The Cipher of the Seven Stars

By Lee Reed

Sometimes it’s good to have your head in the stars.

 

Quinn Knight, a new sixth-grader at Hill Springs Middle School in Central Texas, has always been a little different. Not only is she an astrophotographer who battles chronic migraine headaches, she’s recently discovered that the stars—those in the Pleiades constellation, to be exact—are trying to tell her something.

     Someone is threatening Quinn’s older sister, eighth-grade social butterfly Vivica, and Quinn realizes the clever constellation is revealing the clues she needs to save her sister! But she can’t let anyone know she’s having cosmic conversations—making it in middle school is hard enough as it is—so Quinn keeps the secret message-sending stars under wraps. Soon, Quinn and her new friends, Tiya and Xavier, are hot on the trail of Vivica’s mysterious tormentor. But sometimes, there are more questions than answers written in the stars.

     Will Quinn’s “artistic scientist” powers of observation and creative thinking be enough to solve the case, or will Vivica’s nemesis knock her off her social throne in epic fashion? Join Quinn and her quirky family and friends to find out if the stars will align in this exhilarating mystery of cosmic proportions.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Greenleaf Book Group
• Release date: Feb 27, 2024
• ISBN: 9781632997845

Book preview

1

I swear I just saw the stars move. And I don’t mean the barely noticeable inching across the sky that all stars do every night. I know all about stars and space and stuff like that because I’m an astrophotographer. That’s kind of like being an artistic scientist.

This is when my sister Vivica would butt in and say, "Wrong, Quinn, you’re a future astrophotographer. Don’t be so full of yourself. You only just turned twelve." She’s thirteen and a half and thinks she knows everything. But I figure if Vivica can call herself an actor when she’s only in eighth grade, I don’t have to wait to call myself an astrophotographer.

Anyway, the point is I know that the Earth rotates and that if you keep looking up at the sky all night long, which I do a lot, you’ll see the stars shift. That’s not what I’m talking about when I say the stars just moved. I mean the stars in the Pleiades broke out of their cluster—literally, it burst wide open, like a silent firework. Now they’re zipping around the sky like a swarm of crazed fireflies that inhaled a box of Pop Rocks.

Suddenly, the stars snap into a new formation, a pulsing arrow. And it’s aimed right down at where our backyard ends and the fields behind our house begin.

I blink and rub my eyes, and the show is over. The stars are back to the way they’re supposed to be—a cluster of tiny bright lights hanging low in the western sky.

Maybe I’m just tired. It is 5:00 in the morning. Any kid who is up and already dressed for school at 5:00 in the morning might see strange things, right? And I’m used to seeing things other people don’t. The migraine attacks I have all the time sometimes do funky things to my vision, like making dots of light float around in space like hyperactive glowing dust bunnies. But my head isn’t throbbing right now.

Maybe I’m just stressed out. Today is the first day at my new school, in my new town, and I’m dreading walking into the sixth grade midsemester. Or maybe I’m just not used to the heat in Central Texas yet. I can’t believe it’s October and it’s still warm enough to wear a T-shirt and shorts at night. Seriously, is it summer all the time here?

I swig water from the stainless steel bottle I always carry—so I don’t have to hear Mom say, Quinn, where is your water? every ten seconds—and look through the eyepiece of my monster telescope. Here’s where I’m pretty lucky: the telescope is set up on a catwalk that rings the opening in my ceiling for this massive geodesic dome skylight in my room. I don’t just have the best room in the house, I probably have the best room in the galaxy.

I sight the Pleiades through the eyepiece. That’s why I’m up this early. I’m trying to take a bunch of photos of the Pleiades fading just before dawn. If I can capture what I want, I’m going to enter the best photo into a competition. I think I’ll call it Vanishing Sisters because people often call the Pleiades the Seven Sisters.

Great name for stars, but seven sisters? Two are more than enough for me, thank you very much. At least my big sister Georgie’s cool. She’s a sophomore at Texas State University in the next town over. Georgie is an inventor—really, she can build practically anything. She designed and built my sky dome and had this telescope ready and waiting for me as a surprise a few days ago when Mom and I finally moved down from Ohio. I’d been nervous that Vivica, who had been here with Dad since school started in mid-August, would have snagged the best room and left me with some dinky closet of a room with a view of power lines and the neighbor’s trash cans. But Georgie had my back. The high-powered telescope she got me even has an attached camera. Mom raised her eyebrows when she saw it, but Georgie told her it didn’t cost anything but a little engineering magic. Some rich kid at the university gave it to her after she agreed to transform the guy’s skateboard into some kind of trick hoverboard. Seven sisters like Georgie would be awesome. But Vivica? One of her is all I can deal with.

I open the triangular window in front of the telescope, make a slight adjustment to the focus on the eyepiece, start the camera program, then inch back a little so I can watch the sky with my naked eye. And I see it again. The Pleiades move. This is getting too weird. On-off-on-off they flash in unison then swim again into an arrow-shaped dotted line. Slowly they glow brighter and bigger until the individual stars seem to blur into one another.

This can’t be happening. I clutch the railing of the catwalk and peer through the glass windowpanes at the stars. They keep flashing, almost insistently, and I figure I better look at what they’re pointing to, or they might dive-bomb me in frustration. I crack open another one of the triangular windows so I can see better without jostling the telescope. As soon as I glance back to that spot at the edge of the field, the stars pop back to where they’re supposed to be, as if invisible rubber bands have snapped them into place.

That’s when I hear the rustling sound, like when you crinkle up a piece of plastic wrap. It must be something ruffling the tall dry grass in the field. Could someone be sneaking around out there? Goosebumps climb up my arms.

This is getting creepy, but I’ve got to know what’s out there, so I look closer. My gut pushes into the railing as I lean over and cup my hands to the sides of my face, trying to shut out the glare of the back patio security lights. Then I see it. Someone in an oversized sweatshirt breaks through the tall prairie grass and runs toward my house. Toward me.

I shrink back down out of sight, grazing the railing with my forehead. I rub my head where it stings a little and take deep breaths, trying to slow down my pounding heart and keep my cool. Is it a burglar? I feel the panic well up and spidery tingles crawl across my neck, threatening to set off a major migraine. I’ve got to stay calm and keep the terrible headache at bay. I find a pressure point on my neck and press down with two fingertips. That trick doesn’t always work, but thankfully this time the pain at the base of my skull switches off.

Get a grip, Quinn. Just chill. Artistic scientists don’t freak out, I remind myself, they observe. I rarely turn lights on because of my headaches and so my sky dome must look dark from the outside. Surely whoever it is can’t see me. I raise my head back up so my eyes are above the railing and I see the person dash through the backyard and across the limestone patio. It looks like they’re headed toward the side of the house.

I try to take in details as the person rushes through the amber light cast by the patio fixtures: they’re not pro-basketball tall but not short either, wearing faded jeans over lanky legs. A tallish kid, or a skinny, shorter grown-up? They’ve got on a gray sweatshirt with a zip-up collar that’s flipped up, casting shadows that hide the person’s face and hair. I can make out some kind of logo on the back: an oval with an orange and yellow swirl inside. Below it, white letters spell out Texas Sk—. I can’t read the rest.

The kid or grown-up—I can’t tell, so I’m just going to call them The Grayster after the gray sweatshirt—trips over one of the rough, uneven stones on the patio and flies through the air. The Grayster lands sideways, hard on one arm, and lets out an oomph while rolling across the grass. A piece of folded-up white paper dangles precariously from The Grayster’s back pocket. As The Grayster scrambles up to their feet, the paper flutters down to the ground, lost in the shadows. The Grayster frantically pats their jeans pockets, looking wildly around, then drops to all fours and sweeps their hands in big arcs through the grass. After a moment, they snatch up the paper, jump to their feet, and run around the corner of the house toward the side yard, out of my sight.

I ease down the catwalk’s ladder, my legs trembling a little, and tiptoe through my bedroom and down the stairs. I push my fear down and concentrate on being as quiet as possible. I have to see if The Grayster is gone or still around, hiding in the side yard or lurking out front. But if I wake up Mom and Dad, they’ll be mad—like face red, veins in their necks twitching, pretending they’re just talking sternly when they’re practically yelling mad. I’ve definitely risked getting a morning migraine by getting up earlier than allowed by the strict sleep routine my doctor ordered. I can imagine the lecture I’d get from Mom: And on your first day of school, Quinn? That’s no way to start the year.

I creep down the hall to the entryway and press my ear to the front door, listening, trying to hear something other than my own nervous breathing. Wait, are those footsteps? More than that, it sounds like shoes slapping on pavement, like someone hightailing it down our front walk. I hold my breath and strain to hear as the sound fades away. When everything is quiet and still again, just before my lungs are about to burst, I let the air out in a whoosh.

I check that the chain latch is secure, open the front door about an inch, and peer out. Nothing looks weird. Just the same old houses and front yards around our cul-de-sac. No Grayster, no anyone. Just a wave of light seeping across the front lawn as dawn breaks.

A flapping noise catches my attention. I see something in my peripheral vision and smush my face against the door jamb to try to make out what it is. It looks like a folded sheet of paper taped to the front door, fluttering in a light breeze. I scan the street again. Seeing no one, I unlatch the chain, open the door a few inches wider, snatch the paper, then quickly close and lock the door.

I sit on the tile floor of the entryway and examine the paper. It’s streaked with grass stains. My mind replays the image of The Grayster tumbling across our patio and then snatching something from the grass. This must be the same paper The Grayster dropped in the backyard. Scrawled on the front in shaky block letters is a name: Vivica.

Whoa. Air hisses through my teeth as I inhale sharply in surprise. The Grayster knows Vivica? I open the note and read: Meet our demands, or it all ends.

What are you doing up?

Startled, I jerk my head up. There stands Vivica, still in her pajamas with Donut Disturb in big, bold type along with an image of a chocolate-glazed donut on the shirt and strands of her long brown hair escaping the scrunchie that corrals her haphazard ponytail. She’s glowering at me, hands on her hips. It’s like the note conjured her. Okay, I know she’s a light sleeper and probably heard me go down the stairs and followed me so she could rat me out to our parents, but who wouldn’t have weird spooky thoughts like that after everything I’ve seen this morning?

Vivica swipes the paper out of my hands and reads the note. I watch her, waiting for her to freak out, but she just drops the paper in my lap, totally calm.

I pick it up and scramble to my feet. Do you know what it means?

Vivica shrugs. She pulls the scrunchie out and starts finger-combing her hair. It’s some kind of dumb joke. I mean, anyone legit would have just texted me about whatever was bugging them.

I roll my eyes. Vivica is obsessed with the phone she finally got for her birthday this year.

So, do you want this, or want me to recycle it, or what? I ask, waving the paper in Vivica’s face.

She bats my hand away. Burn it, for all I care. It’s probably just someone jealous that I got voted class president as the new kid. Can you believe how seriously people take these things? Vivica gives me her wide-eyed, innocent-little-me face.

I let the comment go. No way I’m taking the bait and giving Vivica an even bigger head. I stuff the letter in my shorts pocket.

After all, scientists, even artistic scientists, always save the evidence.

2

This is it, my first day at Hill Springs Middle School, and I’m planted on the walkway that leads to the school’s entrance. I can’t move. Not because I’m scared. Well, okay, I’m a little scared. But the main reason I’m stuck is because Vivica is still talking to me.

She’s telling me something very important, at least in her opinion, but it’s hard to focus on her as streams of kids bump into us on their way inside. Three flags whip around in the wind above us at the top of their poles—the Stars and Stripes, the Texas Lone Star flag, and a green flag with a bat, the school’s mascot. When I found out the mascot was a bat, I thought that was weird, until I learned there are caves hidden everywhere around here. And half the year they’re filled with bats, and each bat scarfs down thousands of mosquitoes a night. So maybe a bat for a mascot is pretty cool after all.

… so I shouldn’t see you too much. I mean, it’s a small school and we might pass each other in the hall, and technically we’ll have to see each other at lunch because everyone eats in the cafeteria at the same time, but the sixth graders don’t sit anywhere near the eighth graders, not because of rules but they just don’t … Vivica’s been going on like this for ten minutes at least, spewing out a loud, incessant stream of words and waving her arms around like a cranky parrot flapping its wings. I pull her off the walkway onto the grass before she whacks somebody in the head.

We are so different. And not just because I’m pretty shy and quiet and Vivica is the living definition of audacious (look it up—I swear in the dictionary, next to the word audacious, you’ll see a picture of Vivica and the words enough said). We don’t look like each other, nor our big sister, Georgie. It’s like someone stacked our parents’ DNA on a merry-go-round and spun it super fast and all the traits flung out in different directions, each landing randomly on one of us.

Vivica’s hair is deep brown and thick and falls in waves down her back. Georgie’s is a light puff of strawberry-blonde curls, and my thin auburn hair just hangs limply to my shoulders. Georgie and I have to coat our pale skin with sunscreen in the summer to keep from turning into lobsters, but Vivica’s olive-toned skin never burns. Georgie’s eyes are summer sky blue, mine are the color of a muddy river, and Vivica’s, well, it depends on her mood. Technically, they’re gray, but she calls them her actor’s secret weapon because they can look blue or green as her pupils dilate and shrink with the changes in her mood. Now, they flash as green as the school bat flag flapping overhead.

It’s just, it’s my year, Quinn. Vivica says, grabbing me by the shoulders, which is annoying because the wind keeps blowing pieces of hair in my eyes and now I can’t brush it away. I try blowing it out of my face, instead. Vivica either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care. Eighth grade is a big deal. Look, don’t take this the wrong way, but it was kind of nice to just be me, and not Migraine Girl’s sister. And now you’re back, and it’s already way weird that you’re starting school so late …

I nod. Migraine Girl is what the kids back in Ohio called me. I know it’s not easy being connected with me at school. I’m the weirdo always in the nurse’s office, randomly ducking out of class or canceling on friends because of headaches. Tons of kids think I fake it. If only.

I get it, Vivica. Clean slate, like Mom and Dad said.

Our businesswoman mom calls the move from Ohio to Texas a win-win for everyone. Mom landed her dream job in Austin, and Dad bought a plumbing business in Hill Springs, just a twenty-minute drive away from the edge of Austin. It’ll be easy for Vivica, destined to be a movie star or Broadway diva, to get to Austin for auditions and special theater classes, and we’re so close to Texas State University that Georgie moved out of the dorm and now lives with us for free. My win is that Hill Springs is a dark sky community, which means the only lights that can be on at night are special ones that aren’t very bright and don’t allow light to go upward, so there is a lot less light pollution. I can stargaze every night it’s clear out.

We all came down to Texas in August before school started and found the perfect house in a subdivision built on an old ranch. Ours is the only house that isn’t brand new. It’s the original farmhouse and still has next to it a big barn that Georgie painted sky blue—she said there are enough red barns in the world already—and then she and Dad converted the barn into her apartment and workshop.

But the heat! I was sure we were walking around in a huge outdoor oven. Like we were the victims of some messed up science experiment where you try to see if you can fry an egg on the sidewalk, only we were the eggs. Big-time heat means big-time headaches for me. Slammer Jammers I call them, the worst headaches I get. They feel like little creatures are driving bumper cars around inside my head, ramming into the sides of my skull over and over. So, I stayed in Ohio with Mom until that house sold and the weather in Texas dropped below ninety degrees, keeping up with the assignments for my new classes in Hill Springs by email.

Even standing here now, baking in the morning sun, I can feel the sweat starting to bead up on my forehead. I’m about to ask Vivica if she’s done and can we please find air conditioning when her eyes fade from green to gray and she says, Clean slate, totally. Then she hugs me, rocking me side to side. You’re the best, Quinnie!

I grit my teeth. Did Vivica really have to call me by that babyish nickname in front of everyone?

Cool it, Viv, you’ll make me seasick! I don’t want to barf my first day of school.

Sorry, Vivica says, all singsong and sweetness, and pulls back. The first bell rings and we race-walk toward the school entrance.

Okay, Vivica says as we push through the metal double doors. She makes a big show of pulling out her phone to check the time. "We just have a minute. I promised Mom and Dad I’d show you where everything is, especially the nurse’s office. But we’ll have to do it at warp speed."

Vivica grabs my hand and yanks me to the center of the main hall. She twirls me around in a big circle, pointing and shouting out in rapid-fire Office! Cafeteria! Gym! Lockers! as they slide past my vision. Kids rushing to class skitter out of the way of my backpack that flies in a wide arc off my shoulder as Vivica wheels me around. I’ve had enough of Vivica’s crack-the-whip style of playing tour guide and plant my feet.

Look, Viv, it’s okay. The school’s not that big. I can figure it out. And I get it. When we’re at school, it’s separate grades, separate lives. You won’t even know I’m here.

You’re so awesome, Quinnie! And remember, you’re on your own to catch the right bus home, because I have a Harvest Dance Committee planning meeting after school. Actually, I’m going to be busy a lot after school this year preparing for auditions and with all the committees I have to attend, because you know, I’m—

Class president, I know.

Vivica walks backward a few steps, blowing me a kiss goodbye before turning and rushing down the hall. She yells, Hey, y’all, waving her phone as she catches up to a group of girls. You’ve got to see this.

Y’all? I stifle a laugh. Just one more thing about Texas I’ll have to get used to.

I find