Shine! Page 3

  “You know we can’t keep this, right?” I say.

  “Yeah, but we should,” says Hannah. “You could use your half to buy Chumley school supplies. You know: designer handbags. Shoes. Those big sunglasses that look like bug eyes. They have all sorts of discount designer items at the outlet stores.”

  “We need to give the money back, Hannah.”

  “To who? It was on the floor. There’s nobody’s name on it.”

  “We can take it to mall security….”

  “This isn’t a mall! It’s a collection!”

  “Whatever. I’m sure they have a security office.”

  They do. And we find it. Of course, we pass a lot of interesting shops along the way, and Hannah keeps saying stuff like, “Oh, look. A Gucci bag. You’re going to need one of those if you go to Chumley.”

  Turns out, somebody has already asked the security office to keep an eye out for his money clip. (Good thing it’s engraved with initials. It’ll make it harder for the wrong person to claim it.)

  “Thanks,” the officer says. “Not everyone would do what you two just did.”

  Hannah glares at me. I guess she thinks the guard is confirming her whole “finders keepers” philosophy.

  Finally her mom picks us up.

  It’s a very quiet ride home.

  “Thanks for taking us to the mall,” I tell Mrs. Schnell when we pull into my driveway.

  Hannah rolls her eyes because I forgot to say “collection” again.

  “Good luck at your new school,” says Mrs. Schnell as I climb out of the car.

  I smile and wave goodbye.

  Then I head into the garage to grab my bike so I can ride over to Mrs. Gilbert’s.

  “I’m scared,” I tell Mister Pugsly while we’re out on our walk. He’s a very good listener—unless there’s an interesting garbage bag to sniff. “Dad just doesn’t get it. I won’t fit in. I wonder how Mom felt at Chumley. Her family didn’t have a lot of money. But she was a star there. I’ve seen her yearbooks. She was also really pretty, Mister Pugsly. Really, really pretty…”

  (That’s something else we don’t have in common. I mean, I’m okay. But my mom? She was beautiful.)

  We finish our walk. I take Mister Pugsly back home and Mrs. Gilbert pays me.

  It’s an Abe. Five dollars.

  It’s a start.

  Nineteen more walks, and I’ll actually have a Benjamin.

  But I’m not sure even one of those will help me at Chumley.

  January 2 comes faster than any second day in any new year since they first invented calendars.

  I spent the rest of the week between Christmas and New Year’s saying goodbye to all my friends at Westside.

  “You’ll do great at Chumley,” said my friend Elyssa.

  “You’re supersmart,” said Charlotte.

  “Just don’t try out for the choir,” said Joe. “Or the school musical. Or band. You should probably avoid band, too.”

  I put on a brave face. Inside? I’m terrified.

  I’m also still a little mad at Dad. Chumley might be his big dream for both of us. For me, it’s more like a nightmare.

  Anyway, for the first time ever, we’re actually driving to school together.

  “This is fun,” he says. “You and me commuting together. We should get matching Chumley travel mugs. They sell them at the gift shop.”

  “Okay,” I mumble. Dad is so into this, he doesn’t even notice how scared I am.

  “And guess what, kiddo? I have my own parking space. Actually, it’s my spot but it still has ‘Mr. Glass’ painted on the curb. They’ve promised me they’ll stencil in ‘Mr. Milly’ later this week.”

  We pass the mansions with the oak trees and the golf course. Pulling off the main road, we glide through a tall wall of neatly trimmed evergreens, then crunch our way up a pebbled driveway.

  Chumley Prep looks like a college campus.

  At my old school, we had crossing guards. At Chumley, they have professional security guards who wear earpieces and look like they just retired from the secret service. Guess they’ll be the ones who stop me if I try to escape.

  Dad pulls into “Mr. Glass’s” parking spot. Our Subaru seems out of place next to all the hulking SUVs and Mercedes and Tesla electric vehicles cruising up the main drive.

  “Welcome to the first day of the rest of our lives, kiddo,” Dad announces as we climb out of our car. He’s humming a tune, one from the score of his musical. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him this happy about anything, so I try to go with it.

  “It looks amazing,” I say.

  “It is amazing, Piper!”

  As we make our way to the main entrance, I see adults who remind me of Hollywood movie stars and fashion magazine models. They all look stylish. And fit. Glossy and glowy.

  The kids, of course, are all in uniforms. The parents sort of are, too. A lot of moms wear puffy ski parkas and shiny leather pants. Some are in yoga outfits. Their purses have somebody’s initials stamped all over them, just like the ones I saw at the Winterset Collection.

  Other moms and dads are dressed in power suits and shoes that glisten.

  I also see what looks like an army of nannies toting backpacks.

  “Good luck, Piper,” Dad says as he puts both his hands on my shoulders and looks at me with smiling eyes. “And, honey, no matter what happens today, remember one thing.”

  “We have our own reserved parking space?”

  Dad laughs. “Okay, there’s that.”

  “You also have a Steinway grand.” (I say “Steinway grand” the awestruck way he says it.)

  “True. But more importantly, Piper, know that I love you. Always have. Always will. You want me to walk you in?”

  “Dad? I’m in the seventh grade. I’ll be fine.”

  “Good luck, kiddo!”

  He gives me a quick kiss on the forehead and peels off to the Performing Arts Center.

  I take a deep breath and start climbing the steep steps to the main building.

  One good thing about school uniforms? Everybody more or less looks the same. It’s very easy to disappear into the plaid-skirt background.

  I’m halfway up the steps when I hear a mom down at the bottom of the staircase shout, “Crush it, Ainsley!”

  I look over my shoulder.

  It’s the snooty girl from the Chumley a cappella group.

  “Every day in every way, Mom,” roars Ainsley as she charges up the marble steps two at a time. She’s carrying a ginormous hard-shell cello case. She almost bangs me with it when she powers by.

  (I wonder if my mother ever did that with her cello case when she went to Chumley?)

  I head to the front office to pick up my class schedule, which is what the “Welcome to Chumley” email they sent to Dad told me to do. I’m carrying a printout of that email in my hands, just in case they need proof that I actually belong at this school.

  Inside the building, it’s a whole new world. The walls are paneled with dark wood instead of cinder blocks. The ceilings are high and arched—without any foamy pop-out panels. The school office reminds me of a dentist’s office, with padded pastel furniture and one of those gurgling indoor fountains.

  “Welcome, Miss Milly,” says the school secretary.

  She hands me a sheet of paper with my class schedule printed on it and smiles at me. I’m suddenly very aware of the collar on my white shirt. It’s frayed. Dad couldn’t afford to buy everything new.

  “You’re in Mrs. Zamick’s homeroom. That’s down the hall. Room one twelve. Don’t be late. Mrs. Zamick doesn’t tolerate tardiness.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I say. “Thank you.”

  On my way to Mrs. Zamick’s, I pass through what has to be the Chumley Prep Hall of Fame. There are trophy cases, framed photo
s, and, yes, plaques.

  I can’t resist. I start scanning them until one stops me in my tracks.

  It’s for Mom. Guess she has two—one over in the Performing Arts Center, one here on the Wall of Honor.

  It’s just her name and the year she graduated etched into a brass rectangle glued to a dark slab of wood. Below her name is a quote from Maya Angelou: “I believe that every person is born with talent.”

  What if Maya Angelou is wrong? I think. After all, she never met me.

  A bell rings. I hurry along to Mrs. Zamick’s class.

  She scowls at me (and I’m not even late) as I enter the room at the tail end of a clump of shuffling kids.

  “You must be Piper Milly,” she says, glancing at an official-looking canary-yellow form.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Antoinette Poliesei was your mother?”

  I just nod.

  Because Mrs. Zamick is giving me a pretty scary look.

  “Well then,” she says, “I imagine we should expect great things from you, Miss Milly. Great things indeed. I was in Antoinette’s class here at Chumley. She made quite a name for herself during her time here. Your mother was…very gifted.”

  I smile sheepishly. Mrs. Zamick is still giving me that look.

  “Please find a seat. And, Miss Milly?”

  “Yes?”

  “Good luck here at Chumley.”

  The way she says it, with just a hint of a sideways smirk?

  I get the feeling she and Mom weren’t besties.

  My first real class of my first day is science with Ms. Oliverio.

  She’s not scary like Mrs. Zamick. She’s young and perky, with dark hair and deep brown eyes—the kind you’d see in a Disney movie. When she smiles, she doesn’t smirk or sneer.

  “Happy New Year, everybody,” she says after the second bell. “So, have you guys already forgotten everything you learned last term?”

  “Not me,” says a boy who’s seated next to me. He has thick black hair and even thicker black glasses. “My parents gave me a bunch of science books over the break. Plus a Snap Circuits kit.”

  “Good for you, Siraj.”

  The kid turns to me. “I’m Siraj Shah,” he whispers.

  “Piper Milly. I’m new.”

  “So I deduced.”

  “How about the rest of you?” Ms. Oliverio asks the classroom. “Still think you remember everything we covered in our last unit?”

  Siraj sits up straight, looks around. He’s ready for anything the teacher throws at him.

  “Well, let’s find out,” says Ms. Oliverio. “Time for our first pop quiz of the year!”

  There are groans and moans from everybody except Siraj. He does a little boo-yah arm pump.

  Ms. Oliverio walks around the room handing out sheets of paper.

  “Miss Milly?” she says when she comes to my table.

  “Yes, ma’am?”

  “You weren’t with us last term. You can sit this one out if you like.”

  “That’s okay. I’m willing to give it a shot. Science was my favorite subject at my old school.”

  “Well, I hope it’ll be your favorite subject here, too.” Ms. Oliverio places the quiz on my desk.

  “I like your spunk, Milly,” Siraj whispers.

  “Thanks.”

  I take a look at the first question:

  When upthrust is equal to the weight of an object, it

  floats

  sinks

  moves

  stops

  Wow, I think. I know this. I glance at the other four questions on the sheet.

  Double wow.

  I know all of them!

  Maybe I won’t totally sink at Chumley Prep, at least not in science. Maybe I’ll float, which, of course, is the answer to the first pop quiz question.

  I turn in my paper before anyone else.

  Ms. Oliverio checks my answers.

  “Perfect,” she says. “Well done, Miss Milly.”

  “Thank you,” I say.

  Siraj finishes right after me. He aces the test, too. We smile and give each other knowing nods.

  It takes the rest of the class about five more minutes to answer the questions.

  “All right, everybody,” says Ms. Oliverio after all the papers have been turned in and she’s quickly checked them. “Not horrible. You remembered more than I thought. And, Kwame?”

  “Yes, Ms. Oliverio?”

  “Not only did you ace the quiz, but your bonus answer to question number four was hysterical.”

  Kwame, a kid with a sly twinkle in his eye, grins. “Well, I know a quark is a subatomic particle, but if you ask me, it also sounds like the noise a subatomic duck might make.”

  The whole class laughs, including Ms. Oliverio.

  “Well done, Kwame.”

  “I try, Ms. Oliverio,” he says. “I try.”

  “All right, everybody, let’s open our books, because science confers power on anyone who takes the trouble to learn it.”

  Wow! Ms. Oliverio is quoting Carl Sagan, one of my favorite astronomers.

  She’s definitely a kindred spirit.

  At least one hour of my day at Chumley won’t be horrible. I figure I can tough it out through the rest of the hours for Dad.

  The bell rings.

  “Before you go,” says Ms. Oliverio, “news flash: the science fair will be held on February fourteenth—Valentine’s Day.”

  “Yes!” says Siraj.

  “You all need to start thinking about your exhibits.”

  “Science jokes!” says Kwame.

  Ms. Oliverio laughs. “Ones I haven’t heard?”

  “Definitely. For instance, last night I was reading a book on helium—”

  “And you couldn’t put it down,” says Ms. Oliverio. “You can do better, Mr. Walker. See you guys tomorrow.”

  “What’s your next class?” Siraj asks when we hit the halls and I look confused.

  I check my schedule. “Honors English. With Mr. Van Deusen.”

  Siraj nods. Slowly. “Mr. Schaack Van Deusen. He’s a very interesting character.”

  “How so?”

  “You’ll see. Catch you later, Piper.”

  Siraj shows me where to go.

  I head up the corridor, reading every door number along the way, just to make sure I’m moving in the right direction. Finally I find Mr. Van Deusen’s room.

  I slip in and sit at an empty desk in the back row.

  Ainsley, the huffy girl from the a cappella competition (the one who bulldozes innocent bystanders with her cello case), is up near the front, chatting with her posse.

  “I quit the a cappella group,” I hear her say. “How dare Mr. Glass bail on us like that?”

  “I know!” says one of her friends.

  “You were his favorite, Ainsley,” says another. “His absolute favorite!”

  “Yuh-huh,” says Ainsley. “And then, to make things worse, Dr. Throckmorton hired that fashion mistake from Fairview to take Mr. Glass’s place without even consulting me or my parents?” She shivers. “No thank you.”

  Great. She’s still trash-talking Dad.

  She turns around and stares at me hard. “You’re his daughter, aren’t you?”

  “Yeah,” I say.

  “That explains your shoes.”

  “Oooh,” say her girlfriends.

  My face is turning red.

  The second bell rings.

  Our English teacher does not appear.

  “Where, oh where, is Mr. Van Doozy?” says Ainsley sarcastically. “He’s such a flake.”

  A sandy-haired boy who’s hunched over and doodling in his notebook says,
“No, he’s not. Mr. Van Deusen is the best—”

  “Oh, shut up, Timothy,” says Ainsley. “Nobody asked you. Why don’t you do one of your stupid magic tricks and make yourself disappear?”

  Timothy freezes for a second. Then he goes back to doodling. I start seriously missing Westside. Sure, we had our share of mean kids, but Ainsley’s in a whole different league.

  “I have a better idea, Tim,” says Kwame, the joker from science class. “Just make that tuna noodle casserole in the dining hall disappear.”

  Everybody (except Ainsley) laughs. Tim still has his head down, but I can tell he’s smiling.

  A few minutes later, maybe five, after I’ve counted six different Shakespeares—three posters on the wall, a bust and an action figure on the desk, a hand puppet pinned to the bulletin board—a bearded man with long, shaggy hair steps into the classroom.

  He’s about Dad’s age and wearing a brown corduroy jacket over a blue work shirt. His tie is an explosion of tiny books. He’s fumbling with a paper cup of coffee, a stack of folders, and a bright pink flower.

  “My mother gave me this hibiscus for Christmas,” he says, putting the potted plant in a sunny spot on his cluttered desk. “What’s in a name? That which we call a hibiscus by any other name would smell as sweet.”

  He sips coffee from his cup and wipes some brown droplets out of his mustache with the sleeve of his sport coat. (Must be why it’s brown, too.)

  “Welcome back, my boon companions,” he announces. “Where’s Piper Milly?”

  I raise my hand.

  “Welcome. Good to have you toiling in our vineyard!”

  “Um…thanks.”

  “Okay, pens out. New year, new assignment. Write a descriptive essay about something you did over winter break. Use your senses. Make me feel like I was there with you, instead of at my mother’s place in Florida. Now, go! Write!”

  I pull out my notebook. Find a pen.

  “I’ll be back in twenty,” Mr. Van Deusen tells us, raising his coffee cup. “Need a refill.”

  And just like that, he leaves the room. He was only teaching for two minutes.