“You didn’t hear it? It was like the earth cracked open or something,” Nicholas says.
“It blew us off our feet,” says Mystic.
“I think it blew you back here,” adds Nicholas.
“I didn’t hear anything. I saw a light though. That was the last thing . . .”
Nicholas kneels down to my level and looks in my eyes. “What happened?”
How to explain? “Well, I got swallowed by some quicksand that spit me out at the bottom of Rock Canyon. And Esmeralda and Beaumont were there—”
“No way.”
“They were,” I say to Nicholas. “They’re amazing.”
“Then what?” Mystic asks.
“I gave Carmen my horn. Or really, I put it on her. Like . . .” I make the motion I made when I slammed my horn onto Carmen’s forehead. “And everything went haywire. There was this blasting light, and it all disappeared. And then I was back.” I look at my hands for the horn that is no longer there.
“How was she?” Noah asks.
“Bad. Really bad,” I say, shaking my head, remembering the fear and distress in Carmen’s eyes. “I don’t even know if she knew I was there.”
Noah pulls me up from the ground, but I’m wobbly on my feet. I was in Rock Canyon. I was with Carmen.
“So, what do we do now?” Ethan asks, like he really needs an answer. I look at my friends gathered around me and choose truth one more time. “I have no idea,” I tell them.
The sound of the nearby stream fills the silence between us, but there’s a new bond there, too. No one else would ever believe what just happened. We share this now. The five of us.
I grab my backpack from the boulder and feel a shock run through my veins when Mystic shouts, “It’s almost twelve!”
“What?!” I say. How did all that time pass? What happened to the last hour?
“You’ve got the French competition!”
The French competition! After everything that just happened, how could I even think of—
“You have to do it,” Mystic says.
But Mystic didn’t see what I just saw. There’s no way I could do the French competition now. “I’ll let Brooklyn,” I say. “She can—”
“Jewels!” Mystic says sternly. “Monsieur Oliver didn’t choose Brooklyn. He chose you!” She looks to the boys for support, then goes on. “People like us need to do stuff like this. If you don’t do it, you’re just saying that good things only happen to the Brooklyns and the Emmas of the world. Not to us.”
They all stare at me, waiting for an answer.
“She’d want you to do it,” Nicholas says.
“Yeah, she would,” agrees Noah. “Carmen would want this.”
Would she? I hope she would. But it’s all coming too fast. I put my fingertips to my temples, trying to rub out the confusion inside. “The wrestling van leaves at noon. There’s no time. We’ll never make it.”
“It’s a well-known fact that it always takes less time going back,” says Mystic.
“But can I do this?” I ask her. I’m so confused. I’m so sad. And I suddenly realize I’m exhausted, too.
Mystic grabs my arm, her eyes filled with purpose. “You can. Now come on.”
Before I can say anything, Mystic takes off into the woods, and Ethan follows. I hesitate, looking at Nicholas.
“What are we waiting for?” he says, and runs after them.
Then Noah puts out his arm in an elaborate gesture and says, “Ladies first.”
I want to laugh, he sounds so ridiculous. And I want to cry, too. But right now, there’s nothing to do but run.
I take off, hearing Noah right behind me. Up ahead, I see Nicholas, then Ethan and Mystic. Noah and I hurry to catch up, and soon we’re running single file along the narrow trail. Mystic leads the way, running faster than I’ve ever seen her go.
The sun blinks through the trees, making the woods appear dream-like. Nothing feels real to me. It wouldn’t surprise me if we came upon Hansel and Gretel on the trail.
There’s no time to process what just happened. With every step, I picture Carmen’s face, her flailing head, her labored breath. Why didn’t I figure it out earlier? I was caught up in stupid things and didn’t put the pieces together in time. I will blame myself forever.
When we finally burst through the trees across from the apartments, we’re all gasping for breath. Ethan’s hands go to his knees, and Nicholas looks like he’s about to pass out.
I could pass out, too, except Mom is standing at the top of our apartment stairs, staring at us. “Oh, man,” I say, and everyone follows my gaze.
We hurry across the street, and Mom meets us in the parking lot, looking frantic.
“Where have you been?” she demands, looking me up and down. “And what happened to you?”
“It’s a long story, Mrs. Conrad,” Nicholas says, but that’s all he says, because her eyes might as well be daggers.
“You’re late for the competition! Mr. Oliver called like ten times. They had to leave without you!”
“Listen, Mom, I know you’re not going to understand but something came up. A REALLY important something. It couldn’t be avoided.”
“More important than the French competition?” she says, staring at me in disbelief.
“More important,” Mystic says, and the boys all nod in agreement.
Mom shakes her head. I know I’ve disappointed her. But there was nothing else I could do.
“Get in the car,” Mom suddenly snaps. “We’ll catch them.”
I look down at my dirty clothes. “But I’m a mess!”
“I’ve got your clothes in the backseat,” she says, glancing at her watch. “It’s over an hour away. I don’t know how we’ll do it. But we’ll try.”
My eyes find Nicholas and Mystic. “Go!” they say at the same time.
“I’ll call my dad!” Nicholas shouts. “We’ll be right behind you.”
I jump in the passenger seat with my backpack, and Mom guns it out of our parking lot like she’s a race-car driver. Behind I see my friends cheering me on. Pumping their fists and everything.
I turn back around and try to breathe. Ready or not, I’m going to the French competition.
La Fille Licorne
I’ve never experienced Mom driving so fast before. As a rule, she’s a law-abiding citizen, always under the speed limit. But today, I’m scared to death we’re going to get pulled over.
While she speeds down the highway, I crawl into the backseat and peel off my earth-caked clothes, ducking down so passing cars can’t see me.
“There’s a hairbrush with the clothes in the plastic bag. And your essay cards,” Mom says while I’m wiping my face with the clean inside of my dirty shirt. I grab the bag and pull out my green sweater and black jeans, pretty much what I wanted to wear. Even when she’s mad at me, she’s a mom first. I slip on the sweater and then have to contort myself to get the jeans on in the small backseat area.
After I brush my hair, I lean back and close my eyes. Images of the day flit across the screen of my mind. I can’t believe it started with seeing Emma this morning—that feels like a lifetime ago. Then going to Nicholas’s, trekking through the woods, and Carmen. I picture her lying at the bottom of Rock Canyon, her horn gone, her magic gone, and my heart aches. Why didn’t it work? I truly believed it would. And the fact that it didn’t makes me feel completely undone.
I stay in the backseat while Mom acts like my manic chauffeur in front. When we finally get off the expressway, she has me call out directions from her phone, and even in a seat belt, I have to hold on at every turn.
But she does it. In less than an hour after leaving our apartment, we pull in under the Alliance Scolaire Americaine banner at the entrance of the French high school where the competition is taking place.
The parking lot is already full, so Mom stops and looks back at me. “Go! I’ll find a space.”
But I freeze. I suddenly feel completely unprepared. I look out the window
at the tower of stairs that leads up to the building. It’s lined with sculptures—actual sculptures. It looks like a faraway place from my collage.
“What’s wrong?” Mom asks.
“I don’t know if I can do it.”
Mom reaches back and grabs my hand. Her eyes lock onto mine. “Jewel, honey, of course you can do it.”
“But what if I can’t?” What’s happening to me? I feel so scared. Any confidence I’ve ever had is draining out of me.
“Listen. When I was your age, I was really good at something, too. I was better than almost anyone. I just was,” Mom says, a fire in her eyes. “That’s how you are with your French. I don’t know where you got it from or how you do it, but you’re exceptional, baby. You are the best at this. I believe in my heart that you can do it.”
Wow. It’s a real Mom of the Year moment. I stare into her eyes, full of determination for me. “Now believe in yourself and get out of this car.”
“Okay, okay,” I say, and grab my backpack and essay cards. “Mom—thank you.”
“Go, Jewel!” Mom says, and there’s so much love in her eyes.
I get out of the car and look up at those stairs. There must be two hundred of them. At the top, the front of the building is lined with columns. I’ve never seen a school like this before—even on TV.
A boy and his dad rush past, breaking the spell, and I sprint up the stairs after them.
When I reach the top, I’m totally out of breath. The dad holds the main door open for me, though, and we all walk inside.
The entrance alone is like two stories tall. All around are fancy display cases filled with trophies and awards. And there’s a massive fountain. No kidding. With actual running water.
“Jewel!”
I see Monsieur Oliver and Brooklyn coming my way. “You made it,” he says.
“I’m sorry I’m late.”
“I’m just glad you’re here,” he says, his smile as warm as ever. Monsieur Oliver has a natural way of diffusing stress, which is a good thing because my heart rate must be in the 300s about now.
“Me too,” Brooklyn says. “I was scared I was going to have to take your place.”
Yeah, right. I bet she couldn’t wait to take my place.
“Let’s get you signed in,” Monsieur Oliver says, bringing me back to reality. He leads us through some tall double doors, and wow!
This is no gym-turned-auditorium like at our school. This is a theater, with permanent seats, chandeliers hanging from the ceiling, and a real stage. More than half of the seats are already filled with spectators waiting for the competition to begin.
“You’re going to be up there,” Monsieur Oliver says, pointing to the stage. My eyes must be popping out because he adds, “It’s all right. We’ve got seats saved near the front. We’ll all be rooting for you. You can look right down and see us.”
Some other teacher-like person approaches speaking French to Monsieur Oliver, and they embrace like long-lost friends.
“He knows everybody here,” Brooklyn says, pulling me by the arm. “Come on, I’ll take you.”
Brooklyn leads me down the aisle and out a side door, leaving Monsieur Oliver behind. As I follow her along a deserted hallway, I wonder, Why am I doing this? She’s probably going to lock me in a closet somewhere, and I’ll be trapped in the dark while she tells Monsieur Oliver how I got cold feet and wanted her to go on in my place. Then she’ll read her essay perfectly, win the whole thing, and ascend to the state finals. While I’m still locked in a janitor’s closet.
My mind is racing when she stops in front of a door and says, “Everybody’s in here getting ready,” and all I can think is closet.
But when a boy cuts between us and opens the door, which turns out to indeed be a room filled with kids, I chill the heck out and go to follow him.
“Wait,” Brooklyn says from behind me, moving to the side of the door. “Can I talk to you a sec?” Here it comes.
“What’s up?” I ask, feeling suspicious.
Her eyes drop to the floor. “I just wanted you to know,” she says, then looks back up at me, “that what Emma did last night was not cool. I didn’t say anything, and I know how that looked. I just didn’t know what to do. I kind of froze. But you need to know I’m not okay with it.” She pauses. “I’m sorry. I really hope you’ll forgive me. And Mystic, too. I don’t think she’s a thief. Or weird.”
“I appreciate that, but I think Mystic’s the one who deserves an apology.”
“She’ll get one. On Monday. I promise.”
As I look into her eyes, it’s hard to stay mad, because I believe her. In fact, I understand her. Because if I’m honest, the same exact thing happened to me. But what I did was worse. The person I didn’t stick up for was my friend.
“I don’t know if you knew, but we moved here right before sixth grade. I didn’t know anyone, and Emma was really nice to me,” Brooklyn says. “But she’s not nice to everyone, and I’m really not okay with that anymore.”
She looks at me for a long beat, and I say, “You’re right. I’ve been dumb about her, too. We were friends for a long time, and I guess I didn’t want to see certain things.”
“Me neither. I’m glad we talked. This feels better.” She smiles. “You ready?”
I shake my head. “No!”
“Yes, you are. You’ve got this in the bag.”
Now I smile. Weirdly, talking with Brooklyn like this has calmed me down. I wasn’t wrong to think she is actually nice. In fact, we’re a lot alike.
Brooklyn opens the door, and we walk into a room filled with a whole lot of French fries just like us, and Brooklyn shows me where to sign in. The teacher in charge calls for our attention. “It’s time for all visitors to head to the theater. The competition is about to start.”
Brooklyn gives me a thumbs-up and leaves me with all these other kids practicing their essays. I open my backpack and pull out the big cards that my essay is written on, and for a few minutes, I do the same. I can barely concentrate, but I mouth my words one last time, wishing I felt more confident about what I’ve written.
It gets so serious when we line up and walk solemnly down the hall. When we stop outside a door in another hallway, I ask the kid in front of me, “What’s going on? I think I was late for instructions.”
“That door leads to the stage. One by one, we go in and read our essay.”
“We don’t get to hear anybody else’s?”
“Nope.” I must look scared, because he says, “Don’t worry. It’s not so bad.”
But I am worried. I look down the hall, past the line, searching for Carmen. Because that’s what I always do when I feel alone: I look for my unicorn.
This morning is still catching up with me. I don’t know why Carmen didn’t come back. I was so sure she would. And what about my horn? It’s all too much to think about, so I try to tamp it down. Just for the next hour. Then I can go back to figuring it out.
But the thought of never seeing her again presses hard against my chest. How am I supposed to do this without her? How am I supposed to do anything without her?
After what feels like seconds or years, it’s the boy in front of me’s turn. I keep reminding myself that Carmen would want me to do this.
Then a teacher opens the stage door and waves me in. As I step through, I see Monsieur Oliver waiting for me.
“Bonne chance, ma fille licorne.” He puts his hand on my shoulder. “You can do it. I’ve always known you could do this.”
On the stage, a man is talking to the audience in French, saying my school and age. Then he announces my name.
Monsieur Oliver gestures for me to move onto the stage, and he whispers, “You got this, Jewel.”
Holding my essay cards between my fingers, I step out on the wooden stage to the microphone and place my cards on the lectern in front of me.
The auditorium is filled with hundreds of people staring at me. There’s a loud whistle and I see Nicholas, his dad, Mystic, Noah, an
d Ethan waving from several rows back. It takes a moment to spot Mom—and Grandma! Nicholas must have brought her!—sitting with Brooklyn and some kids from French class near the front. It’s all so random and intense, I feel like I might burst out in nervous laughter.
“Bonjour, Jewel Conrad,” a voice booms from another microphone at the table below. The judges’ table. There are five of them in all, and the woman at the center is the one who spoke. She’s gotta be actually French or the actual Greta Garbo—by far the most elegant person I have ever seen in real life. She wears wine-red lipstick and her silver hair is pulled back in a tight twist. Her demeanor is serious but her eyes are kind.
“Commencez, s’il vous plaît,” she says to me.
I clear my throat and look down at my essay cards. This is the new essay, the one I revised with Monsieur Oliver and Brooklyn, about what it’s like to be a girl without a horn anymore.
Slowly and in French, I start reading it to the audience, but it’s hard to keep my place on the cards and look out at the audience at the same time, like we practiced.
“I used to have a horn on my head,” I say. “Some people called it a unicorn horn. Some people called me the unicorn girl. It was hard when that was all they’d see. So when I had the chance to get my horn removed, I was happy, and relieved, and ready. And it worked. I was normal. My life was finally better. It made me . . .”
I break off, staring at the next word on the card. And I can’t say it. Because now I know that taking my horn off did not make me “whole.” The girl who journeyed to Rock Canyon and couldn’t save her unicorn isn’t whole. Now I think that maybe, when I took off my horn, I took away a piece of me.
I glance to the side of the stage, where Monsieur Oliver is nodding at me, encouragingly.
Then I see my mom in the audience, fists together, willing me forward—worried, but silently believing in me.
Come on, Jewel—say something!
It’s not that I’m nervous now. It’s just that what I’m saying isn’t true. I wanted my horn off so badly that I never gave myself credit for who I was with it. My horn is gone and I am no different. Life is not better. In fact, since this morning, it’s exponentially worse.
Not a Unicorn Page 20