“Sam,” I begin.
“Mr. Romero,” he says. “Are you participant F-13? If so, please start.”
Mr. Romero? Really? So, okay, maybe he wants to practice first, but something sharp squeezes my heart. This isn’t anything like Sam. His expression is still too bland, those summer-green eyes almost dull. Without knowing what else to do or say, I walk to the front of the room and read my piece.
“Good,” he says when I finish, but the word doesn’t sound like praise. He stands and heads for the front of the room. “Scores will be posted outside the main cafeteria doors.”
Now I think he’s lost his mind, or just taken this role playing thing a little too far. I cut him off before he can step into the hall.
“Sam,” I say. “I want ... I want …” But nothing else comes out of my mouth. All the words I thought I might say vanish. I’m left with nothing except the feel of my teeth against my upper lip. Donkeys don’t talk. At least, this one doesn’t. Why, when it’s so important, can’t I speak up?
“Yeah.” Sam jerks open the door. “That’s what I thought.”
He leaves, but I can’t follow. My feet are locked in place. I sway from side to side, but I can’t actually move. The cotton balls in my head swirl together until I can’t think either. Footsteps pound past the door. There’s a rattle, like someone crashed into a locker. The clock on the wall makes one lonely tick.
I glance up at it and see that the first round starts in less than a minute—and I don’t know my room number. Now my feet move. I dash down the hall and race for the team room. I spin, my head jerking around, looking for someone, anyone, from Fremont—Tory, Ryan, Mr. Henderson.
Everyone’s gone. My heart beats so hard, I think it might get jammed in my ribcage. My chest hurts. What happens if I miss a round? Do I get disqualified? Do I bring down the team score? Do I lose everything? My extra credit, my chance at creative storytelling, all of it, just so Caro could skate with Jeremy?
“Here!” Someone barrels into me. The sharp edge of Tory’s heel lands on my foot. Pain shocks tears from my eyes, and I yelp.
“Later.” Tory practically growls the word. “We’re talking later.” She shoves a piece of paper into my hands and then pushes me down the hallway. “Last door on the left,” is the only other thing she says to me.
Chapter 11
I have to wait until the first speaker has finished before I can slip into the classroom. The shame of this sets my cheeks on fire. True, I could pretend to be double entered in the tournament and that’s what most of the kids in the room are thinking. Except one. Ryan.
He glowers at me, all fierce eyebrows and eyes. I barely have time to register this because the judge in the back of the room calls out:
“F-13. You’re up next.”
When I stand, she asks, “Have you caught your breath? We can always skip and come back to you.”
It’s a nice offer, and she looks like a nice judge. I wish I could see her name, but her badge is covered by a scarf looped around her neck. The air around me grows tense. It’s like I can feel the other kids bristle. Coming in late is bad enough. I cannot mess with the speaking order on top of it.
I shake my head. “That’s okay,” I say. “I’ll go now.”
I give my worst reading ever, worse than the first time I stumbled through Jane Eyre in the speech team practice room. But with Ryan glaring at me, all I want to do is hide. My script inches upward, like it used to when Sam started coaching me.
Sam. When I finally sit back down, my lousy performance doesn’t bother me nearly as much as the look on Sam’s face did. He wasn’t angry or disgusted with me, but maybe he should be. No, all I saw in his eyes was disappointment.
Somehow, that’s worse.
5, 3, 2
My scores make no sense. From the absolute bottom to near the top? In one day? For a long time, I stare at them, getting bumped by other kids checking their own scores. I don’t remember being that strong in the last round. Honestly? I don’t remember the last round at all.
Before it started, I decided the best way to deal with things was not to be me at all, but Jane. She may be all alone and up on her stool. The superintendent may call her a liar. But she doesn’t deserve those things. I’m pretty sure I deserve everything Tory, Ryan, and Sam have thrown at me today. I feel as though I’ve been up on that stool, battered, bruised, and alone.
I don’t go to any final rounds. At first, I hide in a girls’ bathroom, and then I find a seat in the auditorium. Bit by bit, kids filter in, but everything is still hushed, the echo of voices soft and comforting. I hear the clip, clip, clip of heels before Tory slips into the row behind me.
She sits so I’d have to swivel around if I want to talk to her. I stay put.
“Thanks for staking out a spot,” she says.
I nod.
“I’m going to tell Ryan we need to send an advance party before all the awards ceremonies. Why let Winnetka get the good seats?”
I can’t laugh, although I suspect Tory wants me to.
“Okay,” she says, “maybe you can help me out. I have something I believe, something I don’t believe, and something I can’t believe.”
That almost has me spinning around, but I stay locked in place.
“Caro and Jeremy Spinner? Yeah, I believe that. What she sees in him is anyone’s guess.” Tory makes a gagging sound.
I almost do laugh.
“But I believe it. You and Spinner?” She lets this new pairing hang in the air for a moment. “I don’t believe that at all. You and Romero?”
My heart slams against my rib cage so hard, I think it bruises something inside me. I hold my breath and wait for what Tory will say next.
“That’s something I can’t believe ... but maybe I should?”
This last is a question. She wants an answer. I should give her one. But explaining? Where do I start? Do I give up Caro’s secrets? Do I give up Sam’s? Do I give up mine? I shut my eyes, press a hand against my mouth, and wish that the whole world would go away.
More kids fill the rows in front and behind us. The Winnetka girls sashay in, but slow down when they reach Tory and me. Annika opens her mouth, but Tory points a finger at her and then at the floor—a classic you’re going down gesture. They scurry into a row several feet away, and Tory laughs.
“I kicked her butt in the extemporaneous speaking final and she knows it.” Tory sounds triumphant, but it doesn’t last. “So, anything I should know?”
I shake my head. It isn’t lying if I don’t say anything.
Monday morning at school, I haven’t even made it to my locker when Caro grabs me and then Jeremy and drags us into an empty classroom. The door closes with a click that matches the determination on Caro’s face.
“You two need to pretend to go together this week,” Caro says.
Jeremy and I inch our gazes toward each other. I’m sure I look as repulsed by this idea as he does.
“Babe,” Jeremy begins.
“Don’t ‘babe’ me.” Caro sticks a finger in his face. She’s fierce. For an instant I see Mrs. Sulvana in her features. “My mom is going to be here all freaking week long, if you can believe that.” Caro exhales. “God, I wish she would stop with all the volunteering. She’ll be helping in the office and running the PIE meeting.”
Well, Mrs. Sulvana does love PIE. But the Parent Information Exchange always meets in the middle of the school day, which means we’re not going to be able to escape Caro’s mom.
“I told her that you and Jolia are going together. So you need to act like you really are.”
Jeremy’s jaw is slack. I shake my head.
“I had to,” Caro says. “She kept asking about it, so I finally made up a story that you two are going together. But your parents.” Caro points at me, “Don’t know, and you’re afraid to tell them.”
That’s not a made-up story. That’s real life with the starring role recast. Now playing the part of the beautiful Caro is plain understudy Jolia.
“It’s just for this week,” she says. “While my mom is here. Then you guys can “break up” and everything will go back to normal.” Caro draws little air quotes around “break up.” She should probably put them around “going together” as well, since there’s no way anyone in this school will believe Jeremy Spinner is going out with me. Didn’t Tory make that clear on Saturday?
“A week,” Jeremy says like it’s detention.
“It’s that, or nothing. She’s already suspicious. If she finds out, I’ll probably be grounded for life. A week, and I promise, things will go back to normal.”
I sigh. Like sneaking around is normal? There’s another word that needs air quotes. What happens the next time Caro’s mom gets suspicious? Will I have to pretend to go with Jeremy until we graduate?
“No one is going to believe this,” I say. “Everyone in school knows you guys are going together.”
“Only my mom needs to believe.”
Jeremy and I exchange another glance. Okay, so we don’t like each other. But we both would do anything for Caro. Even this. I hold out my hand and Jeremy shakes it.
“Not like that,” Caro says. She pulls our right hands apart, then slips my right into Jeremy’s left. “Like this. You’re going together, remember?”
It’s going to be hard to forget.
At lunch, Caro meets me at the cafeteria door, an arm thrown out so I can’t walk in.
“My mom’s in there.” She rolls her eyes. “She volunteered for lunch monitor duty.”
“I’m still hungry,” I say. Actually, I’m starving. I barely ate all day Sunday, thoughts of Sam chasing away my appetite. Today, I’d gladly inhale the healthy-for-you flatbread and tomato paste they try to convince us is real pizza.
“You won’t be when I tell you.” Caro looks at the floor. “Mymomthinksyou’reabadinfluence.”
“What?” Her mumbled words don’t make any sense, but they sound bad.
“My mom,” Caro tries again. “After I told her all that stuff about you and Jeremy going together, she decided you’re a bad influence on me. She doesn’t want us to hang out.”
The pit of my stomach ices over. I know I’m not actually losing Caro, but it feels like it. “You do realize that you’re actually a bad influence on yourself? Or me, for that matter?”
“Yes, yes, I know,” she snaps. “It’s just for a week.”
“Really? I’ll still be a bad influence, even if I “break up” with Jeremy, right?” I draw the little quotes in the air. I’m beginning to think you could fit my entire life inside them.
“She’ll forget about it the next time you help me with my math homework.” Caro shrugs, and it’s like that’s what all this is to her: one big shoulder shrug. “And it’s not like you’re really going with anyone.”
She doesn’t say it to be mean. Even so, the words sting.
“So what you’re saying is—”
“You need to eat lunch somewhere else,” she finishes. “All week.”
“All week,” I echo.
Caro shoves a sack lunch into my hands. “Please? Go on. I brought money.”
With that, Caro vanishes into the cafeteria. I stand there as if the ice in my stomach has spread to each limb. My fingers crumple the brown paper sack, but that’s it. That’s all I can move.
Bit by bit, I melt. I roll my shoulders, loosening them up. But I freeze again when Mrs. Sulvana bustles past the cafeteria door. Normally, she’d say hello. Normally, she’d stop and talk to me about school or my grades or whatever. Not today. Today, she’s all stern, her eyes dark and cold. She doesn’t say a word.
Once she’s gone, I glance at the sack lunch in my hands and wonder if she recognized it. I wonder if that even matters. I turn, not sure where to eat lunch—a stairwell, a dark classroom, maybe the girls’ bathroom, no matter how gross that is.
That’s when I see Ryan Dinsmore. He’s leaning against a locker, and it looks like he’s been there for a while. If you could take curiosity and wrap it all up in pity, it would match the expression on his face. I wonder how much he’s heard. I wonder how much he knows.
I wonder how much he’s going to tell Tory.
Holding hands with Jeremy is like being a puppy dragged along by a leash. I think—then try not to think—about holding hands with Sam and how different that felt.
For Caro’s sake, I pretend. So does Jeremy. We have no choice. Mrs. Sulvana is everywhere at school. Still, as the days go on, I get better at being his girlfriend. It’s like acting—or pretending. Right now, it’s good to pretend to be someone else, a different girl, the sort who’d go out with Jeremy Spinner. This girl isn’t failing speech, isn’t lying to the whole school. Her heart doesn’t ache every time she thinks of a boy named Sam. Even though there is nothing real about it, being Jeremy’s girlfriend is easy.
Amazingly, Jeremy and I discover we have something in common besides Caro and laser tag. We both like science, even though he’s failing biology in a dramatic fashion. For lunch we head up to the Biology classroom. Ms. Morgan has all sorts of activities for extra credit, which I don’t need, but Jeremy does.
And even though it’s room 42, and even though I think of Sam every single time I walk through the door, the space feels different during the school week.
I talk Jeremy through online dissections. At first, his enthusiasm disturbs me. Then I realize it’s more for online than dissection.
“Don’t tell anyone,” he says. “But when Ms. Morgan brought in the fetal pigs, I had to run for the bathroom. I … I—” He shakes his head. “I can’t do it.”
“You could’ve told me,” comes Ms. Morgan’s soft reprimand from the back of the room.
Jeremy’s shoulders sag.
“I won’t tell,” I say. “Not even Caro.”
He jerks up and stares at me, a look of disbelief on his face. I cross my heart, then pretend to lock my lips with a key.
Now he looks at me like I’m a dork, which means things are back to normal.
All week long, girls give me funny looks. No one talks to me unless it’s to say: “How’s Jeremy today?” But there’s nothing nice in the way anyone asks this.
Most girls don’t say a word; they just scoot their chair away from mine. In every class there’s a huge space between my desk and everyone else’s. Whispered words prick my ears. I doubt they’re very nice words, but I don’t ask anyone to repeat them. Maybe I should. Maybe I should demand to know what’s going on, why people keep talking about me. But I can’t find the words, and so instead, I swallow all my questions until it feels like they might choke me.
Speech team practice has been weird all week, but not as awful as everything else. Kaitlin and Savannah talk to me—sort of. Ryan just smirks, a strange smile that I work overtime to ignore. Tory is oddly quiet. Still, compared to the rest of the school day, practice feels like a refuge. In this room, I’m not Jolia, Jeremy Spinner’s pretend girlfriend. I can be Jane on her stool. I find that role the most comforting of all.
At last Friday arrives with its weekly ritual of gathering around Ryan’s laptop and refreshing the Winnetka Speech Team site until they update their roster. I reach the room five minutes late. Everyone’s huddled around a single desk. Ryan’s sprawled out again, of course, so all I can see of him are the soles of his sneakers.
“He’s not there!” Ryan cries out. A second later, his shoes vanish and his feet thud against the floor.
“What?” Tory says.
“Romero. He’s not on the roster. No great speeches, no discussion. Nothing.”
“No way. Let me see.” Tory pushes her way through the crowd and takes Ryan’s laptop from him.
“Hey!” he says, but she sets the computer down on an empty desk.
“What do you think it is?” Savannah asks.
“We need to do some investigating,” Tory says. “Find out if he was in school today. This isn’t the official tournament roster.”
Ryan groans. “If he shows up in discussio
n, I’m throwing myself out a window.”
My stomach jumps, and my heart flutters. I feel sick, and wonder if Sam really is. Or if his name missing from the roster has something to do with me.
“Someone,” Tory says, “could find out.” She raises her eyes so they meet mine. “Someone. Could.” Each word is slow, deliberate, and meant just for me.
I could. Maybe. I could pull out my phone and send him a text. After last week, I don’t know if he’ll answer. After last week, I don’t have the courage to text him at all.
I give my head the slightest of shakes. “I can’t,” I mouth.
Tory raises an eyebrow. “Really?”
“Really,” I say, this time, my voice loud.
A few girls glance at me, but I can tell no one thinks much of it. For all they know, I’m still going with Jeremy and haven’t even spoken to Sam.
Tory refreshes the page again, her eyes narrowed to tiny slits as she scans the screen. “Wait a second,” she says. “They just updated the doc. He will be there, doing great speeches and ...” Tory pauses, her face filled with mischief.
Ryan sits up. “And?”
“Discussion!”
He slumps in his chair as if he’s suddenly lost all his bones.
“You were saying something about a window?” Tory adds.
Something flutters inside me—it feels like the excitement before Christmas morning—or the feeling you get right before you see the dentist. But I keep my face bland. I don’t move an inch. Because Tory? She’s staring at me hard.
It’s only later, out in the lobby, that Tory says something to me. I’m waiting for the last activity bus. Her book bag whispers against her wool coat. It’s such a soft sound, nothing like Tory herself. For several moments, she stands next to me, still oddly quiet. At last, she speaks.
“Rumor has it you stole Jeremy from Caro.”
“I did what...?” I trail off and stare at the ceiling. This is just my luck. All those words, whispered behind my back? Now I understand every last one, and I really wish I didn’t.
The Fine Art of Keeping Quiet Page 11