Ms. Trepky sat on the edge of her desk. I could have sworn she was looking at me when she said, “One individual can make an incredible difference, but that individual is shaped and created and influenced by thousands of other people. And that person shapes and creates and influences thousands of other individuals in return.”

I felt Ms. Trepky’s words slide under my skin and into my bones. The words had so much truth it felt like a rainstorm on my head. I knew exactly what she meant. The world was shaped by billions and billions of unknown hands, by people living their own lives and thinking their own ideas across the whole planet, changing the universe just by being there. That meant I could sculpt and write on the DNA of the universe from my little corner of it, too, no matter my smallness or genetics or scars. I saw my own constellation spinning around in my head, the constellation that made me, the constellation of my family and bakeries and libraries and Nonny and a bright new Ms. Trepky star. Together, it was the universe that had reached out and shaped me like a clay sculpture, missing bits and scarred bits and all.

Now it was time for me to put my hands out into the universe and shape it back.

Twitterpated

I talked to Talia about it after school. “I really have to do something. Cecilia is depending on me.”

I said it, even though she didn’t know there were two Cecilias depending on me now.

Talia and I sat down on the sidewalk, leaning against the school while we waited for our parents. “I mean, my cousin is a flight attendant,” she said. “I could ask her about flights to New York or something.”

“I don’t know. I need to think.”

“Hmm.”

We sat quietly, and Talia started tapping her thumb against the concrete. She had this weird, funky rhythm she would tap out whenever she was thinking.

“Hey, how did that poem go?” I said. “The dead white dude one?”

Talia stopped tapping. “It went … okay, actually. I think.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Mr. Gradey gave me another sonnet to read, but this time it was Shakespeare, and it was … good.”

“He read your poem and then gave you more sonnets?”

“Yeah, because Shakespeare was sort of making fun of sonnets, too. At least in this one. It’s about how … well, it starts, My mistress’ eyes are nothing like the sun.”

“Not like the sun?”

“Yeah, weird, huh? He even talks about her stinky breath.”

“Seriously? In a love sonnet?”

“Yeah. I know. But it’s still a love sonnet.”

I saw our blue van pull up, and Mom waved to me. I scooped up my backpack.

“I have an idea,” Talia said. “Have you checked his Twitter?”

“Twitter?”

“Yeah, the editor guy. I bet he has a Twitter account.”

I slapped my hand on my forehead. “Oh duh! How could I not think of that?”