Easy peasy.

“Didn’t hurt?” Nonny asked.

“Nope,” I said.

“Man oh man,” she said. “I think when they give my baby immunizations I’m going to cry louder than the baby. And I hope … I really hope we’re out of this dumb financial black hole before—”

“Don’t worry,” Mom said. “You’ll both figure something out. And we’re here to help.”

“I remember when you guys got your first shots,” Dad said. “And I was the one who ended up needing a juice box from the nurse.”

I thought about the baby in its brand-new diaper, with the tiny black raisin belly button still stuck on its stomach from the umbilical cord. I thought about the baby getting shots. Immunizations—normal shots. For a tiny baby, new to the world and not used to pricking needles, that would be bad enough.

But what if the baby needed different kinds of shots?

I knew better than most that needing shots could mean other things. Could mean much worse, something-got-messed-up things.

What if the baby needed shots like mine?

Not very many twelve-year-old girls have to give themselves shots every day. Nonny’s baby being one of them would hurt worse than getting the shots myself.

Much worse.

Back in my room, I thought about Nonny’s face when she was talking about a financial black hole. I hadn’t really noticed that she seemed a tiny bit scared until she said it out loud.

My history book poking out of my backpack made me think of the contest Ms. Trepky had mentioned. I hadn’t gotten a chance to ask her about sending in a letter of my own, but I decided to look up the contest and see for myself.

At my computer, I fast-typed Smithsonian Women in STEM contest and clicked through to the contest page.

Exactly like Ms. Trepky had said, it was a contest based on writing letters about underrated female scientists from history. The letters were supposed to be about how that special scientist and the spectacular things they’d accomplished had impacted the world, and then how she had impacted or inspired you in your own life. That was the first part. Then in the last part of the letter, you were to tell a story about something you had done to teach people about the scientist, to raise awareness. The deadline for the contest was Valentine’s Day, so I had months to do my awareness project and write my letter.

For this contest, Cecilia would work perfectly. The contest had three divisions—eleventh/twelfth grade, ninth/tenth grade, and seventh/eighth grade—which meant that I, Libby Monroe, could enter. I just had to write the most perfect, well-crafted letter, and come up with the most spectacular project idea to teach people about Cecilia. Each contest division would have a winner who would receive a plaque and five thousand dollars for their school.

And then there was the grand prize.

What that one grand-prize winner would win almost made me spill my drink in my lap.