I pulled the instruction sheet out of my backpack first thing when I got home and set it on my desk. On my computer I started a list of the things I wanted to talk about in my letter. About Cecilia growing up in England and then moving to the United States. About her kids. About her job at Harvard, and about how she figured out what stars are made of.
The Knight-Rowell Publishing website had a contact form. After working on my list, I zoomed over to their site and started filling in the form. I put in my name, my email, and then I wrote about how I wanted to talk to them about a great idea. An idea I knew they would love. An idea for a new edition of the textbook that would include Cecilia Payne.
Then I held my breath. Click. SEND.
Once I heard back from Knight-Rowell Publishing, the project could officially get started.
The instructions for the contest said that the winners would be contacted one month after the deadline. That meant that next spring, I could be the winner of twenty-five thousand dollars. Nonny could be planning for that house or rent or whatever would help the most. Cecilia would keep Nonny’s baby safe. It meant that in March, Nonny could start planning on bringing Thomas home. Instead of missing a piece in my own body, I’d fix a missing piece in the lives of the people I loved.
I could be that person.
I wanted Nonny and Mom and Dad and, well, everyone, to look at me and see what I could fix, not what I needed to have fixed in me. I wanted it so bad it was like my aorta was constricting again. But not this time. This time: fixer, not fixed.
Just this once.
After I sent Knight-Rowell that email, I tried to go back to working on my letter, but that’s when the words started swirling around in my brain. I couldn’t focus. I kept seeing something else in my mind that distracted me.
I kept seeing Talia’s red face, and the way her shoulders hunched when they called her that name. Hunched like she’d been hit.
The first day they come up with a nickname like that, they think they’re so clever. I remember. But they’re not. I wanted to tell Talia that.
My brain felt as swirly as the Milky Way mess on my poster. I couldn’t figure out the right thing to do in this situation. Talia’s sad and mad face wouldn’t leave my mind. I could let it go and just keep smiling at her when she sat next to me in history class, but that didn’t seem like nearly enough. Something needed to be done. Something big, so she’d know she wasn’t alone. Something so that we’d be friends.
And the more I thought about it, the more the swirling in my brain turned into the beginning of an idea. It was a big idea.
An idea like one of our Hard Reading Words: audacious: a willingness to take surprisingly bold risks.
I don’t feel audacious, usually. But this idea was audacious. And maybe audacity was what it took to make friends.
I wondered if ideas were born the same way stars are, starting off small and collecting space clouds and dust until they have enough to burst open.
Silently I thanked Ms. Trepky for making Talia and me swap phone numbers and pulled my phone out of my backpack:
Hey, it’s Libby from school. About Dustin—I have an idea. I think you’ll like it.
SEND.
I lay back on my bed while I waited for her to respond, and I couldn’t help grinning.
Being audacious was going to be fun.