Shine!

by J. J. Grabenstein

  But then, the toilet would probably get clogged. And water would pour all over the floor. And that poor janitor’s next panic attack would be on me.

  I also remember what I’ve written in my journal for Mr. Van Deusen.

  Do I really want to become Ainsley?

  I make up my mind.

  I know what I have to do.

  I grab the cards.

  I take them to Ainsley out in the hall.

  “Here,” I say. “You forgot your notes.”

  Ainsley eyes me suspiciously.

  “Did you rearrange them? Shuffle them up?”

  “I didn’t do anything,” I tell her. “I’m just taking your suggestion. I’m quitting while I’m behind.”

  * * *

  —

  Over the weekend, Dad can see I’m feeling sort of down.

  I think that’s why he made pancakes for breakfast. The kind with chocolate chip smiley faces. They’re usually my fave, but I’m not really hungry. So I just cut them into wedges and push them around the plate, like syrup sponges.

  “Hey, I have a great idea,” he says, trying to cheer me up. “After breakfast, let’s go to the animal shelter. You can get started on your Seniors for Seniors project. You want to do that today?”

  I shrug. “Not really.”

  “Well, the paper says there’s a new show at the planetarium! Nellie DuMont Frissé is the narrator.”

  I nod.

  “Piper? You love the planetarium. You love Dr. Frissé. What could be better than this?”

  “Not today, Dad. Maybe some other time.”

  “Sure, kiddo. Another time would be great.”

  I’m glad I spoke up for myself. I just wish I had something better to speak up about.

  I walk Mister Pugsly. Twice on Saturday. Twice on Sunday.

  He stares at me with his big, buggy eyes.

  I think he feels sorry for me, too.

  I call Hannah. But she’s not home. Her mother tells me she went to the mall with her “new friend” Kaitlyn. I don’t leave a message.

  At night, it’s so cloudy, there are no stars in the sky, only fog. I think even Ursa Major has taken the weekend off.

  * * *

  —

  Monday morning, Dad and I drive back to Chumley Prep.

  This is, of course, the first day of the final week before the winner of the Excelsior Award is announced. The talent show is scheduled for Thursday night, the award presentation for Friday morning. We assume the judges will huddle after the big show (the one I won’t be in) and make their final decisions.

  “There’s always next year, hon,” says Dad, because that’s the Dad-ish thing to say when your daughter, more or less, sulks through an entire weekend.

  “So how does Brooke sound on your song?” I ask. She and Dad rehearsed together three times over the weekend.

  “Amazing. The girl has ‘it,’ you know what I mean?”

  Yep. I do.

  “So I guess there never really was any way I could’ve beaten her, huh?” I say.

  Dad doesn’t answer. Instead, he does what dads do. He changes the subject.

  “Hey—I have an idea. Why don’t you help me help Brooke?”

  “How?”

  “Become my assistant again. You know—like when you helped me at the a cappella contest.”

  “Sure,” I say. “Why not? I’ve got nothing better to do this week.”

  “Atta girl!”

  * * *

  —

  I find out from Siraj and Emily that their rehearsals with Tim are going “great.”

  “Tim saws me in half while Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony triumphantly blares on a boom box,” says Emily.

  “We think the judges will be impressed,” adds Siraj.

  “We also think you and Tim should kiss and make up,” says Emily. “Well, not the kissing part. That’s just a figure of speech….”

  “We’re the Hibbleflitts, Piper,” adds Siraj. “We need to stick together.”

  I know they’re right.

  But I’m still feeling sorry for myself.

  After classes, I head over to the PAC.

  I’m right back where I started. I’m Dad’s gofer. Going for this, going for that, going for whatever Brooke needs to sing and sound her best.

  “Mr. Milly?” Brooke says, sort of sheepishly. “Yesterday my father told me he doesn’t want me singing a show tune.”

  “But it shows off your voice beautifully.”

  “I know. It’s why I picked your song in the first place. But my father thinks I should sing ‘O Mio Babbino Caro.’ He says it’s much more important.”

  Dad nods. “It is.”

  “Is that the caliber of song they might sing at Juilliard or the Academy of Vocal Arts in Philadelphia?”

  “Probably. But you’re only in middle school, Brooke.”

  “My father says it’s never too early to plan for the future.”

  “Of course. I understand.”

  Dad leaves the room to go find the “O Mio Babbino Caro” sheet music in his office.

  Brooke coughs a little.

  “You need water,” I say.

  “Thanks,” says Brooke when I hand her a bottle of room-temperature water. “Your dad is pretty awesome.”

  “Yeah,” I say. “He truly is.”

  I’m guessing Brooke’s father never makes her smiley-face pancakes to try to cheer her up.

  Dad comes back in with the music.

  “I’m sorry about this, Mr. Milly,” says Brooke. “I’d rather do your song, but my father…”

  “That’s all right,” says Dad. “We’ll save my piece for when we do the show.”

  Poor Dad.

  I wish I could say or do something to make him feel better. Because I think Brooke’s father is making Dad feel like me.

  And right now that’s not much fun.

  That night over dinner, which we have at a fast-food place because Brooke kept us rehearsing “O Mio Babbino Caro” forever, I tell Dad how Tim, Siraj, and Emily are all working together in the talent show.

  “Good for them,” he says. “Do they know that Dr. Throckmorton wrote up some new rules?”

  “Which you read very, very carefully?”

  “You bet I did.”

  “So what are they?”

  “Every student can only appear in one act. Dr. Throckmorton doesn’t want anybody trying to impress the Excelsior judges by appearing onstage two or three different times.”

  “I don’t think any of my friends are all that interested in the Excelsior Award anymore,” I say. “They just want to help Tim.”

  We finish our food and head for home.

  The skies have cleared. I can see the stars.

  Ursa Major is up there, right where she’s supposed to be—protecting her daughter.

  Or maybe she’s nudging her. In fact, if you look at the arrangement of the two constellations a little differently, it’s almost like Mama Bear sent Baby Bear spinning with a good swift head butt.

  All of a sudden, I’m saying something out loud that doesn’t sound like me saying it:

  “I really wish I could do something in the talent show.”

  “You can, honey,” says Dad. “It’s not too late.”

  “But I’d never win.”

  “You might. Hey, you might even win the Excelsior Award.”

  “That’s a bad hypothesis, Dad.”

  “I don’t know, kiddo. Some of the teachers have been grumbling about Dr. Throckmorton’s decision to disqualify your science fair victory.”

  “You really think I have a chance?”

  “It’s a possibility, Piper. What’s that famous quote Nellie DuMont Frissé always says?”

&n
bsp; “ ‘Shoot for the moon. Even if you miss, you’ll land among the stars.’ ”

  “Exactly!”

  “But what can I do for the talent show?”

  “You’re smart. Forget about what everybody else does so well. Singing. Dancing. Playing the ukulele. Do what you’re good at! Do something you love.”

  * * *

  —

  Nellie DuMont Frissé always says the darkest nights produce the brightest stars.

  Boy, is this night dark.

  I rack my brain till way past midnight and I still can’t think of any talent I could possibly perform on a stage alongside superstars like Brooke or Ainsley or Kwame or even the Great Timdini.

  I make a quick entry to my project for Mr. Van Deusen:

  WHO DO I WANT TO BE?

  Someone who doesn’t give up.

  * * *

  —

  The next morning, Dad is on the computer in the kitchen.

  “I got us tickets,” he says. “Next month.”

  “Great. Um, where are we going?”

  “To see ‘Journey into the Unknown.’ The new show at the planetarium I told you about.”

  “Oh. Cool.”

  He starts reading the blurb. “ ‘It’s an incredible voyage to the far reaches of our known universe, exploring…’ ”

  Yes, Dad’s talking and I’m distracted again. Because, all of a sudden, I realize: I do have a talent.

  One that I know nobody else will be bringing to the stage on Thursday night because it’s not usually considered, you know, a talent in the traditional sense.

  Astronomy!

  I just have to find some way to make it as entertaining as a cello solo, an operatic aria, or a magic trick. I have to make it as spectacular as a Nellie DuMont Frissé show at the planetarium!

  I can’t just spend my time gazing up at the stars.

  I need to become one.

  “I think it’s fantastic,” says Ms. Oliverio when I tell her my idea for the talent show. “Go for it, Piper! Shine on, stargazer! Shine on!”

  I decide to not give up on Tim, either. We sit together at lunch for the first time since I sent him that angry-face emoji.

  “I’m sorry I blamed you for the whole science fair thing,” I tell Tim, who’s looking down at the dining hall floor. “I guess I was just mad, and you made an easy target.”

  “I’m very sorry it turned out the way it did,” he replies without looking up. “I was trying to help.”

  “You did help,” I tell him. “You gave my science project pizzazz. It needed pizzazz.”

  Finally he looks me in the eye. I see that small smile creep across his face again, and it makes me smile, too.

  “Pizzazz,” says Kwame. “Sounds like what would happen if pizza and jazz got married….”

  “Ainsley robbed you, Piper,” says Siraj.

  “Well, don’t worry,” says Emily. “On Thursday night, revenge will be ours. Timothy Bartlett shall transform into the Great Timdini! His magic act will crush Ainsley’s cello piece.”

  “Actually,” says Tim, “Ainsley’s very good. I’ve heard her rehearsing in the PAC.”

  “But you will amaze and astound your audience,” says Emily. “You will be fantabulous!”

  “You just made up that word, right?” cracks Kwame.

  “Maybe,” Emily admits.

  A laugh goes around the table. It feels good to be with friends again.

  “I suspect,” says Siraj, “that the talent show will come down to three or four top contenders.”

  “Me, of course,” says Kwame.

  “Yes, I would put you in the top tier.”

  “Appreciate that, Siraj.”

  “Then Brooke, and that sixth grader with the guitar I heard rehearsing in the stairwell, and, of course, the Great Timdini.”

  Everybody nods. No one wants to admit that Ainsley has an excellent chance at winning…everything!

  “Guess what?” I say. “I’m thinking about doing something scientific for the talent show.”

  “Like what?” asks Kwame. “Juggling to show how atomic particles and molecules work?”

  “No. Something about the stars. Maybe something like Nellie DuMont Frissé does. I’m going to buy a star projector and talk about the constellations.”

  * * *

  —

  After school, when Dad finishes working with Brooke, he drives me to the electronics store, where I spend all of my dog-walking money to buy a pretty expensive (and superimpressive) Homestar Planetarium Projector.

  That night I duct-tape black trash bags over the garage windows so no light can leak in. I beam a field of stars against a dark blue sheet I hang off Dad’s tool pegboard. It’s pretty cool. Sort of like stargazing outdoors—minus the mosquitoes.

  I choose the projector disc that shows Ursa Major, of course.

  Inside that constellation is another one—the Big Dipper. You can use the Big Dipper to find Polaris, the North Star, which, by the way, is the tail end of the handle of the Little Dipper. The two stars forming the outer edge of the bowl of the Big Dipper are named Merak and Dubhe and are known as the pointers, because if you draw an imaginary line between them, it’ll point you north to Polaris.

  That’s right, Big Mama Bear is always showing the whole world how to, no pun intended, find its bearings.

  It hits me.

  This is what my act should be about!

  Finding the North Star, which is how everybody from the Egyptians to the Vikings to the Polynesians was able to chart their courses across unknown seas.

  Even Shakespeare (thank you, Mr. Van Deusen) wrote about how constant the North Star is in his play Julius Caesar.

  Shakespeare!

  If I quote him, my star projector act will be as classy as a cello solo!

  During school on Wednesday, I scope out how the auditorium will be set up for Thursday evening’s talent show.

  There’s a big black curtain hanging across the back of the stage. It’s perfect for projecting a few billion stars.

  Next, I write my script.

  I find some dramatic music, including the song “We Know the Way” from Disney’s Moana. The lyrics are perfect:

  At night, we name every star

  We know where we are

  We know who we are

  Knowing who you are? That’s probably even more important than knowing where you are.

  Because if you know who you are before you set off on a journey, you’ll probably have a better idea about where you want to go. (I wonder if Mr. Van Deusen has ever seen Moana.)

  After school, Dad does one last “dress rehearsal” with Brooke. Her “O Mio Babbino Caro” sounds amazing, but I’m sort of bored with it. I’ve only heard her sing it a bajillion times.

  We head for home. After we both gobble down a quick microwaved dinner, I invite Dad into the garage to see my show. He will be my first audience.

  He sets up a folding aluminum chair in front of the garage doors and applauds as I take the stage on the oil-stained concrete floor.

  “Welcome, stargazers,” I say, feeling giddy but not the least bit nervous, because talking about stars is my happy place. “Tonight we will go on a journey—without a map or a GPS. Tonight we will travel using only the stars to guide us!”

  I flick on the projector and flood the dark blue sheet with a spectacular swirled sea of stars. Dad oohs. It’s hard not to when you see that many stars.

  “Finding our way under the night sky is a galaxy-sized version of a connect-the-dots game!”

  I turn up the volume on my soundtrack. I’ve edited together some very dramatic stuff, most of it from movies.

  I tell a quick tale about Viking and Egyptian explorers traveling across the oceans. When my music shifts to the Moana s
ong, I talk about how the Polynesians followed maps in the stars.

  “They looked at the sky differently than most people and used celestial navigation to become the world’s greatest explorers. They were wayfinders, working with a thousand points of light in the sky to find their way to the islands dotting the Pacific!”

  And then I go into the interactive portion of my program.

  “But how do we use the stars when we wish to journey safely into the vast unknown? It’s simple, really. We just need to find one star. Polaris. The North Star. The one that’s always constant and true. If we know where north is, then we know where south, east, and west are, too. Luckily, Polaris is always in the same spot in the sky. It is a constant, twinkling light above the North Pole.”

  Then I walk my audience through how they can find the North Star by first finding the Big Dipper inside Ursa Major and following the imaginary line between the two stars in the cup to reach Polaris at the tip of the ladle on the Little Dipper.

  “Amazing!” says Dad.

  Time for my big wrap-up.

  “Yes, the stars can guide us. They can lead us. But it is up to each and every one of us to choose whether or not we will boldly go where others have feared to venture. It is up to us to decide who we will be in this grand journey called life. For, as Shakespeare once wrote, ‘It is not in the stars to hold our destiny but in ourselves.’ Thank you.”

  Dad leaps out of his lawn chair to give me a standing ovation.

  “Bravo! Incredible!”

  Wow!

  Shooting for the moon is fun!

  Thursday night.

  Everybody is scurrying around backstage. The talent show starts in thirty minutes. There are so many nervous-energy particles buzzing through the air, we might create our own aurora borealis.

  I’m wearing a black dress decorated with hot-glued glitter stars that I cut out of some old Christmas wrapping paper I found in my closet.

  I hear Mrs. Braden-Hammerschmidt as Ainsley clicks open the locks on her cello case: “Crush it, Ainsley!”