What Stars Are Made Of

by Sarah Allen

  “Um … oh, we had an assembly about internet safety.”

  “So your brain is already different today than it was yesterday, right?”

  “Yeah, I guess so.”

  “But you’re still you, right?”

  I couldn’t help but smile. “Hey, no fair! Okay, you got me.”

  “There you go,” Nonny said, and picked up her mug again.

  I knew Nonny would understand. And I knew, without a doubt, that I would do whatever it took to give her this beautiful universe, this perfect baby. Sometimes, though, there were these what-ifs that shot across my mind like comets, flaring in and out. There were the normal what-ifs, like, What if something went wrong? But there were other what-ifs, too. Like, What if I was the perfect, best, most understanding aunt in the world for a niece who had Turner syndrome, too?

  “Nonny?” I said.

  She took a careful sip. “Hmm?”

  “What if … what if the baby has a disorder?”

  Nonny choked a little on her tea, but with someone as elegant as her, it was more a dainty cough.

  “Have you been worrying about that?”

  I pulled at loose threads in the hem of my shirt. Why was it so hard to think of the right thing to say at the times when saying the right thing was the most important? I could talk and talk for a long time about exciting things, but explaining what I really meant was different. “I mean … I wonder…”

  Nonny put her mug on the table and put her hand on my knee. I glimpsed one of those particular furrows between her brow and it made her look like Mom.

  I knew Nonny would love her baby more than life itself no matter what, because that was Nonny. And I knew that technically this baby wasn’t any more likely to have Turner syndrome just because I had it. But things could still go wrong. Things could still be hard. I didn’t want something making things harder for baby Cecilia or Nonny. I wanted things to be perfect.

  “This baby is this baby,” Nonny said. “Whoever she is. And I’m her mother. That’s all there is to it.”

  “And I’m her aunt,” I said.

  Nonny smiled and the Mom-furrow relaxed. “Yes. Yes, you are.” Then she made another sick face for a split second, and I remembered.

  “Oh wait,” I said. “I’m supposed to be making you feel better this time.”

  I ran to Nonny’s bed and carried out her big quilt that smelled like her—like her lavender shampoo—and laid it across her lap.

  “I have an idea,” she said. “I was too tired to read to Cecilia today, but how about you read to us?”

  I bounced once on the couch. “Oh, I can read you the book we’re reading for school!”

  “Which one’s that?”

  “Charlotte’s Web.”

  “Well, you are some girl,” Nonny said.

  So I ran to my room and got my book from my backpack and came back to my seat by Nonny.

  When I finished reading the chapter Nonny’s eyes were closed and her chest was rising and falling slowly. In sleep she looked less pained. Whatever it took, I would make sure she stayed that way. Her and baby Cecilia. Safe and happy and perfect. I stuck my feet under her quilt, laid my head on the other side of the couch, and closed my eyes, too.

  Master Plan

  Here is what else I did in the three days between my appointment with Dr. Prasad and the day Mr. Trent Hickman came to Boulder.

  I had Ms. Trepky read over my Cecilia Payne Letter of Awesome one last time. I had the first two sections written and ready to go. Now I just needed to complete the project part and write that part of the letter. Then I’d be set for the grand prize.

  I went over my master plan. Some things were easy, like what I wanted to say to Mr. Trent Hickman and studying the map of campus and the building where he would be. I was still scared, but I knew what to do. I had my supplies ready. Some other things weren’t so easy. Campus was only about a fifteen- or twenty-minute bike ride away, which I could manage okay if I was careful and had a big coat, but Mr. Trent Hickman was coming on a Friday—a school day—and right smack dab in the middle of school. I didn’t know how to work my way around that one.

  I felt baby Cecilia kick four more times.

  I helped my mom make a wedding cake for a client. By helped I mostly mean watched. Mom had all sorts of tricks for doing these fancy designs using only her right hand. It was like watching a painter.

  I passed one note with Talia in class. I thought about what to say a lot before I wrote it down. I wrote: How is your poem coming? She wrote back: Killing it. It’s going to be bomb. I gave her a thumbs-up, and she gave me a thumbs-up back.

  Mom and I didn’t talk much about NLD. I wasn’t surprised. I kind of thought Mom didn’t want to talk about it. Not because she was scared or uncomfortable or anything, but I think she was worried that if she told me too much, it would feel like reading my horoscope. Like she would be telling me all the things I couldn’t do.

  For the same reason, I didn’t look up NLD on the internet, either. At least not yet. I wanted to talk to Mr. Trent Hickman first. In case the internet told me that talking to people like him was something I shouldn’t be able to do.

  Finally, the last thing to work out was my travel plan. I still wanted the contest and the money and everything to be a surprise, but I was going to have to tell my mom something. I thought through a thousand different options, but the only way to do it without Mom’s help was lying or sneaking out, and there was no way that was going to happen.

  So on the night before The Day, I asked my mom about it.

  Mom was smoothing my moon-and-stars quilt across my legs like she did every night.

  “Mom?” I said.

  “Yeah?”

  “I have to ask you something weird, okay? But I’m serious about it. And … and it’s sort of a secret. Like, a surprise. Part of it is, anyway.”

  “Do I need to be worried about something?”

  “No, no,” I said. “Nothing like that. It’s about that sort-of-secret project I’ve been working on in Ms. Trepky’s class. Now I … I really, really, really, really need to ride my bike to the university tomorrow. Like, in the morning. I know it’s a school day, but it’s really important. And I don’t have any tests tomorrow or anything and I already know what the homework will be for the weekend and—”

  “Why do you need to go to the university? Getting your doctorate already?”

  “I’m serious,” I said.

  “I know.”

  “I don’t want to spoil the surprise too much, but this editor guy is coming to campus tomorrow and for the project it would be super, super awesome if I could talk to him.”

  Mom put her hand where my knees stuck up under the quilt. “Sweetheart, I get that this is important to you, but campus is a long way away by bike. And I don’t like the idea of you walking around a college campus all by yourself.”

  “I already have it planned,” I said. “I have a map, I’ll have my phone, and I won’t talk to anybody except to give this editor guy the thing I have for him, and—”

  “Sweetheart, it’s—”

  “Mom, please. It’s—it’s the most important thing I’ve ever done. I have to do this.”

  Mom patted my knees and sighed. She kept patting and sighing and I didn’t say anything because I didn’t want to jinx it if she was thinking herself to a yes.

  “Okay,” Mom said finally. “How about this. You are already doing really well in school so I’m okay if you take the day off tomorrow. But I will drive you to campus. Hold on, just listen. I know it’s a secret, but I will drive you to campus in the morning and then I’ll walk you to whatever building you need to go to, and I’ll stay nearby. And you have to call or text me every half hour. Is that a deal?”

  I bounced up out of the quilt and wrapped my arms around her shoulders. “Deal!” I said.

  It was going to happen. I was going to talk to Mr. Trent Hickman whether he liked it or not.

  “Libby, I want you to understand that I’m le
tting you do this because you have earned my trust, okay?”

  I wrapped my arms around her shoulders again so hard she made a sound like a deflating basketball and then laughed. “You’re the best mom in the whole world!” I said.

  This was actually happening. Like for real.

  Like tomorrow.

  Tomorrow.

  I felt the Scared Me raring up for the biggest, wailingest scream of her life.

  Like Ms. Trepky said, Scared Me could fuss as much as she liked. I was doing it anyway.

  The Day

  I woke up forty-five minutes before my alarm went off and couldn’t go back to sleep. I lay in bed for a while, but soon enough I couldn’t do that, either.

  It was barely six thirty in the morning, but I got up and got dressed and packed my backpack. By then it was six forty-five.

  The schedule was all worked out. Mom and I would leave at eight thirty. That meant I could get to the steps of the Norlin Library, where Mr. Trent Hickman was going to speak, by nine. His lecture wasn’t scheduled until ten, and maybe an hour was overdoing it, but I planned to catch him on the steps of the library and talk to him about Cecilia before he even got inside. I thought that maybe if he was sort of rushed or had something else on his mind, he would be more easy to convince—that he’d listen to me, and take my letters that I’d printed out nice and neat and carefully placed in a manila envelope.

  At seven I heard someone moving around in the kitchen and smelled toast.

  Mom and Nonny stood at the coffeemaker, watching the brown drizzle with tired eyes. Nonny’s belly was at full basketball status now, and had been for a while. February 17 was coming fast, and even getting up and down from the couch was hard for her.

  They both looked at me, and Mom laughed. “I see you’re dressed and ready to go. And barely an hour and a half to spare!”

  I was wearing my favorite purple sweater and my yellow beanie. My black boots were by the front door.

  It was one of the longest hour and a halfs of my life.

  Finally, Mom and I were getting in the car. Nonny sat on the couch, glancing at us through the front window. She was looking at a Pinterest board of picture books. I watched her as we drove away. She looked so … I couldn’t think of the right word. None of my best Hard Reading Words seemed to fit what I was thinking. Young wasn’t quite right, and weak definitely wasn’t. Vulnerable or open, maybe. Eagerly defenseless.

  Eagerly defenseless.

  Was that what she saw when she looked at me? Was that a good thing or a bad thing? Maybe that was why everyone around me wanted to help, wanted to make sure I wasn’t hurt. What I did know for sure was that being a defender of the eagerly defenseless was the most important job I’d ever have.

  Defend against a hurt family, a damaged or a split-apart family.

  Right, Cecilia? I thought. That’s the deal.

  And then we were off.

  UC Boulder is known for its pretty pine trees and mountains, but I couldn’t pay much attention to that as we drove. Mom knew where I needed to go, and I spent most of the drive looking down at my backpack in my lap.

  When we got to campus and Mom and I walked to the library, I watched my black boots step and step and step, and reminded myself over and over to ignore the Scared Screaming Me. Brave Me was in charge today.

  Maybe because I hadn’t been paying much attention to what was happening outside of my head, it kind of surprised me when we reached the library. I looked up and counted the square, peachy-colored columns across the front. I would stand by that one right there, at the top of the stairs.

  Mom put a hand on my shoulder, and I blinked.

  “Honey, see that coffee shop? I’ll be right in there, okay?”

  I nodded.

  “Remember you need to text me every half hour.”

  I nodded.

  “Are you going to be all right?”

  I nodded.

  “You sure?”

  I blinked again. “Yes. I’m sure.”

  “Okay. I’ll be right over there.”

  And that’s how I ended up standing on the steps of the Norlin Library on the University of Colorado-Boulder campus, with a big poster of Cecilia Payne’s face that I’d glued right in the middle and the words MR. TRENT HICKMAN, THIS IS CECILIA. I’d tried to carry it facing away from Mom while we walked, and she was nice enough not to ask questions about it. This surprise was going to make her happy, too.

  I had also tried to draw a telescope in one corner, but I’m not super great at drawing so it didn’t turn out very well, and I could have gotten my dad to help me with it but I wanted to surprise him, too, and everybody. Besides, it didn’t matter too much, because I knew Trent Hickman could read the words.

  Time felt like putty, stretching, then scrunching, then stretching again. People—college people—kept looking at me, but I barely noticed. And with strangers, I’m not so great at knowing what their facial expressions mean anyway, so I pretended they were all very nice. They probably were.

  I started worrying about campus security. What if I was breaking a rule I didn’t know about? What if someone reported me? What if a policeman came up and asked me what I was doing, or where my parents were?

  And then someone did walk toward me.

  Someone carrying a briefcase and wearing a brown suit, someone who had light hair the color of the peachy marble columns.

  Someone whose picture I’d seen on the Knight-Rowell Publishing website a hundred times.

  Here we go, Cecilia. Are you ready?

  He was looking down at me, at my sign, one eyebrow raised. His lips opened to say something, but I spoke first.

  “Mr. Trent Hickman?”

  “Yes?” His voice was smooth and crisp, no gravel in it at all. “Are you—”

  “I’m Libby Monroe. I’ve called your office a few times. I have to talk to you about something important.”

  “I need to—”

  “This will be very fast,” I said. “We use your textbook, Survey of Modern America, in my seventh-grade history class. It’s a very good textbook, but I believe that there is something important missing. Someone important.” The more I talked, the quieter Scared Me’s screams became. I was ready. I knew what I needed to say. I was going to win.

  “Look, I really need to—”

  “Her name is Cecilia Payne. She was a professor at Harvard. She discovered what stars are made of. And more people need to know about her. More girls in school. So they can be astronomers, too.”

  “I have to get—”

  “I’m writing a letter for a contest at the Smithsonian, about overlooked Women in STEM, and for part of it I need to do a project to teach people about Cecilia Payne, and I think the very best project would be to have her added into the textbook.”

  Mr. Hickman sighed. “That’s great.”

  “Yes, it is. So will you please include her in the next edition? And then I can write about it for the Smithsonian contest. It’s really important. She … she needs it.”

  Mr. Hickman looked back and forth between me and the front door. Then he shrugged. “Duly noted. I’ve got to get inside now, kid.”

  “So you’ll do it? You’ll put her in the book?” It was like my insides had become a flock of fluttering hummingbirds. I held out my envelope. “This … this is my letter. Well, two letters. One is my letter for the Smithsonian contest so far, so you … so you can read about Cecilia. And then a letter to you that explains everything. And it’s got my email address in it so you can email me and let me know and … and everything.”

  He was already taking a step toward the door, but I held the envelope in front of him and he took it.

  He took my letters.

  “Yeah, okay,” he said.

  And he pushed through the glass door, stepping long and fast.

  I watched him carry his briefcase and my letters into the front lobby.

  And through the glass door, I watched him hurry to the lobby trash bin and throw my letters away. />
  The Night

  I would write more letters.

  I would call and call and call again until the high-pitched lady at the front desk knew my name just by the sound of my voice.

  I would look up plane tickets to New York.

  There had to be a way I could fly to New York.

  Maybe there were other editors on the textbook.

  Maybe they would listen.

  I still had a bit of time.

  More than two weeks until the contest deadline.

  A few weeks until Nonny’s due date and the arrival of baby Cecilia.

  Listen to me, Cecilia Payne. She’s coming. You’ve seen how hard I’ve tried. And I’ll keep trying. I won’t give up. But please, Cecilia, you can’t give up on me, either.

  Please.

  I think Mom talked to me on the walk back to the car, but I barely noticed where I was stepping.

  I kept telling myself to Just think, and I said those words to myself so much I couldn’t think. I needed someone to tell me what to do. Someone to tell me how to fix this. I needed that hand that reaches down when the main character in the movie is about to fall off the cliff.

  I’m falling off a cliff, I thought.

  And then that got stuck in my head.

  Falling falling falling.

  When we walked in the door Nonny probably asked me what happened, but I didn’t really hear her and I went to my room and booted up my computer.

  I sat staring at my computer for a long time.

  That’s when something else happened that severed the day in two. Shattered it. If time was like putty before, this was when it broke in half, like that whole first part of the day fell into a river and floated downstream.

  Because all of that was Before.

  Because then things became After.

  Because when the sun was setting, I heard something crash.

  Because when I heard the crash, I ran out into the kitchen. And there was Nonny, broken pieces of a mug between her feet.

  And water.

  Water sopping her pants and puddling on the floor. Something smelled sticky sweet.

  She was staring at the water, and then she looked at me, like a first grader about to fall off the highest curve on the playground swings.