A car horn sounds and I walk them outside. A very blond, older version of Tory shoves open the passenger door of a Volvo station wagon. She points to the front seat, and Tory meekly slides inside. It’s going to be a bumpy ride home.
I don’t have time to even wave. At that moment, our car pulls into the parking lot. That must mean Mr. Henderson called Mom and Dad too. And yes, it looks like I’m in for my own bumpy ride.
At home, Mom meets us at the front door. Dad hasn’t said anything for the entire ride—except that Mr. Henderson called them. All the way home, I’m convinced I’ll throw up. Now that I’m here, I’m pretty sure I will.
But Mom is smiling. And when we reach the den, so is Dad.
“Mr. Henderson said you won first place.” And with this, Mom gives me a huge hug. All I can do is nod.
“Did he tell you why I don’t have a trophy?” I squeak out at last.
Mom and Dad exchange glances. “Yes,” Dad says. “Something about a boy from another school.”
“It was Sam.”
“Oh.” Mom raises her eyebrows. “Sam.”
“It wasn’t right,” I say, “to get coaching from the rival team.”
“It’s not how it’s usually done,” Dad agrees.
“Not at all,” Mom echoes.
I wonder: what on earth is going on. I’m waiting for the grounding, the lecture, or … something. So at last, I just ask.
“Am I in trouble?”
Mom holds her finger and thumb about an inch apart. “Maybe this much.”
“Grounded?”
Dad holds up seven fingers. “This many days.”
I realize I’ve been grounded for spring break, the same spring break where I have zero plans because Caro isn’t talking to me, Derek is out of the country, and there isn’t a tournament until after Easter.
After Easter.
“I told Mr. Henderson I’d like to support the team,” I say.
“He mentioned that and seemed very impressed.”
The crazy thing is, I do want to support the team. I want to scope out the competition—for next year. Do I want to see Sam? My heart squeezes tight and won’t let me answer that question.
“So your mom and I agree,” Dad says. “On one condition.”
I hold my breath.
Mom and Dad settle on the couch. Dad wraps an arm around her shoulder, like he does when we watch movies together. They look all set to see a show.
“Will you do your piece for us?” he asks.
“You want to hear Jane Eyre?”
“Can’t wait,” Mom says. “I hear it’s a prize-winning piece.”
“I might be a little shaky,” I say, “I don’t have my script.”
“According to Mr. Henderson, you don’t need one.” Dad winks.
So they know all about that, too! I clear my throat, think about being all Jane on her stool, and perform Jane Eyre for the fifth time that day.
As punishments go, this isn’t so bad.
Chapter 17
Monday after spring break, I freeze at the cafeteria door. The first thing I see is Jeremy, back at his usual table, surrounded by all his jock friends. A few girls occupy the table where Caro and I used to sit, but she isn’t one of them. It looks like we’ve lost our claim to that space. Not that it was much of a claim. Not that there’s an “us” to claim it anymore.
I feel hollow inside and not at all like eating whatever they’re serving today. I turn to leave when I hear my name.
“Jolia!” Tory waves an arm over her head. At her table, I see Ryan, Kaitlin, Savannah—and Caro. Tory shoots me a look, the same sort she’d send my way when I froze in front of the camera. She tugs Caro by the sleeve—which must mean she’s serious about something—and half-drags her across the cafeteria.
When Tory grabs my sleeve, I realize that something is me. In the girls’ bathroom, she bars the way out, arms crossed, fierce debater face fully on.
“Listen,” she says. “After all the work I’ve done, you two are not leaving until you make up.”
Work? As in inviting Caro to sit at the speech table? That sounds like a very Sherlock Holmes thing to do. I know Caro well enough to be certain it wasn’t her idea. I cast Caro a look. She gives her head a tiny shake, like she’s not entirely sure what’s going on either.
“You.” Tory points at Caro. “Need to think of someone other than yourself, especially if that someone is so loyal she keeps all your secrets, even when you’re being a first class bitch.”
Caro opens her mouth, but I get there first. “Hey! That’s not—”
“And you.” Tory rounds on me. “Need to stop being a doormat. If someone is stepping all over you, you need to tell them it freaking hurts.” She exhales. “I was totally going to steal Jolia from you,” she says now to Caro. “But I can’t do that. After everything, I can tell she still thinks you’re her best friend.” She raises her hands, lets them fall, and turns to leave.
I can’t let her do that. “But what about that bossy, know-it-all friend?” I say.
Tory halts, her shoulders tense, like she might shatter into pieces.
“You tell her thanks,” Caro says.
“Then maybe suggest she take up a relaxing hobby,” I add. “Like knitting.”
Something happens then. I know Tory won’t shatter. Neither will I. Neither will Caro. It’s not like we’re piecing together the splinters of our friendship. It’s like we’re creating something new, maybe something even better. So, of course, I have to say something profound.
“I’m starving.”
Caro laughs. “I got a ton of stuff from home. My mom had an order cancel at the last minute. We have food for days.”
“Pastries?” I ask.
“You know it.”
“You’ve got to try her mom’s baking,” I tell Tory as we head out the bathroom door, but her expression is blank, like she hasn’t heard. She pins me in place with an index finger to my shoulder.
“Wait,” Tory says. “What about speech? Did you pass?”
Caro stares open mouthed. “You were failing a class? You?”
“It was pretty epic,” I say.
“Well?” Tory taps her foot.
“I got a B.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s … really good,” I say. A twenty nine out of thirty on my last speech put me over the top.
“You’re going to tell me about this,” Caro says. “Right?”
I can’t hold in my smile. “In creative storytelling.”
“Good. Then I’ll tell you how I’m still grounded.”
Now Tory grins. “I know both stories.” She flips her hair over one shoulder and heads not for the cafeteria, but the courtyard area with all its sunshine.
Caro eyes me. Without a word, we both run after her.
In creative storytelling, Mrs. Riley lets us use the long table at the back of the room. Caro and I are the only ones attempting a graphic novel. At least for now. A few kids wander by and oh and ah at Caro’s artwork.
“It’s more than pretty pictures,” Caro tells them. “You have to work with a good storyteller.”
And I know she means me.
We talk quietly while we work. Because this is a partner project, no one can demand silence from us. Okay, so maybe we’re not discussing the plot for our retelling of Romeo and Juliet. Then again, it’s possible that we are. Write what you know? I sigh. I think we both know this story, especially when I hear why Caro is grounded.
“Friday before spring break,” she says. “I told my mom the truth about Jeremy.”
Caro’s confession nearly knocks the wind from me. I rub my stomach as if she’s actually hit me there. “You mean, she didn’t find out? You … told her?”
For a moment, Caro squeezes her eyes shut. “I hated lying all the time. When it was just about Jeremy, it wasn’t so bad. But when she started in on you, I just couldn’t do it anymore.” She swallows hard. “My mom went ballistic. But the worst of it? She already knew.”
<
br /> “She knew?”
“Since the winter carnival, and everything she said about you, she didn’t mean a word.”
“She was waiting to see how long it would take you to break?” I suggest.
Caro makes a face. “Pretty much.”
“Whoa. Remind me never to mess with your mom.”
“Are you kidding? She adores you. She heard about your first place speech thingy, and now she wants me to join the team next year.” Caro rolls her eyes.
We work in silence for a while until she adds, “Here’s the funny thing. It was worth it.”
“What was?”
“Telling her.” She adds a bit of shading to the Juliet she’s sketching, and it’s like tears flow through her fingertips. This Juliet looks so sad we must find a way to use her in our graphic novel. “I feel like myself again.”
To thine own self be true. The words make me think of Sam, and my chest goes tight, like I’ve laced it up with shoes strings and pulled hard. I’ve tried not to think of him at all but haven’t been having much luck with that.
Later, Mrs. Riley comes over to inspect our progress. Caro has placed her sad Juliet on an apartment complex balcony. I’m wondering about that line from Hamlet and how we might make it the theme of our story.
Mrs. Riley studies Caro’s drawings, then flips through our storyboard. “Are you girls going to give this retelling a happy ending?”
Caro and I exchange glances. At the same time, we both shake our heads. Mrs. Riley laughs and moves on.
“But I think,” Caro whispers, “Juliet is going to be just fine.”
“Me, too,” I say. “Me, too.”
Chapter 18
It’s the first Sunday in April, the day after sub-sectionals. We—Tory, Ryan, and I—worked with the team all week, especially Ben, Kaitlin, and Savannah, since they’re all coming back next year. No one said a word about our non-participation in the tournament and, while Fremont is done for the season, Kaitlin placed in the top ten and Ben took home an honorable mention ribbon.
I never saw Sam. Same for Annika and a bunch of the Winnetka girls. Compared to the Big 9 tournament, sub-sectionals was the reality TV episode where nothing really happens.
“Next year,” Tory predicted on the bus ride home. “We’ll be all set to kick some Winnetka ass.”
A text message wakes me this morning. Caro’s still grounded—from everything—so I know it’s not her. Sam might as well be on a different planet. Who else might text me, and so early, I don’t know. I check my phone and find a message from someone I haven’t talked to in a while.
What’s this about a trophy and grounding? Mom and Dad make no sense. Get on Skype. Now.
WTH. I leave for break and miss all the drama.
Derek! I stumble from bed and boot up my laptop without even brushing my hair. He makes a face when I first pop up on Skype, but he doesn’t look much better. Sure, he’s tan from spring break in Mexico, where he worked with endangered sea turtles. But he’s wearing a stretched out, old T-shirt, and his dorm room is a disaster. There’s even a pair of underwear hanging from the Nerf basketball hoop on his doorframe.
“Who said you could do anything interesting while I’m out of the country?” he says.
“I want to hear about your trip,” I counter.
“I want to hear how my perfect little sister gets herself grounded for winning first place.”
When he puts it like that, it does sound kind of crazy, maybe even more interesting than saving sea turtles (although not nearly as noble). I try to explain, but it’s like a big jumbled jigsaw puzzle. He needs all the pieces to see the picture. So I go back to the very beginning, starting with that cold day at the bus stop and the rink rats. He frowns at that.
“Jo,” he says, “next time you tell someone. Okay? I’m serious.”
But when he hears about Crandall’s bike, all he can do is laugh.
Derek looks thoughtful when I finish. He doesn’t say anything, so I continue talking.
“I wish I knew,” I say, “why Sam did it.”
“Why don’t you ask him?”
“What?”
“From what I remember, he’s a good kid. He might have—okay, maybe he doesn’t have a good reason.” Derek shrugs. “But one that might make sense.” He leans close to the camera and lowers his voice. “I’m going to tell you a secret about guys, but you can’t tell anyone else, okay?”
I nod, then cross my heart.
He glances around as if he’s afraid someone is listening. “Sometimes, when we like a girl, we do stupid stuff.”
My cheeks blaze hot. My pre-calc homework is only inches away and I’m sure the heat from my face will set it on fire.
“Give him a chance to explain,” Derek says. “You don’t have to like the answer, but at least you’ll know.”
He’s right, of course, in the way big brothers almost always are. But Sam wasn’t at the last tournament and we’re done for the season. I won’t see him until next year. Maybe. Maybe Sam will never go out for speech again. Then what?
Unless. I feel a smile spread across my face. I pull back the curtains and catch sight of pale blue sky. It’s going to be a perfect day, perfect for the park.
“Got somewhere to go?” Derek asks with his own grin.
“I think I do.”
All morning long, I stare at my phone. Finally, after lunch, I bring up that strange number, Sam’s number, and write:
Jolia: Park in 10?
I don’t wait for an answer, but I tuck my script—Sam’s script—of Romeo and Juliet into my coat pocket.
Outside, the sun warms my face and makes me squint. I blink and feel the soft air against my eyes. Spring is beating back winter, even though speckled piles of snow still line the sidewalk to the park.
In between me and the park bench, a figure steps onto the sidewalk. His shoulders are wide, and he walks like he’d rather be skating. What’s a rink rat to do when spring steals all the ice?
In the split second when I realize it’s Crandall, and he realizes it’s me, his steps stutter. He glances toward the road, like he’s thinking about crossing to the other side. He doesn’t, but I swear he walks a little faster, not to get to me, but to get past me.
He brushes by with a strange jerk of his head. He doesn’t say anything, and neither do I. When he’s gone, and I feel like I can turn my head without him seeing, I stop. I gulp a breath and tell my heart to hush. It’s over. I’ll never be bothered by a rink rat again.
The air smells like spring, and I breathe in happiness all the way to the park. When I see the bench is empty, everything inside me sinks—my heart, my mood, my hopes. And I sink to the park bench.
I see the brown paper bag first. It’s huge. I pretend I don’t see the boy who’s carrying it. I pull my knees up and rest my chin on them. Only when Sam is a few feet away do I turn my head and peer at him.
His eyes look like summer. My heart starts up again, and this time, I can’t tell it to shush. Then he smiles, and I’m as warm as this spring day.
He sits on the bench, placing the bag carefully between us. For a couple of minutes, we both sit there without speaking, but it isn’t weird or uncomfortable. In a way, it feels almost like we’re seven again, when we first became friends. And in a way, there’s something very new about this.
“I suppose you have some questions about—” Sam gazes up at the sky. “Well, everything, I guess.”
I do and decide to ask the worst one first. “Did you have, I mean, did you tell … those girls who took my script—”
Sam holds up a hand, stopping me. “You don’t have to believe me, but once I heard what they did, I spent the whole day trying to get your script back. I wanted to give it to you before the final round started.” He exhales hard and stares at the sky. “That didn’t happen.” His face turns toward me again. “Not that you needed it.”
“I thought I did,” I say. “At least at first.”
“I never told them to take it
.”
“This might sound crazy, but I’m kind of glad they did.”
Sam cocks his head, like he can’t wait to hear what I’ll say next.
“You know, not a prop or a crutch.”
He laughs, but the sound is nervous. He’s still nervous. About me?
“Is that why you read my piece?” I ask.
He nods. “I wanted to … level the playing field.”
“But that disqualified you, didn’t it?” I know the answer, looked it up over spring break. Reading a different piece in the final round did disqualify him. From the expression on his face now, I can tell: he went into the finals knowing it would.
“I wanted to make up for what they did,” he says.
“Can I ask you something that really confuses me?”
“You can ask me anything. I owe you that much.”
“Why did you tell everyone on your team that I was a ringer?” That’s the other thing I really want to know. At lunch, Tory and Ryan still debate the reasons why, but none of them make sense to me.
“From the summers.” His words are quiet, and he waves a hand at the park behind us. “You used to build castles in the air that I swore I could walk through. When I heard you joined the Fremont team, I thought for sure you’d do something like original storytelling, and I told everyone we’d have to watch out for you.”
“Those first tournaments must’ve been kind of a shock.” I don’t even cringe when I say this.
“Yeah, I couldn’t figure out what was up. The team kept asking, especially Annika, and I kept insisting you’d be brilliant. I dug myself in too deep. By the time I knew you weren’t faking, everyone on my team thought you were a ringer.” He shifts toward me. “Then I thought, why not make it come true? I mean, I knew you had it inside you right from the start. This way, you’d get a trophy, and the team wouldn’t think I was crazy. It was the perfect plan.”
“Until everything else went crazy.”
“Yeah. That.”
“I joined so I could pass speech class,” I tell him. “Not as some ringer.”
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