Mr. McCloud took a sip from his Honeybees mascot mug. “One minute.”
I skimmed my test sheet. Was it electorial, with an i, or electoral, without?
Didn’t matter. He’d mark spelling errors, but he wouldn’t deduct for them. Senior grades scarcely counted, if at all, for college admissions. For scholarships on the other hand . . .
My brain repeated: Hey, a new bowling-alley restaurant opened — electoral! No i.
I made the correction on my test sheet.
“Time’s up,” Mr. McCloud announced, standing. “Finish your sentence and give it up.”
The bell rang, and he began weaving through the rows of desks to collect our exams.
I held mine out, ready to go. Joey was already leaving.
What if he didn’t show up in Journalism again? It was already Wednesday.
Tomorrow would be awfully last-minute to make a pitch for the weekend. “Joey!”
He was halfway out the door as the quiz was extracted from my fingertips.
I jumped from my chair, reaching behind for my purse, and collided with Mr. McCloud, sending papers flying.
“Louise!” the teacher exclaimed. “Watch where you’re going!”
“Sorry.” I knelt to help pick up. “Sorry, sorry, sorry.”
Beneath the desk, my hand bumped someone else’s. Joey’s.
I felt a zing where his skin touched mine.
He asked, “Want to check out that new bowling-alley restaurant? Saturday night?”
Kismet! No mention of the Hive. A bona fide date invitation.
LETTERS TO THE EDITOR
7:15 a.m. CT, Friday, October 2
I’ve seen Chelsea perform onstage in Lawrence and Kansas City. We’re incredibly lucky that she’s willing to do a high-school production. Prepare to be blown away.
— Marissa Berry, senior
______________
What kind of name is Karishma Sawkar? Is it too much to ask for a Kansan’s opinion on casting The Wizard of Oz?
— Casey Green, sophomore
Editor’s Note: I’m a third-generation Indian American and a second-generation Kansan. I was born at Lawrence Memorial Hospital in Lawrence, Kansas.
______________
Everybody’s talking about Chelsea playing Dorothy, but what about the fact that the two brown boys are playing farmhands and nonhuman creatures (the Scarecrow and the Tin Man)?
Why aren’t there better roles for them?
— Victor Hernandez, senior
Editor’s Note: As a step in the right direction, we encourage the Theater Department to stage more productions by playwrights of color.
______________
What if we put on The Wiz? They’d yell and scream if it wasn’t an all-Black cast (even though there are hardly any Black kids in our school). Why is putting on The Wiz with all Blacks any different from doing The Wizard of Oz with all whites?
— Ashley Jones, junior
Editor’s Note: It’s different because of who has the power and how it’s been abused.
______________
I sat next to Nick while he copyedited my latest working-student story, this one about the sophomore who’d made nearly $6,500 in the past two years running an online shop that sold Mod Podge custom comics shoes.
I’d included before and after shots of four-inch heels as well as a couple of photos of the girl cutting up books and arranging the images like puzzle pieces.
“What if we ran a fast-motion video of her doing this?” Nick said. “The whole process, start to finish. We could bring Joey in on it.”
“If he has time,” I said. “When’s the final deadline for the Sports series on coaches?”
“Hang on.” Nick went to consult with the editors.
It was Friday, but the Hive never rested. We always had next week’s issue to plan and prepare. I was the only reporter not out on assignment.
At the front of the room, Ms. Wilson was reading Karishma’s latest editorial, which argued that a Contemporary World Politics class should be added to the social studies requirement. “Very persuasive,” the teacher said. “Critics will probably argue that any change in the curriculum is going to be a long, frustrating process. How could you more clearly articulate the need for the class, to support the view that it’s worth the effort?”
“Frustrating?” Karishma waved her whiteboard pen. “The school counselor, Mrs. Evans, keeps telling me about her yoga class. She says it makes her feel more in touch with my people in the Middle East.” She used air quotes: “ ‘On a spiritual level.’ That’s frustrating.”
Was India even in the Middle East? Because of interviews, Journalism was the one class where I could leave my phone on. I used the web browser to do a search. No, South Asia.
Ms. Wilson rubbed her temples. “Mrs. Evans is . . . a big personality.”
My latest article in the Hive had generated only two letters to the editor — one supportive and one from the PTO expressing “profound disappointment” that we’d used profanity (by which they meant the word slut) in the student newspaper.
On the upside, the page hits were — by Hive standards — astronomical.
Emily had told me after lunch that my story had prompted some friendly girls on Pep to encourage Rebecca to join. (Meanwhile, they’d started walking with her from class to class.)
It had also created a wedge between the Mean Girls and some of their friends.
A couple of the bullies were insisting that they were the real victims, that everything they’d said had been in fun, and Rebecca really was a slut and was “just wanting attention” and had “blown the whole thing out of proportion.” But, as Emily said, “Fuck them.”
After Joey picked me up for our date, we got the shoptalk out of the way first.
“I know what you’re doing,” he said on the way to the mall complex, slowing as traffic crawled around a double SUV fender bender.
“You’re going for the sensational hook. You got clicks because the subject matter — sexual bullying — is salacious. But it’s basically ‘she said, she said’ gossip.”
Salacious? Seated next to him with my legs crossed, I refused to be needled.
“I’m not pitching assignments based on what will beat out your fungible sports lifestyle features. That’s just a bonus.”
Joey hadn’t had a bad week. He’d been officially named photography/videography editor. At the moment, he was trying to see around the traffic backup, clearly irritated by how close (and yet so far) we were from the highway exit for the mall. “You don’t like sports.”
“I didn’t say that. I used to cheer. I was good at it.”
Joey threw up his hands at our glacial pace. “You cheered?”
Having wrapped his mind around that revelation, he reverted to dismissive. “So, you cheered for sports.”
Now I was annoyed. “Cheer is a sport.”
“If you say so,” he replied, raising an eyebrow. “Maybe I should do a fungible sports lifestyle feature on the cheerleaders, then.”
Was he trying to make me jealous?
I said, “Yes, you absolutely should.”
“This sport is in my blood,” Joey said, holding open the door to Super Bowl.
He went on to explain that his mom had been a star on her bowling team at Wichita State and his parents had bowled in a league together for over twenty years.
“And that’s your bowling ball?” I asked, eyeing the leather roller bag he’d brought.
“Balls,” he replied. Another boy (like Cam, for example) might’ve made a joke about that. Joey didn’t. Instead, he said, “My mom’s, on loan from her collection.”
He paused to study the display of Kansas City Chiefs memorabilia — the framed posters, portraits, and action shots — mounted behind glass on the walls of the foyer.
A former KC Chiefs player, the one whose son went to our school, owned the place.
Daniel had run a huge personality profile on them the previous week. Turns out th
e son’s game of choice is chess.
As for Super Bowl, the joint is flashy, upscale. I hadn’t expected the starburst light fixtures or the mirror ball. Skimming the menu, I was surprised to see truffle fries, a charcuterie platter, shrimp kabobs, and beef tenderloin kabobs. To think I’d been craving a corn dog.
Joey unzipped the leather bag to reveal two glittery pink bowling balls. One of which had been engraved with ANGEL and the other of which had been engraved with BITCH.
With affection, he said, “My mother is a complicated woman.”
Joey reached for the BITCH ball, no hesitation, and managed to knock down a pin or two per throw. Meanwhile, I racked up three gutter balls in a row.
“Straighten your wrist,” he coached, not that it helped much. Not that we were all that serious about the game.
Between frames, he showed me pics of his hedgehog, Ernest.
“A serious name for a hedgehog,” I said, fiddling with my dangly beaded earring.
“He’s a serious hedgehog,” Joey replied. “Prickly at times.”
What with the bowling, the pulsing music, and the weekend-night crowd, Super Bowl was loud. We weren’t so much talking as shouting at each other.
Still, we managed to have a conversation. We talked about his big sister, Marianna, who was studying mechanical engineering at K-State, and about Hughie playing the Tin Man in the musical. We talked about camera-itis and ballet. About how Joey loves climbing walls and how I’ll never swim in the ocean because everything wants to eat you, even seahorses.
“Seahorses won’t eat you unless you’re already dead and decomposing,” Joey reassured me. “They have tiny mouths, which is why they can only take tiny bites and whistle tiny water whistles and give tiny sea horse kisses.”
Which was the cutest, most romantic, disgusting thing I’d ever heard, and I thought he might lean over to give me a tiny seahorse kiss right then.
He bent to retie his stinky rented bowling shoe instead.
When I finally managed to knock down two pins, Joey swung me around in a congratulatory hug. Then it was his turn — a spare!
Dueling with gnawed-clean kebab sticks, he admitted to liking his mom’s new apartment better than his dad’s latest girlfriend.
“I’m new to East Hannesburg, too,” I said. “Since last winter. I’m a Texan — Cedar Park, Texas, just outside Austin. But Oklahoma’s home.”
“A Texan from Oklahoma?” Joey mused as we got up to leave. “Is that legal?”
Had he reached for my hand, or had I reached for his?
I wasn’t sure. It seemed so natural, so inevitable.
I tenderly squeezed his fingers between mine. “Not everything is about football.”
Once we reached the relatively quieter foyer, I explained, “My grandparents live in Oklahoma. My parents are from there originally.”
The KC Chiefs football photos and paraphernalia caught my eye again.
The frenzied fans in redface, screaming at Arrowhead Stadium.
Did Joey notice them?
I didn’t think so. His gaze was on me.
By my porch light, we jokingly debated where to display our future bowling trophies.
“The fireplace mantel is traditional,” Joey said. “Or behind the bar in the man cave.”
“I’ll line mine — my enormous championship trophies — around my front yard like pickets on a fence.” Glancing down at Daddy’s hobbit houses, I added, “So there, homeowners’ handbook!”
“ ‘So there,’ who now?” Joey asked. As I explained, he crouched on the front walk to study the Shire. “Geektastic.” He started talking about how he’d read Tolkien, seen the films.
Magical, right? The stuff of first-date fantasy.
As I knelt beside Joey, he said, “When my parents split up, they tossed or donated truckloads of stuff. Holiday decorations, books. They threw away their bowling trophies.”
No need to rush, I decided. For Joey, romance was still a tender subject.
What he needed right then was a friend. I set aside my first-kiss hopes and went with a comforting, slightly off-balance hug instead.
Emily slammed her plastic food tray onto the lunch table. “Damn it!”
“Whoa!” Shelby said, wiping tomato sauce from her cheek. “Watch the splash zone.”
“Your dad won’t budge, Em?” Rebecca asked, pushing aside her bangs. She didn’t use them to hide from her friends like she did from the rest of the world.
“No, he texted me back and said his mind was made up.” Emily gathered up her maxiskirt so she could sit on the attached bench. “Damn those fuckers.”
Shelby and I traded baffled looks. “Want to fill us in?” I asked.
“I’m off the casting-controversy story,” Emily announced.
She speared a ravioli like she had a grudge against it and then dropped her fork. “One of the PART parents stormed into our flower shop yesterday. He practically threatened my dad.
“If I don’t slant the coverage their way, their evil coven at Immanuel Baptist — and anyone else under their spell — will take their floral orders somewhere else from now on. We’re talking weddings, funerals, holidays, birthdays, anniversaries, homecoming, prom . . .”
The Bennetts’ storefront was in the same strip mall as the Harmony Haven nail salon. It was one of the few locally owned businesses in East Hannesburg.
Emily added, “Immanuel’s the biggest church in town.”
“They’re pissed about Karishma’s editorial,” I realized out loud, suddenly losing my appetite. “But, hey, she told it like it is.”
“They’re even more pissed that I’ve been quoting the student actors and the cast’s supporters,” Emily clarified. “If we showcase any point of view except PART’s, we’re supposedly oppressing them somehow.”
“They’re not an evil coven,” Shelby said, stealing one of my pear slices. “Or a coven of any kind. They’re not witches. They’re not cool enough to be witches. They are evil, though.”
“Not wicked?” Emily asked.
“Not cool enough to be wicked, either,” I insisted.
“Strongly agreed.” Rebecca played with her flatbread and hummus. “Imagine if Dorothy and the Wicked Witch fell in love. Somebody should write that script.”
“You should write it, Becs,” Emily said, obviously cheered by the thought.
I could imagine Rebecca’s vision of Oz onstage.
Someday soon, I prayed.
Given the latest PART development, Karishma, Ms. Wilson, Emily, and I had gathered around the editors’ station after school. It was a closed-door meeting.
Emily was pacing around us, radiating nervous energy. She’d asked for the privacy and to go off the record because of her dad’s involvement.
Daniel was out on assignment with Joey or they would’ve been invited, too.
“It’s not like we have an infinite number of reporters,” the editor in chief griped. “After what went down last year, we’re barely making do with a skeleton staff as it is.”
Karishma was writing my name, Joey’s, and Emily’s on the whiteboard. Then she underlined them and wrote COI (for “conflict of interest”) under Emily’s name. “Somebody’s got to take point on the musical-casting story,” Karishma said. “A consummate professional who can hold their own, toe-to-toe, with PART founder Mrs. Ney herself.”
That someone was me. “I’ll take it,” I said. “I’m —”
“Joey wants it, too,” Ms. Wilson explained. “And he has the most experience.”
Karishma spoke up before I could. “But not the best temperament. He blew up at Cam Ryan in the locker room last weekend.” She sighed. “While on assignment for the Hive.”
To represent that, she drew an unhappy face.
That was the first I’d heard of the incident. Joey hadn’t said a word to me at the bowling alley or in the three days since. “What happened?” I asked.
“Lady Lou, your name may have come up.” Emily paused midstep. “We’re talkin
g shoving, cussing. A bountiful display of boiling testosterone.”
“No bloodshed or suspensions,” Karishma added. “Just a stern warning from the coach.”
It wasn’t hard to envision the locker-room scene. I knew Cam was still talking trash on me. Apparently Joey had decided to talk back. Chivalrous, but I could handle my ex myself.
“PART is infuriating. Lou, when it comes to keeping cool, staying pro, I have more faith in you than I do in Joey.” Karishma added a star next to my name.
Glancing over her shoulder at Emily, she added, “If we had a credible source, an adult source, saying that PART is threatening people . . .”
“Sorry.” Emily folded her arms. “My dad told me to make the problem go away. Quietly. I know how that sounds. If it were up to me, I’d —”
“I understand,” Ms. Wilson assured her. “Everybody here understands.” She turned to me. “But are you sure, Louise? These people play dirty.”
I thought of the anonymous message that had been left in my family’s mailbox.
I was reluctant to do anything that would attract more negative attention to Hughie.
On the other hand, somebody at the Hive needed to keep the heat on PART.
“I don’t understand!” Emily kicked the trash can. “Why do they get to win?”
“They don’t,” I insisted. “How about we split the difference? I’ll take point on the story. With Joey on video. We can share the reporting byline.”
Mostly because he wasn’t there to make his case or defend himself.
“Thank you, Louise.” Karishma reached to briefly take Emily’s hand. “Why don’t you write the personality profile on Chelsea? That way you’ll still be teaming with Lou and Joey on the musical coverage; you just won’t be handling the PART angle.”
With that, the editor in chief circled all three names, clearly satisfied.
“Do all of your list exercises result in a team assignment?” I asked Karishma.
“Call it a management style,” she replied.
Midweek, Mama drove me to Daddy’s office in Olathe so his dentistry partner could confirm that I still have no cavities and that I floss like it’s my Olympic sport. In the waiting room, I closed the worn copy of Teen Lifestyles and asked, “Want to tell me what’s wrong?”
Hearts Unbroken Page 9