barrel. I see several greasy black banana peels. And brown apple cores. And lots of those plastic coffee drink domes smeared with whipped cream and smudges of caramel sauce glop.

  I sigh, take off my blazer, roll up my sleeves, and go to work.

  I dig deep but I can’t find the bracelet. I have no choice. I have to, more or less, crawl into the barrel, headfirst.

  I shove aside a layer of crumpled coffee cups and a napkin filled with the crumbs of a half-eaten blueberry muffin. I dig through those blackened banana peels. I try not to breathe.

  Finally I see the bracelet. It’s coated with mashed mush but it’s okay!

  “Got it!”

  I give it to Ms. Rhodes.

  “Thank you!” she gushes.

  “You’re welcome.”

  Hugging the bracelet tight, Ms. Rhodes hurries off, probably to find a jewelry shop that does bracelet repair and cleaning.

  “Miss Milly?”

  It’s Mrs. Zamick.

  “Why aren’t you wearing your blazer?”

  “Well, I—”

  “And why is your blouse untucked?”

  I start slipping the tails of my white shirt back under my skirt. Climbing into that trash barrel made me look like a mess.

  “Do you think the dress code applies to everyone except you?”

  “I was just trying to help a substitute teacher who—”

  Mrs. Zamick shakes her head. “Just like your mother. You’re so special.”

  “No, really, I was just—”

  “You’re lucky school is officially over for the day; otherwise I would write you up for violating the Chumley dress code.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Go to the girls’ room, Miss Milly. Pull yourself together. And while you’re in there, please wash up. You smell like a trash bin.”

 
; I go into the bathroom.

  Ainsley’s at the mirrors, touching up her makeup—packing her arsenal of cosmetics into a designer tote bag.

  “Oh, are you here to clean another toilet? Or do you plan on going dumpster diving again? I saw you with your head buried in the trash barrel. I totally Instagrammed your butt.”

  At that moment, I’m kind of glad I don’t really do social media.

  “Today will be a sweet, sweet victory for me,” Ainsley continues. “In ten minutes, I’ll be winning the Forensics Club competition, where, hello, I am totally going to crush it. Next Thursday is the talent show, where, of course, I will emerge victorious. And then next Friday will be even sweeter. That’s when Dr. Throckmorton and the Chumley family will be handing me the first-ever Excelsior Award.”

  “Congratulations,” I say, trying hard not to sound as defeated as I feel.

  “Congratulations to you, too, Piper. It sounds like you’ve finally accepted your fate. It’s always wise to quit while you’re behind.”

  She laughs and exits the bathroom.

  Leaving a stack of pink notecards on the sink.

  They’re sitting right there.

  I can’t resist.

  I pick them up.

  It’s her entire speech.

  For the Forensics Club competition.

  Without her pink cards, Ainsley Braden-Hammerschmidt won’t know what to say. She had to use notecards to tell the judges about her science project. They’re like her crutch.

  I read what she’s written.

  Seems she’s picked an excellent topic, especially since Mrs. Zamick is the main judge for the forensics competition. Ainsley’s planning on persuasively arguing that “For her hard work and dedication, Mrs. Patricia Zamick should be named teacher of the year at Chumley Prep.”

  But if Ainsley doesn’t have her cards, she’ll freeze. I know she will.

  Is this my lucky day?

  These cards could help me sabotage Ainsley the way Ainsley sabotaged me after the science fair.

  I am so tempted to tear up her precious notes and flush them down the toilet.