The Fine Art of Keeping Quiet

by Charity Tahmaseb

  I shrug, but Tory won’t let me get away with that.

  “I’ll tell you what we’re going to do. You.” She points to me. “Are going to be Winnetka’s worst nightmare. They don’t have anyone strong in prose, not without Romero. I’m predicting you’ll make the finals.”

  Caro squeaks, but Tory cuts the connection. She’s all business and stares at me hard. But that look? I can’t recall when it shifted, when unworthy became something else, something more. Something … worthy?

  Then Tory takes me by the shoulders and propels me toward the door.

  “Showtime,” she says. “Let’s go prove Winnetka right.”

  We reach our table with enough time to grab our scripts and fill our water bottles. The thought of drinking makes my stomach churn. Or maybe that was seeing Caro on Tory’s phone. Or finding out about Sam. I don’t know. All I know is if I take a sip, I’ll spit it all back up again. I set my bottle on my chair and tuck my coat over it. Then I reach for my script.

  The table is clear, nothing but its smooth surface meets my fingertips. No neatly typed scene. No forest green construction paper. Nothing. My stomach churns harder. My face goes red hot, like I have a fever.

  “My script,” I murmur, the words barely leaving my mouth.

  “Hm?” Tory doesn’t even glance from her note cards.

  “My script,” I say. “It’s gone.”

  Her head jerks up. “What?”

  I point to the table. “I left it right here.”

  “No. No. On the floor, maybe.” She ducks down, and her head vanishes beneath the table. A moment later, she pops back up. “Ryan, have you seen—?”

  “Looking for something?” A chorus of voices echo across the area.

  Opposite us, the Winnetka girls stand. The one in the middle, Annika, fans herself with a script backed with dark green construction paper. My script. I’m sure of it.

  Ryan shoots from his chair so fast, it crashes into the table behind us. He sprints across the common area. I think he might even leap over a table. The Winnetka girls divide my script, each taking a few pages. They run, two down one hallway, the other splitting off toward the stairwell. By the time Ryan reaches the other side, there’s no sense following any of the girls. Even if he could catch one of them, what good would a partial script do?

  “It’ll be okay,” Tory says.

  I shake my head. I have no words, no way to describe what’s just happened and what it’s done to my insides. In a few minutes, when the first round starts, I’ll have no words there either. The Winnetka girls ran off with them.

  Ryan returns, head down, panting hard.

  “How did this happen?” Tory growls these words. Even though I see everything through a haze of panic, she sounds fiercer than ever before. “Weren’t you sitting here the whole time?” she asks.

  “Yeah, well.” He stares at his shoes. “I was talking to someone.”

  “Someone who?”

  His gaze darts toward the hall where one of the Winnetka girls vanished.

  “Oh, don’t tell me,” Tory says. “Really? What have I said about fraternizing with the enemy?”

  “I didn’t think—”

  “Seriously, you didn’t?” She rubs her hands across her face, then smooths her hair back, securing a few stray pieces with a bobby pin. “We can tell Henderson,” she says. “This has got to get them disqualified, maybe even suspended for the rest of the season.”

  “Maybe,” Ryan says, then he focuses on me. “Jolia, look, I’m sorry. I don’t know what I was ... I mean, I’m really sorry.”

  I know he is. His face is all crumpled. His eyes look so sad, and damp, like maybe he’s about to cry. Instead, he shoves his hands into his pockets and stares at the ceiling. His Adam’s apple bobs once, twice.

  “Now what?” I say. “Should I tell Mr. Henderson I can’t compete?” The thought fills me with relief. After everything, this feels like the best solution.

  Tory makes a face like I suggested we run through the school naked. “Are you kidding? You go to your first round and you compete.”

  My mouth falls open. I point to the spot where my script was. “I don’t—”

  “Need it,” Tory finishes. “Did you, or did you not, run through it five times on Thursday without even glancing at it?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “But nothing. It’s not a crutch.”

  Or a prop. Not even a shield. I must do battle unarmed.

  Tory takes me by the shoulders. “You can do this. I know you can. Even better, when you walk in without your script, you will totally freak everyone out. Don’t worry if you flub a line. Just be all Jane on her stool and you’ll be fine.”

  Ryan gives my arm an awkward pat. “You can do it.”

  We walk down the hall, toward the rooms being used for the tournament. That awful feeling, the one where you know you’ve left something behind, but can’t figure out what, follows me to the classroom. There are so many things I don’t have—Sam, Caro, my script—that I’m not sure which one I should be looking for.

  Chapter 15

  Despite Tory’s pep talk, I walk into my first round in a daze. I sink into my seat and turn my mind toward Jane Eyre. Or try to. Behind me comes a snicker. I swivel in my seat, just slightly, and catch sight of a Winnetka girl. She’s never done prose before, I’m sure of it. This must be part of the Big 9 shake up before sub-sectionals.

  “Lose something?” she says in a voice both too quiet and too mean for a whisper.

  I pretend not to hear and jerk toward the front of the classroom.

  Bottled up tears touch the corners of my eyes. A wrong word, a wrong look, a wrong thought will send me over the edge, I’m sure of it. With Tory, I was okay. Here alone, I feel empty, betrayed, friendless.

  I am Jane on her stool.

  Even as I ache, I can’t stop the other thoughts, the ones that tell me I can use this hurt, have it lace my words, and come through in my piece, for everyone to feel. It’s like a mini-Tory has planted herself in my brain and is feeding me advice. But it’s good advice. When the judge calls my name first, I almost smile.

  I am ready.

  After my third round, I feel as though I’ve been squeezed through one of those old-fashioned contraptions they used to wring the water out of clothes. There’s nothing left to me. If you hung me on the line to dry, I’d just flap on the wind, nearly see-through.

  I search for Tory, but Ryan says her last round of extemporaneous speaking has run over.

  “But you know,” he says, “they posted the finals for prose already.”

  “Did you make the list?”

  “Yeah, but that’s not why I mentioned it.” He looks me up and down. There’s something different in his expression, a glimmer of something I’ve never seen in his eyes. “You better go check.”

  “Why?”

  He just grins, then locks his lips together with an imaginary key. Oh, God, that really does look dorky.

  I head down the hallway, swimming against the tide of kids coming from their last rounds. Not as many people crowd the lists of scores, so I check those first, searching for my name, then blinking several times when I see the numbers next to it:

  1, 2, 1

  That can’t be right. I came in first twice? I trace a line from my name to the scores, just to double check, but the numbers don’t change. My heart thumps hard. Scores that good can mean only one thing. I’m not sure I’m ready to face that. I’m not sure I have a choice.

  Like a zombie, I meander farther down the hallway. Other kids bump me. One knocks my shoulder so hard, I spin around. I hear that same snicker and then see the retreating form of a Winnetka girl. The finalist list isn’t that far away, but my steps don’t seem to get me any closer, until all at once, I’m there.

  Before I can check, a teacher emerges from a room and tapes another list to the wall, this one for extemporaneous speaking. That’s easier to deal with, so I scan the names there first. I’m not surprised to find Tory
near the top.

  I need to check prose. I need to know. I inch closer, passing other lists, my eyes searching for Fremont names and one Winnetka name I probably shouldn’t look for. But I can’t help it. Each time I pass a list, I check for Romero, Sam.

  Nothing. He’s not even listed in great speeches. The tournament where Sam doesn’t final is the one he doesn’t attend. He’s not here today. I sigh with equal amounts of relief and sadness.

  The next list is the one for prose. I can’t put it off any longer, so I take one giant step and land in front of it. My heartbeat goes into overtime. For a second, it’s like I’ve forgotten how to read. I see the list of names—all five of them—and slowly the jumbled letters sort themselves out.

  What I read, right there at the top is:

  Cuppernull, Jolia

  I can’t believe Tory’s prediction came true, but there’s the proof. The name below mine is:

  Dinsmore, Ryan

  Then my eyes lock on the last name on the list. My racing heart stops so hard, it feels like someone hit me in the chest.

  Romero, Sam

  I spin around, but if Sam’s in the area, he’s well hidden. He’s not only at the tournament, but he’s back in prose? My thoughts whirl. How can that be? I think about what Tory and Caro told me, about how Winnetka thought I was a ringer. Could Sam being back in prose have something to do with that?

  Before I can sort out an answer, Mr. Henderson finds me.

  “Jolia!” he says. “Congratulations. Your progress this season has been … impressive.” He gives me an odd look. I wonder if Tory’s told him about my stolen script or if he has some sort of teacher sense that alerts him to these things.

  “Make sure you eat and drink at lunch today,” he continues. “It’s easy to get nervous and not do that. I'd hate to see you faint during the final round.”

  Yeah, I’d hate that too.

  I nod and say thank you, and because it looks dorky hanging out by the finalists’ lists, I head for the common area and the Fremont team.

  I’m pretty sure the tournament organizers picked the tiniest, stuffiest room for the prose finals. The wall between our room and the one next door is a folding wall, thin and creaky—and we hear everything going on in there.

  The judge shoves open the connecting door, asks if theirs is an actual final round or if they’re just goofing off. All at once, silence fills the air. The judge sighs, leans against the now closed door, and gives the four out of the five finalists a relieved smile.

  “That’s better,” she says.

  And the fifth finalist? Well, he isn’t here. With five minutes before the start, my gaze won’t leave the threshold no matter how hard I tell myself not to wait for him—not to worry for him.

  Because now I see everything clearly. The secret coaching was a setup—one I fell for without suspecting a thing. Sure, Sam coached me, but he also knows everything about how I read my piece—all my strengths, all my weaknesses. He’s heard me so many times, he could almost perform Jane Eyre without a script.

  I can’t compete with that. I can’t compete against Sam Romero. I have the feeling he knows this.

  “Hey.” Ryan leans in and taps my arm. He’s at the desk next to mine, and while he’s no Sam Romero, it’s nice to have someone on my side. “I’m here because of you,” he says.

  “Huh?” My mind is too consumed with Sam to come up with anything witty.

  “I rewrote my intro. Like you said, it’s about courage, not fear.” He shrugs. “The second I did that, I started scoring higher.” He holds out a hand. “So, thanks. And good luck.”

  “You, too,” I say and shake his hand.

  According to the clock on the wall, the round starts in one minute. The judge checks her watch, then glances at the clock.

  “Another minute or two,” she says. “Then we’ll start.”

  Three seconds after the minute hand reaches twelve, Sam flies into the room. His hair is on end, his cheeks flushed, his eyes dark and dull. They don’t look like summer at all. He takes the seat closest to the door, as if he plans to make a quick getaway after the round. If he wants to look at me, he’ll have to turn around.

  Instead, he stares straight ahead, hands clenched on either side of the desk, a folder lying in the middle. My guess is Flowers for Algernon is somewhere inside. If he reads that, first place is his. Ryan opens his mouth, but before I can hear what he’s going to say, the judge starts the round.

  “Welcome, spectators and especially participants, to the serious prose interpretation final round,” she says. “These are the best of the best of our prose contestants today. So, spectators, enjoy! And participants? Try not to be too nervous.”

  Despite her words, a very nervous laugh ripples through the room.

  “Order of speaking is determined by random draw. First up, G-22.”

  Sam stands, opens the folder, and the rustle of paper fills the room. From where I sit, I see script pages backed with different colors, gold, blue—and forest green. He takes his place at the front of the room and starts his introduction.

  At first, all I can see is that green construction paper—the color of summer, of oak leaves, of his eyes. I don’t understand what he’s saying, or maybe I just don’t believe it. His introduction comes out garbled. Only when Sam starts the piece does the enormity of what he’s doing hits home. He’s not reading from Flowers for Algernon.

  Sam Romero is reading the Jane on her stool scene from Jane Eyre.

  Ryan turns his head toward me, his eyes wide with shock. He mouths the word, “What?”

  I give my head a slight shake. I don’t know what’s going on. I don’t know why Sam would steal my piece. I really don’t know why he’s reading it so horribly, or at least horribly for Sam.

  When he finishes, I feel like Jane on the stool, only with it kicked out from under me. What am I going to do when it’s my turn?

  The judge writes comments on Sam’s critique sheet, her pen scratching the paper. In the pause between Sam and the next speaker, Ryan leans across the aisle.

  “What was that?” he whispers.

  “I have no idea.” And I don’t. Blood pounds in my ears and makes all my thoughts blur.

  “Do you think he had those girls steal your script?”

  The Sam I know would never do that. But maybe I never really knew him.

  “I was in the second round with him.” Ryan’s whispered words are urgent. “And he read Algernon, so whatever it is, he did it on purpose.” Ryan utters a few words I’m glad the judge doesn’t hear. “Don’t worry. He was lousy. You’ll blow him out of the water.”

  I barely hear this, because my mind latches on to that one phrase …he did it on purpose.

  That’s because Sam did. He won’t look at me, so I’m not sure what’s going on. But I’m certain about this. Sam Romero is trying to throw the final round. He’s trying to lose. On purpose. As soon as I have this thought, another one slams into me. I really wish he hadn’t. Because I don’t want to win that way.

  “All right,” the judge says. “Next up is—” She draws a piece of paper from her desk. “—L-3.”

  I sink back in my chair, relieved I don’t have to speak right after Sam. That would be too weird. The judge would think we’re crazy, but she’ll probably think that anyway once I stand up and read the exact same scene.

  Ryan reads third. In the middle of his piece, he stumbles. His gaze goes straight to Sam, as if Sam reading Jane Eyre was meant to mess with everyone’s head. Whether it was or not, Ryan is rattled. The mistake isn’t fatal, he recovers, and the entire room is leaning forward by the time he reads the shark attack. Still, it’s not his best performance. When he collapses at his desk, he exhales another word that I’m glad the judge doesn’t hear. “That sucked,” he says right before the judge calls my number.

  I never have the chance to contradict him. I stand and shake out my skirt. Before heading to the front of the room, I touch my scarf for good luck. Murmurs fill the air w
hen everyone realizes I’m reading the same exact scene as Sam. I feel my two phantom front teeth, but the sensation fades the further I get into the scene. By the end, I am Jane Eyre. When I finish, the judge nods at me, and I walk back to my desk on wobbly legs. I melt into the seat. Whatever happens next doesn’t matter quite so much as this: It’s over.

  Sam still stares straight ahead, but Ryan’s full attention is on me.

  “Wow,” is all he says.

  In the auditorium, I’m surrounded by the Fremont team. The place is buzzing with chatter, the squeals pitched higher, the conversations more frantic. During the day, it’s dawned on me that the Big 9 tournament is a huge deal. It’s not sub-sectionals or regionals, but for some kids, it’s even more important. We’re competing against the schools in our conference. Fremont isn’t the only team with a rival like Winnetka. If not for my own drama-filled day, I could’ve enjoyed the other ones playing out around me. Speech really could be a reality TV show.

  No one from the Winnetka team approaches us. I crane my neck and think I see Sam. He’s sitting on the opposite side of the auditorium where the Winnetka team has gathered, in an aisle seat, as if—yet again—he needs to make a quick getaway.

  Tory stands in the center of our group, her eyes lit with the scandal of the serious prose final round. “I can’t believe he read your piece,” she says for maybe the fifth or sixth time. I’ve lost count.

  “I think he did it on purpose,” I say.

  “Well, duh,” comes Tory’s reply. “Of course he did. They stole your script. Besides,” she adds, “I’m pretty sure this disqualified him.”

  I shake my head, frustrated Tory doesn’t see what I do. “I mean the final round. I think he threw it. On purpose.”

  “Romero would never do that. His coach would kill him. He’s their ticket to state.”

  “Then why would he get himself disqualified with Jane Eyre when he could win with Algernon?”