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.