by Sheryl Berk
Their faces were inches apart, and she noticed for the first time that he had a few freckles sprinkled across the bridge of his nose. For one brief second, Emma wanted to lean a little closer. His breath smelled like cinnamon gum and—
“Next stop, Union Station,” Mr. Carter’s voice boomed, making them both jump in their seats. He had totally ruined the moment.
“Does that mean . . . ?” Emma asked.
“Yup!” Mr. Carter said. “We have arrived in DC!”
There was no time to waste. Mr. Carter checked them into their hotel and sent Emma to her room and Jackson to his to get changed immediately for the Student Congress opening ceremonies.
“You literally have fifteen minutes,” he said, shooing them off. “Dress to impress!”
She carefully laid out her outfit on the bed: a simple black skirt and a red blouse with a bow—“power red” was what Izzy had called it when they spotted it in a shop window at the mall. It showed she meant business!
Jackson met her at the elevator; he was still tying his tie when he suddenly looked up. “Wow, you look . . . ,” he began.
Emma tugged at the bow at her neck. “Wrinkled. I look wrinkled. I know. I can’t help it; my stuff was squished in my bag.”
“I was going to say you look pretty,” Jackson continued. “Really pretty. Red is your color.”
That was a good thing—because her face now matched the color of her blouse! “Thanks. You look good too.” Jackson had chosen a light-blue shirt that made his eyes sparkle.
“Good? Not devastatingly handsome and ready to kick some Congress butt?” he teased. “Make sure you add those points to my card.”
“I will,” Emma flirted back. “I’m keeping a list.”
They found Mr. Carter waiting for them in the lobby, pacing back and forth. “There are some amazing schools here,” he told them. “The competition is fierce. We can’t afford to make any mistakes.”
He ushered Emma and Jackson into the main ballroom where they were each given a name tag and instructed to take a seat at a numbered table.
“There will be opening remarks, then each team will be asked to stand and introduce themselves to the Congress,” he explained.
Jackson gulped. “What are we supposed to say?”
“Just your name, the school you represent, and ‘I’m honored to be chosen as a member of the National Student Congress,’” Mr. Carter told him.
Unfortunately, Emma wasn’t paying attention. She was too busy looking around the enormous ballroom with its twinkling crystal chandeliers and massive stage.
“Is that where we will present our arguments?” she asked, pointing to the podium at its center.
“I believe so,” Mr. Carter said. “But all these tables will be gone and replaced with seats—one thousand of them to be exact.”
“A thousand?” Jackson looked like he was getting more anxious by the minute. “That many people are going to be listening?”
Mr. Carter nodded. “And there’s also the broadcast on the National Student Congress site, which could be accessed by millions around the world.”
Jackson wiped some sweat from his brow with the back of his sleeve. “Okay, you did not mention that before.”
“There was no need to. And there is no need to worry about it,” Mr. Carter assured them. “You are extremely well prepared.”
“Easy for him to say,” Jackson whispered to Emma. “Are you seeing this?”
“I am!” Emma responded breathlessly. “It’s beautiful—and so huge!”
“Really? Doesn’t this freak you out?”
Emma shrugged. “Are you kidding? I get to talk to a thousand people? And be broadcast around the world? It’s a dream come true!”
Jackson shook his head. “Okay, I’m glad one of us is happy.”
They took their seats at table twenty-eight—next to the teams from Fargo Middle in North Dakota and two from Texas—Essex Middle in Houston and All Plains Day School in Dallas.
“Austen Middle?” a girl with owl-like glasses asked Emma. “Is that in Austin, Texas?”
“Our school is named for the great writer Jane Austen,” Emma corrected her. “Austen with an e. And we’re from New Hope, Pennsylvania.”
“Uh-huh,” the girl replied. “I don’t care much for Austen’s work. In my opinion, no one can compare to Charlotte Brontë or Edith Wharton.” Then she went back to chatting with her teammate—a bespectacled boy.
“Not the friendliest bunch,” Jackson observed.
“They’re not here to make friends; they’re here to win,” Mr. Carter reminded him. “As are you. Save the socializing for the big closing gala. I hear they have some famous band performing—uh, Crimson Five?”
“You mean Maroon 5?” Jackson asked excitedly.
“Yes,” their adviser replied. “That’s it. Have you heard of them?”
“Heard of them? They’re only my favorite group on the planet!” Jackson said. It was the first time Emma had seen him excited since they had left home that morning.
“What’s your fave song?” Emma asked him. “Wait! Let me guess. ‘Moves Like Jagger’?”
“Nope. Keep guessing,” Jackson teased.
“Not now!” Mr. Carter hushed them. The judges from the Congress were taking their places onstage.
“Welcome, students and teachers, to the twelfth annual National Student Congress!” said a gray-haired gentleman wearing a suit and bow tie. “I am Mr. Hartfield, president of the Congress and your head judge for the weekend.”
Emma noticed that he didn’t so much as crack a smile. He was completely, utterly, unshakably serious.
“Hopefully, you are well apprised of the rules for the weekend, but to clarify . . .” He droned on for twenty more minutes, outlining everything in the student manual that Mr. Carter had already drilled into Emma’s and Jackson’s heads.
Emma stifled a yawn. “Do you think they’ll be serving lunch soon?” Her stomach was rumbling, and she’d already dug into the bread basket on the table.
“Shh!” Mr. Carter said, waving a breadstick at her. “Mr. Hartfield is speaking.”
“What time is it?” she whispered to Jackson. “I’m starving.”
Jackson checked his watch. “Almost noon.”
OMG! Emma grabbed her phone out of her purse. Izzy’s meet was starting at twelve! “I have to use the ladies’ room,” she told Mr. Carter, hurrying out of the ballroom to find a quiet corner to call Harriet.
“How is it?” Emma asked as soon as Harriet picked up, not even waiting for her friend to say hello. “Is she nervous? Are there a lot of gymnasts competing? Are they all really good?”
“Good, yes, yes, and yes—I think those were all your questions,” Harriet said. “She hasn’t gone yet. There are maybe five girls before she’s up.”
“Will you tell her good luck for me?” Emma asked. “I got so busy studying on the train I forgot to text.”
“Here,” Harriet replied. “You can tell her yourself.” She handed the phone to Izzy.
“Hey!” Izzy’s voice came on the phone. “I let Harriet sit up front this time so we don’t have another splat incident.” She giggled a little. Her voice sounded cool and collected, and Emma was relieved.
“Good luck, Iz! You got this! I know you do!” Emma exclaimed.
“Really? Because I’m not that sure I do. These girls are really good, Em. They’re the best of the best in all of Pennsylvania.”
“And you’re the bestest,” Emma assured her. “Just do you, okay? Don’t worry about anyone else. Be the best Izzy you can be and tune out everything and everyone else.”
“Hmm, that sounds like an Ask Emma post,” Izzy said with a chuckle. “You can’t turn it off, can you?”
“Guess not,” Emma said, laughing too. “Once an advice blogger, always an advice blogger. But you know what I mean.”
“Okay, distract me,” Izzy whispered into the phone. “How’s Jax? Are you working really closely with him?”
&n
bsp; “There was a moment on the train . . . ,” Emma said. “I could feel his breath on my cheek.”
“OMG!” Izzy cried. “Did you kiss?”
“I thought we might. But then Mr. Carter had to jump in and destroy it.”
“Do you think Jax likes you? What am I saying? Of course he does! Do you think he’ll ask you to be his girlfriend?” Izzy was talking a mile a minute.
“I don’t know,” Emma said. “He’s really nervous about the Congress. He can’t really think about anything else. But he did tell me I looked pretty.”
“And who told you to wear the red blouse?” Izzy teased.
“You did. Good call.”
Suddenly, Emma could hear a lot of noise in the background. At first she thought it was Izzy’s meet but then realized it was coming from the hotel ballroom.
“I gotta go—good luck, Iz! I wish I was there to see you win.”
“I wish I were there to see Jax’s face when you walk into that gala in your dress,” Izzy replied. “It’s gorge, Em. If he doesn’t ask you out after that—”
Emma raced back into the ballroom just as the girl with the glasses from earlier was standing and introducing herself.
“I’m Jessalyn McCutcheon from All Plains Day School in Dallas, Texas. I am deeply honored but not at all surprised to have been chosen to represent my school.”
Emma took her seat just as Mr. Carter motioned her to stand up and give her introduction. She wasn’t quite sure what she should say, but she had seen several Miss America contestants on TV introduce themselves . . .
“Hi, my name’s Emma Woods from the great commonwealth of Pennsylvania! I love show choir, sushi, and my labradoodle, Jagger. I write an advice blog for Austen Middle School called Ask Emma. Got a perplexing problem? A desperate dilemma? I’m your girl!”
Emma sat back down and noticed Mr. Carter’s mouth hanging open. He looked horrified.
Jackson stood next. “My name is Jackson Knight from Austen Middle in New Hope, Pennsylvania. I am honored to be representing my school at the National Student Congress.” He plunked back down in his chair and looked at Emma.
“That’s what you were supposed to say,” Mr. Carter scolded her. “Not that you like raw fish!”
“Oh.” Emma gulped. “I didn’t know.”
“Perhaps if you had been paying attention when I told you earlier,” Mr. Carter said huffily.
“It’s okay, Emma,” Jackson assured her. “Your intro was colorful—like you.”
Emma wasn’t sure whether that was a compliment or an insult. Was her blouse too loud? She glanced around the table and noticed that the other girls were wearing less exciting navy, black, or beige. Emma certainly did stand out—but hadn’t Jackson told her she looked pretty?
“Let’s try to maintain a sense of decorum, shall we?” Mr. Carter said. He poked at the salad the waiters had now placed before them on the table. “I know nerves are running high, but we are here to represent Austen Middle. Not win Miss Congeniality.”
Emma stared at her salad. She felt as wilted as the lettuce in her bowl. She hadn’t meant to say anything embarrassing or inappropriate; she was just being herself. Wasn’t that the advice she had given Izzy? To do you?
“We’re scheduled to present our arguments at one p.m. in the Taft conference room,” Jackson informed her. “Right after lunch.” Practically the entire hotel was filled with students who would be debating till only the best and brightest remained.
Jackson picked at the food on his plate. “I can’t eat. I’m too nervous.”
“You need fuel for your brain,” Emma reminded him while secretly hoping he would give her his leftovers. The chicken cordon bleu was so good!
She wasn’t feeling jittery at all. She and Jackson were ready, they had their notes organized, and large crowds never scared her. All she had to do was stay calm and stick to the points on her cards.
“Are you going to eat your mashed potatoes?” she asked Jackson. “They’re really delicious.”
“No. Here.” He practically shoved the plate into her lap. “I can’t.”
“You know what I do when I’m nervous?” Emma said, wiping her mouth with a napkin.
“Talk? You talk a lot, Emma.”
“Well, yes. But not just that. I sing show tunes in my head.”
Jackson stared at her. “And this helps how?”
“Try to remember a song that lifts you up. For me, it’s ‘Everything’s Coming Up Roses’ from Gypsy.”
“Uh . . . nope,” Jackson said. “Don’t know that one.”
Emma leaned closer and softly sang in his ear. “‘Curtain up! Light the lights! We’ve got nothing to hit but the heights!’”
“And this makes you stop feeling nervous?” he asked.
“It does! Just think of a song in your head that makes you happy and confident. Make it your anthem.”
Jackson rubbed his temples. “Did I ever tell you that you sound a lot like an advice blog?”
“That’s so funny! Izzy said the same thing to me when I called her before.”
“I wish I had your confidence, Emma,” Jackson admitted. “I know I act cool and like I’ve got it under control—”
“But inside you’re freaking out?” Emma nodded. “I get it. Everyone feels that way sometimes.” She paused. “Am I sounding like an advice blog again?”
“A little, but thanks,” Jackson said. “I’ll try and sing something from Grease in my head.”
Emma leaned in. “We go together like rama lama lama ka dinga da dinga dong,” she sang.
Jackson smiled. “That might do it.”
Mr. Carter pushed his plate away from the table. “All right, Team Austen, no more dillydallying. Let’s get moving. It’s showtime!”
Emma and Jackson took their seats in the Taft conference room and watched from the audience as two other schools battled it out on their topic: “Should school uniforms be required?”
“That’s such an easy one!” Emma complained to Jackson. “Uniforms suppress creativity and originality. You can’t express yourself if you have to look and dress like everyone else. Your style is a reflection of who you are . . . a mirror into your soul!”
“Great, so we’d win that one. What about our topic?” Jackson groaned.
“We’ll do fine,” Emma said, leaning back in her seat. “These teams aren’t so scary.”
Just then, she noticed Jessalyn and her classmate staring in their direction. “Why is she giving me the evil eye?” she asked Mr. Carter.
He checked his schedule. “Perhaps because they are your opponents. They’re the con side of your argument: The program says Austen Middle versus All Plains Day.”
“No way!” Emma said, grabbing the roster out of his hands. Now it was her turn to freak out. How could that snooty girl who hated the greatest female writer of all time be her opponent? Obviously, Jessalyn was trying to shake her confidence—but Emma wouldn’t let even a crack about her taste in literature do that!
“It doesn’t matter. Stick to your argument. It’s rock solid,” her adviser instructed her.
The two teams sat back down and now it was Emma and Jackson’s turn to take the podium. Jessalyn and her teammate took their seats in the wings, whispering to each other.
“All right, don’t forget everything I told you,” Mr. Carter said, giving Jackson a slight push toward the stage when Jackson paused a few feet shy of it. “And, Emma, stay on track.”
“Oh, I will,” Emma said, clutching her box of cards. “They’re so going down!”
“We now have Austen Middle arguing pro for ‘Should physical education be mandatory in schools?’ Emma Woods is up first.” It was just their team’s luck that the head judge was presiding in her conference room! Mr. Hartfield looked so stern and intense, like one of those presidential portraits you see hanging in the Smithsonian.
Emma stood and walked purposefully to the podium. She took out her first index card, glanced at it, then began to speak with confidence a
nd conviction as the large digital clock on the judge’s desk ticked down: “Physical education should be mandatory in all middle schools for several important reasons, the first being the stress that exercise can alleviate in a student’s daily life . . .” She recounted each of the points on her card, quoting statistics, stressing every single research study, fact and figure, then looked up to see the clock: two minutes, fifty-eight seconds. She’d made it just in time!”
“Thank you, Emma. Jessalyn McCutcheon, your rebuttal please,” Mr. Hartfield instructed.
Jessalyn swaggered past Emma and smirked. “Physical education in middle school is a useless and ineffective waste of valuable study time,” she began. “Most PE programs lack any exercise benefits, are poorly structured, and fail to even raise a student’s heart rate.”
“Wow,” Jackson whispered to Emma. “She doesn’t waste any time, does she? She’s tearing our argument to shreds.”
“No, she’s trying to poke some holes in it,” Emma said. “That’s okay. Let her. Facts are facts and our argument is stronger and more supported.”
When it was Jackson’s turn to take the microphone, he took a deep breath. “Rama lama lama,” he told Emma. “Here goes nothing.”
He looked at his card, then directly at the judges. “Physical education should be mandatory in schools because it contributes to a student’s moral development and character. Through PE, students assume leadership positions, cooperate with others, and accept responsibility for their behavior. Several studies have found this to be true . . .” He rattled off each of them, summing up his argument just before the three-minute buzzer sounded.
“Yes!” Emma cheered him from the wings.
Mr. Hartfield was taking diligent notes. “Billy Davis. Your counter,” he said. Billy brushed past Jackson and could barely wait to launch into his counterargument. “Physical education encourages hostile behavior and aggression according to a recent medical research study . . .”
Jackson looked at Emma. “Okay, we have to nail the next one. It’s your closing. Go with the long-term health benefits. It’s impossible to argue against that.”
Emma nodded and waited until Billy was done before she stood. She walked to the podium and reached in her box for the yellow cards with all her points outlined. There were red ones and purple ones, but where were the yellow ones? She looked back at Jackson, panicked.