Tory makes a face. “Who says he would’ve won?”
“Have you heard him?” Deep down, I know: no one reads like Sam does when he reads Flowers for Algernon. He becomes the main character, Charlie, makes you feel the heartbreak. He would’ve won.
Tory shrugs and glances toward the Winnetka team. “Then … why?”
“I think it means he likes her,” Kaitlin says.
Tory scowls at her.
“Well, I do.” Kaitlin crosses her arms over her chest. “And it’s not like you know what it means.”
Tory taps her shoe against the floor, a jittery sound that tells me she’s nervous.
“You can count me out of prose,” Ryan says as he plops down behind us. “I choked right in the middle of my piece.”
“It wasn’t that bad,” I say, “more like a stumble.”
Tory narrows her eyes at me, then shoots her twin a look filled with daggers. “Oh, really?”
“I’m telling you, Romero did it on purpose.” Ryan holds up his hands as if to ward her off. “And it worked. It totally messed with my head.”
“All of you take note,” Tory says. “I don’t want to hear the name Sam Romero for the rest of the day.”
Ryan rolls his eyes. Kaitlin giggles. Before Tory can issue another order, the Mankato East speech team coach takes the stage. Predictably, Tory scoots past me twice—once for discussion (second place) and once for extemporaneous speaking (first). I wonder if the Dinsmores have an entire room devoted to all the trophies Tory and Ryan bring home.
When the names for great speeches echo through the auditorium, I expect to hear Sam’s. Kids on the Winnetka team shift in their seats like they expect the same thing. There are no chants of Ro-me-o, Ro-me-o. The stage seems wrong without Sam on it.
At last, the coach announces the serious prose winners. Tory clutches my arm, like she’s the one waiting for her name to be called.
“What about Ryan?” I whisper.
“Not a chance,” she says. “He blew it.”
Ryan smacks her in the back of the head just as his name is called for third place. I clap until my hands ache.
“It really was just a stumble,” I say to Tory, but I don’t think she can hear me over her own cheers.
Second place goes to a girl from Mankato East. The home team goes wild. Tory reestablishes her grip on my arm and holds on even tighter. Ryan leans forward. Next to me, Kaitlin seems to vibrate. I hate for everyone to be so disappointed when my name isn’t called.
Up on stage, the Mankato East coach consults the piece of paper in his hand. “And the winner of the serious prose interpretation category is … Jolia Cuppernull from Fremont High School! Congratulations, Jolia!”
There’s a roaring in my ears. I can’t tell if it’s coming from inside or outside of my head. Tory yanks me up while Kaitlin pushes from behind. Together they shove me from the row and into the aisle. I turn back to stare at them.
“Get up there!” Tory yells. “Go get your trophy!”
My legs have all the strength of wet noodles. I stumble down the aisle, a sea of applause crashing around me. The stairs look steep, but somehow, I climb them. Then I’m up on the stage. I know it’s probably the wrong thing to do—that it will probably send me into a fit of stage fright—but I look out at the audience.
From up here, everything’s so clear. I see the battle lines drawn between the teams—Winnetka to my right, Fremont to my left. Somehow I ended up in the middle.
I search for Sam. He’s not clapping, but relief fills his face. He’s the reason I’m up on this stage. Not just because he threw the final round, but because he believed in me from the start.
The coach hands me the first place trophy. The thing is huge. I’m not ready for its weight, and my arms sag when he lets go. A ripple of friendly laughter flows through the audience. After I shake the coach’s hand, I hold the trophy high above my head, the way I’ve seen everyone else do. All the Fremont kids jump up and down. Kaitlin screams. Ryan gives me a double thumbs up.
I can’t help glancing at Sam. He has his hands braced against the arms of his seat as if he’s ready to bolt from the auditorium. An idea grips my mind: I can’t let him do that.
I take a shaky step down the stairs. Instead of crossing in front of the stage, I head straight up the aisle in front of me. I head straight for the Winnetka team.
A hush falls over the auditorium. The Mankato East coach doesn’t continue with the next category. No one says anything. When I’m halfway to his seat, Sam’s eyes go huge. He gives his head a slight shake, but I keep going.
I’m tired of not speaking up, because, sometimes, that’s the same as lying. And I can’t lie about Sam. The moment before I reach him, he stands. I hug the trophy to me—a quick hello and then goodbye. Then I thrust it at him.
“Here,” I say. “You earned this.”
I let the trophy go. Sam has no choice. If he doesn’t make a grab for it, the trophy will crash to the floor. He catches it and then, somehow, my wrist, too. His grip is so gentle, I know I can slip away. But I don’t—or can’t. Both of us are speechless, maybe everyone in the auditorium is, but they’ve faded into the background. It’s just me and Sam and the glint of the golden trophy between us.
We can’t stand like this forever. I lean in and break the spell with a soft kiss on his cheek.
“Thank you,” I whisper.
He lets me slip away.
Without looking back, I walk up the aisle. I pick up my coat in the common area, and then I push through the lobby doors and head outside. I tip my face toward the afternoon sun and take in its warmth. Tory was right. It was a good omen. With the sun at my back, I go find the Fremont bus.
Chapter 16
On the bus, I take a seat near the back and pull out my phone. Even though I’m out of practice, I could text Caro in my sleep. I peck out two words and send them to her:
Thank you.
I clutch my phone, but I don’t expect it to vibrate. It doesn’t.
From the school, kids emerge, fanning out, each looking for the bus to take them home. Among the crowd, golden trophies glint in the sun. I don’t see Sam. I think maybe that’s just as well.
Everyone is really quiet as they file onto the bus. A few kids nod, but most shuffle past, looking at everything but me. I figure my fate is sealed. Any moment, Tory will charge onto the bus and beat me with her own first place trophy.
Instead, she just flops down in the seat in front of mine. “You okay?” she asks.
I shrug.
“I figured as much.”
I don’t say anything.
After a moment, Tory says, “You know Sam Romero.”
This is not a question. I suppose the trophy—not to mention the kiss—gave the whole thing away. But Tory deserves an answer. She deserves the truth.
“Up until a couple of weeks ago, Sam was secretly coaching me.”
I never thought I’d be the one to shock Tory speechless, but it sure looks that way. Her mouth hangs open a little, both eyebrows raised.
“We live in the same neighborhood,” I say. “We were friends, when we were little.”
Mr. Henderson climbs onto the bus, his gaze scanning all of us. He has to make sure we’re all here before the driver shuts the door for the last time. When he reaches me, his eyes narrow. Then he pulls a cell phone from his coat pocket.
“Am I in trouble?” I ask Tory.
“Honestly? I think maybe we all are.”
“Did you tell Mr. Henderson about my script?”
Tory makes a face. “Yeah, that conversation didn’t go as planned.”
“Didn’t he care?” I can’t believe that, and I hope Tory tells me what he said.
“Oh, he cared. But he started asking all sorts of questions. I think.” She glances toward the front of the bus. “He’s talking to the Winnetka coach now.”
The bus rumbles beneath us, and something about it forces words from my mouth. Once I start, the whole story comes
out—or at least most of it. I don’t tell Tory about the rink rats, but she hears all the rest, my friendship with Sam, the secret coaching, and especially the reason for it. The miles flash by with my words and by the time we’re halfway home, I know I owe her an apology.
“You were right,” I say, “I didn’t want to be on the speech team. But it was either that or fail.”
A frown creases Tory’s brow, one reminiscent of the days when I was unworthy. I hate that we’re back there, but that’s the least I deserve. “I’m sorry,” I say. “I really—”
She holds up a hand, stopping me. “No, it’s ... why would Romero tell everyone you’re all that in the first place?”
I shake my head and shake a stray tear from my eye. “I don’t know.”
“And then coach you,” she finishes. She leans back against the window, closes her eyes. “I’m so glad this season is almost over. I am so sick of hearing the name Sam Romero.”
My sigh comes out heavy with sadness.
Tory’s eyes fly open. “Really? After all this time? Didn’t I tell you they call him Romeo for a reason?”
With her words, my heart starts aching all over again. “You did.”
Everyone is silent when we arrive at school. One by one, we trek from the bus and into the speech classroom to drop off whatever we won’t need until Monday.
“Ryan and Tory?” Mr. Henderson says. “A word with you.”
They huddle around his desk. The look Mr. Henderson gives the rest of us makes it clear: No eavesdropping.
But when I reach the door, Mr. Henderson adds, “Jolia, why don’t you wait in the hall.”
Kaitlin and Savannah look almost as scared as I feel. My heart thumps. I pull off my mittens because my hands are sweating like crazy. I lean against the wall outside the classroom. Kaitlin and Savannah say goodbye. I’m alone, with nothing—no script, no trophy. Voices come from the classroom—mostly Mr. Henderson’s—but I can’t hear what they’re saying. Then, louder, I hear:
“Ms. Cuppernull? You can come in now.”
Mr. Henderson is at his desk, Ryan and Tory in front of it. There’s an empty spot next to her, a spot meant for me, I can tell. I inch forward until I’m standing next to Tory.
“Can I ask you about today?” he says, although it’s not so much a real question as a teacher question. There isn’t an option not to answer.
“Why did you give your trophy to Sam Romero?”
“Is there a rule against giving your trophy away?” I’m pretty sure the trophies don’t belong to the school, not after watching Tory and Ryan lug them home week after week. Ryan snorts. And although I can’t see her, I’m pretty sure Tory rolls her eyes.
Mr. Henderson’s lips twitch. “I don’t think there’s an actual rule, but most people like to keep their very first, first place trophy.”
Something sharp pings against my heart. No matter how right I thought I was, part of me wishes I’d kept the trophy, to have something to show my parents and especially my brother Derek.
“So,” he says, “we’re back to why.”
So I explain about knowing Sam long before speech team, and how he offered to coach me. And because I figured I couldn’t get any worse, his coaching might help.
“But now I don’t know,” I say. “I mean after today with my script—”
“Tory explained how the Winnetka team thought you were a plant and about your stolen script. You know, I’m required to file a copy of all scripts before each tournament.”
Tory exhales and slaps her forehead.
“I might have been able to get you a replacement,” Mr. Henderson says.
Now he tells us? Shock rolls through me, and I sprout a new crop of sweat like I’m gearing up for the final round all over again. I’m seriously considering making a run for the bathroom. Except we’re not excused, not yet.
“On the drive back,” Mr. Henderson continued, “I called the Winnetka coach, and we had a long chat.”
I wait, hoping he’ll shed some light on what Sam did and, more importantly, why.
“According to her, Sam admitted to coaching you, but refused to say anything about today’s final round.”
“Oh.” I feel myself sag.
“What about Jolia’s script?” Tory asks. “I don’t think it’s fair—”
Mr. Henderson holds up a hand, silencing her. “I agree and so does the Winnetka coach. She will deal with it.”
Tory’s brow crinkles in disappointment and outrage. If she could, I bet she’d storm into Winnetka High School and demand justice.
“Besides,” Mr. Henderson continues, “we discovered today that Jolia doesn’t need her script. But we still need to decide what to do about sub-sectionals.”
I perk up, my heart hammering. I never thought past today, past the final round, and what that might mean. Tory reaches over and gives my hand a quick squeeze.
“If the only thing that mattered was winning, I’d slot you for prose and start prepping for state right now.”
State? I give my head a slight shake. Today could’ve been a fluke. I’m not ready for state. Even as I think this, Tory whispers, “Told you so.”
“But I can’t let this go unpunished. You should’ve come to me, or asked Tory or Ryan to help you.”
I nod.
“I really have no choice, Jolia,” Mr. Henderson says. “You’re suspended from participating in one tournament.”
The pieces fall into place. If I don’t compete in sub-sectionals—the next tournament—I can’t move on to the regional tournament. I can’t move on to state. Which is better? Winning? Or honesty? I think I know. And I think—no, I’m positive—I’m okay with that.
“What about Tory and Ryan?” I ask. If they’re suspended too? Guilt rushes through me, and I rush my words. “They didn’t do anything wrong, not really. They only tried to help—”
“And both the Winnetka coach and I feel that the co-captains on each team fostered an atmosphere of unhealthy rivalry instead of spirited competition.”
Ryan snorts again. Tory sighs. They’ve heard this before, clearly.
“And then there’s the question about hacking.”
Next to me, Tory stiffens. This, they haven’t heard.
“All three of you know that’s a serious offense, right?”
Oh, God. My vision blurs. I blink, even though that will make the tears spill down my cheeks. I can’t wipe them away, either, because I’m clutching my mittens in one hand and Tory’s with the other. From her grip, I can tell, she’s not letting go.
“Don’t blame Jolia,” Tory blurts out. “She told us to stop.”
Well, I did, and I didn’t, but the second I open my mouth, Mr. Henderson holds up a hand.
“The Winnetka coach and I agree that the captains from both teams will be suspended from competition for the rest of the season.”
Tory’s fingers go limp in my hand.
“I had to think long and hard about expelling you from the team, but I feel my and Ms. Cabera’s ambitions for our separate teams may have played a role in this.” Mr. Henderson sighs, like this hurts him too. “I expect the two of you to attend practice, coach the other team members, and support the team at the remaining tournaments.”
With their faces downcast, Tory and Ryan nod.
“Could I do that too?” I ask him. “Coach, and help, and support?”
Mr. Henderson’s gaze surveys me. He looks more pleased than surprised by my question, although he still doesn’t look all that happy. “Yes, I think the team would appreciate it. I think Tory and Ryan would to.”
They don’t move, and I’m not sure what they think.
Mr. Henderson dismisses us. He’s subdued. We all are. I shrug on my coat again, but pushing my arms through the sleeves feels extra hard. Ryan and Tory pick up their trophies like they weigh ten pounds each. Tory examines hers carefully as if it’s some artifact that belongs in a museum. We’re at the door when Mr. Henderson calls out one last time.
�
��I’ll be putting final grades into the system this weekend, Ms. Cuppernull. You might want to go online and check yours.”
And that is all he’ll say about that.
We don’t speak, not until we reach the lobby. There, we huddle in a corner. Tory pulls out her cell phone, a deep line forming between her brows.
“You guys,” I say. “I’m sorry.” Somehow, this feels like it’s all my fault. From the moment I agreed to Sam’s secret coaching, I tipped the first domino, and this is the fallout.
“We’re lucky.” Tory holds up the phone. “Mom says so.”
“What? She knows?” Ryan lurches forward. “You’re lucky it’s not going on your record,” he reads. “Crap—she didn’t actually say ‘crap.’ That was me.”
“She’ll say more than that when we get home.” Tory shoves the phone into her messenger bag.
She’s about to stand, but it’s like her legs decide to stop working. She crumples against me, her sobs so strong, they shake both of us, and loosen the tears flooding my eyes. Ryan fumbles with the trophies, sets them down, picks them up, his hands all nervous, like he wants to fix his sister, but doesn’t know where to start. So I hold her and let her cry. The sobs slow until—finally—they’re hiccups, then haggard breaths.
“The worst thing?” Tory says. “Facing everyone at the tournaments. How am I going to explain? It’s going to be so embarrassing.”
“More embarrassing than failing speech?” I ask.
A heartbeat passes, then another. Just when I’m afraid Tory will shove me into the trophy cases, she hugs me tighter, shaking, only this time, with laughter.
“I’ll be there with you guys,” I add.
She pulls back. “Really?”
“Promise.”
She plucks at the scarf I’m wearing. “And then there’s this.”
“You want me to knit you a scarf?”
“I want you to teach me. I’m going to have lots of time on my hands.”
I turn to Ryan. “How about you?”
“There’s lots of girls in this club, right?”
“Oh, yeah.”
He shrugs. “Why the hell not.”
The Fine Art of Keeping Quiet Page 15