“Well, Jolia was talking to Sam Romero,” Savannah says.
I spin around, shocked she’d rat me out like this. But she’s Kaitlin’s best friend. I’d rat her out to save Caro, that’s for sure.
“Before the awards. They were talking,” Savannah continues. “Looked pretty cozy to me.”
Okay. I wouldn’t be that much of a rat. I think.
“Lucky,” Kaitlin breathes.
Tory narrows her eyes at me. “Really?”
“We were talking about the third round.” The whole bus can hear it for the lie it is. But what else can I say?
Tory’s gaze sweeps over me. She’s in award-winning debater mode, and it’s like she’s sizing up the competition, like she just now realizes I’m more than her spy in the prose category. Before she can say anything else, the bus rumbles beneath us, and the doors whoosh close.
“Just remember, Cuppernull.” Tory plops down sideways in her seat so she can skewer me with one last look. “They call him Romeo for a reason.”
Chapter 6
Monday at lunch, Caro is late. I have my tray already. The healthy-for-you pizza looks almost edible, and it certainly smells that way. But with Caro’s chair empty, I can’t seem to find my appetite. Jeremy stares at the spot, a glum expression on his face. It’s like lunch without Caro is torment because he might have to talk to me.
I feel the same way about him.
“Know where she is?” he says after the second bell rings.
“I saw her this morning.”
I pull out my phone (we’re not supposed to have them out during school hours). With the table shielding my hands, I check for any missed text messages. I’m still checking, thinking that somehow, staring will make a message magically appear, when someone taps my shoulder.
I jolt straight up and turn. Caro’s mom, Mrs. Sulvana, stands right behind me. Jeremy looks like he can’t swallow and spins away, scooting behind a few friends. Mrs. Sulvana doesn’t notice. All her attention is on me.
“Jolia! I am here for PIE!” She says this loudly, too, although PIE—Parent Information Exchange—isn’t something you eat but a meeting between parents and the school administration. It’s also Mrs. Sulvana’s version of a joke. And really, as far as parent jokes go, it’s kind of funny, so I laugh.
“Have you seen Caro?” Mrs. Sulvana asks.
I shake my head. “Not since this morning.”
“When you do, see if you can help her with the math.” She sighs. “It was hard going last night.”
“I will,” I promise.
I’m tracking Caro’s mom as she threads through the tables and chairs to the main doors. Kids grow quiet as she passes their tables. Even the jocks at Jeremy’s table seem subdued for once.
Something slaps the back of my chair, and I jerk upright again, my heart pounding so hard, it aches. Peering over the top edge of a huge artist’s portfolio is Caro. She grins at me, then hands me the huge leather folder.
“Your mom—” I begin.
“I know, I know.” She rolls her eyes. “I was hiding until the start time for the PIE meeting. I wish she had a normal job like your mom.”
Mrs. Sulvana runs her own specialty catering business—all Middle Eastern baked goods and desserts. Pastries and breads and everything that melts in your mouth. I love staying over at Caro’s house. But her mom sets her own hours, which gives her plenty of time for volunteering.
Jeremy emerges from the jock table and mutters, “Hey, babe,” before sitting back and talking with his friends, like now that Caro is actually here, he doesn’t need or want to talk to her. I try not to roll my eyes, but can’t help it. He is such a tool sometimes. Luckily, Caro doesn’t see. She’s too busy clearing the trays and blowing crumbs from the table.
“Look!” She flips open the portfolio.
The images on the paper take my breath away. Caro is going to be a famous artist someday, and here’s the proof.
“What do you think?” she asks. “I was going insane on Saturday while you were at the tournament, so I started in on the first four panels—not that we have to use these,” she says, her voice worried and edgy.
Every Saturday, Caro is trapped inside her house, babysitting her little sisters. Usually she calls, or we text, and we invent all sorts of things to keep her sisters from driving her up the wall. But of course, now my Saturdays are filled with speech tournaments. If this is the result, I should probably keep going.
“I had to do something,” she adds. “It’s mostly doodles.”
It’s mostly not. I stare at the first four panels for our graphic novel, our retelling of Romeo and Juliet. Even if Caro’s version of Romeo looks so much like Jeremy, they could be twins, I love it. She’s left all the speech bubbles and spots for sound effects and narrative blank, waiting for my words. I can’t wait to write them.
Jeremy glances over. His nose wrinkles—just slightly—but I don’t think Caro notices. Good thing, too—for him, at least. He just doesn’t get this side of Caro. All year long, he’s been trying to get her to drop creative storytelling. One day at lunch, he even said, “Graphic novels are for nerds.”
Caro swung her hair around, pushed back her tray, and stalked from the cafeteria. I wanted to leap to my feet and give her a standing ovation. I wanted to tell Jeremy that he blew it—big time. Instead, I ran after her.
The next day, Jeremy brought in a bouquet of flowers (the kind you can get at the grocery store). All the girls squealed. Caro went pink. When Jeremy went down on one knee and apologized, all was forgiven. So many girls crowded around Caro, I could barely see her or the flowers. Jeremy’s friends gave him a hard time, which is such a boy thing to do. But I’m sure most of them were just jealous.
Now I can’t take my eyes off the start of our graphic novel. “This is better than anything you could buy at Comic World,” I tell Caro—and I mean it.
Caro glows. “I can’t wait until next term. Do you think we can get it published?”
Every year, Mrs. Riley selects a handful of the best projects and has them published through the school district’s “Fremont Free Press” program. The year Derek took creative storytelling, he made a Claymation movie they featured on the school district website for months. Caro’s artwork is certainly good enough. Now if I can just make the words match.
“Maybe,” I say. Worry pings around inside me. Never mind making the words match, I have to make it to the next term and creative storytelling. There won’t be a next term if I can’t do something about this one.
So, sure, a modern retelling of Romeo and Juliet isn’t my life. But the storytelling part? That is. It’s one thing to talk about dreams; it’s another to see them in black and white. It’s like there’s a mix of excitement and anxiety brewing inside me at the thought of doing this. But if I don’t pass speech, I won’t even get to try. Worse, Caro won’t get to try either.
My gaze drifts toward the table where Tory and Ryan sit. I stare hard before looking at Caro’s drawings again. She fusses with them, tucking them away before Jeremy or one of his friends can splatter ketchup all over them. I don’t say anything. I simply slip my phone into my palm, hiding it from everyone, including Caro. The chair legs squeak when I push from the table. Quickly, before Caro can say anything, I rush from the cafeteria.
In the girls’ bathroom, my heart thuds so hard it hurts. I slip into the last stall and lean against the door. My palms are sweaty and I have a hard time scrolling through the numbers on my phone. At last, that strange, new number pops up, and I type a single word.
Yes.
I wait so long to press send that the screen dims. Then I do press send, and I’m glad I never ate lunch. I might throw up. I might collapse right here because my legs feel like noodles. I can’t believe I just told Sam yes.
But I realize there’s no way I can tell him no.
All week long, I’m a bundle of nerves. I can’t wait for Saturday. I dread Saturday. At lunch on Friday, I dip my French fries into apple sauce
—then eat them anyway. This earns me a “Hard core!” and high five from Jeremy, and a disgusted head shake from Caro. She has sisters, so naturally, nothing all that gross ever happens at her house. If there’s an upside to Jeremy, it’s that she’s learning what boys are really like.
At speech team practice, I botch my time in front of Tory’s digital camera so badly, she shuts it off halfway through my piece.
“What’s going on?” she says, her voice and eyes hard.
“What?” I don’t know what I’ve done wrong, but from the look on Tory’s face, it must be something.
“This isn’t a joke, you know.”
“What isn’t?” I ask.
“Speech team. It’s not a joke. Not to me, not to Ryan, not to the rest of the kids here.”
“It’s not to me, either.” My words sound flat. It’s my grade, I want to add. It’s creative storytelling with Caro. It’s the honors program and my diploma. Speech team is the furthest thing from a joke that I can think of. But maybe the joke is on the speech team—and I’m the punch line. In that case, I agree. It isn’t funny at all.
“Right.” Tory doesn’t sound convinced. “You’re done for today.”
She turns to walk away and I reach out a hand to stop her, thinking I will tell her everything, from the rink rats to failing speech to Sam. If she can help me, maybe Sam won’t have to.
But she doesn’t see me. Or more likely, she pretends not to. In the contest between not failing and going behind Tory’s back, I know which one wins. So I don’t say another word.
That night before the tournament, I make sure to plug in my cell phone so it will have a full charge. I pair my best black pleated skirt with a new blouse and knitted scarf I plan to loop around my neck. I search out deodorant and see my only choice is the vanilla chai. Smelling like a Starbucks is better than smelling, I decide.
I think I will be awake all night, but I fall asleep. In my dream, I’ve traded in my donkey teeth for a pair of rabbit ones. I look like Bugs Bunny, but I’m not nearly as funny.
The next morning, the bus bumps down the highway for sixty miles of nerve-jangling, bone-jarring anxiety. The ride is too long. Then, once we arrive, something inside me insists that it’s been much too short. I’m not ready to face another three rounds.
I’m not ready to face Sam.
Like the last tournament, we group around a table in the cafeteria. The hum of chatter, stray lines from speeches, a few political arguments surround us—the air vibrates with them. So much so, I nearly miss my cell phone buzz. On it is a message from that strange, new phone number:
Sam: 33
That’s it. I stand and shake out my skirt. I glance around as if searching for the bathrooms. I slip my script from beneath my mittens, then shove those into the pocket of my winter coat. I already have my room assignments for all three rounds, so I don’t need to worry about that. I walk as if my only destination is the bathroom or a quiet place to practice.
Room 33 is on the second floor. The hallway is hushed, but muted voices come from behind a few closed doors. I hear a rattle of paper, a declaration of some kind. I wonder if it feels strange to speak to a completely empty room. My ballet flats tap against the floor and it’s a long walk to room 33.
I think to myself: Romeo, Romeo, wherefore art thou, Romeo? Of course, I know Juliet isn’t asking where he is. Still. I have to hold in a nervous burst of giggles.
At last I find the room. Sam is sitting in back, just like a judge would. He nods at me when I enter. Before I can say anything, he speaks up.
“Why don’t we start the round? First up is entrant F-13.”
Oh, I think. He is a judge, or pretending to be one, and I should play along. I clear my throat, head for the center of the room, and, after one shaky breath, begin my introduction to Jane Eyre.
“Okay, wait, stop, cut ... whatever.” Sam stands, his Chuck Taylor All Stars slapping the linoleum. It’s the only thing not proper about his outfit: perfect dress pants, a white shirt, the blue tie with the thin red stripe, and the bright red All Stars. Mr. Henderson wouldn’t let him get away with that. Both Ryan and Ben clomp around in dress shoes. But I think it helps set Sam apart.
I’m only on the second page, but I pause and peer over the top of my script at him. He marches forward, stops directly in front of me, then pushes the top of my script lower, then lower still.
“Judges will mark you down if they can’t see your face,” he says. “Your script is not a prop, but it isn’t a crutch, either. Or a shield. Okay?”
I nod.
“Let’s start from the beginning,” he says, heading back to his chair.
I’m maybe ten seconds in when he springs up and again heads straight for me. I take a step back.
“You’re hiding,” he says.
I shake my head, but the accusation makes me want to hide.
“No, you are.” He shakes his own head like he’s trying to shake out the solution to a problem. “I thought it was where I was sitting at last week’s tournament, but as you speak, your script inches up until no one can really see you. I guarantee the judges will score you higher if they can see your face and believe you want to be here.”
Well, that’s the problem, isn’t it? I don’t want to be here. Tory knows it. The judges know it. And the way Sam is looking at me now?
He knows it too.
“The thing is—” He breaks off, tugs at his bangs in frustration. “I don’t understand. You used to be so...”
“What?” The single word is more air than question. What? I used to be so ... what?
Sam stares like he’s waiting for an answer. I don’t know what—or who—I used to be during those summers we played in the park. I don’t know what—or who—I am now. All I know is the hot sting of a single tear against my cheek and the feel of words trapped behind my teeth.
I run as fast as I can for the girls’ bathroom.
I splash my face and gulp water straight from the tap. Only then do I head for the bathroom’s mirrors. I check my teeth with both my index finger and my tongue. They haven’t moved, haven’t changed size, haven’t become the strangely grotesque donkey teeth I can still feel.
A flash of something blue with a red stripe appears in the mirror’s reflection. When a white dress shirt comes into view, my heart leaps. Sam. In the girls’ bathroom. How long has he been standing there?
From his frown, I guess: long enough. I don’t turn around.
“What are you doing?” he asks.
I’ve never seen myself blush before. The studious part of my brain—the small sliver of it that’s still working, anyway—is kind of fascinated. The rest of me? Mortified. Sam. In the girls’ bathroom. Watching me inspect my teeth.
Failing speech could never be worse than this.
“You shouldn’t ...” he trails off like he’s unsure what to say. I don’t blame him. What do you say to the crazy girl obsessed with her teeth?
“I mean, it’s just that you’re so pretty. All the guys ... well, you’re pretty, is all.”
I shut my eyes, lean my forehead against the mirror, the glass cooling my skin. I don’t move until I hear Sam’s footfalls echo down the hall and fade away.
I’m on my bed, staring at the ceiling when my cell phone goes off, playing the ringtone that tells me it’s Caro. I reach for the nightstand and miss. I reach again, grab the phone, and heave a sigh all at once.
Caro doesn’t hear, or she’s too excited, because all that comes through the speaker is: “Grand Slam! Grand Slam! Grand Slam!”
I know what this means. The thought of it makes me tired. Grand Slam and all the noise: the arcade, batting cages, mini-golf, and of course, laser tag. My arms and legs feel weighed down. I’m not sure how I’ll get up to eat dinner, never mind spend three hours chasing after golf balls and shooting lasers under black lights.
“Everyone is going to be there.” Caro says. This is code. Everyone = Jeremy and Jeremy’s friends. Maybe Caro isn’t allowed to date, b
ut if she happens to be in the same place Jeremy is? Well, that would look like an accident. I know it’s not. She works overtime arranging this sort of thing. I go along for the ride—and as their cover. I’m the perfect third wheel.
“I don’t know,” I say.
“You okay?” The excitement in her voice fades, replaced by concern. “You sound like someone beat you up.”
I feel like someone has. Not that I have any bruises—not ones you can see anyway. The three rounds at today’s tournament did nothing to erase the memory of Sam in the girls’ bathroom. My scores were the lowest on the team—all fives. Everyone else improved.
I got worse.
To avoid Sam, I sat in on the finals for extemporaneous speaking. Tory took first—of course. But when she wasn’t speaking, she was glaring at me. By the time I made it to the bus, I felt battle scarred.
“It was a rough day,” I say to Caro. “I don’t know if I’m ... earning enough extra credit with these tournaments.” I hold my breath, hoping she can hear the truth inside my lies.
“I just don’t get why you’re doing it,” she says instead.
I sink lower into the comforter on my bed. My pleated skirt, white blouse, and scarf are on the floor. I’m wearing my favorite pajama bottoms and a Doctor Who T-shirt. I have no plans to move until tomorrow.
“But maybe getting out and doing something fun would be good for you,” Caro says.
“I bet you know just the place.” I can’t help it. I laugh.
“It’s called Grand Slam. Ever hear of it?”
“I hear a bunch of cute guys go there,” I say.
“Maybe we’ll find one for you.”
This time, my laugh sounds almost bitter. I’m happy for Caro, really. I don’t need a boyfriend—at least, not one like Jeremy. But I wish we didn’t plan everything we do around him.
The Fine Art of Keeping Quiet Page 5