by Alex van Tol
Later, I make doubly sure I’ve locked my drawer before I turn out the light.
Chapter Twelve
“I think we’re done,” Audrey says. “We’ve covered every possible angle.” She’s sitting on my sofa, her knees drawn up to her chest.
I glance at the clock. “Wow, it’s already ten after eleven. Sure, let’s call it a day. Or a night.” I grin.
“How are things going with your dad?” she asked.
Earlier this evening I gave in to Audrey’s pestering and showed her a few more lists. Including the one of the things I’m dying to say to my father. She made me read it out loud to her a few times. Then she told me I should give it to him.
I told her I would rather go parachuting without a backpack.
“Things are…you know.” I shrug. “Same old, same old.”
“Did you…?”
“Draw my sword and wade into battle?” I finish. “I gave it the old college try. He wasn’t, ah, receptive, shall we say. He did come and try to talk to me later though.” I tell her how he knocked on my door after supper.
“What did he say?”
I shrug. “I didn’t answer.”
“Why not?”
“It was too weird.”
“I don’t get it. Why is it weird that your dad knocked on your door?”
“You have to know, my dad never knocks on my door. I don’t even remember the last time he set foot in my room.”
I don’t remember the last time he asked to speak with me either. Usually, if Dad wants to talk, he just talks. He doesn’t ask.
Audrey looks at me for a long time. “That sucks.”
I shrug. “It is what it is. Well, I shouldn’t say I ignored him. That wouldn’t have gone over very well. I told him I had a test I had to study for and he went away.”
“Maybe you should have let him in.”
“Maybe.”
As if.
The house is dark when I return from walking Audrey home.
I close the front door quietly and slide the deadbolt into place. I stand for a moment in the front hallway, listening. As if on cue, my tummy rumbles.
I head for the kitchen.
I flick on the little light above the stove and rummage for the cereal. I reach for a bowl and set it on the counter. Dad’s phone pings, sending a flush of adrenaline into my belly.
Once my heart has slowed down, I pour milk on my cereal. I eat it standing up. My eyes rove the counter, looking for something to read. Dad’s phone is sitting on top of a hardcover book. I move it to the side so I can see what he’s reading. Usually he carries around magazines with no pictures, just pages and pages of complicated sentences. He’s not much of a book reader.
The title of the book surprises me. Listening with Love? Weird. That’s more of a Mom book than a Dad book, if you ask me.
I flip through the book as I eat. The feeling of weirdness grows. Why is my dad reading a book with chapter headings like “You Don’t Always Have to Be Right,” “Finding That Deeper Connection” and “There Is Safety in Feeling Heard”?
Huh. I hope he reads that last one twice.
A little paper marks his place. I flip to it. It’s a sticky note with his writing on it.
Glen Rosin. #3-1862 Virginia Avenue
Who is Glen Rosin? Is this his book? Maybe he’s a client of my dad’s.
I finish my cereal and rinse the bowl before putting it into the dishwasher. I clonk my toe on the drawer beneath the oven as I reach to turn the light out. Ow. Every. Bloody. Time.
I freeze, listening, but the noise doesn’t wake anyone.
Once I’m upstairs, I punch Glen Rosin’s name into my browser. I add “Virginia Avenue” to narrow the search.
Dr. Glen Rosin, clinical counselor.
Counselor? My dad’s seeing a shrink?
Anger. Family of origin issues. Personal growth. Parent-child conflict.
I stare at my phone for a long time.
Either I’ve walked through a time warp and ended up in another life entirely…or my dad is trying to change.
Chapter Thirteen
I get up early on Saturday morning and force myself to eat breakfast. My stomach is a tangle of butterflies, but it’s a different feeling from the usual anxiety. I think Audrey and I will flatten the opposition. I suspect Mr. Chadderton thinks so too.
Our school is sending six of us—three teams of two. It’s not the biggest tournament ever, but there will be a dozen middle schools in total. The schools that win this tournament will go on to regionals in early spring. In high school, you can compete for nationals.
Which I’m sure Dad fully expects I will do.
After breakfast I head upstairs to get organized. I make one last list: tips for public speaking.
I shower and get dressed. I have to do my tie three times before I get the knot in the right place. My heart starts to patter a little too fast. I take a deep breath and hold it.
Mom calls up to me. “Are you ready, Chick?”
I release my breath in a quick whoosh. “Yeah, Mom!” I yell back.
My desk is still a mess after my meeting with Audrey last night. I find the debate file folder and stuff it into my courier bag. I double-check that my extra deodorant is in there too. One can never be too scentless.
I sling the bag over my shoulder and take the stairs two at a time.
Elijah is still asleep, his door closed. The lucky schmuck gets a whole morning with no one in the house to bother him.
My mother is standing at the bottom of the stairs, pink-cheeked and smiling. “Your dad’s warming up the car,” she says. “Are you excited? I’m so excited to watch you, honey.”
“Mom, you’ve watched a debate before.”
“I know, but this is your first tournament. It’s an occasion!” She hugs me.
When she lets me go, I grin and smooth my shirt. “Let’s go.”
The drive to G.E. Wilkinson is long. I can feel Dad’s eyes on me in the rearview mirror. I pretend to jot notes for the debate so I don’t have to look up.
By the time we pull into a parking spot, the lot is already half full.
“I’m going to bolt,” I say, gathering my bag. “I want to run something past Mr. Chadderton before we start.”
“We’ll look for you in there,” Mom says. “Good luck, sweetie!”
Then my dad speaks. “Chick,” he says. “Just a minute.” He starts to unbuckle his seat belt.
But this is the last thing I can deal with today. “Sorry, Dad,” I say. “I gotta blaze.” There’ll be hell to pay. But I can’t let him rattle me.
I slam the door before I can hear his response.
I’m all the way across the parking lot when it hits me that he didn’t call me Tadeusz.
He called me Chick.
“We’re up last,” says Audrey. She drops her binder onto the table and slips into the chair beside me. I move mine closer.
I open my folder and pull out a blank sheet from behind all the others. No one’s going to think it’s odd that I’m writing a list in the tense moments leading up to a debate. Iyengar is leafing through his notes, and Johnna is scribbling furiously.
I’ll keep things on topic.
Effective Debating Strategies
1. Straight, relaxed posture. Shoulders back
2. Projecting your voice from the diaphragm, not your chest
3. Eye contact with the judges
4. Strongest arguments first
Mr. Chadderton pokes his head into our room. “Okay, everybody. The judges are set up.”
My head starts to feel a little floaty. The others stand and push their chairs in. Should I try to look for Mom and Dad in the audience? Or is that a stupid idea?
“We’re starting with Randy and Johnna, up against a team from Maria Montessori.” Mr. Chadderton reads from a sheet of paper.
Audrey looks at me. “Do you want to go in and watch?”
“Maybe in a while.”
She glances at my list
, then at my face. She nods.
I breathe deeply as Johnna and Randy file through the doorway.
“Good luck, you guys,” Audrey stage-whispers.
Randy gives her a thumbs-up.
Instinctively, I close the folder as Gary passes our table.
He holds out his hand. “Break a leg.”
I slap his hand. “You guys too.”
Iyengar fakes a sudden pain in his leg and limps out the door, moaning. Gary smothers a laugh.
The door closes behind Iyengar and Gary, and Audrey and I are left alone.
“You okay?” she asks.
“Not at all.”
Concern knits her brow.
“Don’t worry,” I say. “I won’t flake out on you or anything. We’ll kick butt.” I open my folder again. I wish I could believe the words I’m telling her. It’s just that…my dad…and a debate. Both in the same building at the same time. Today is going to be one hellish day.
It’s interesting that Audrey and I are debating the assertion that today’s youth are overprogrammed. I don’t consider myself overprogrammed. Debate Club and soccer are the only two things I do. But I’m supposed to do my two things like a boss. And I do. I was voted mvp of our soccer team at the end of last season. And I’m always the first person people turn to when they need help refining an argument. They talk to me even before they go to Mr. Chadderton. And usually my team comes out on top when the debates roll.
Still, it’s not good enough. It’s never good enough for him.
Audrey and I are arguing against the assertion. Persuading the judges that today’s youth aren’t overprogrammed. Even though people in my own class are under some serious pressure. People like Annie Allers, who does three different kinds of dance as well as violin. Or Devon Poon, who plays piano and has to go to Chinese school all day on Saturdays.
Sometimes I wonder what this does to your brain—having to persuade other people that you’re right and they’re wrong when you don’t even believe what you’re saying. How does that not mess up a person’s mind?
I could never be a lawyer.
“I don’t really care if we kick butt or not,” Audrey says. She doesn’t believe in our position either.
“Well, if we don’t, I’ll be disowned. So fake it.”
She smiles.
I pick up my pen. “Give me three tips for conducting a good debate.”
“Um, a loud voice.”
“Already got that.”
She reads over my list. “Speak with conviction. And take notes during the other team’s rebuttal.”
I write these down. My anxiety eases a little.
“Use hand gestures to engage your audience and strengthen your position.”
“Good one,” I say. I scratch the words onto the paper in front of me. “You forgot one.”
“What?”
I put my pen down and take her hand. “Pick a wicked partner.”
Audrey smiles. And then I kiss her.
Chapter Fourteen
As Audrey and I finish the first round of our debate, I can feel we’ve done well. Our preparation is paying off. The other team can feel it. So can the audience.
“We’ll take a short break so the teams can prepare their rebuttals,” says the debate host. The air in the room changes as the audience moves around, rustling and chatting.
I release a deep breath and take a sip of water to keep my nerves under control. I’m not feeling overly jittery. Maybe because I’m in my zone. Maybe because I’m still high after kissing Audrey.
Audrey and I huddle together at the table behind our podium, scanning each other’s notes. Audrey will lead the rebuttal, and I’ll deliver our closing arguments. And then we’ll win the trophy and it’ll all be over and I won’t have to worry about it again for another five months.
“This is good,” Audrey says, pointing at something I’ve scribbled in my notes. “I’m going to use this.” She bends her head over the page as she writes. I wonder if she’s still thinking about the kiss.
“You lead,” I say.
“I know.”
“I think we have this one.”
“I know.”
Even so, there’s work to be done. Audrey has to nail our rebuttal, and I have to somehow link it back to our strongest argument. One badly constructed phrase, one moment of hesitation in the wrong place, could cost us the debate.
My stomach tightens.
No. I’m not going to think about that. Losing this debate is not a possibility I can consider.
The bell dings. We take our places behind the podium. The audience swims before me, a hundred or so faces turned in our direction. Waiting. Expectant.
I know my parents are out there somewhere. But I haven’t looked for them. What I don’t know won’t hurt me.
“We now begin the final round,” announces the debate host.
As the first guy on the other team, Boyd, begins his closing argument, my file folder slides off the podium. Shffwwssshhhhh.
It’s a teeny-tiny cosmic joke on the day I least need it. The corner hits the hard floor of the stage—thwack!—and the folder smashes open, spraying my notes all over the place.
Mortified, I drop into a squat and quickly sweep my notes together. I have to crawl a little to reach a few of them. Those suckers can fly pretty far.
The other team doesn’t stop, and for that I send a silent thank-you. Nobody onstage pauses or even acknowledges me. Audrey keeps her eyes on Boyd, providing me with a gracious cover. Smoothing over a big embarrassment, making it a minor incident.
I don’t look at the audience, although I can guarantee that half of them are watching me instead of the debate.
I slide the last couple of sheets toward me, my fingers scrambling the pages back into the folder. It occurs to me that I could have just left everything where it was. It’s not like I need my notes or anything. I already know my final argument inside and out.
Too late now.
I swallow my mortification and smooth my face into a look of total disinterest. I can’t do anything about my wild blushing, but at least I can wear an expression that says this is no big deal.
I stand and place my folder back in its spot, being absolutely certain that it’s well back from the lip of the podium this time, with no chance of falling off.
Boyd has finished his speech. I didn’t hear a word of it.
Audrey clears her throat for our rebuttal. I should pay attention to this, because I’m supposed to be tying up all the loose ends in a couple minutes’ time.
But my mind is anywhere but on the debate. It’s spinning so fast I can’t hear anything Audrey is saying. It’s like she’s talking underwater.
My hands start to shake. I look around the room. Faces swim toward me, then recede, like those dreams I used to have when I was little and way overtired.
I’m losing it.
A thin sheen of sweat breaks out along my upper lip. Beside me, Audrey finishes speaking. She rocked her part. She always does. Now she’s ready for me to bring it home.
Patterson, the last member of the opposition, starts up. I’ve only got a few more seconds to pull my brain together so I can seal this thing and bring it to a close. But I feel like I need to…write.
Of course. What else?
My fingers seek out my pen, but I can’t seem to find it. It’s not here. It must have fallen off with the folder, and now it’s on the floor somewhere.
Beside the podium, where no one can see, Audrey gently rests her hand on my arm. She doesn’t look at me. But I know she’s sending me her vibes.
Her touch brings me back. I draw in a deep breath and hold it. Then I let it out slowly. I feel dizzy.
Audrey squeezes.
You can do this.
But then, like the guy in the horror movie who can’t stop walking toward the dark cellar door, my eyes search the audience. Looking for him. Needing to take the final step in this march of disgrace. Needing to know what he thinks of me.
; When I find him, I realize he’s been waiting for me. Our eyes lock. But where I expect to find disappointment and contempt, I find something else. It’s…
I don’t know what it is.
It’s confusing.
Patterson stops speaking and the room falls silent again. All eyes turn my way.
I’m up.
I take a breath and straighten my spine.
“Thank you for your words, Honorable Member Patterson,” I say. The words issue from me like the well-rehearsed preamble they are. A bit of composure surges back.
“I would like to take the opportunity to thank you all for coming today,” I say, glancing around. I make warm eye contact with a few audience members. This is a bit off the script, but nothing outside the lines. I’m just tweaking it a little. Building back my persona.
I look toward the judges, opening my folder as I do so. I went to the trouble of picking all that paper up. I might as well use it.
“Honorable judges, I hope to leave you with a few thoughts that will carry over past our debate here this afternoon.”
Beside me, Audrey relaxes.
Chick is in the house.
I glance down at my notes.
And my breath disappears.
And…every word of my closing argument disappears with it.
I stare down at the page in front of me. At the sheet of paper that somehow must have been gathered up along with my debate notes at the last, hurried second when I was leaving my room.
Things I’m Dying to Say to My Dad
I blink once. Twice. Harder. But it’s still there. The whole damn list.
The audience is silent, waiting. The room is so quiet you could hear a mosquito scratch its butt. Everyone is waiting for me to finish this thing. Wrap it up, hammer it down, pull it in, bring it home.
And I can’t remember a thing I was planning to say.
Audrey shifts a little, then glances at me. She looks at my notes, perhaps thinking she can take over and salvage what’s left.
But she can’t.
Her eyes widen when she sees what’s in front of me. She looks back at my face.
But I’m looking at my dad.