The Fine Art of Keeping Quiet

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The Fine Art of Keeping Quiet Page 9

by Charity Tahmaseb


  Mr. Henderson walks away, and Ryan looks at me like my words drip with gold—or at least, the gold paint that covers all the trophies.

  “You should Google for courage quotes,” I tell him.

  He nudges his script closer to me. “What else would you do?”

  I wonder what on earth has happened. Then I think: that’s it. I’m not on Earth. I can’t be. I’m on some planet where I can actually help the co-captain of the speech team, a planet where I’m not completely bad at speech.

  All week long, lunch is weird and silent. I still sit next to Caro, but an invisible wall has sprung up between us. She leans toward Jeremy, chin planted on her hand, like she’s totally absorbed in all the jock talk. More than once, her eyelids droop. I think she might tip over and crash onto the floor from boredom.

  After school, she heads out into the snow to help build the sophomore class sculpture for the winter carnival. If not for speech, I’d be there too—for all the good it would do me. Indoors or out, things are icy with Caro.

  This is why, on Wednesday night, when my phone rings, my fingers can’t quite move fast enough to answer. I drop the phone. I pick it up. I almost disconnect the call. Then I see it isn’t Caro.

  It’s Sam.

  Sam.

  “Hey,” he says when I finally remember how to use all my limbs and answer the phone.

  “Hey.”

  I think this will be the extent of our conversation when Sam continues, like he doesn’t have to think twice about this talking thing.

  “You know, I was thinking about your scores on Saturday,” he says.

  “Yeah, you and Tory.”

  “Oh, so she noticed too. Good sign.”

  “If you say so.”

  “I do. Anyway, I’m thinking we get in an extra practice this week. That might really help. Are you free tomorrow night? We could meet at the library and use one of their study rooms.”

  I would so love to be free tomorrow night. Normally I would be, but the orchestra has its mid-season concert that night.

  “I can’t miss it,” I tell him. “It’s part of our grade.”

  “Could I go?” he asks.

  “You want to go to a high school orchestra concert?”

  “I like music.”

  “It’s not like I have a solo or anything. I mean, it’s just … I don’t know.” Is it weird he wants to go to something some parents don’t even want to attend?

  “Would you mind?” he asks.

  It hits me then. I don’t mind. In fact, Sam, seeing me do something I’m good at? All of a sudden, I want him there.

  “No. I don’t mind.”

  “Great. So it’s—”

  “Seven thirty, Fremont High auditorium. I’ll be the girl with the violin.”

  The next day, I barely notice the deep freeze from Caro. I don’t even notice if she notices that I’m somewhere else during lunch. Once or twice, I pluck the strings on an invisible violin and sigh. I can’t decide if tonight will be the best thing ever or a horrible mistake that I’ll regret for the rest of my life.

  That night, after I slip into my formal concert dress, Mom pulls my hair back with a black satin headband (so it won’t fall into my eyes when I play) and then curls the ends. I pray my hair will stay curled, at least until Sam can see it.

  Problem is, I don’t see Sam in the auditorium. Of course, with the house lights down and the stage lights in my eyes, there’s not much I can see except my sheet music.

  For an hour, I don’t think about Sam—or at least, not that much. It’s all about the music. I love playing my violin. I don’t even mind being up on stage. I’m not Jane on her stool, I’m Jolia in a chair, and I’m not alone.

  Afterwards, I lock my violin in its cubby and hurry into the hallway where parents and friends wait. And there, standing with Mom and Dad, is Sam. His eyes go wide when he sees me.

  “Whoa,” he says. “You look great.”

  Okay, so my concert formal is fancy, but it’s not like a prom dress or anything. The top is velvet, but with long sleeves. It has an empire waist and something Mom calls a chiffon overlay, but I’m not entirely certain what that means. Still. The way Sam is looking at me? I’m so glad Mom curled my hair.

  “You didn’t tell me you played in the fancy orchestra,” he says.

  Fremont High has two orchestras, the philharmonic, which I play in, and symphony strings, which is where you play if you don’t want to try out for the philharmonic.

  I shrug. “Anyone can, with enough practice.”

  Sam nudges me in the ribs. “Kind of like speech, huh?”

  I ignore this.

  Around us, girls from orchestra are giving me sidelong glances. Some are simply staring at Sam. Of course, he is really cute, and he doesn’t go to our school. I catch sight of a senior girl throwing her arms around her boyfriend’s neck, and a flash of warmth washes over my cheeks. That’s what this looks like. Sam. Me.

  He’s my … boyfriend?

  “Hey,” Dad says. “Who’s up for some ice cream? Sam? Want to come along? We can give you a lift home.”

  “I don’t have regular clothes,” I say.

  “That’s okay.” There’s a hint of a smile on Sam’s face.

  He calls his dad, and within a minute, we’re all in the car, heading for Sonnies Ice Cream Parlor. Still, a concert formal at an ice cream place?

  “I feel like a dork,” I whisper to Sam when we walk inside.

  “But a pretty dork.”

  My stomach jumps, both at his words and at the fact that we’re out, together, where someone from the Winnetka or Fremont speech teams might see us. Is this really a good idea? I cast him a glance, then survey the tables. No one looks familiar, but then I don’t know everyone on the Winnetka team.

  But if Sam isn’t worried, then I shouldn’t be either. We decide to split a hot fudge sundae. He’s balancing it in both hands when Mom says, “Oh, look, why don’t you two take that little table over there.”

  “Why don’t we get a booth,” Dad counters. “I want to talk to Sam about running.”

  Mom takes Dad by the shoulder and directs him away from me and Sam. If it weren’t so humiliating, I might actually laugh. As it is, we do get our table for two.

  “So,” Sam says, between spoonsful of hot fudge. “The violin?”

  “It lets me think. So does knitting.”

  “What do you think about?”

  Lately? Sam. Normally? “Well, stories, actually.”

  “Stories?”

  “I … think them up, work the plot out in my head.” I explain about the graphic novel Caro and I plan to work on during creative storytelling. I even manage to do this without worrying too much about the fact Caro isn’t talking to me.

  “A modern retelling of Romeo and Juliet?” Sam grins.

  “Yeah, I know. It’s been done, but Caro really wanted to do it.”

  “Why not? I mean, didn’t they make a version with garden gnomes?”

  “They did!”

  “You could … I don’t know, use speech teams or something.”

  I laugh.

  “Are you going to change the ending?” he asks.

  I tip my head, considering this. “Caro wants to.”

  “But you’re not so sure.”

  I pick up my scarf that’s coiled next to me. “I’m still trying to work it out.” I poke my fingers between a couple of stitches I dropped and didn’t realize it until too late. “See? Plot holes.”

  “You know what you should do, I mean, in speech next year?”

  “I think you’re assuming I’ll be in speech next year,” I say.

  “No, listen.” He leans forward, those green eyes so intent on mine. “Storytelling.” He goes on to explain how you draw a selection of folktales, decide on one, reinterpret it, and then perform it that day—all without a script.

  I shake my head, appalled he’d suggest such a thing. “It’s like the extemporaneous speaking Tory does.”

  “On
ly more fun and more creative.”

  Maybe, but why he thinks I’d be good at it is beyond me.

  On the way home, Mom drives so Dad can spin around in the front seat and bombard Sam with running, running shoe, and every other kind of question related to running—none of which seems to annoy Sam. He could probably do an extemporaneous speech on the merit of shoes and running and make it sound halfway interesting.

  When Mom pulls up in front of Sam’s apartment, Dad is still spun around, staring at us. We’re all frozen like that. I wonder what it is we’re expecting. Then Mom taps Dad on the shoulder.

  “Oh, look, honey,” she says. “A deer.”

  Dad swivels around at the same moment Sam leans close and gives my cheek a quick kiss. He bursts from the car like his coat is on fire. Then it’s just me, Mom, Dad, and a whole lot of awkward in the backseat.

  “So,” Mom says. “Sam Romero. Anything we should know?”

  “We’re both in speech.” I’m certain this is not what she means.

  Mom puts the car in gear. “And?”

  “I don’t know?”

  “Well,” she says, voice all sly. “I think Sam knows.”

  “Knows what?” Dad asks.

  Mom sighs. But when I catch her glance in the rearview mirror, I swear she winks at me.

  That Saturday, I’m missing Caro so much, when I reach the spot in my script where Helen Burns smiles at Jane, my throat gets tight. I finish up, gulp a breath, and wait for Sam’s verdict.

  “Nice,” he says. “The Brocklehurst emotion is really starting to show. And the connection with Helen and Jane.” He pauses as if considering the entire performance. “You’re looking at higher scores this time.”

  I don’t say anything.

  “You don’t see it, do you?”

  I shake my head.

  “Just wait.” He seems so certain.

  Like last week, at the end of practice, Sam snaps off the lights and then eases the door open. Only this time, he flings himself back inside. We huddle against the wall, breathe in quick, shallow breaths.

  “Who was it?” I ask.

  “Some girls from my team.”

  Girls who follow him around? I wonder, then order myself not to do that crazy girlfriend thing. Because, one, as far as I know, I am not Sam’s girlfriend. And two, no one likes the crazy.

  We wait in the dark and I try not to think crazy thoughts.

  “It’s kind of like being secret agents,” he says.

  Okay, that is crazy, but a good kind of crazy. I grin. “I was thinking the same thing,” I say, although, really, I wasn’t.

  He puts a hand on the doorknob, but freezes. “Hey, some of us Winnetka guys are thinking about crashing the winter carnival.”

  They can’t really crash it since it’s outdoors and open to everyone, but I know what he means.

  “You going to be there?” he asks.

  “I don’t know. I—I think so.”

  “Maybe I’ll see you there. Do you skate?”

  “A little.”

  “Like you play the violin a little.”

  “No, not like that.”

  “You’re probably better than me. You’ll have to prop me up during the snowball skate.”

  I will? Before I can respond, Sam cracks open the door. “It’s all clear.”

  I feel the world’s fastest kiss on my cheek. There’s no time for wishing luck or saying goodbye. We dash from the room. He heads one way, I go the other. I don’t think anything of water running in the girls’ bathroom, but when I hit the stairs I teeter on the top step, just for a moment, and glance behind.

  Nothing. All clear. I race for my first round, thinking of Sam’s praise, the kiss on my cheek, and the promise of the winter carnival.

  The first round has started and advice crowds my head. I think about how Sam tells me to pretend, to channel emotion. I think about what Tory said, about being all Jane on her stool. That sums it up perfectly. Every time I stand in front of a group, I think of that and not my teeth. I don’t know if I’m getting any better, but I do know this: I’m not any worse.

  After the third round, I clear the door to the cafeteria when the phone in my skirt pocket vibrates.

  Sam: Checked your scores?

  Jolia: No.

  Sam: GO! CHECK!

  I spin around and head down the hall. It’s easy to see where the scores are posted. A bunch of kids swarm around one of the walls, ducking in and out and under arms. I join in, pushing my way toward the prose interpretation list.

  I bump Savannah, who gives my arm a quick squeeze before she dashes off. I find prose and track the names in reverse alphabetical order. I see Dinsmore, Ryan with an iffy score of 2, 2, 3. I wonder if Mr. Henderson will pull him from prose and have him try something else.

  Then I see my scores and forget all about Ryan.

  3, 3, 3

  No fives? Not even a four? I’m perfectly average? I do a quick check of the finalist lists, confirming that yes, Tory double finaled again—and so did Sam. I escape to the far side of the hall and pull out my cell.

  Jolia: 3, 3, 3!!!!!

  Sam: You can do better.

  Jolia: I don’t need to do better.

  When it comes to speech, I can’t imagine asking for more than average. If I do well on my persuasive and how-to speeches in class, I will pull off a solid C. I can stay in the honors program. I will get to write my graphic novel, assuming Caro starts speaking to me again.

  Sam: But you can do better.

  I ignore that.

  Jolia: What final do you want me to watch?

  Unlike kids who double final, spectators can’t slip in and out of the final rounds—it’s rude and disruptive. I’ll have to pick one and stick with it.

  Sam: Great speeches. My speech is really ... great.

  I laugh. The great speeches final is right across the hall from the prose final round. No one says anything when I slip into the wrong room at the last minute.

  Besides, didn’t Tory want us to keep an eye on Romeo Romero? Well, here I am, keeping a very close eye on him. Still, the tiniest bit of guilt chips away at my happiness. Who do I support? My team? Or the boy who wears weeds in his hair for me?

  But when I’m there in great speeches, chin resting on my hand, gazing up at Sam, I know I’ve made my choice.

  I just hope it’s the right one.

  We’re waiting for the awards ceremony to begin when the Winnetka girls find us. At first, I don’t notice. I’m too busy thinking about both Sam and Caro. I’m so excited about my performance today, so blown away by Sam’s in great speeches, I just know I can craft the perfect text message to Caro—the one that will make her laugh and text me back. I’ve just pulled out my phone when the Winnetka girls march up the aisle.

  While I don’t really know any of them, I can tell they’re coming straight for us. They’re all suited up, like clones of Tory. But Tory is clearly unimpressed. She wrinkles her nose, then turns her back on them.

  The Winnetka girls keep coming. They file into the row beneath ours and stop right in front of me.

  “We know what you’re doing,” the one in the middle says. She’s also the one who looks the most like a Tory clone, right down to her hair pulled into a bun.

  “Yeah.” Tory spins around. “We’re trouncing you.”

  “No.” The girl points at me. “With her.”

  Tory slants a quick look my way, then studies the girl in front of her. “Huh?”

  “We know all about it,” the girl says. “And you’re not going to get away with it.”

  My insides go cold. I hold still and hold in all the fear that’s filled my mouth. I think back to the water running in the girls’ bathroom—and before, when the Winnetka girls were in the hallway. Or maybe it started even earlier, at Sonnies?

  Tory mimics feeling the girl’s forehead, but the Winnetka girl pulls away before Tory can touch her. “I think the stress of competition is getting to you, Annika,” Tory says. “Maybe you
should join the knitting club.”

  Ouch. I pluck at the sweater vest I’m wearing—the one I made myself—but Tory doesn’t notice.

  “We know why she’s a new member this year,” the Winnetka girl says.

  Tory gapes at them. My heart stops, then pounds so hard in my chest, my ribcage aches with it. They know I’m failing speech class? How could they? None of this makes any sense. From the expression on Tory’s face, I can tell she feels the same way.

  “Just so you know,” Annika says as she and the other two shuffle from the row and into the aisle. “We’re not going to let you get away with it.”

  For a few seconds, we’re all silent. Kaitlin and Savannah stare with huge eyes. Fear tightens the back of my throat. I want to speak, but I’m not sure how to explain or even where to start.

  “I think their coach is working them too hard.” Tory makes a face. “They’re crazier than usual this year.” She laughs, loud enough that Annika glances over. “And jealous,” Tory adds.

  “Jealous?” I ask.

  “Yeah, of you.”

  “Me?”

  “All the Winnetka boys think you’re hot.”

  They do? They do!

  “Don’t let it go to your head. It’s just because you’re new.” Tory sniffs, clearly as unimpressed with Winnetka boys as she is with the girls. “Next year, it will be someone else.”

  Oh. Not that I really care. There’s only one Winnetka boy who matters. I ease into my seat and glance toward the Winnetka team, hoping to see Sam. Instead, the Winnetka girls glare at me. I jerk my head toward the stage, pretending to be absorbed in the trophy setup, pretending that what they said doesn’t matter. But deep down, I’m afraid everything they said does matter—I just don’t know how.

  On the bus ride back to Fremont, my phone buzzes. I glance around, wary. What if it’s Sam? Not that anyone can see my display. Still. It’s one thing to fraternize with the enemy, as Tory would say. It’s another to have him—virtually—on the bus. Slowly, I peek at my phone. Not Sam, but my heart thumps hard anyway. Caro.

 

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