“It’s from Jane Eyre,” I tell him. “This is the last time, I promise.”
“The scene when Jane and Rochester meet?” Mr. Henderson asks.
I shake my head. “No, when Jane is at boarding school and Mr. Brocklehurst makes her stand on that stool.”
Mr. Henderson doesn’t say a word, but he holds out his hand. I pry the book from my grip and open it to the bookmarked page.
“I thought I’d write an introduction about schools and bullying—a compare and contrast.” I tell him. “How some things change, and some things don’t.”
“Interesting,” he says, flipping through the pages.
Interesting doesn’t mean no, so I hold my breath. Mr. Henderson still hasn’t said anything when Ryan pipes up.
“Isn’t Jane Eyre a chick book?” he says.
Mr. Henderson’s eyes narrow, but his gaze lands on Ryan. “It would do you good to read more, Mr. Dinsmore.” Mr. Henderson turns to me. “A suitable selection. Let’s see how you do with it.” He hands me the book.
I know better than to stay and hang around. Ryan does that and look at all the trouble he gets into. But as I pass his desk, I can’t resist leaning down and whispering.
“Looks like you’ll have to change your underwear.”
“Pastels are for wimps.”
It’s the first thing Tory says about my new piece. We back our scripts with construction paper. That way, when our fingers tremble or hands shake (and they will—at least, I know mine will), the thin computer paper won’t rattle and distract the audience.
I went with a delicate light green because it reminded me of spring. Last night, I typed up everything and even wrote the introduction.
“You want to make a strong statement,” Tory says now. “Pick a strong color.”
I nod.
“Is this final?” she asks.
I nod again.
“Clear it with Henderson?”
“I did,” I say.
Tory almost looks like she doesn’t believe me. “What is it?”
“From Jane Eyre, the scene—”
She groans. “Don’t tell me, the scene where they first meet, blah, blah, blah.”
“No,” I say, slowly, wondering what on earth Jane Eyre—or that scene—ever did to anyone. “It’s the scene when Jane is at Lowood, and the superintendent has her stand on the stool in front of the whole school and talks about how awful she is.”
A spark lights Tory’s face. It almost looks like approval. “Oh, excellent. I don’t think I’ve heard anyone do that before. And it’s perfect for you, since you’re so ...” She trails off, then seems to give herself a mental shake. “Let’s go over the text,” she continues. “Jane Eyre has a lot of description, and you’re allowed to cut things out for the most dramatic reading.”
I’m so what, I wonder, but I don’t question Tory or refuse her help. In half an hour, she even has me in front of the digital camera, where I manage to flub every single line in my script.
Even if I can’t read the piece, I know it’s the right one. I’d like to think if Jane Eyre were in tenth grade, she might play the violin and be vice president of the knitting club. She might have a beautiful best friend. She might be my friend. As I stand there, holding my script, I start to think that maybe she is.
I am not ready. I am so not ready. Tory and Mr. Henderson have worked with all the new members, but with the exception of Kaitlin, who’s doing poetry, we all stumble through our pieces. Tory cuts the digital camera practices short because the camera really does add ten pounds—of horrible.
It’s Friday and I can’t believe a week has zipped by. I can’t believe it’s February already. I can’t believe tomorrow I’ll be attending my first speech tournament. I go through the line at lunch, then realize what a waste of money that is—I can’t eat a thing.
“Nervous?” Caro asks when I sit at our table.
I squeeze my eyes shut and nod.
“Then here.” Caro places a tiny white box on the table in front of me.
“What is this?”
“Open it and find out.”
So I do. Inside, on a bed of cotton, is a charm for my half of our BFF necklace. I turn the tiny megaphone with my fingertips. The silvery surface is smooth and cool. It’s pretty, but it doesn’t make any sense. I never worry about sounding rude with Caro, so the question pops out of my mouth.
“Megaphone?”
“Because you’re speaking tomorrow,” she says, as if that explains it all.
“Isn’t this for cheerleading?”
“Words come out of them,” Caro says, pointing to the megaphone. “Words come out of your mouth.” Her finger moves from the megaphone in my palm to my mouth. “It’s so the world can hear you.”
I’m not sure I want the world—or anyone—to hear me. The donkey teeth feel as though they’ve really sprouted through my upper lip. At the same time, hot tears sting my eyes. Caro has been my best friend since I helped her find her missing milk stick on the first day of kindergarten—no stick, no milk (but thinking back, I’m sure sweet Mrs. Pederson would’ve let Caro have milk, stick or no).
That’s why I’m doing this, standing up in front of strangers and enduring twenty four minutes of speaking. So next term, she can draw the pictures, and I can fill in the words, and for one class, it will be just us, BFFs—the way it used to be.
That afternoon, I walk into speech team practice expecting a tornado, the sort that Tory whips up—both cameras running, everyone making last minute fixes to their performances, everyone talking over everyone else.
Instead, the entire team is circled around Ryan and his laptop. No one speaks above a whisper. I glance around for Mr. Henderson, but he isn’t here. So I move closer to see what’s caught everyone’s attention.
“Click refresh again,” Tory says. “They always update the roster on Friday afternoon.”
I hear a click, then a gasp. “There it is!” Tory says. “Come on, load faster.”
I’m close enough now to peer over her shoulder. I can see the top half of Ryan’s laptop screen. He has a web browser open, and on top of the page, it says: Winnetka High School Speech Team.
“Are we spying?” I ask, my voice a whisper.
“Not really,” Tory says. “Every Friday, Winnetka updates their tournament roster.”
“On the members-only part of the site?” I ask.
The room goes even quieter, although I’m not sure how that’s possible. “Are we supposed to be doing this?” I add.
“Oh, sure.” Ryan glances at me through his bangs. “Now you decide to talk.”
I ignore him. “Don’t we update our roster?”
Tory nods.
I imagine a group of kids over at Winnetka High School, huddled around a laptop, having this exact same conversation. We hack their site; they hack ours. If that’s the case, I’m not sure how any of this matters. But Tory’s jaw is clenched, and Ryan has his fingers crossed.
“Not discussion, not discussion, not discussion,” he mutters. Then, “Yes! Romero isn’t doing discussion.” Ryan slumps in his chair.
“Maybe you’ll have a chance this year,” Tory says.
Ryan makes a face, and the two freshmen girls, Kaitlin and Savannah, giggle. They both have a crush on him. I hate to be the one to tell them, but he just doesn’t change his underwear all that often. I laugh at this, which is stupid, because now everyone is staring at me.
“Who’s Romero?” I say, to divert attention.
“Romeo Romero.” Tory plants a hand on her hip. “Also known as Ryan’s nemesis in discussion.”
“Nem … a … who?” This, of course, is Ben.
Tory rolls her eyes. “Archrival. Moriarty to his Sherlock Holmes.”
Ben stares blankly.
“Like Plankton and Mr. Krabs,” she says.
“Oh …” echoes around the room.
Tory shakes her head. We are still unworthy.
Ryan mouths a few words I’m glad I can’t
hear.
“He also went to state last year in prose,” Tory adds. “He didn’t place, but he came close.”
“He’s only a sophomore, too,” Ryan says. “But he’s already one of their stars.” He sounds disgusted by this.
Tory nods, but when Savannah whispers, “He’s cute,” Tory points a finger at her.
“Cute enough to steal everything right out from under us,” Tory says. “I swear, if their coach could, she’d put him in every single category. He’s that good.”
“He’s in two this tournament,” Ryan says. “Serious prose and humorous interpretation.”
“Crap.” Tory surveys us, her eyes narrow, and her mouth a thin, hard line. “Why don’t we have anyone who’s funny?”
“Or anyone who’s serious,” Ryan quips.
“But ... but,” Savannah says, “I’m in prose, and so is Jolia.”
Yes, and unfortunately, her reading of To Kill a Mockingbird is only slightly better than my Jane Eyre. The room goes silent. Even if I could say something in my defense (and I can’t), the donkey teeth won’t let me. My mouth feels clumsy and stupid. The best thing to do is say nothing at all, which is what the entire team decides to do. Savannah’s words hang in the air for several awful moments until Tory clears her throat.
“It could be a ruse,” she says before pointing at both me and Savannah. “You two, your mission is to watch out for him in prose, whether in one of your rounds or the finals.” Tory’s eyes meet Ryan’s. For that moment, they’re united. “We can have someone sit in on the humorous interp finals.”
Ben snorts. “How can you know he’ll make the finals?”
Tory and Ryan exchange that look again. “Oh, we know,” they both say.
“Why do they call him Romeo?” Savannah asks.
A sly smile lights Tory’s face. “Oh, you’ll see,” is all she says.
Chapter 4
Saturday morning on the bus, I clutch my mittened hands together and try not to shake. Everyone around me has a case of jitters. Papers and note cards scatter across the floor, soaking up the puddles left from the dirty snow that clings to our good shoes. The ride to our first tournament at Worthington High School is way too short.
All the teams gather in the cafeteria, each school with its own table, except for Winnetka, which has commandeered three entire tables. Ben halts and the rest of us crash into him.
“Whoa. How many people do they have?” he asks.
“About thirty,” Tory says, although how she forces the words through her clenched jaw, I’m not sure.
“Kind of like David and Goliath,” I say.
Tory throws me a look that might be gratitude.
“David and who?” This is Ben. Of course.
“Rebel alliance versus the Death Star,” I explain.
And now, Tory grins.
At our own table, we peel off jackets and see that everyone’s good shoes match their nice outfits—mostly. Ben is anchored down by what must be his dad’s tie. He catches my stare and shrugs.
Tory flings off her long wool coat to reveal the perfect debater’s outfit, a serious suit in a blue so dark, it looks like midnight. Her blond hair is pulled back in a bun, and she wears glasses—not that she needs them.
“Okay, rookies,” she says to us. “Let’s go over this one more time.”
I try to listen. I really do. Tory’s an excellent speaker and makes dull things sound fascinating, even if she’s only reciting what’s in the speech team handbook. No matter how good—or bad—you happen to be, you will speak in three rounds. This is mandatory. Those with tops scores move onto the final round. Most kids pick a single category and piece and stick with it for the entire season. Kids like Tory and Ryan? Well, they’re good enough to perform in two categories and take trophies home in both.
The noise in the cafeteria swallows Tory’s voice. Conversations float around me, and my mind strays, my ears pricking at enticing words that have nothing to do with what Tory is talking about.
“Three rounds,” Tory is saying. “After the third, there’s a break. Eat your lunch, but don’t get too sloppy. If you make it to the finals, the last thing you want is to be wearing ketchup.”
Everyone laughs, but it sounds forced, like we’re pushing the sound from our throats.
Tory continues, telling us how and when the scores are posted and where to check the finalist list. We’re judged on a scale of one through five, with one being the best. You can’t score lower than a five, even if there are more than five kids in your round. This, I think, is a good thing.
“Always check,” she says. “Just because you think you tanked doesn’t mean you did. And if you miss the finals …” She lets the sentence trail, but we all hear the unspoken threat despite the noise in the cafeteria.
Then a name catches my attention, and Tory’s voice fades.
“Did you see who’s back this year?” a girl says. She’s standing close and I hear the squeal in her voice. “Sam Romero!”
“Romeo Romero? Lead me to him,” a second girl says. “I’ll be his Juliet.”
My ears perk up at the name Sam. My Sam from the park, maybe? Okay, so he isn’t my Sam. Still, I rack my brain, searching my memories. Does his last name start with an R? I scoot my chair closer, hoping for more clues.
“The Winnetka coach wants him at state this year,” the first girl says. “He won’t have time for any of us.”
Sam. Winnetka. Coincidence? My mouth goes dry. Something deep inside insists this state-tourney bound Sam must be my Sam, but I can’t bring myself to truly believe it.
“Excuse me, Jolia?” Tory’s words have an edge sharp enough to cut. “Is this boring for you?” All of her earlier gratitude has evaporated.
I shake my head, my cheeks hot, but whether that’s from Tory’s scowl or the fact Sam might be somewhere in this school right now, I don’t know.
I’m thinking about getting new deodorant. A few weeks back, Mom bought me some vanilla chai scented kind. At first, I thought it was kind of cool. But now, waiting for the first round to start, sweat blooming all over my body, I worry that I smell like a Starbucks.
I sit in a strange classroom, my piece resting on the desk in front of me, the clock ticking down the seconds, while the judge at the back of the room sorts his critique sheets. Not only must I speak three times in front of total strangers today, three strange adults get to tell me how awful I am at it. When you think about it, it’s kind of like a literary reality TV show. Add in Tory’s nonstop cameras at practice, and it really is.
Failing speech doesn’t sound so bad at the moment.
The judge asks the last student who enters to shut the classroom door, and it’s like all the air is sucked out when she does.
“Welcome to the Worthington Speech Invitational,” the judge says. “I’m Mr. Larson. I teach science here at Worthington High, but I participated in speech growing up. I like to revisit those days, this time on the other side.”
A few giggles echo in the room, but I think most of us are too on edge to laugh.
“I won’t tell you not to be nervous,” he says, “because I always was. But remember, you’re doing this for fun.”
I have so many reasons for doing this. Fun hasn’t made the top ten. But when I glance over my shoulder and see Mr. Larson give the whole room a smile, I wonder if it won’t be that bad.
“First up.” Mr. Larson peers at his list. “F-13, Jolia Cuppernull.”
Okay, so it will be that bad.
I scoop up my script. Last night, I backed the pages with a dark forest green—oak leaf green. This color makes me think of summer, which reminds me of Sam. He’s the last thing I should think about as I walk to the front of the room. For a few seconds, I’m not sure how to start. I’m not sure I’m supposed to start. Mr. Larson nods at me.
“Go on,” he says. “I’ll start your time ... now.”
For a few more seconds, I do nothing but stand in front of the room. The phantom donkey teeth press behind m
y upper lip. If they grow too large, will I be able to talk around them? Will I be able to talk at all?
Mr. Larson nods again, and this time a slight frown appears above the wire-rimmed glasses he wears.
Fear balls in my stomach. It feels thick and solid, like I’ve eaten a huge meal of terror. It pushes upward, clogging my chest, blocking my throat, filling my mouth. I almost run for the bathroom, since I’m sure I’m about to throw up. Instead, when I open my mouth, words come out.
My voice, thin and quavery, fills the room. Syllables, sentences, then whole sections of my piece spill out. I’m talking. Too fast. The words, once started, won’t stop until I reach the end. When I sit down, I count the minutes on my fingers and realize I’ve only used six of the eight.
I don’t recover until after the third student reads. During the fourth and fifth speakers, I lean forward slightly and listen hard. Tory has instructed us to do “mini-critiques” on all the other competitors and to take notes in our speech team binder. We need to examine their strengths and weaknesses and use that knowledge to improve our own performance.
My heart sinks, filling up the spot left empty from the fear. The heat starts as a pinprick in my cheeks, but the flush spreads across my face. My fingertips feel like ice against my skin. While I can barely remember my performance, I didn’t think it was that awful.
Until now. These kids could be on television or up on stage. The last kid has a voice so deep, he almost sounds like the narrator for the Harry Potter audio books. And since this kid is reading Oliver Twist, he even has the English accent perfected.
When the round is over and we all file out of the room, I know the truth. No one will look me in the eye. The single glance thrown my way is filled with pity. I was right. This is just like a reality TV show, and I’m the one clueless contestant who doesn’t know how terrible she is. Except. I do know.
I duck my head and rush for the drinking fountain. I take long swallows of water, letting it chill me and fill my stomach. I hope it will wash away the fear.
The Fine Art of Keeping Quiet Page 3