A Sliver of Stardust

For the fearful

Mary had a little bird,

Its coat was white as snow.

Everywhere that Mary went,

The bird was sure to go.

W
ren Matthews was about to lose the Science Olympiad Trivia Challenge. Wren had never lost the challenge, had never come remotely close to losing the challenge, had never even considered the
possibility
of coming close to losing the challenge before this moment. Now, she sat at the exam table in the corner of the gym, her answer sheet mostly blank, oblivious to the seconds on the timer ticking past. She stared at the rafters, where a huge white bird soared over the tables that displayed students' science fair entries. As Wren watched, the bird swooped down, talons extended, and
grabbed a live mouse from Bobby Felton's prizewinning project about rodent aggression.

Wren gasped, and her pencil fell to the table with a clatter.

The trivia challenge judge cleared her throat, peering at Wren disapprovingly over her bifocals. “Five minutes remaining, scholars.” She shuffled through her thick stack of answer cards and tapped their edges neatly on the tabletop.

Wren snapped her attention back to her paper, trying to block out the annoying sound of Simon Barker's scribbling. Next to her, Simon's red head was bent low over his paper, and his pencil hadn't stopped moving.

Wren hadn't been surprised when Simon tied with her during the speed round of the trivia challenge, where being fast was nearly as important as being smart. In past years, other competitors had been fast, too. And she had expected that he would also be able to recite the first thirty-five digits of pi, which sent them through the second round neck and neck. But now they had reached the final written portion, and if Wren's answer sheet was any indication, things didn't look promising. There wasn't much time before the judge would tally their scores and announce the winner.

Wren tightened her grip on her pencil and read the problem she was working on for the third time. She licked her lips and tried to ignore the ominous sound of rustling feathers overhead. Wren wasn't afraid of birds. After all, being afraid of a harmless animal wasn't logical. No, she merely had a
healthy respect
for flying animals. The day-trip to the zoo, where she had been swarmed by the too-eager kookaburras, had taught her that. But Wren's mouth was dry. Her heart pounded much faster than usual. And no matter how many times she reread the question on the exam in front of her, she couldn't come up with the answer.

“Three minutes left, scholars.” The judge's words were nearly blotted out by an unmistakable screech. Wren glanced up, then shrank down into her seat with a strangled scream, barely escaping the white bird as it dive-bombed the table. She could feel the air pressure shift with the thrum of its powerful wings when it swooped off, ruffling her hair in its wake. Wren ran a shaky palm over her bangs, sliding them into place, and glanced uneasily around. No one else seemed to care that a rogue bird had nearly taken her head off. In fact, no one else seemed to be doing much of anything. The judge leaned back in her chair, her index cards frozen
midtap. Wren's parents' faces were turned in her direction, but their smiles were oddly fixed in place. The rest of the room stood motionless, as though someone had pressed a giant pause button on all the activity. Or almost all of it. Next to Wren, Simon sighed and reached for another piece of scrap paper without looking up from his work.

Wren scanned the ceiling. Could it be possible that no one else saw the bird? Had she imagined it?
But there it was. Perched on the basketball backboard like it owned the place. As Wren watched, the white bird launched off its roost, glided over the crowd of frozen homeschoolers, and landed on the outstretched arm of a woman standing a few feet away from the trivia challenge table.

The woman was the only person moving in the sea of people. She fixed her light-yellow-brown gaze on Wren and pointed to the floor. Wren glanced down and swallowed another scream. At first, she thought the white bird had somehow dropped Bobby's mouse at her feet. But then she saw that it wasn't an animal at all; instead, the bird had delivered a packet of sooty papers. Wren scooped up the bundle. The bird woman gave her a sharp, distinct nod before disappearing into
a puff of shimmering blue-green smoke. The instant she was gone, the rest of the room exploded back into motion. The low rumble of milling homeschoolers. The buzz of the timer. The sound of the judge's voice.

“Time's up, scholars.”

Wren leaned out of her chair as though getting a better view could somehow convince her that the woman and her bird hadn't vanished into thin air. “Um,” Wren managed, shoving the packet of papers into her sweatshirt pocket as the trivia judge reached for the exams. Wren's voice sounded strange to her own ears, like she hadn't used it in forever. Should she do something? Tell the judge about the bird? And say what?
There was a large bird that you somehow didn't notice, and it flew to a woman who looked at me and then disappeared?
The air where the woman had been standing still flared with little dots of aqua light, so bright they sent matching shooting pains through Wren's skull. She rubbed her eyes.

“Let's see what we have here.” The judge flipped through her stack of answer cards, comparing them with Simon's and Wren's responses. Her fingers hovered over Wren's half-finished answer sheet, and Wren studied the pebbled tabletop. She used to purposely
miss an answer or two, so she wouldn't make the older kids feel bad that she was smarter than them, but that was before Simon began coming to the homeschool conference. Now all the questions she didn't have time to finish would cost her the challenge.

Wren glanced over at her biggest competitor to find that Simon was staring off past her shoulder, his forehead furrowed as though he was still working problems in his head. Wren could see the red ribbon that went with this year's biology medal peeking out from under his collar. Simon's entry describing advances in animal husbandry had also won him first place in the living science portion of the competition, and he was up for the 4-H prize and just about everything else to do with science. Except astronomy. That was the one subject Wren would always win.

The judge folded her hands and set them on top of their exams. “It's been a close competition this year, and now it's down to you: Simon Barker and Wren Matthews. I couldn't be more proud.” Her voice was overly cheerful, especially considering the fact that two eleven-year-olds were the top contenders for the upper division trivia challenge. “I'm happy to announce that we have a tie this year. Wren. Simon. Congratulations.”
The judge beamed at them as though they had won a trip to Disneyland instead of not winning anything at all. Wren reached for her half-finished exam. How was it possible that her incomplete answers tied with Simon's annoying nonstop pencil scratching?

Next to her, Simon stood. “Nice job.”

“You, too.” Wren watched him tuck his pencil into his jacket pocket.

Simon was always dressed like he'd been born a hundred years too late. A tailored vest with a matching wool cap. An overcoat in cold weather. Even a pocket watch that he liked to consult whenever a conference session was supposed to end. He sneaked a peek at it, snapping the gold cover open with a click.

“Tied for the win!” Wren's mom said, coming up behind Wren and giving her and Simon high fives. “How perfect is that?”

Wren's dad clasped his hands together first over one shoulder, then the other, like a champion would, and Wren let a tiny laugh escape. They wouldn't care about the tie. Wren's mom and dad weren't like some of the parents at the Science Olympiad, all helicopterish and worried about their kids being the best. Wren's parents were hardcore unschoolers, which meant they pretty
much left Wren's education in her own hands.

Four years earlier, the Homeschool Association had started an astronomy track, and for the first time Wren had begged her parents to go to the Science Olympiad, mainly because of the annual stargazing party. They were dubious at first, pasting on smiles and nodding at all the earnest discussions about core classes and homeschool methods and arguments over How Children Learn Best. Afterward, Wren and her parents chowed down at the Mexican restaurant around the corner and celebrated not doing any of those things.

Then Wren's dad met Simon's dad, and now the Mexican dinners were Wren's parents and Simon's dad talking a little bit about unschooling but mostly about politics and what books they were reading, and how much they all had in common. It was odd, considering how intelligent Wren's mom and dad were, that they had failed to notice that Simon and Wren had exactly two things in common: 1. They were both the smartest kids their age. 2. Neither of them could stand being around the other.