Shine! Read online

  Teachers from Fairview and the principal drop by to toast Dad with eggnog and iced sugar cookies. A bunch of my friends from school and our neighbors come over, too. Did I mention there are sugar cookies?

  “Your dad is, like, officially the best choir director in America!” says Hannah Schnell, who goes to Westside with me. “Too bad this wasn’t the state competition.” She bites the head off a sparkly red reindeer.

  Sometimes in big crowds, I need a break. It’s a “blender” thing. So while everybody pats each other on the back, I drift off to my bedroom to have a word with my mother.

  Well, a photo of her, anyway.

  She’s dressed in a black gown, cradling her cello and laughing with her head tossed back. The picture was taken the night my mother performed at the world-famous Carnegie Hall in New York City. Yes, she was that good on the cello.

  “Everybody’s here to congratulate Dad,” I tell her. “They were so awesome last night at the concert. You should’ve heard them. Maybe you did. Anyway, they were amazing. You would’ve been so proud!”

  Music was something my mom and dad loved almost as much as they loved each other.

  So, yeah—sometimes I wish I could sing.

  Or hum.

  Before long, it’s nearly Christmas.

  I’m hoping Santa brings me this awesome star projector I saw in a catalog filled with scientific stuff or a book by my hero, Dr. Nellie DuMont Frissé.

  Dr. Frissé is an astronomer at the Palomar Observatory in California and the host of my favorite show (on PBS or any other channel): Star Talk. She also used to be an astronaut, one of the few female African American ones. How cool is that?

  At the end of every show, Dr. Frissé winks at the camera and says, “Shine on, stargazers!”

  It’s like she’s talking directly to me.

  Why do I love astronomy so much? I guess it all started back in the second grade. My class went on a field trip to the planetarium. They projected a sea of stars on the domed ceiling, and we all oohed and aahed as, one by one, the constellations were highlighted and morphed into Greekish-statue versions, making the formations easier to see. Leo, the lion. Gemini, the twins. Perseus, the hero from Greek mythology.

  My favorite?

  Ursa Major, which is Latin for “the greater (or larger) she-bear.” Ursa Major was up there on the ceiling of the planetarium protecting her daughter, a smaller constellation called Ursa Minor (“the smaller she-bear”).

  When the show was over, my teacher had to drag me out of the planetarium. Literally.

  I made Dad take me back every weekend for, like, a year.

  My mom died when I was three, so I don’t remember much about her. But when I look up at the night sky and see the Big Dipper and connect the dots to complete the Big Mama Bear (that’s my own personal translation of “Ursa Major”), it’s like my mom is up there, every night, looking out for me.

  Even during the day or when the night sky is cloudy and I can’t see any stars, I know she’s still keeping an eye on Dad and me. Stars are like that. They’re always there, whether we can see them or not.

  My job? To keep looking out for Dad—like Mom would if she were here.

  Speaking of Dad, I plan to give him a special present this year instead of my usual original cast recording of his favorite new Broadway musical: an engraved silver frame with a photo of him and his award-winning a cappella group performing onstage at the competition. (And if you squint, you can kind of see me, dressed in black, holding a cup of room-temperature water in the wings.)

  I almost have enough money to buy the picture frame because I have a part-time job, walking a pug for Mrs. Helen Gilbert. She’s a widow who lives in the senior citizen apartment complex a quick bike ride away from our house.

  But that afternoon, as I’m putting Mister Pugsly into his harness, I get some bad news.

  “I’m sorry, Piper,” says Mrs. Gilbert. “I can’t pay you this week. Mister Pugsly had to go to the vet and I had to buy him some medicine and…”

  As Mrs. Gilbert explains her situation, I can tell how much the little dog means to her. She cradles him in her arms like a baby. When he licks her face, it makes her laugh. Mrs. Gilbert adopted Mister Pugsly from an animal rescue group when he was seven years old.

  She told me he’d been at the shelter for ten months because everyone always wants to adopt puppies instead of older dogs. But Mrs. Gilbert thought she and Mister Pugsly could enjoy their “golden years” together. And she lucked out, because Mister Pugsly is the best!

  “He also needs special food….”

  “That’s okay, Mrs. Gilbert,” I tell her. “Today’s dog walk is my gift to you! Happy holidays!”

  I guess Dad will just have to open an empty box on Christmas morning because I definitely won’t have enough money to buy him that engraved picture frame.

  I take Mister Pugsly around the block. He looks up at me and sort of smiles and snorts. I think that’s how dogs say thanks.

  Fifteen minutes later, he poops. When I go to scoop it up, I accidentally drop my phone.

  Into the poop.

  Ugh.

  Happy holidays to me.

  At least I don’t have to worry about the camera lens being smeared. My phone is such an antique, the camera hasn’t worked for years.

  While I’m cleaning poop off my phone with a plastic bag, Mister Pugsly snorts and yanks, and I get tangled up in his leash and somehow step in the poop that I still haven’t scooped. I’m not exactly sure how that happened. Maybe the chaos theory of cosmology could explain it. They sometimes call it the butterfly effect because some systems are so complex (like the weather or dog poop scooping) that very small changes can make a huge difference over time. For instance, if a butterfly flaps its wings, it might create just enough wind to throw off a computer’s long-range weather predictions. If a pug snorts a funny backward snuffle, it might startle you enough to accidentally step in its poop.

  I try to clean the gunk out of my sneaker treads with the pointy tip of a stick. But you can never scrape it all out, know what I mean?

  So I go home without any money.

  And stinky sneakers.

  Since I can’t afford to buy Dad that engraved picture frame until Mrs. Gilbert can afford to pay me, I decide to give him a handmade IOU.

  This is why, on the afternoon of Christmas Eve, my bed is littered with all sorts of craft project supplies: felt, glitter, glue, scissors, hole punch, sequins, and stars. Lots and lots of stars.

  Not to brag, but the finished project is pretty spectacular.

  I’m tying a bow around the envelope (made out of felt) when Dad bursts into my room. He’s waving his phone up and down excitedly.

  “This is the best Christmas ever!” he announces.

  I grin because I figure he peeked through the door and saw me working on my awesome craft project.

  I, of course, am wrong.

  “You won’t believe who just called!” says Dad.

  I shrug. “Santa Claus?”

  “Better. Dr. Osgood Throckmorton.”

  “Who?” And how, on Christmas Eve, could he possibly be better than Santa?

  “Dr. Throckmorton is the middle school headmaster at Chumley Prep.”

  Ugh. Chumley. The kids with the blue blazers and bad attitudes.

  “Really?” I say. “Is he demanding an a cappella rematch?”

  Dad laughs. “Nope. But apparently Chumley Prep isn’t big on losing.”

  “Yeah,” I say, remembering my backstage encounter. I don’t think those kids ever thought they’d lose anything to anybody.

  “So many parents called to complain, the music director decided to quit. I guess he was going to retire in June anyway, but he told Dr. Throckmorton the parents might be happier if he sped up his plans.”

  “S
o why did Dr. Throckmorton call you? Is he blaming you for the other guy quitting?”

  Dad chuckles. “No. He wants me to take Mr. Glass’s place!”

  “Huh?”

  “Dr. Throckmorton offered me a job as Chumley Prep’s new middle school choirmaster and music instructor!”

  “But you already have a job.”

  “I know,” says Dad. “And I love it. But, Piper, this’ll be better. For both of us. And when I told him that my wife was the late Antoinette Poliesei, well—that sealed it. She’s still something of a legend at Chumley, you know.”

  Yes, I want to say, of course I do. You talk about it all the time.

  But I just nod and smile.

  “Dr. Throckmorton said there’s a plaque with Mom’s name on it in the music building.”

  “Mom has a plaque?”

  “Yep.”

  “They have a music building?” (My middle school has a band room, not a whole building for music.)

  “Honey, they have everything!”

  “Wow,” I say, because it’s what I always say when I really don’t know what to say. “Wow.”

  “I know,” says Dad. “They want me to take over when the winter term starts on January second.”

  Youch. Dad sounds excited. Me? I’m wondering if he should really be so eager to work at a school where the angry parents of the a cappella kids hounded the old music director into an early retirement.

  But I don’t want to rain on his parade (especially since he used to be a drum major in college, and parades are sort of his thing). He marches around the room, excitedly telling me more good stuff.

  His salary will be doubled.

  He’ll work with some supertalented singers.

  “And I’ll have my own music room,” he says. Then he adds, almost whispering because it sounds too good to be true, “With a Steinway grand.” (He says “Steinway grand” the way other people might say “diamond-encrusted tiara.”)

  “And since my class load won’t be nearly as heavy as it was at Fairview, I’ll actually have time to write my own music! Piper, I can work on Dream Time again.”

  Dream Time is the Broadway show Dad’s been tinkering with (on weekends and holidays) my whole life. Have you ever had a song stuck in your head for twelve years? Yeah. It’s like that.

  Then Dad drops the bomb.

  “They’re giving you free tuition, Piper! You start the same day I do.”

  Wait, what?

  Rewind.

  I have to go to Chumley, too?

  What’d I ever do to deserve that?

  All that really comes out is a swallowed “Huh?” while my mind flashes through a rapid-fire series of images: Hannah and my friends at Westside waving goodbye; a swarm of navy-blue blazers and plaid skirts; Ainsley, that mean girl from Chumley, making fun of my shoes and the dog poop that’s probably still stuck in the soles.

  “You’re going to Chumley Prep, just like Mom did!” says Dad. “For free! Do you know how much an education like that costs these days?”

  I shake my head.

  “Forty-five thousand dollars a year!”

  “Wow.”

  “I know!”

  He sits down on the edge of my bed and shakes his head in disbelief. He’s kind of choked up.

  “I’ve always hoped I could, somehow, some way, give you the kind of education you deserve, Piper. And now, well, I can! Sure, I’ll miss the kids at Fairview. And my faculty friends. And my dinky little music room with that beat-up old upright piano. But did I mention the Steinway?”

  I nod.

  “I know you’ll miss your friends, too,” Dad continues. “But an opportunity like this doesn’t come along every day.”

  “Just on Christmas Eve,” I say.

  “Exactly! Merry Christmas, honey! And a very happy New Year—for both of us!”

  He’s so excited, he has to call a bunch of friends and tell them how this has turned out to be the best Christmas ever.

  Me? I’m kind of mad. At Dad, for not even asking my opinion before yanking me out of Westside and hauling me off to Chumley. At myself, for not speaking up and letting him know how upset I am. I also wasted a ton of time making a stupid IOU with sequins and sparkles.

  I tuck my homemade gift card under a pillow.

  Dad won’t be interested in a fancy picture frame, not after Dr. Throckmorton Claus has already given him what he considers the greatest Christmas present since gold, frankincense, and myrrh.

  Chumley Prep?

  Bah! Humbug!

  Guess what Santa brought me?

  One of the Nellie DuMont Frissé books I wanted, which is cool. But mostly Chumley Prep uniforms, a Chumley pencil case, and a Chumley water bottle. Well, computer printouts of them, anyway. Dad did some serious online shopping on Christmas Eve.

  The day after Christmas, Hannah comes over. We still have some sugar cookies in a round tin, which Hannah immediately pries open. This time, she bites off the bottom of a snowman.

  “Seriously?” she says when I tell her my news. Her mouth is full of sparkly cookie crumbs. “Chumley Prep? You?”

  “Yeah. My dad’s going to be their middle school music teacher and choir director.”

  “Piper? You’re making a huge mistake.”

  “Huh?”

  “Your father can’t do this to you!”

  “Well, it wasn’t up to me,” I tell her.

  “Those kids are like alien freaks, Piper. They’re so not like us. Do you know what kids at Chumley Prep do on their winter break?”

  “Not really.”

  “Well, they don’t sit around reading stargazer books and eating Christmas cookies. They fly someplace exotic. On their parents’ private jet. Sometimes the jets have a gourmet chef, too!”

  “Their jets have kitchens?”

  “Yep. Some even have showers! I’ve seen them on TV. Come on.” She grabs me by the hand.

  “Um, where are we going?”

  “To my house. You need help. My mother will drive us over to the Winterset Collection.”

  “Why Winterset? Why not Twelve Mile Mall? It’s closer.”

  Hannah sighs. “Because, Piper, Twelve Mile is a mall. Winterset is a collection. That means it’s fancier than a mall. More expensive, too.”

  “I can’t afford—”

  “We’re not going to buy anything, silly. We’re going to observe Chumley kids in their natural habitat.”

  “Aren’t they all gone? I thought they flew someplace exotic for the holidays.”

  “Not all of them, Piper. Some of them have to stay here and shop, or else the Winterset Collection would go out of business. You need to see what you’re up against if your father makes you go through with this Chumley thing.”

  “Oh. Okay.”

  Mrs. Schnell drives us to the “elegant and upscale” (that’s what they say in all their ads) Winterset Collection. If you ask me, it’s just a mall but with shinier doorknobs, marblier floors, fancier stores, and a real piano player instead of prerecorded Muzak.

  We do see some kids our own age, including one or two I recognize from the Chumley Prep a cappella group. They’re loaded down with shopping bags from Cole Haan, J.Crew, Giorgio Armani, Neiman Marcus, and Salvatore Ferragamo.

  I have no idea who any of these people are.

  “They’re not people,” Hannah tells me. “They’re brands, Piper. Luxury brands. To survive at Chumley, you need to have the right tags on your clothes.”

  “Actually, they have to wear uniforms.”

  “Which you also have to accessorize. Purses, shoes, jewelry. That’s where the rich kids make their fashion statements.”

  I’m thinking about Dad wearing black sneakers with white socks.

  Hannah’s right. He and I will never fit i
n at Chumley.

  She drags me to a bookstore, where we flip through some glossy magazines, including one called The Gilded Tween Scene.

  “See?” says Hannah.

  She points at an article about “Today’s Hottest, Hippest Hobbies.” Apparently, for fun, kids like the ones at Chumley enjoy trapeze arts, yacht sailing, Formula One go-kart racing, summering in the winter, horseback riding, and fashion accessorizing.

  Um, yeah.

  My favorite activities, on the other hand, are sitting around in the dark and looking up at the sky. I’m sure I’ll make a ton of friends when they hear about that.

  “Plus,” says Hannah, “they all have private tutors and go to academic summer camps. You know I love you, Piper, but you are so not in the same league.”

  “Hannah?” I say, feeling kind of queasy. “Can we text your mother? Have her come pick us up?”

  “But we haven’t hit half the shops.”

  “I know. But I can’t afford to buy anything here. And I need to walk Mrs. Gilbert’s dog. And—”

  Hannah grabs my arm. Her face looks like an OMG emoji. She starts hopping up and down. “Look!”

  She points to the floor in front of a jewelry store.

  There’s a thick wad of cash clasped inside a sleek silver money clip sitting right there.

  “Come on, Piper!” says Hannah. “This is our lucky day. We’re going on a free shopping spree!”

  “We can’t take that,” I tell Hannah.

  “Yes we can!”

  “No. We can’t.”

  “Haven’t you ever heard of ‘finders keepers’?”

  My friend Hannah is famous for being sort of wild. One time, on a dare (not from me), she drank a whole bottle of maple syrup. It was one of those tiny ones they give you at the Pancake House, but still.

  Anyway, I’m pretty sure she will grab that wad of money off the floor and stuff it into her purse unless I beat her to it. Which I do.

  I glance at the folded-over cash. It’s mostly hundred-dollar bills (I recognize Benjamin Franklin’s face). And there’s lots of them. Maybe ten. That’s one thousand dollars!