“Sure.”
“Why do they call you Romeo?” I can’t believe the words left my mouth, but I want—need—to know what he says, to hear his side of things. I want to make sure this is more than playing in the park for him too. And maybe, just maybe, a small part of me is worried about being played.
“Oh, that.” Sam laughs again, but I hear hurt behind it. “It started in ninth grade. My English teacher was taking attendance and called me Romeo instead of Romero. It stuck, especially when we started reading the play. Bad week. Bad timing.” He sighs. “Of course it spilled over into the speech team. You couldn’t pay me now to do Shakespeare.”
My mind goes to the balcony scene we read through all afternoon. “Really?”
He laughs. “I mean, at a tournament. Although, actually, I’d love to.”
So would I. Where did that thought come from? I don’t know. When this speech season is done, so am I. In fact, I may never talk again.
Our feet crunch ice for a few more steps before he continues.
“And last year, there was this group of girls, at the tournaments, who followed me around. I think it was kind of a joke—you know.” He shrugs like this is no big deal, like he can take a joke—or be a joke.
But girls following Sam around makes sense to me. Kaitlin and Savannah can’t stop whispering about him, no matter what Tory says. Then I think about what Kaitlin said, how Tory followed Sam around. Tory’s tough, but she doesn’t waste time being deliberately cruel. What’s left then? A crush? Amazing how things look so different, depending on what side you stand on.
“I don’t think it was a joke,” I say. I want to tell him lots of girls like him, but I’m not sure I want him knowing about all those other girls.
“Now, of course, everyone calls me that.” Sam rolls his eyes. “You heard them at the awards ceremony.”
We stop in front of my driveway. The air grows colder around us, and there isn’t a hint of sun left in the sky.
“Thanks,” I say, “for walking me home.”
“You’re not there yet.”
So we keep going, up the driveway and the three steps onto the front porch. There, the lamplight turns everything yellow, even Sam’s eyes, which look more like autumn than summer right now. I should open the door and go inside. My fingers are ice, my nose threatening to run. My teeth, which I’ve hardly thought of all day, prick at my upper lip. Insidious words pop into my mind.
Can you even imagine anyone wanting to kiss that? I can’t remember why I ever thought she was pretty.
“Thanks for helping me today,” I say despite my teeth.
“Thanks for helping me. What did I tell you? It’s like the Montagues and Capulets, only with scripts instead of swords—and a tree branch.”
I laugh.
“See you tomorrow?”
I nod.
“I’ll text you.”
We don’t move, like earlier in the garage, when it felt like the very air changed. It does that now, becomes hard to breathe. I sway forward, slightly. I don’t mean to—it just happens. Sam takes my hands, squeezes them. Then he sways forward.
His kiss is so warm, it should melt all the icicles hanging from the eaves. My heart beats so hard, it should shatter all my ribs. When he breaks the kiss, and I suck in cold air, I feel like I’m plunged from a warm dream into an icy bath.
“Tomorrow!” He dashes down the stairs and into the night.
In that single word, I hear his promise. We will see each other tomorrow. We will practice. We will … kiss?
With a fingertip, I touch my lips and then my teeth. Still there, still where they should be. Still unbelievable.
I push open our front door just as my cell phone buzzes in my coat pocket. My heart hammers. It can’t possibly be Sam, but part of me hopes it is. Instead, the text is from Caro.
Caro: WHERE ARE YOU?!!!?
I scroll through what I’ve missed while at Sam’s. Three phone calls and six text messages from Caro, each one more urgent. I’ve missed Grand Slam, blown Caro’s chances of seeing Jeremy until Monday.
All for pizza with Sam. I stare at the screen until it grows dim and finally goes black. I try to type a message, but even my fingertips feel guilty. I don’t know what to say, don’t know what to type.
So instead, I turn off my phone.
Dad was right. Winter is still here. Even inside the lobby entryway, the cold sneaks in, making my tights feel icy against my legs. I’m clutching my bag close, but it doesn’t do much to warm me up, even though it’s filled with fuzzy yarn.
In the field next to the school, the senior class is taking advantage of the warm up and cool down to start on their snow sculpture for the winter carnival. Every year, our school hosts a huge event with skating and snow sculpture, a bonfire, and lots of hot chocolate. Last year, Caro and I worked on the one for the freshmen class. In the end, Mrs. Sulvana wouldn’t let her go because the snowball and couples skate sounded too much like a dance. Which it isn’t, but kind of is. I tagged along with Derek and his friends, but it wasn’t much fun without Caro.
The bus pulls up and we all troop outside. Another Saturday, another tournament, another chance to see Sam. I’m trying to concentrate on that, and not on what a lousy best friend I am. It’s why I have my knitting with me. If I click the needles all the way to the Chisago High School, I won’t have to think how Caro hasn’t answered a single one of my messages—text, email, or phone.
It almost works. Tory rolls her eyes when I pull out the yarn, a soft dove gray that I’m combining with a steel blue. The colors are very school uniform, but in a good way. I’m thinking it will be perfect to wear when I read Jane Eyre. Savannah and Kaitlin sit behind me. Their questions pepper the back of my head.
“Is it hard?”
“When did you learn?”
“Can you teach me?”
“You guys can join the knitting club,” I say. “Every Tuesday morning at seven forty-five. You can be an absolute beginner. It doesn’t matter. Caro only started last year.” The second I say this, I immediately regret it. Maybe I should use the bus ride to review her messages, try to find a way to apologize. But part of me insists I already did that last night and then some. And maybe I don’t really have anything to apologize for. I go back to knitting.
“We should,” Savannah says.
“Oh, me, too,” Ryan pipes in. “I want to learn to knit.”
Kaitlin and Savannah giggle. I simply say, “Guys knit. In fact, we have a couple of guys in the club.”
Ryan snorts.
“Probably because there are so many girls in the club,” I add.
Ryan leans forward in full flirt mode, and Tory smacks him on the arm.
“Focus,” she says. “You can play around after the season is over.”
It’s painfully obvious I don’t want to be on the speech team. I’m sure that’s clear to Tory. But Ryan? For the first time I wonder how much he wants to be here.
When we arrive at Chisago High School, it feels colder than when we left. Ben scoops up some snow, tries to pack it into a ball, but it crunches and crumbles in his fingers. Inside, we crowd around a cafeteria table, like always. The air is full of jittery static, everyone’s nervousness rising toward the ceiling. My cell phone buzzes in my skirt pocket, and I slip it out, oh, so casually.
Sam: 28
I get my room assignments, pick up my script and bottle of water, and head off in search of room 28. It’s not far from the cafeteria, and I worry that we’re too close to his team and mine. But I figure Sam knows what he’s doing.
“Hey,” he says when I ease the door closed behind me.
“Hey.”
Then, we stand there. It’s dorky and awkward and somehow, not.
“Yesterday was great,” I say.
“Yeah, it was.”
“I mean, dinner at your place, not the part where I almost killed Crandall.”
“No, that part was pretty good, too.”
I laugh.
“Want to run through your piece a few times?”
I sigh. “Do I want to? No. Should I? Probably.”
Now Sam laughs. His eyes are filled with so much light today, like everything he sees makes him happy.
“Just a few times,” he says. “Get you all warmed up for your rounds.”
So I begin. When I reach the part where Mr. Brocklehurst forces Jane to stand on the stool, Sam stops me.
“You know what? You should try to find someone in your real life who can be a stand-in for Brocklehurst. It might help you give this part of the scene more emotional resonance.”
I glance around the room as if that person might be sitting in one of the desks. “I don’t know. Maybe Mr. Henderson?”
“Seriously?” Sam’s brow wrinkles. “He seems like a pretty good guy to me.”
That’s because Mr. Henderson would love to have Sam on his speech team. He does not love having me on the team, and the feeling is mutual.
Sam peers up at the clock. “We should probably head out.”
I nod, but don’t move. When he reaches the front of the room, his hand finds its way to mine. I swear that’s how it works, and together we sneak toward the door. He switches off the light.
“I’ll check,” he says. “Make sure the coast is clear.”
In the dark, my breathing sounds louder. The room is gloomy in the half light, and we inch closer to each other. My pulse beats in my throat as the door creaks open. But the kiss on my lips is soft and sweet—like hot chocolate.
“Good luck today,” he whispers into my mouth.
He swings the door open and we both bolt from the room.
During my last round, something clicks. Before I open my mouth to speak, I glance at the clock. A shockwave rushes through me. Yesterday, Sam and I were in the park. Yesterday, I put a tree branch through Crandall’s front tire. My stomach flip flops. My heart races. I lick my lips, but only once, before I speak. Sam’s advice fills my head. It’s perfectly right, but my thinking is all wrong. Mr. Henderson is strict and kind of prickly, but he’s no bully. Crandall on the other hand? Did Jane feel trapped on that stool the way I did yesterday?
I realize there are worse things than speaking in front of a group or even being laughed at. I channel everything I felt yesterday into today. When I say Brocklehurst, I imagine Crandall.
I’d never tasted fear like that—the certainty that something terrible would happen. I never want to taste that fear again. But since there’s so much of it in my mouth, I know it must lace my words.
After the third round, I’m feeling bouncy. I almost skip back to the cafeteria. When I notice they’ve already posted some of the scores, I skitter to a stop. Then I inch forward as if scuffling the linoleum with my ballet flats changes what’s printed on the paper.
Prose is posted. Already. For a long time, I stare, not certain what I see is real. My phone buzzes in my pocket.
Sam: Well?
I peck out the numbers slowly, sending each one in its own text.
5
4
3
Sam: That’s a flush! You’re doing it!
Am I? Am I really? Before I can text Sam back, Tory bustles by. I shove my phone into my pocket so hard, I nearly tear the seam. She halts, backs up, and stares at the prose scores. Then, she turns her gaze on me.
“Seriously?” she says.
I shrug. “I guess.”
“Huh. What do you know?” She gives me one last look, one that hints that I might not be completely unworthy, before continuing down the hall.
Chapter 9
The lens of Tory’s digital camera is aimed straight at my face. The camera sits on a tripod, and that perches on a table, and the whole thing teeters. Any second now and none of us will have to worry about recording our pieces.
I feel like Jane on her stool, trapped again, and I try to channel that feeling, using it for fuel, like Sam talked about. I ignore the donkey teeth and try not to trip over my tongue.
When I finish, Tory clicks the camera off and then stares at me.
“Not bad,” she says. “You’re tapping into something you haven’t before. No wonder your scores improved. You know what you should do?”
I shake my head, still mulling what not bad means.
“Read your piece into the bathroom mirror at home, only place a pencil like this.” She shoves a pencil in her mouth so she clenches it against her molars. She looks like a dog with a very yellow, very skinny bone. “It does wonders for your pronunciation,” she says around the pencil.
“It doesn’t sound like it.”
She spits the pencil onto the floor, then laughs. “After you take it out, during your rounds. Trust me.” She fiddles with the camera, switching the settings to play. “Want to see how you did?”
It’s not a question, even though it sounds like one. “Not really.”
“It won’t be that awful.”
It is that awful. I cover my face with my hands and watch the recording through the V made by my fingers.
“Right here.” Tory pauses the video. “Near the end, when you’re all Jane on her stool? Something’s different.” She scrutinizes me. “Whatever you’re doing, keep it up.”
My mind goes to Sam and our secret practices, and it’s all I can do not to smile.
At last, Tory lets me sit and calls up Kaitlin, who does poetry interpretation. I slide into my seat next to Savannah.
“Not bad,” she says to me.
I’ve been so awful that “not bad” feels like a major accomplishment. I think of my failing speech grade and decide that “not bad” could be much, much worse.
Savannah goes back to fretting over her piece, marking places in the text for emphasis and emotion. I slip my cell phone from my pocket and scroll through this weekend’s text messages.
Before Caro’s message of: WHERE ARE YOU, she sent:
Grand Slam. Mom said yes!!!! Call me!
Do you want to go? Pleeze!
Hey, pick up your phone.
Mom says if you don’t answer in 30 min, Grand Slam is a NO!
5 more minutes. J, pleasepleasepleaseplease!
Caro still isn’t speaking to me. I tried all day Sunday with no luck. I’m dying to tell her about Sam—except he’s the reason she couldn’t see Jeremy over the long weekend. There’s no winning that conversation.
I sigh and hide my phone just as Ryan invades our table. He lands in a chair, taking up enough space for two people. Savannah shifts her script so he won’t crumple it.
“Henderson is moving me over to prose.”
“Does that make you a P&P girl?” I ask.
Savannah giggles.
Ryan ignores me and shuffles the pages of his own script, looking less than enthused about it—or us. It’s hard to tell. “We heard that Winnetka is pulling Romero from prose. He’ll be doing great speeches and maybe something else—no one’s sure about that.”
My stomach flutters. Sam? Not in prose? “How do you guys hear about this stuff?”
“Oh, we have our ways.” Ryan crosses his arms over his chest, a superior expression on his face.
Savannah glances at me and rolls her eyes. I want to do the same, but I need to stay on Ryan’s good side. How do they know such things? Do they have a spy? And if they do, what if this spy sees me with Sam?
“No, really,” I say. “How do you guys find out?”
Ryan leans back in his chair, hands clasped behind his head, his eyes half-lidded, like he knows all sorts of things we don’t.
“It’s like poker,” Savannah says.
He sits up, and his face goes blank, but I get what she’s saying. It’s like each team is bluffing the other.
“Or chess.” I plunk invisible chess pieces across the table. “The Winnetka coach moves one speaker here, Mr. Henderson moves you there.”
“It’s not like that,” Ryan says.
“Yeah? Then why are you doing prose?” I ask. “Do you want to?”
“It’s ok
ay.” He stares down at his script and straightens the pages. “Henderson didn’t like my intro.”
“So he sent you over here to the bad kid corner?” Savannah says.
I laugh. Ryan doesn’t.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“Unbroken by Laura Hillenbrand. I wrote this great intro, but Henderson says it doesn’t fit the piece.”
“Can I see your script?” I hold out my hand.
He gives me a quizzical look but passes me the pages. I read the intro, then flip through the scene he selected. Dad is a big World War Two buff. I gave him the book for Christmas, then read it right after he did. It’s some pretty serious stuff, about a bombardier whose plane is shot down over the Pacific Ocean. First he survives in the ocean, then a Japanese prisoner of war camp. There are lots of scenes Ryan could be reading for his piece, and the intro should be a snap to write.
“Well,” I say to him. “Your piece isn’t about fear. That’s your problem.”
“Huh?”
“It’s about courage.”
“Are you kidding me?” He bolts straight up. “They’re scared to death.”
The scene he picked involves a raft in the middle of the Pacific Ocean, and yes, all three men are scared. But two of them act—and that’s the whole point.
“Make it about acting despite being scared,” I say. “There’s a lot of reasons the book is called Unbroken.” I tap his script. “This is just one of them. Have you read the whole thing?”
Ryan’s cheeks go pink. “Well, you know, I started to—”
“Not bad advice, Ms. Cuppernull.”
We all jump. Mr. Henderson towers over us as if he’s suddenly appeared from nowhere. Savannah’s eyes go wide, and even Ryan goes a little pale.
“Maybe you should write everyone’s introductions.” This doesn’t sound like sarcasm. It sounds almost like a compliment.
The Fine Art of Keeping Quiet Page 8