What Stars Are Made Of: List 3

But this year, a small but dark buzz of worry glommed onto the back of my brain, like one little seagull trying to snatch your sandwich on an otherwise blue-sky, pristine day at the beach.

But this year, a small but dark buzz of worry glommed onto the back of my brain, like one little seagull trying to snatch your sandwich on an otherwise blue-sky, pristine day at the beach.

A baby was coming. The baby of my perfect, wonderful sister, so of course the baby would be perfect and wonderful, too, and probably also really good at piano. And maybe Mom and Nonny and the new baby would all play piano together, because of course the baby will learn how to play the piano very easily and very early. I bet she could even be a prodigy.

Talia went first, and read a wonderful poem she’d written about Langston Hughes, and taught us some of his style and about the Harlem Renaissance.

“Well,” I said. “Since you’re kind enough to bring that up, I’ll start with a quote from Ms. Eleanor Roosevelt, who, if you’ll remember, was First Lady of the United States.” I clicked ahead in my PowerPoint to a page with a big block quote. “She said, ‘No one can make you feel inferior without your consent.’..."

There are also psychedelic murals throughout the airport, many showing crowds of people with strange faces and rainbow-colored clothes jammed in with jaguars and tropical flowers.

Dad and I are staunch buddies, that is absolutely true, but there are a lot of ways we are very different.

I tried not to worry too much, because it was Christmas, but that small worry cloud hovered there right outside my periphery nonetheless.

I’ve tried to know for sure that I’m ready for the big things that are coming, but I’m still scared. Terrified. Timorous.

“Now,” Mom said. “Your brain is working totally fine. It’s just that a lot of times with Turner syndrome there’s something else that happens that influences the way your brain learns things.”
“Like ADHD does.”
“Sort of, yes, but this is different. It’s called a nonverbal learning disorder.”

She said, “You...I know you try so hard. With everything. That piano recital...”
“The one that went supernova bad?”
“No,” Mom said. “No, it’s like you played with your hands tied behind your back. And you got up and played anyway.”

It’s not that I would be embarrassed to cry when it’s just my mom, but I never know what to do in that kind of heat. Such serious, somber heat. It makes me fidgety. I had to let out some of the steam. So I sat on my hands, lifted my feet onto the dashboard, and started humming my old piano piece while wiggling my toes.

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.

I sat staring at my computer for a long time. That’s when something else happened that severed the day in two. Shattered it.

Sometimes you don’t need an X-ray or stethoscope to see a hole in a wall. Sometimes it’s right there in front of you, gaping.

I’m not sure what my glass box was made of. Whatever it was, it made the words my teachers said reach a few inches from my face and then bounce off again. It made everything in my head and everything I tried to say feel echoey and far away. It was like my private glass box had its own weather, its own ecosystem, and not a particularly sunny one.

Would I still get obsessed about contests I’m not ready for? Probably. Would it be easier for me to talk to a friend whose grandma died, and would I be better at doing math homework in the hospital? Probably not.

Have you ever had moments where everything is so exciting and wonderful and you have a friend saying that she’s glad you’re her friend and you’re so effervescent (a Hard Reading Word that means vivacious and enthusiastic) that you can’t use words, only make happy squealing noises?

Have you ever had moments where everything is so exciting and wonderful and you have a friend saying that she’s glad you’re her friend and you’re so effervescent (a Hard Reading Word that means vivacious and enthusiastic) that you can’t use words, only make happy squealing noises?

PET scans are a special type of picture that doctors take of someone’s brain, and they glow a plethora of neon colors—blue, green, yellow, orange.

Your letter about Cecilia Payne exhibited knowledge, skill in research, craftsmanship, and passion. These are attributes we look for in our winners. We were so intrigued by your description of the brain-star sky display you put up at your school, and while we loved the photos, we wish we could have seen it in person. Your writing sparkles and inspires.

Your letter about Cecilia Payne exhibited knowledge, skill in research, craftsmanship, and passion. These are attributes we look for in our winners. We were so intrigued by your description of the brain-star sky display you put up at your school, and while we loved the photos, we wish we could have seen it in person. Your writing sparkles and inspires.

She had this low, bleating cry almost like a lamb, which somehow made it even more heartbreaking.

Cecilia’s fists were clenched and her mouth was open in that wail that tugged your heart around like a dog on a leash.

“Libby,” Nonny said. “I’m going to say something and I want you to listen, okay?”
I nodded. I thought of another Hard Reading Word: apprehensive.

“I want,” she said, “for my daughter to have someone brave to look up to. Braver than I could ever be. Someone so selfless they don’t even realize it. Money has nothing to do with what I care about, as long as my daughter grows up to be like you.”

That’s when something inside me multiplied, expansive and warm, a quiet supernova. I held Cecilia tight to me, and leaned in to Nonny. The three of us sat that way for a long moment in Silent Closeness.

I’d been wrong before. Defending the eagerly defenseless didn’t mean that nobody got hurt, or that you didn’t get hurt. Because hurt was just there, part of the grass and the trees and the clouds and the burning stars. What defending meant was taking in the wounded when the hurt did happen, never budging, never wavering no matter what.

“‘This little piggy went to market,’” I read.
I took Cecilia’s tiny fingers in mine. “Hmm,” I said, “yours actually aren’t very piglike yet, are they? Especially for a baby. Your piggies are still small. They’re actually called phalanges. And the part right here below your knuckles are your metacarpals.”

Cecilia Payne was an astronomer who discovered what stars are made of. She wrote about it in 1925, in her PhD thesis at Harvard University.