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  “Awesome,” he says after he shoots a marble out of the Japanese robot’s belly to blast his own impact crater on the surface of my cake-pan moon.

  I glance over at Ainsley’s trifold cardboard display. Her exhibit is titled “Gemstones: Earth’s Most Expensive Crystallized Minerals.” It appears to be a collection of her mother’s jewelry and some crystals she grew in a fridge with salt and food coloring.

  When Ms. Oliverio and the other science fair judges come up our row of exhibits, Ainsley launches into a speech she reads off pink notecards about diamonds being “the most beautifully compressed carbon atoms imaginable” and rubies being red “because of our red-hot friend chromium.”

  When it’s Siraj’s turn, he does a very dry, kind of mumbled recitation of probability formulas. He also sweats a lot.

  “Very good, Siraj,” says Ms. Oliverio. “Piper?”

  It’s my turn.

  I tell the judges my top-line inferences. “The rounder the object hitting the moon, the faster an object is traveling, the farther away an object is from the moon, the larger the crater it creates.”

  Then I let them take turns shooting marbles at my lunar-surface cake pan.

  Ms. Oliverio loves the robot. “It reminds me of the way Nellie DuMont Frissé makes astronomy fun in her videos. I think she’d be impressed by your project, Piper.”

  Could there be a higher compliment? No. There could not.

  “Tim let me borrow the robot,” I tell the judges.

  “Because he’s an excellent showman,” says Ms. Oliverio. “Good job, Piper.”

  After the judges visit all the exhibits, we have to leave so they can deliberate.

  The gym is still locked at three, when classes are over.

  Dad’s waiting outside the doors. So is an eager and anxious crowd. Siraj has all his fingers crossed. Probably his toes, too. Emily is bobbing up and down on her toes like she has to go to the bathroom.

  Ainsley looks like she’s ready to sign autographs.

  “Have you guys heard anything?” asks Dad.

  I shake my head. Siraj does the same. We’re both too nervous to speak.

  “If the Hibbleflitts want a shot at the Excelsior,” says Emily, still bouncing up and down, “one of us has to win this thing!”

  Finally someone inside unlocks the doors. We all race to our exhibits.

  “Yes!” says Dad with a mighty arm pump.

  There’s a blue ribbon hanging off my trifold board.

  I took first place!

  Ainsley’s gemstones and Siraj’s quincunx both earned an honorable mention. So did Emily’s exhibit about the geometry of origami (she called it Origometry)!

  Ainsley isn’t happy with her yellow ribbon.

  “Are you two trying to ruin my life?” she hisses at Dad and me.

  Then she stomps out of the gym as Tim comes in.

  “How’d we do?” he asks.

  I show him the blue ribbon. “First place! Thank you so much, Tim. I couldn’t’ve done this without you!”

  “You’re welcome. So, now that the science fair is finally over, you want to come to my house this weekend? Mom bought me a new trick.”

  “She doesn’t have time,” says Siraj.

  Tim looks confused. Me too.

  “Piper’s in the lead for the Excelsior Award now,” says Emily, who’s drifted over to join us.

  “You guys?” says Dad. “I don’t think…”

  “It’s true, Mr. Milly,” says Siraj. “This is the only single-winner competition of the entire winter term. Therefore, we have to assume that Piper now has the best shot of beating Ainsley and Carter and all the popular kids who always win everything.”

  “She needs to focus, sir,” Emily tells Dad. She turns to Tim. “Sorry, Tim. This isn’t just about Piper. It’s about all of us.”

  Tim looks at me. His eyes are so sad.

  “The new trick is amazing,” he says.

  “I’m sure it is,” I tell him. “But if Siraj is right…”

  “He is,” says Emily. “Please, Piper? Do it for every kid that Ainsley Braden-Hammerschmidt ever called a dork or a nerd.”

  “Or a dweeb,” says Siraj. “She calls me that sometimes, too.”

  “Tim, you have to understand,” says Emily. “Piper needs to find more things to excel at. She won’t have time for magic tricks.”

  Tim looks hurt. “You should always make time for magic.”

  I know Tim is right. But I’m also remembering what Mr. Van Deusen said about the word “excelsior” meaning “Ever upward!”

  “Aim higher and higher,” he told us.

  Where would Nellie DuMont Frissé be if she and the whole space program didn’t aim as high as they possibly could? It’s like that song lyric she quoted in one of her videos: “Don’t tell me the sky’s the limit when there are footprints on the moon.”

  I have a chance of boldly going where no one like Siraj, Emily, Kwame, Tim, or me has ever gone before.

  I need to do this thing. It’s time to do what Nellie would do. It’s time to push a few limits.

  “Don’t worry,” I tell Tim. “There will be plenty of time for magic. I promise. Right after March fifteenth!”

  WHO DO I WANT TO BE?

  Still not sure, Mr. Van Deusen. But today I feel a little like one of Siraj’s marbles, bouncing around and willing to end up wherever fate and gravity and the laws of probability take me-even if it’s a slot I never dreamed of landing in. It might be time for me to imagine my own footprints on a distant moon. If not for me, then for all those counting on me. So, okay, today I know exactly who I want to be-the winner of Chumley Prep’s first-ever Excelsior Award! The one who gets a plaque right next to Mom’s!

  That evening, there’s a science fair reception.

  Ms. Oliverio puts dry ice in the punch bowl so it looks mad-scientist-ish. We stand in front of our exhibits while parents we don’t know come up and tell us how brilliant we are. It’s awesome.

  Dad’s at the party and people are congratulating him, too.

  “You must be so proud of your daughter,” says one person after another.

  “I am,” says Dad. “Always have been.”

  Ainsley Braden-Hammerschmidt and her family skip the science fair celebration. She is so mad at me. It’s like I stole something she thought she was entitled to.

  Some parents chatting with Dad find out that not only is he a Chumley Prep music instructor, but he is also the composer of several show tunes that could become a musical.

  “I advise some investors in New York City who might be interested in backing a Broadway show,” says Brooke’s father, Mr. Breckenridge. He flicks Dad his business card. “We should talk.”

  Dad beams.

  It feels fantastic to be a winner.

  It feels even better to see Dad so happy.

  You know what? I think I’m all done with “blending in.”

  * * *

  —

  The next day, starting in homeroom, Ainsley and her friends are whispering, pointing, and shooting me nasty looks whenever and wherever they can.

  Between periods, I catch up with Siraj and Emily near the girls’ bathroom, which is closed for service.

  They want to brainstorm new ways for me to “excel.”

  “You should consider joining the Mathletes squad with Emily,” suggests Siraj.

  “We’d love to have you,” says Emily.

  “So, what does a Mathletes team do?” I ask. “We never had one at Westside.”

  “We compete in mathematics competitions,” says Emily. “They’re formatted like a quiz show on TV. Last year, we came in second at the state championship. However, this year—”

  She stops in midsentence because Ainsley is sashaying up the hall—trailed by what looks like
half the middle school.

  Ainsley doesn’t look happy.

  “Hello, Piper Milly.” Contempt drips off every syllable in my name. “What are you three doing? Shooting marbles at each other’s butts?”

  The crowd giggles. I’m ready to start blending in again. When you aim for the stars, sometimes you run into angry asteroids named Ainsley.

  She prowls forward—like a lioness moving in for the kill. “I certainly hope you enjoyed your little science fair victory party last night. Because this is war.”

  When Ainsley says that, the whole crowd goes, “Ooooh.”

  Well, everybody except me and my friends. We just sort of tremble in fear.

  “War?” says Siraj, because I’m too stunned to say anything myself.

  “You heard me, Siraj. Your friend may have won a blue ribbon, but that doesn’t mean she deserves to win the first-ever Excelsior Award. Why? Let me count the ways. One: Piper Milly is a new student. The Excelsior should go to a loyal Chumley student who has attended this institution for a minimum of seven years.”

  “I’ve done that,” says Siraj.

  Ainsley ignores him and steamrolls ahead. “Two: Piper Milly’s winning science project was absurd. Shooting marbles at an unbaked cake? That’s just sad. Three, and most importantly: Piper Milly is not, by any stretch of the imagination, a person who excels.”

  “And how could you possibly know that?” asks Emily.

  “Easy. I am a person who excels. And when I look in the mirror, I do not see Piper Milly. I don’t see you, Emily, or you, either, Siraj. I see me!”

  “Ooooh,” the crowd says again. I think they’re itching for a fight.

  “Help!” cries a voice.

  It isn’t mine, even though that’s exactly what I’m thinking inside: HELP!!!!

  “Help!” the man cries again from inside the closed-for-service girls’ bathroom.

  “This toilet won’t stop flushing! Help, please!”

  Ainsley sneers at me. “Piper, I’m sure that with all your poop-scooping experience, you know how to deal with any and all toilet-related emergencies.”

  I can hear a toilet flushing over and over again and water sloshing out of a bowl.

  Ainsley laughs.

  The bell rings.

  The crowd disperses. Fast. My friends, too.

  “Can’t be late for class,” Siraj says over his shoulder as he practically trots up the hall. “Big test.”

  “Yeah,” says Emily. “Huge test. Gotta run. But think about Mathletes.”

  She and Siraj vanish.

  “Help!” shouts the man in the bathroom. “Somebody? Anybody?”

  I’m alone in the hall.

  It’s just me, the panicked voice, and the gross, foamy water seeping out from underneath the bathroom door. I take a deep breath, pinch my nose, and step into a disaster zone.

  I see a wide-eyed, terrified janitor clutching a plunger.

  He’s much younger than all the other custodians at Chumley. He’s also frozen with panic.

  “It’s my first day!” He has to shout to be heard over the cascading water.

  I go into full Apollo 13 mode. You know—where you have to solve a problem to avert a disaster using only what’s on hand, like the three astronauts did during the doomed Apollo 13 mission.

  “Did you plunge it?”

  “It’s not a clog. They’re going to fire me. I know they are….”

  “Sir?” I say, in my firmest, calmest astronaut voice. It’s the way I imagine Nellie DuMont Frissé sounding when people around her start freaking out. “Did you try shutting off the water?”

  “What?”

  Oh-kay, I think. How come I know more about fixing an overflowing toilet than a professional custodian? Maybe he’s a substitute janitor (like a substitute teacher).

  Water keeps gurgling over the lip of the bowl. Soggy wads of toilet paper and crumpled hand towels are drifting across the floor like lumpy jellyfish.

  I look behind the janitor and see a narrow metal door built into the wall.

  There’s a sign on it: SHUTOFF VALVE.

  “Behind that door!” I shout. “There’s a shutoff valve!”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes! Read the sign!”

  I can’t believe this guy. He must be Dr. Throckmorton’s nephew or something. How else did he get this job?

  Finally he pops open the cabinet, finds the valve, and—with a mighty twist—rotates it to the off position. The water stops gushing out of the commode.

  “It worked. Thank you!”

  “You’re welcome.”

  The janitor is thrilled.

  Me?

  I’m thinking about what Ainsley said and wondering what a person who excels looks like.

  And I’m pretty sure they don’t have socks and shoes that are soggy and squishy.

  A week later, as I’m hiking up the front steps to school, I realize I haven’t seen that nanny toting backpacks for a while.

  Maybe she found a better job. One where she doesn’t have to be a human luggage cart.

  Ever since the science fair, I’ve been busy—trying to think of new ways to excel (Mathletes? Water polo? Competitive dog walking?). Siraj, Emily, and Kwame are full of suggestions.

  “You should try out for the girls’ hockey team,” said Kwame. “Or the basketball team. Hey, you know why Cinderella was so bad at sports?”

  “No,” I told him.

  “Because her coach was a pumpkin.”

  I laughed. Then I did try out for the hockey team, because I can skate some. I ended up inside the goal. On my butt.

  Emily said I should try out for the chess team.

  I did. Turns out, I’m better at checkers.

  “The Doodlers Club!” said Siraj. “It’s not a very ambitious goal, but any club membership might make you look better to the Excelsior judges.”

  I attended one meeting and drew an incredibly awesome spaceship cruising through the stars. But I don’t think anybody can really excel at doodling. That’s why they call it doodling.

  I’m going through a mental checklist of other clubs as I reach the top of the stairs. I’m so lost in thought, I almost don’t see Tim.

  “Hey,” I say.

  He doesn’t say “Hey” back.

  “Where’s my robot?” he asks.

  I’m sort of surprised. “I, uh, didn’t bring it with me to school today….”

  “Because you don’t need it anymore,” says Tim.

  “I’m sorry, Tim. It’s just that—”

  “Crush it, Ainsley!” I’m interrupted by Mrs. Braden-Hammerschmidt, down in the drop-off lane.

  “Every day in every way!” shouts Ainsley as she charges up the steps with her cello case. “Excelsior!”

  She bounds up the stairs, two at a time, and sees me and Tim and the way Tim is kind of glaring at me.

  “Oooh. What’s this? Trouble in Nerdsylvania?”

  “This is none of your business, Ainsley,” says Tim. He turns to face me. “The marble shooter is mine and I want it back.”

  Ainsley giggles and breezes into the building.

  “Tim, I’m sorry if—”

  “Just bring me my robot. I need it for a magic trick.”

  “Okay.”

  He marches off.

  There’s a commotion at the foot of the steps.

  “Where’s Dr. Throckmorton?” demands a man standing beside Carter Kelso. Carter’s decked out in his Chumley Prep letter jacket—probably to remind everybody what a huge football star he is. “I need to see Dr. Throckmorton.”

  “Is there a problem, sir?” asks a security guard.

  “You bet there is! This school is cheating my son out of what is rightfully his.”

  “You’
re Carter’s father?”

  “That’s right. And do you know how much money I donate to this school every year?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Well, I sure do. I need to see Dr. Throckmorton. Immediately.”

  The guard escorts Mr. Kelso up the steps. “Why don’t we go see if he’s in his office.”

  “He’d better be!” fumes Mr. Kelso. “I paid for that office!”

  * * *

  —

  In science, we watch a documentary about Rachel Carson, the conservationist who wrote a book called Silent Spring.

  “She’s one of my heroes,” says Ms. Oliverio when the movie’s done. “Mr. Van Deusen’s, too.”

  That makes me smile. Rachel Carson is Ms. Oliverio and Mr. Van Deusen’s Nellie DuMont Frissé.

  “We’re both very interested in protecting our environment. So every year, on what we call Rachel Carson Day, we lead a team of Chumley students who volunteer to clean up a mile of highway. Next Monday—”

  She is interrupted by Dr. Throckmorton’s voice coming out of the ceiling speakers.

  “Pardon the interruption,” he says. “I have an announcement to make in regard to the ongoing Excelsior Award competition.”

  This is big. We haven’t heard any “official” news about the contest since that first assembly way back in January. Now it’s almost the end of February. There are only three weeks left until someone wins the competition.

  Siraj shoots me a big thumbs-up. He’s still convinced that I’m going to win the Excelsior because I won the science fair.

  “It has been brought to my attention,” Dr. Throckmorton continues, “that the Excelsior competition has, thus far, not been fair to all of our students, particularly those who excel at fall and spring sports. Therefore, to level the playing field, so to speak, we will be hosting an all-sports athletic exhibition next Monday. Coach Tucci and Coach Marcus will select the top athletes for football, baseball, volleyball, field hockey, soccer, lacrosse, and softball. Those teams will then engage in a series of short intramural scrimmages next Monday, immediately after school.”

  The bell rings.