“Oh, well, lucky us,” she said, dropping what appeared to be a photocopied New York Times article in front of her and the rest of the people at the table. “You all have five minutes to read, and then we’re going to do some quick two-minute speeches summarizing the issue and its pros and cons.” She looked down at her thin gold watch. “Go.”
Emma started the article. Amidst growing convertorsy… controversy… As she read, certain words refused to unscramble themselves, and then there were other words that she knew weren’t scrambled, but which she couldn’t understand just the same.
“All right, that’s time,” Mrs. Bateman said from where she leaned against the window. The late afternoon sunlight glinted on her red hair. “Who wants to go first?”
Remington raised his hand.
“All right, Remington,” she said. “You have two minutes. Summarize the issue and present a pro or con position.”
Every girl in the room stared at Remington as he got up. Emma suddenly wondered why she’d decided to come. The last thing she felt like doing was watching her brother give another perfect speech, this time surrounded by fans.
“The recent leaks of several State Department cables have raised the question of whether releasing certain classified information is harmful to American interests,” he began. “But in fact these leaks are a perfect example of democracy in action. The entire point of a democracy is that the American public has the right to know what’s being done in its name. Without being held accountable to its citizens, our government is allowed to act within its own moral code. These leaks are actually working to enforce our First Amendment rights of free speech.”
Emma began to feel herself zone out. She’d already seen enough of Remington’s oratorical skills to last her a lifetime.
“And in conclusion—”
“Time,” Mrs. Bateman called, her eyes on her watch. “Very good, but you went a little too long. And you were reaching a bit with the constitutional argument. Still, excellent work, Remington.”
The other team members clapped as Remington sat down. Emma joined in just before the applause ended.
“Now, who would like to present the opposing opinion?” Mrs. Bateman’s beady eyes traveled around the table until they landed on her. “Miss Conway?”
“Oh, thanks, but that’s okay,” she said. “I’m just sitting in.”
“Go ahead,” Mrs. Bateman said, gesturing to the whiteboard. “You must have had some interest in actually doing this if you’re here.”
Emma eyed her brother furiously across the table. He could have warned her that this might happen.
“We’re waiting,” Mrs. Bateman added.
Emma felt Hillary give her a nudge. With an annoyed look in Hillary’s direction she got up and approached the whiteboard.
“So, Miss Conway,” Mrs. Bateman said, folding her arms, “why shouldn’t classified information about diplomatic relations be leaked?”
Emma tried to block out the twelve blank faces staring at her from around the library table. “Well,” she said, “I guess it can actually cause more trouble than it’s worth.”
“Your reasoning?” asked Mrs. Bateman.
“Well, it sort of reminds me of what happened with these girls at my last school,” she began. “This one girl, Jessica, was writing notes about these other two girls, who were supposed to be her friends. But they were really mean notes. Like, saying how they had mustaches and back fat.”
Remington began to flip his pen in a circle between his fingers, the way he always did when he was nervous.
“So this other girl, Phoebe, who was friends with Jessica, decided that the girls needed to know what Jessica was saying about them. So she found the notes and put them up on the bulletin board next to the student lounge so everyone could read them. And the girls went ballistic, obviously, and Jessica was furious, and Phoebe made out like she was a hero. But then everybody was mad at Phoebe, because posting someone else’s notes to a wall—well, that’s pretty mean. Especially when they’re supposed to be your friend, right? And everybody was mad at Jessica, because she’d written these really mean things. And the school was totally annoyed because it had been trying to deal with its clique problem. So at the end of the day, I believe telling other people’s secrets really just isn’t worth it.”
“That’s time,” Mrs. Bateman said, sounding distinctly nonplussed. “You can sit down, Emma.”
Emma walked quickly back to her seat. Nobody at the table was looking at her.
“Miss Conway,” Mrs. Bateman said, walking slowly toward the front of the room, “there will come a moment—at someone’s wedding, or a birthday party—where you may be called upon to enlighten an audience with a hilarious or touching true story. But for persuasive speaking,” she said, karate-chopping the air, “we want to hear facts. We want to hear statistics. We want to hear an argument based on the evidence, not on things that have happened to you.”
Emma felt her face burn. But I was just sitting in, she wanted to say. Don’t I at least get points for trying?
“Now, let’s move on to this week’s assignment. I’d like to call up someone else to give you an example of what persuasive speaking actually is. Mr. Lloyd? Do you have something prepared on standardized tests?” she asked.
“Yes,” Walker said as he slid out of his chair and walked purposefully to the front of the room. Emma was almost too embarrassed to look at him after the verbal smackdown from Mrs. Bateman.
“Last year, more than eight hundred music classes had to be dropped from public school curriculums,” Walker began in a full, rich voice. “Four hundred science classes had to be dropped, too. And last year the average school lunch period was cut down from half an hour to twenty minutes. This is directly the result of standardized tests, which are singlehandedly destroying our educational system.”
Emma noticed that everyone in the room was giving Walker their rapt attention—maybe even more attention than they had given Remington.
“There are many arguments for why standardized tests like the Regents Exam and the SAT should be banned, but here are the three most important reasons,” he went on. “Standardized tests can be biased against women and minorities; they encourage schools to teach only the subjects covered on the test; and they have been shown to be an inaccurate predictor of college success.”
Walker was an even better speaker than her brother, Emma realized. He’d finally beaten him at something. She suddenly flashed back to a memory of the day Walker and Remington had gotten into a fight, when they were about thirteen. They’d been playing Xbox, and Walker, who normally never got mad at Remington, and who let him be in charge of what they were going to do, play, and eat whenever they were at the lake house, said Remington was cheating. Remington denied it. Emma watched it get more and more heated until Remington and Walker were in the middle of the living room floor, pounding each other with their fists. Emma threw her glass of lemonade all over them to get them to stop. It worked, but then her mom was furious that she’d ruined the new carpet.
“In conclusion, our students deserve more than a biased, unimaginative form of testing that is predetermining the curriculum,” he said. “Standardized testing should be eliminated as part of the college application process. Doing so would return autonomy to our schools and give more heft to the No Child Left Behind Act. Thank you,” he said, walking back to his chair.
Emma clapped longer and louder than anyone else at the table.
“Excellent,” Mrs. Bateman said, going to the board. “Does everyone know why that worked?” She picked up a black erasable marker and began to scrawl on the board. “First, a perfect introduction with statistics,” she said, writing the word statistics on the board.
To Emma, the word looked like caustics.
“He gave three main points,” she went on, writing three main points on the board. “Which were all backed up with research.”
Everyone scribbled in their notebooks. But Emma was too interested in looking at
Walker’s profile.
“And then the conclusion restated those three points. Emma Conway!” Mrs. Bateman shouted.
Emma jumped in her seat. “Yes?”
“Was there any personal experience in that speech?”
“Um…” she answered.
“Did Mr. Lloyd tell a story about something that happened to him?” she asked, glaring at her.
“No,” she replied.
“Exactly. So for next time, I want you to give a speech on standardized tests,” Mrs. Bateman said to her. “Taking the pro position. Everyone else will start doing their research for their final project. But you, Miss Conway, will deliver your speech using Mr. Lloyd’s sterling example. And some actual research.”
“That’s really okay,” Emma said. “This was just a onetime thing. And I’m not really on the team.”
Mrs. Bateman narrowed her eyes. “I’m asking you to join,” she said, as if Emma was a little slow on the uptake.
Emma looked around the table. Almost everyone seemed engrossed in reading, taking notes, or checking their cell phones, but Walker gave her a quick thumbs-up sign. Do it, he mouthed.
“Okay, thanks,” she said. “Sounds good.” So maybe her speech hadn’t been too terrible, she thought. And maybe Walker would help her.
“Hey, good job,” he said, when they stood to pack up their bags. “Mrs. Bateman would never invite just anyone onto the team. Especially when you weren’t even trying out.”
“Well, the last time someone asked me to be on a team was for kickball in the third grade. So I guess I’m flattered. And you are amazing at this. Really. I had no idea.”
“It was pretty rough when I first started. And I definitely didn’t have your presence.”
“My ‘presence’? Is that good or bad?” she joked.
“It’s good,” he said, smiling at her. His eyes seemed to look right through her. He began to gather up his things.
“Do you think you might be able to share some of your genius?” she asked. “Just for a few minutes? To sort of help me get off on the right foot?”
Walker glanced across the room, to where Remington and Mrs. Bateman were talking. “But what about Remington?” he asked.
Emma wasn’t sure what to say to this. “What do you mean?”
“Wouldn’t you want him to help you?” he said, unbuttoning the cuffs of his shirt and pushing the sleeves up to his elbows. His forearms looked ropy with muscles.
“Not really,” she said.
He seemed to consider the implications of this for a moment, and then shook his head. “How about we just have lunch tomorrow? Would that work? I’m at twelve thirty.”
“Me, too,” she said.
“Cool. I’ll meet you in the lobby.”
Remington walked up, carrying his book bag. “Good job,” he said to Emma. “And you, too, man,” he said to Walker.
“You, too,” Walker said briskly, shoving his binder into his book bag. “See ya later,” he said to Emma, and left.
It seemed strange for Walker to leave so quickly, but Remington didn’t seem to notice. “So, uh, congratulations, Em,” he said. “Sounds like you’re on the team.”
“Thanks,” she said, unable to resist feeling a little smug.
“But do you want to be on the team?” he asked, slipping on his Chadwick blazer. “It’s kind of a big commitment. And we don’t want to take someone on and start training them unless they’re seriously into it.”
Emma felt a flicker of anger deep down in her stomach. “Yes, I’m into it,” she said, hitching her book bag up her shoulder. “Why wouldn’t I be into it?”
“I’m just asking, Emma,” he said. “Don’t be mad.”
“Whatever,” she muttered, turning to leave. She walked out fuming but with her head held high. Never underestimate the power of being underestimated, she thought. It was the best advice she’d ever heard.
chapter 13
Emma lay on her bed, listening to Magnet’s cover of “Lay Lady Lay” on her headphones. On a legal pad she wrote out a list of speeches that she suddenly wanted to give for speech team:
Why Uniforms Suck
Why Cell Phones Should Be Allowed in School
Why Being Grounded Doesn’t Work
Why Schools Should Do Away with Grades
She was putting an asterisk next to the last one when a knock on her door made her jump. She pulled off her headphones. “Yeah?” she called out.
“Come into the office!” her mom called. “CNN’s doing a piece on Dad!”
Emma swung her feet off her bed. Lately her mom had been calling her into the office almost every night to see something about her dad on the news. It was kind of exciting, as much as she didn’t want to admit it.
She padded into her parents’ office. Her mom sat behind her desk in the corner, while Remington lay on the couch in a T-shirt and his Chadwick sweatpants, a textbook on political philosophy in his hand. She’d said little to him over dinner. She knew that he hadn’t meant to be rude about her joining the team, but his words had stung anyway.
“Where is this?” she asked, looking at her dad on the flat-screen. He was speaking in front of another large crowd outside under a crisp blue sky.
“Ohio,” Remington said.
“As Americans, we deserve better than a country that clings to two extremes,” her dad was saying. “What about a third option? What about an administration that will keep its promises?”
The camera cut to the crowd, cheering and waving. Homemade signs that read CONWAY FOR AMERICA and CONWAY FOR PRESIDENT bobbed up and down in the crowd.
“What about an administration that won’t suddenly flip-flop on the promises it made to the American people?” he called out, getting the crowd riled up even further. “That won’t just pay lip service to the idea of change?”
The clip ended and a female newscaster with short blond hair and a hawkish face came on the screen. “The more than fifteen hundred people who showed up today for Senator Conway’s last-minute speech are just further proof that this hotly contested state might have already chosen its Democratic front-runner,” she said.
“Holy shit, did you hear that?” Remington said, almost jumping out of his seat.
“Remington,” Carolyn warned. “Language.”
“Sorry,” he said. “But fifteen hundred people?”
Carolyn sighed and furrowed her brow. “That’s what she said.”
The cordless phone rang.
“Hello?” Carolyn answered. “Yes, we’re watching it now.”
Emma turned back to the TV. The newscaster turned to three panelists. “So, Mark, what can we make of this early show of support for Conway, before he’s even announced his candidacy?”
“This is amazing,” Remington said, his eyes still glued to the TV. “Do you get how amazing this is? CNN’s already covering his every move. And it hasn’t even started yet.”
“But aren’t these shows always making a big deal about stuff?” Emma asked. “Does this really mean anything?”
Her brother’s face fell. “Brimming with support as usual, Em,” he said.
Her mom hung up the phone. Her cheeks were flushed a bright pink and her eyes were bright. “Well, that was Dad. They just hit a million dollars.”
“Already?” Remington asked.
“And Dad wants you to say a few words at his birthday party next week,” her mom said to Remington. “Something like what you said here the other night. About your generation, its fears, its problems—”
The phone rang again.
“So Dad is going to announce that he’s running at the party?” Emma asked.
“Not yet,” her mom said. “Hello? Yes, we just saw it. I haven’t watched all of the panelists yet.”
Remington pushed himself up from the sofa, and Emma followed him out of the office. “Is Dad coming home again before we go to D.C.?” she asked.
“I don’t think so,” Remington said, running a hand through his chestnut hair. “Acc
ording to the schedule, they’ve got him working every weekend until then.”
“What schedule?” she asked.
“Dad’s schedule. Tom sends it to me a few times a week.”
“Wow,” she muttered. “I guess I’ll just direct my questions to you now.”
“You can ask to be on the list, too, Emma,” he said, as he came to a stop in front of his door. “It’s not that big a deal.”
“That’s okay,” she said.
Remington shook his head. “Why don’t you care about this? Do you know how important this is?”
“Just because I’m not Tom Beckett’s e-mail buddy doesn’t mean I don’t care.”
“Whatever, Em.”
“What’s your problem?” she asked.
Her brother answered by walking into his room and closing the door. “Hey, what’s your problem?” she yelled again. Emma raised her fist to pound on it and then stopped.
It wouldn’t make any difference. Let him think what he wants to, she thought. There was nothing she could do about it anyway.
The next morning, Emma sifted through a stack of research on standardized tests that she’d printed out in the computer lab. She didn’t want to sound like a complete idiot when she met up with Walker. But the articles were so dense. Just reading the first one would probably take her all morning in between classes.
Lizzie walked in and claimed the seat next to her. “Cool color,” said Lizzie, leaning over to check out Emma’s nails. “What’s it called?”
“Frog Prince,” Emma said, admiring the dark green hue. “But guess what? I made the speech team.”
“You did?” Lizzie cried, dumping her book bag on the ground. “That’s great! Good for you!”
Todd walked into homeroom and Emma almost did a double take. His eyes looked red and raw from lack of sleep, and the color had been leached from his face. It was now the third day of his dad’s trial, and from the few headlines Emma had seen online, she gathered that some damaging evidence had already been leveled against Jack Piedmont. Todd was probably going through hell, Emma thought. It definitely looked that way.
The Daughters Join the Party Page 10