Shine! Page 4

  Everybody else starts writing. Furiously.

  Timothy looks up from his notebook and sees me just sitting there.

  “Start writing,” he whispers. Then he flicks his hand, miming a magic wand. “Piff-piff! Go!”

  So I do.

  “Piper Milly,” sneers Ainsley.

  She’s finished her essay. Mr. Van Deusen is still out of the room.

  “What a stupid name. Piper. I guess it suits you. You definitely look like a bird. Who cuts your hair? The gardener?”

  Her girlfriends giggle.

  Finally Mr. Van Deusen drifts back into the room, sipping his fresh coffee.

  “Okay, my merry band of bards,” he says, “who is ready to share their brilliance with the class?”

  Ainsley thrusts up her arm, volunteering to go first.

  “All right, Ainsley, the floor is yours.”

  She reads a couple of very vivid paragraphs about the “whiter-than-white, nearly alabaster, snowy, bleached Alps” in Switzerland, where her family went on vacation. (Just like Hannah said they would!)

  “Interesting,” says Mr. Van Deusen. “But sometimes, we can see more if you write less. Who’s next? Sebastian?”

  Sebastian’s essay is about a cruise his family took. To Mexico. He does a good job of describing the various shades of green his sister turned when she got seasick.

  “Excellent,” says Mr. Van Deusen. Then, crossing his arms and leaning against his desk, he looks at me.

  “Miss Milly?”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “How about you go next?”

  “Well, I…”

  “Go for it,” urges Timothy. He does that magic wand piff-piff thing again.

  “Tim’s giving you superpowers, Miss Milly,” jokes Mr. Van Deusen.

  “Use them wisely,” adds Kwame. “With great power comes great responsibility.”

  Nervous, I stand up and read my descriptive essay about walking Mrs. Gilbert’s dog, with his “tiny needle teeth” and “smooshed-in snout.” I also wrote about the “crinkle of the blue plastic bag” as I scoop up the poop.

  When I finish, Ainsley raises her hand.

  “Yes?” says Mr. Van Deusen. “You have a comment?”

  “Actually, it’s more of a question. Doesn’t this Mrs. Gilbert have a maid to walk her dog for her? Oh, wait. I get it. Piper Milly is her maid!”

  Her friends snicker.

  Mr. Van Deusen puts down his coffee. Frowns. Then he takes two steps forward and braces his hands on the edges of Ainsley’s desk.

  “Is that really who you want to be, Ainsley?”

  “Excuse me?” she says, recoiling, like she can smell his coffee breath.

  “Is that who you want to be?”

  “Huh?”

  Mr. Van Deusen shakes his head. “Maybe I read too much Dickens over the holidays. Scrooge, Marley, Tiny Tim.” He lets go of Ainsley’s desk and starts pacing back and forth at the front of the room. “Got me thinking about character. Legacy. What will I be remembered for when I shuffle off this mortal coil? That Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come always creeps me out. So guess what? I’ve got a new assignment for you guys. A special project.”

  “A project?” whines Ainsley.

  “Yes, Miss Braden-Hammerschmidt. A project! You know that essay English teachers always make kids write? ‘What do you want to be when you grow up?’ Well, this is going to be a new spin on that tired old chestnut. A more important, nearly Dickensian question: ‘Who do you want to be?’ And not when you grow up. Right here, right now. At the end of the winter term, you will turn in your project. To me. I’ll be the only one reading your work. So be candid. Dig deep. Think hard about who it is you really want to be in this world.”

  Mr. Van Deusen sounds like that old man at the a cappella concert. I wonder if they’re related.

  A boy raises his hand.

  “Yes, Parker?”

  “How long does it need to be?”

  Mr. Van Deusen grins. “Just as long as you need it to be. My suggestion? Keep a journal. Jot down whatever pops into your head. No judgments. No pressure. And then, at the end of the term, tidy it all up into an elevator pitch.”

  “Huh?”

  “Parker, if you and I were on an elevator, riding up from the lobby, you should be able to tell me who you want to be before we hit the fifth floor. Brevity is the soul of wit!”

  “But,” Ainsley protests, “we need time for real homework. We shouldn’t waste it on made-up projects based on pointless ‘Dear Diary’ entries.”

  “No exceptions. If you don’t want to do this assignment, my esteemed colleague, Mrs. Garrett, just told me she has some openings in her English class. They meet this period, too. You can transfer over.”

  “But this is Honors English.”

  “Your call, Miss Braden-Hammerschmidt. Your call.”

  I smile. Just a little.

  And I already know who I don’t want to be: Ainsley Braden-Hammerschmidt.

  “Thanks for your support in there,” I tell Tim, the kid who was doing the piff-piff magic stuff, when we wind up next to each other in the packed hall between classes.

  He drops his eyes and reaches into his blazer to pull out a magic wand. It pops open to become a big bouquet of fake flowers.

  “Ta-da! Congratulations on your descriptive essay,” he says. “I found it to be very…descriptive!”

  “Thanks.”

  “Would you rather have a really, really long silk scarf?”

  He pulls that out of his ear.

  I laugh. “Neat tricks. I’m Piper Milly.”

  “I know. That’s what Mr. Van Deusen called you.”

  “Right. I was just, you know, introducing myself.”

  “Ah. Got it.” He collapses his magic props and stuffs them back into his blazer pockets.

  “So, you’re Timothy? Or Tim?”

  “Timothy Bartlett,” he says with a flourish as he dips into a hand-rolling bow. “Also known as the Great Timdini.”

  I curtsy. I’m not sure why. Maybe because Tim bowed.

  “Mr. Van Deusen is pretty cool,” I say.

  “No, Piper. He is extremely cool.”

  “What do you think about that assignment? The ‘Who do you want to be?’ project?”

  “I’m already done.”

  “Impossible.”

  “I know who I want to be: the Great Timdini, magician extraordinaire. Because Tim is my name and the ‘dini’ is for Houdini. The 1953 movie starring Tony Curtis. Not the miniseries on the History Channel.”

  “Hi, Tim,” says a girl with a wild mop of curly red hair who joins us near the water fountain. She takes a quick drink.

  “Hey, Emily,” says Tim. “This is Piper Milly. She’s new.”

  “Cool.” She shoots out her hand. “Siraj told me about you. You’re the science wiz, right?”

  “Um, kinda. I guess.”

  “I’m Emily Bleiberg. So, how about math? Do you like crunching numbers?”

  “Definitely,” I say. “You can’t travel between the planets if you don’t know math.”

  “You also need a rocket ship,” says Kwame. He must’ve cruised up the hall just in time to hear my corny answer. Siraj is with him.

  “Hey, Siraj,” says Kwame, “ask me where an astronaut parks the spaceship.”

  Siraj does.

  “At a parking meteor,” says Kwame. “Thank you. I’m here all week.”

  “Because there are no holidays this week,” says Tim.

  “Too true, Timdini,” says Kwame. “Too, too true.”

  “Nice meeting you, Piper,” says Emily.

  “Ditto,” says Siraj. “Although we actually met earlier.”

  We’re all just standing there, smiling, and I realize t
hat Hannah might’ve been wrong. The kids at Chumley are just kids.

  But then Ainsley Braden-Hammerschmidt comes along.

  Ainsley’s with her constant three-girl posse.

  They’re taping up election posters. Apparently, Ainsley is running for seventh-grade class president. Her slogan? “DON’T BE A PAINSLEY, VOTE FOR AINSLEY.”

  A very tall kid is with her. He’s ripping off masking tape with his teeth. I figure he might be an athlete.

  “Uh-oh, Carter,” Ainsley says to the boy. “Check it. New Nerd Alert.”

  She points at me.

  “That dork cuts her hair with hedge clippers.”

  Carter laughs. Very loudly.

  Ainsley sashays away, saying, “Her father is going to ruin the a cappella group. That’s why I quit….”

  Her friends follow after her. The way the people who work for a queen do.

  “That was fast,” says Kwame when they’re gone. “Ainsley’s got a thing for you already?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Huh. Took her a whole year to hate me.”

  “Well,” I say, “maybe because I’m a dork and a nerd…”

  “Nah,” says Kwame. “You and me? We’re Hibbleflitts.”

  Tim giggles.

  “What’s a Hibbleflitt?” I ask.

  “Oh, they’re amazing,” says Kwame.

  “What do they do?”

  “All sorts of amazing stuff.”

  “Can I be a Hibbleflitt, too?” asks Tim.

  “Definitely, Timdini,” says Kwame, throwing open his arms. “We’re all Hibbleflitts!”

  “Excellent!” says Siraj.

  “Hibbleflitts, unite!” adds Emily, raising a clenched fist.

  “Cool,” says Kwame. “Now all we need is a secret handshake.”

  * * *

  —

  I spend the rest of the day lying low and avoiding Ainsley.

  I sneak a look at a text Hannah sent me:

  Are the lockers solid gold? Does everybody get fourteen forks in the cafeteria? Don’t you wish you’d bought that Gucci bag?

  After school, I head over to the Performing Arts Center.

  Dad tells me he had a good day.

  “A couple of kids quit the a cappella group,” he says, “but that’s to be expected. One girl needs to focus more on her cello lessons.”

  I nod. And don’t let on that I know that girl and what a Painsley she is.

  I look around the room while I wait for Dad to pack up his briefcase.

  I see the Steinway grand piano, with its lid propped open. Dad’s classroom has chalkboards with rows of five horizontal white lines painted across the black. They’re staves for dreaming up musical scores. Dad has already filled a few in.

  “Come on,” Dad says when he’s ready to go. “I want to show you something.”

  We head out the door and down the hall. I know where we’re heading: Mom’s second plaque. It’s attached to a framed photo of Mom posing with her cello that I haven’t ever seen before.

  “She was just a little older here than you are right now.”

  “What’s the Traub Scholarship?” I ask, reading the inscription.

  Dad grins. “It paid for her to study music at the University of Michigan.”

  “That’s where you guys met.”

  “Yep. I don’t know anybody in the Traub family, but I love ’em all.” He rubs my hair. “They gave me the two greatest gifts of my life.”

  We both stand there and admire Mom’s picture and her accomplishments.

  Wow.

  When we get home, I take Mister Pugsly for a walk.

  “Mom’s left me some pretty big shoes to fill,” I tell him. “And there’s no dried poop stuck in the soles, either.”

  Mister Pugsly gives me a snuffly snort. He so understands.

  Later, I call Hannah with a quick update on life on the distant planet called Chumley Prep.

  “Did anybody offer you a ride on their private jet?” she asks.

  “Not yet.”

  “Well, when they do, don’t forget I’ve always wanted to visit Paris. In the spring.”

  That makes me laugh.

  That night, I make the first entry for my “Who do you want to be?” project. I figure I have all term to work on it so I can do what Mr. Van Deusen suggested: write down whatever, then go back and tighten it up before I turn it in.

  WHO DO I WANT TO BE?

  My mom, Antoinette Poliesei Milly. Of course, that might be impossible. First, you can’t really be your own mother. It’s a biology thing. Second, my mother was supertalented and all-around amazing. I am neither of those things. They say you can’t miss what you never had. But guess what? I do.

  A week later, I’m starting to know my way around.

  I feel a little like Nellie DuMont Frissé—soaring in her rocket ship, boldly exploring the vast, unknown voids of a new galaxy. Of course, I’d rather do it with her on PBS or YouTube than in real life.

  On Sunday I stream the Nellie DuMont Frissé episode where she answers questions kids have sent in. One of the things I love most is how, even though she’s brilliant, she isn’t all snooty about it. She’ll answer regular questions from regular kids.

  “ ‘Question,’ ” she says, reading from an email. “ ‘Do you fart more or less in space?’ ” She smiles. “More! Because it’s impossible to burp when you’re weightless. The gas, liquid, and solids in your stomach all mix together. And no, Jimmy, farting won’t propel you around the space station like when you let go of a balloon. We’ve all tried it. The flight suits are too thick. The propulsion gets muffled in all that padding.” After a few more questions and answers, she winks at the camera and says her catchphrase: “Shine on, stargazers!”

  At school, I sit with the “Hibbleflitts”—Siraj, Emily, Kwame, and Tim—for lunch. Yes, we’ve proudly embraced the name. Siraj thinks we need an official crest.

  “Like one of the houses at Hogwarts!” he says.

  Tim brings a new magic trick almost every day. Kwame brings several new jokes. He also makes some funny cracks about Tim’s tricks. We all help each other with homework.

  And despite what Hannah keeps telling me, no one has flown a private jet to school—with or without a chef on board. Not yet, anyway.

  But Ainsley Braden-Hammerschmidt is still telling everybody that Dad is turning the a cappella group into the “ACK-appella” group (she pretends to puke when she says it). Mrs. Zamick is still giving me the stink eye every morning in homeroom.

  “There will be no first-period classes this morning,” she announces on Monday.

  Siraj and I both groan. We love first period. That’s science with Ms. Oliverio!

  “Are you two finished?”

  Mrs. Zamick heard us groaning.

  “Yes, ma’am,” says Siraj.

  “When the bell rings, you are to quickly and quietly report to the Hammerschmidt Auditorium for an assembly with Dr. Throckmorton. And in case any of you have forgotten, which I am certain none of you have, elections for seventh-grade class president will be held in all homerooms first thing tomorrow.”

  The bell rings, and we file out the door.

  “What’s this about?” I ask Siraj.

  “Hard to say. All-school assemblies are extremely rare.”

  We find our seats in the auditorium, which is pretty incredible—way better than the cafetorium at my old middle school.

  Emily is already seated in the row in front of ours. “You guys? In homeroom, Mr. Van Deusen told us this is going to be about some kind of new award!”

  I ease into my seat. I can relax. I never win awards, except the ones they give out for perfect attendance.

  I see Ainsley sitting smugly in the front row.

  Ai
nsley Braden-Hammerschmidt.

  Finally it hits me.

  This is the Hammerschmidt Auditorium.

  Duh.

  That’s Ainsley’s last name! Somebody in her family must’ve donated a ton of money to Chumley Prep. If she wants to have the school fire Dad, she (or somebody in her extremely wealthy family) can probably do it!

  Dad comes in a side entrance with some other teachers. He waves at me. I want to warn him about Ainsley. But instead, I just wave back. Mr. Van Deusen is the last teacher to enter. He has a thick book tucked under his arm and is juggling another cup of coffee and what might be a bagel.

  When everybody is finally settled, a balding man with a fringe of white hair comes onstage to stand behind a podium. He must be Dr. Throckmorton. He looks so serious behind his round horn-rimmed glasses. A snowy owl in a tweed suit.

  “Good morning, boys and girls,” he says with a very proper, almost-British accent.

  “Good morning, Dr. Throckmorton,” says the whole auditorium.

  Except me.

  I don’t catch on to the call-and-response until it’s already hit “ockmorton.”

  “I have some very exciting news,” he continues, sounding anything but excited. “This winter term, we will be conducting a competition for a new middle school award. The Excelsior. This prize will be presented by a representative of the Chumley family on March fifteenth to the student who most fully demonstrates the overall excellence we strive for here at Chumley Prep.”

  Ainsley shoots up her hand to ask a question.

  “Yes, Miss Braden-Hammerschmidt?” says Dr. Throckmorton.

  “How exactly do we win?”

  “An excellent question.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Unfortunately, the Chumley family was not very specific. In fact, they were extremely mysterious about the details. Therefore, my advice: To win the Excelsior, simply excel. Remember our motto: ‘Be your best, no matter the endeavor!’ ”

  Kwame raises his hand.

  “Yes, Mr. Walker?”

  “So when does this new competition start?”

  “Tomorrow.”