“Not that I believe it,” she adds. “It’s clear you can’t stand him, and vice versa.”
“It’s clear,” I say, “or did you hear that from Ryan?”
“Maybe a little of both.” She grins, but I don’t feel like smiling back. “Look,” she continues. “I don’t know what’s going on. But if you feel like talking … or giving up the goods on Romero.”
I can’t help it. I snort. Tory, always scheming about something.
She laughs. “Doesn’t hurt to ask. Really, if you feel like talking?” She shrugs. “Believe it or not, I do know how to listen. My cell and email are on the team roster.”
Outside, a car horn honks. Tory hefts her messenger bag. When she reaches the door, she turns, waves, and then vanishes into early evening flurries. The door whooshes closed, my own wave coming too late. A moment later, a loud clomping fills the hallway. Ryan skids into the lobby, hops on one foot, then charges through the double doors. A second later, they fly back open.
“Hey, Cuppernull,” he says. “For the record, I don’t believe it either.”
Really? I think. Out loud, I say, “Wow. I didn’t know you could move that fast.”
He makes a face, but beneath the frown is an actual smile, not a smirk. Then he, too, is gone.
Chapter 12
Saturday’s snow flurries don’t keep us from traveling to St. Peter for the speech tournament. I sit behind Kaitlin and Savannah, but everything feels like ice—the bus seats, the floor, their stares. Before the first round starts, I check my phone, then check it again, and check it so many times, I’m afraid I’ll drain the battery. Casually, I walk by the Winnetka girls, hoping to hear where Sam is.
I get nothing but a whispered, “You’re going down.”
In the break before the third round, I see him. Sam. He’s here. For the first time in days, relief fills me. Finally, something—or someone—that’s right. We’ll talk, and somehow everything will be okay.
Only when he’s closer do I notice how tight his face is. How he’s looking straight at me, but I don’t think he really sees me. He walks past without saying a word, without nodding his head. Nothing. It comes like a blow, fast and hard to my stomach. I’m trying very hard to take a full breath while fighting back tears.
Then the cell phone in my skirt pocket vibrates.
Sam: 24
I dash down the hall, taking the same route Sam did. I round a corner and find Room 24, a chemistry lab. Inside, the lights are off, and gray daylight filters in from a few windows. It’s dreary, and a harsh smell makes my nose wrinkle. I can’t identify the odor, but I’m pretty sure it’s the scent of failure.
“I thought we’d try something different today.” Sam hands me a script.
I take it, totally uncertain about what’s going on. His brows are drawn together, his jaw all tense. I glance at the script. It’s Shakespeare, but Hamlet this time. In the middle of the page, one line is highlighted in yellow.
This above all: to thine own self be true.
I don’t know what it means, at least not what it means about us—or me.
“Everyone says you’re going together.” Sam beats his script against his leg and the pages flutter. “You and Jeremy Spinner.”
I don’t nod. I don’t shake my head. I stand there, the first traces of donkey teeth making themselves known beneath my upper lip. Only then do I realize that I’ve hardly felt them all day—until now.
“Everyone?” I say at last.
“Girls on your team,” he adds, “girls on mine. They all seemed really happy to tell me about it.”
I bet they were. It was crazy, but I didn’t like the idea of Sam talking to all those other girls. “It isn’t something that’s true,” I say.
“Yeah. I know.”
He does? He understands? I can explain without betraying Caro. I don’t have the words, not yet, but I will. I’m positive. I’m about to take a step forward and—I don’t know—maybe hug him.
He holds up a hand. “That’s not the problem.”
Wait. There’s still a problem?
“I think you’re pretending. And the problem with that is I think you might be pretending about a lot of things.”
A lot of things? Or just us?
“I can explain,” I say, but at the same time, my mind whirls. How? How am I going to explain? I’m standing at the crossroads of the same exact decision: Caro or Sam? Sam or Caro? Who do I pick? And why can’t I pick both?
By the time I make up my mind, it’s too late. Sam spins away and heads for the door.
“You need to figure out what parts of you are true.” He pauses, his hand on the doorknob. “And I can’t help you with that.”
The door clicks shut behind him. I stand, surrounded by the stench of failure, and push the tears from my cheeks.
“What’s up with your third round?” Tory flops into the bus seat in front of mine and rests her chin on its edge.
Since I never checked my scores, I have no idea what she’s talking about. Why check? No way I made the finals. And texting them to Sam? That’s something I don’t get to do anymore. I shake my head, hoping that works as an answer.
“Two, two, and a five.” She counts the scores off on her fingers. “Did you crash and burn during your last round?”
Yes, I think. That’s it exactly.
“It happens,” she says, “especially when you start getting better. You know, one step forward and two back.” She shrugs. “That sort of thing. With a little more stamina, you’ll end up making the final round.”
This time, when I shake my head, I mean it. “That’s not happening,” I say.
“Maybe not until next season.” Tory sing-songs the words, so I’m not sure if she’s teasing me or not. “But don’t count yourself out for this one, not yet.”
Does she really believe I can make the finals this year? I don’t believe it, and when you get right down to it, that’s the only part that matters.
“So, this thing with you and Jeremy Spinner—”
I sigh. “It’s not what you think it is,” I say, wishing I had at least said that much to Sam.
“I think I have a pretty good idea.”
Yes, I’m sure she does.
She leans her head back against the window and adds, “What about this thing with you and Sam Romero?”
I squeeze my eyes shut. “There is no thing with me and Sam Romero.”
At last. I’ve finally told the truth about something.
Before first bell on Monday morning, Jeremy finds me. He drags me to the biology classroom. Under the cover of online squid dissection, he starts talking, fast.
“Why don’t we pretend to cool it,” he says. “I’ll act like I’m avoiding you cuz I want to break up but don’t want to hurt your feelings.”
He’s given this a lot of thought. I’m almost impressed. Almost. “Why do you get to dump me?”
He raises his hands, indicating the whole package that is Jeremy Spinner. Oh, of course. No girl would ever dump him. Please. I look away and roll my eyes. But I don’t really care—that much. After last week, getting dumped by him might be the best thing that’s ever happened to me.
I don’t see Caro all day. Not in the halls. Not at lunch. Her spot in the cafeteria goes empty while Jeremy has rejoined the jocks. I retreat to room 42, where it seems like this whole mess started. I do a virtual heart dissection for extra credit—not that I need it—and wonder how easy it is to break something that looks so strong.
Still, I’m pretty sure Caro is in school. I’m hoping to catch her after last bell and before speech team practice. Like last week, she finds me—and Jeremy—first. Again, she drags us into an empty classroom. She shuts the door behind us, then leans against it as if we’ll try to escape. The anger in her eyes makes me think we might want to do that.
“What is going on?” she says.
“We’re cooling things off.” With immense pride, Jeremy points between me and him. “So we can “break up” tomorrow
.” He draws those air quotes and gives Caro a grin.
I nod. “Jeremy actually had a good idea.”
He shoots me a look. Only then do I realize how bad that sounds.
Caro speaks like she hasn’t even heard us. “You know how many rumors there are about you guys?”
I shake my head. Jeremy does the same. But he drops his gaze to the floor, and I know we’re both lying. And how fair is it that the rumors make him look like a stud and me like the last person anyone wants to be around?
“Well, guess what everyone is saying,” Caro adds. “That you two go up to the biology room, and—”
“Do schoolwork?” I say.
“Jolia helped me with all the make-up dissections,” Jeremy says. “I’m getting a B.” He makes this sound like he’s discovered a new species.
“Make up or make out?” Caro’s words and her eyes burn into us.
“Caro,” I begin, “don’t be crazy.”
“It’s what everyone is talking about.” She waves her hands as if the whole school is in this room.
Jeremy and I look stupid for pretending we hadn’t heard.
“But I don’t really believe it,” she says.
I sag with relief.
“You know what I do believe? I think you two.” She points to me, then Jeremy, her finger stabbing the air. “Want the rumors to be true.”
I look at Jeremy, and he looks at me. Maybe, in that moment, we should’ve both looked at Caro. She can’t see the disbelief on our faces—the revulsion, if you want to get precise. She can’t see how we’ve been counting the seconds until our “break up.”
“See?” Her voice is pitched high, almost a shriek. “It’s true. You’ve been avoiding me all week.”
“Oh, my god, really? You told us to!” I gesture at Jeremy. He needs to do or say something—anything—a “Hey, babe,” or somehow pull out a magical bouquet of grocery store flowers.
But his mouth hangs open, arms slack at his side. It’s like Caro’s words have turned him into a zombie. I want to shake him—hard.
“Why didn’t you text or call this weekend?” Caro says.
Why didn’t I? Besides being completely wrecked over Sam? “Your mom? Remember? I’m a 'bad influence'.” And yeah, I use the air quotes.
Caro rolls her eyes. I think that’s what does it.
“Oh, so it’s all about you?” I say. “Never mind the whole school thinks I’m a boyfriend-stealing skank, this whole thing has totally screwed up any chance I had with a guy from Winnetka—”
“Sam Romero?” Jeremy says this.
Caro and I both startle at his voice.
“Yeah.” My voice goes soft, the words hard to say. “Sam.”
“Why don’t I know about this guy?” Caro asks.
This time, Jeremy actually rolls his eyes. How he knows about Sam, I’m not sure, but clearly his observation skills are better than Caro’s.
“Because we never talk, unless it’s about Jeremy,” I tell her, “so I figured why bother even saying anything.” This is a half-truth. True, she’s been all about Jeremy lately, but then I haven’t offered up any information about me—not about Sam, or failing speech, or anything. Still, I see that my words cut.
“Well, I guess now that won’t be a problem for you.”
Caro flings open the door. It crashes against the jamb and the air shakes.
“Come on, babe,” Jeremy says. “Don’t be stupid.” A second later, his eyes go wide in horror. Even he knows this was the wrong thing to say.
“What did you call me?” Caro’s fingers grip the door so hard, they go white.
“I didn’t mean it like that. I only—”
“So there’s a good way to be stupid? Well, guess what? You won’t have to worry about that anymore. We’re through!”
She runs, but I can’t force my legs to follow her. My legs don’t want to follow her. My legs are done with that. All I can do is sink into a chair, plant my arms on the desk, and rest my head in them. I try to calculate what I’ve lost in the last week—my reputation, my best friend, my maybe boyfriend. No matter how I do the math, I can’t seem to add up how it all happened.
“What was that?” Jeremy says.
“I think Caro just broke up with us,” I say.
He swears and flops down next to me. “This makes no sense. She wanted us to pretend.”
“I know.”
I need to get to speech practice. Jeremy, I think, starts track today. But we sit there, like we’re both broken inside. If I try to walk, I think my legs might crumble beneath me. Somehow, I do stand, and Jeremy follows. We stumble to the door, then part. He heads for the locker rooms. I find the nearest stairwell but turn before climbing the stairs.
Jeremy walks away, completely drained of his jock swagger. He looks like he’s missing a piece of something important. When he turns and stares at me, I know that he is. And that I am, too.
By Tuesday lunch, I feel like I’m in deep freeze with Caro. I thought once she cooled off, once it was clear Jeremy and I truly have “broken up,” we could talk this through. Nothing works. Not phoning, not texting, not even a handwritten note shoved through the vents of her locker. What happens now? What happens to our graphic novel, our retelling of Romeo and Juliet? What happens to us? I plan to talk to her at lunch, but when I reach the cafeteria, Jeremy’s blocking the doorway.
“You don’t want to go in there,” he says.
“What?”
“Trust me, Jolia.”
My name stops me. I think it’s the first time he’s ever said it to me, not just about me. “What’s going on?” I ask.
He scoots to let a few freshmen squeeze past and I peer in. Caro isn’t at our usual table, the one next to all of Jeremy’s friends. At first, I don’t see her. I let my gaze bounce from table to table, taking in each group, cataloging them quickly: gymnasts, swimmers, speech team.
Speech team. As a backup, I’d been thinking of sitting there today, but now I can’t.
Caro’s sitting there.
“Why is Caro at the speech table?” I ask Jeremy.
“I figured that’s where you’d sit today.” He shrugs. “I know she can be kind of—” He stares into the cafeteria as if they’re serving the words he needs along with the main entrée. “Well, kind of bitchy. But she’s not mean like that. She wouldn’t steal your other … friends.”
Well, not unless she thinks I stole Jeremy. But the Caro I know—or at least thought I knew—wouldn’t. But I’m not sure I know anyone anymore, especially myself.
He holds up a vinyl lunch sack. “I brought mine today.” He doesn’t say, just in case, but I hear it in his tone.
We walk toward the stairs as if we’re headed for the biology classroom, but we don’t make it there. We sit on the steps halfway up, hidden from everyone. Jeremy opens the sack, pulls out a sandwich, and offers me half.
“You don’t mind?” I say.
“I’ve got two more, and it’s not like you eat a lot.”
Maybe not in Jeremy terms.
The stairwell is quiet, and I’m afraid I’m chewing much too loudly. I can hear the lettuce from the sandwich crackle in my ears with each bite. This is weird, and a little freaky, and the donkey teeth want to make a grand reappearance. With my tongue, I touch my front two teeth, and the sensation melts away. It’s a small comfort today.
“This sucks,” Jeremy says after his second sandwich.
It does. It really does.
“I tried all last night,” he continues, his voice tense, like he’s a can of soda about to burst. “I emailed and called. I even went over to her house and did that thing guys do in the movies. You know, toss pebbles at a window.”
Visions of glass shattered all over Caro’s bedroom fill my mind. “What happened?”
“Their crazy dog started barking, so I ran away.” He heaves a sigh. “Sometimes there’s no talking to her. I mean, I can say stuff to you and not worry about pissing you off.”
“You do piss
me off,” I say. “You just don’t care if you do.”
“I do,” he insists, but I’m not sure I believe him. “It’s just different with Caro.”
“That’s because I don’t matter, and Caro does.”
“You matter,” he says.
“Just not to you.”
Just when I think he won’t respond, he speaks again.
“Does Sam Romero matter?”
Something pings inside me like Jeremy’s words have set off a firecracker. My throat is all tight, and I have that shaken-up can of soda feeling in my chest.
“No,” I say at last.
“I think you’re lying.”
“He doesn’t want to talk to me,” I say, “not after the winter carnival.”
“You know, it sounds crazy, but I’m thinking that it might’ve been better if Caro’s mom had caught us.” He stares into the depths of his lunch sack as if all the answers we need are in there. “At least that would’ve been honest.”
I think that’s the smartest thing Jeremy Spinner has ever said.
Chapter 13
All week long, I eat lunch with Jeremy in the stairwell. Caro spends every lunch hour at the speech team table, and every afternoon, everyone at speech team practice acts like this is no big deal. The only difference is Tory points her digital camera my way with a fierceness I haven’t seen all season. She’s convinced I can make the final round, maybe even this Saturday at the Big 9 tournament.
“Can I ask you a favor?” I say on Thursday afternoon. I’ve run through my piece at least five times. I know it by heart, and only glance at my script because if you hold one in a round, you need to at least appear to refer to it. But I feel safer just hanging onto it. Sam’s words echo in my head: Not a prop or a crutch. I’ve seen some kids perform without a script at all. I’ll never be that brave, so I think yes, it’s a crutch.
“Turn the camera off?” Tory grins at me.
“Actually, I’m giving my last speech in Mr. Henderson’s class tomorrow.” I swallow hard. “Would you film it? You know, for practice?”
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