Hughie read out loud for the camera what he’d written for the musical program.
“Baum created the Tin Man,” he added. “That ruined the role for me. I tried, but I couldn’t get past it. I kept forgetting my lines. I kept missing my cues. It could’ve compromised my performance, and that wouldn’t have been fair to the rest of the cast and crew.”
Hughie spread his arms wide in front of the Kansas backdrop. The painted sunflowers. The make-do farmhouse. The papier-mâché brown cows.
“Let me be clear: I didn’t quit the musical because of Parents Against Revisionist Theater. I won a major role, fair and square.
“I had every right to play the Tin Man, just like I had every right not to.”
“Thanks, Hughie,” Emily said. “This is Emily Bennett for the Hive, reporting with Joseph A. Kairouz, on opening night of The Wizard of Oz.”
Hughie had had his moment in the spotlight after all.
As Hughie hurried backstage to congratulate his friends, I heard Emily say to Joey that they’d better get moving to catch the actors still in makeup and costume.
“Joey!” Always the optimist, I called after him from center stage. “Can I get a ride when you’re done?” When he didn’t respond, I decided to push the issue. “You can’t avoid me forever. We’re still both assigned to Features. We need to talk.”
“Alas, I’m busy doing a Features story right now,” Joey replied, marching up the orange-carpeted aisle without so much as a backward glance. “Good night, Ms. Wolfe.”
Smart-ass. Fine, I’d tried. And tried and tried.
What else could I do? My fault, but, wow, he was stubborn.
Didn’t I — doesn’t everyone — deserve a second chance?
This was nothing more than a misunderstanding. The way I saw it, Joey was being unreasonable. Self-righteous. Holier than thou.
Why wouldn’t he hear me out? I was a good person. So, I’d misspoken — big deal.
I’d said one damn random little thing. . . .
I caught myself up short. That thought hadn’t sounded like mine.
Where had it come from? The words floated up from my memory: “I say any damn random little thing that pisses you off . . . ” Holy crap, I was the Cam Ryan in this situation!
Joey and I were over because I’d been an asshole.
Ping! Emily had texted to offer me a ride home when she was done.
While I was waiting, Cam’s new girlfriend, Hannah, came up to me. I was in line for a pod of water at the concession window, and I almost didn’t recognize her out of a JV Cheer uniform.
She got right to the point. “Here’s the thing: Cam needs closure. Or at least I need for Cam to have closure. I definitely need him to stop talking about you all the time. He says you two had a ‘special place.’ Will you meet him there on Monday after school?”
Of course Cam was talking about me all the time to make her jealous. No mystery there, and not my problem, either. But Hannah looked so sincere, hopeful. Like she’d rather be pulling out her own teeth than having our conversation. I said, “I’ll think about it.”
In the school parking lot, Emily pulled on her helmet, grabbed the handlebars of her middle brother’s motorcycle, and swung her leg over the leather seat. She’d forgone her usual long dresses to wear pants for the occasion. “Hop on, Lady Lou. I’ll have you home in no time.”
The temperature was about 30 degrees, not that I was complaining.
“Try not to kill us,” I said, holding on to Emily’s waist. “Should I be wearing a helmet?”
“You bet!” she called as the bike’s engine roared to life.
Posturing aside, Emily wasn’t homicidal. She basically puttered toward my house.
“How long have you and Rebecca been friends?” I asked, leaning close to her ear.
“We’re girlfriends, not just friends,” Emily shouted. “December will be our six-month anniversary. We’re going ice-skating at Crown Center in Kansas City.”
We bounced over a speed bump. “Congratulations!”
I tightened my grip a little. “I didn’t realize you two were a couple.”
I thought about it. “I’m so glad you’re a couple!”
I thought about it more. “Skating sounds really romantic.”
Emily cruised into my subdivision. “You’re wondering about me and Kyle Rittmaster.”
No, I wasn’t. “I have no idea who you’re talking about.”
I was shivering. Christmas decorations weren’t even up yet, and I could see my breath. We passed the Emerald Hills pool and clubhouse. The air smelled rain fresh.
Emily said, “Kyle and I went out for most of junior year so . . .”
“So, you date boys and girls,” I said, realizing from the way she’d brought it up that not everybody had been supportive. It meant a lot that she’d felt safe enough to tell me.
“I’ve dated a boy and a girl,” she clarified, turning the bike. “But theoretically, yes, Lady Lou. Becs only dates girls, though. Only dates me.”
Emily sounded delighted by that, and I was honored to be in the know.
“What’s this drama with you and Joey?” she asked, turning onto my cul-de-sac.
“He’s furious. Won’t talk to me. It’s your standard living-hell situation.”
“I noticed the pitchforks and bonfires,” Emily replied. “What happened?”
“I said something horrible that I didn’t mean.” (I know, understatement.)
Emily pulled into my driveway and I climbed off the bike.
“Look, I’ve got three brothers,” she said. “If a guy . . . Make that most guys. If most guys are lonely, they act mad. If they’re insecure, they act mad. If they’re freaking out or jealous or in over their heads or whatever . . .”
For the time being, Daddy had hung a large plastic sheet over the garage door. If Emily noticed, she didn’t mention it. Instead, she took off the helmet and hooked it on the handlebar.
“Most guys think that the only negative emotion they’re allowed to feel is anger. If they’re pissed, they’re still being men. But if they show that they’re sad or, God forbid, they cry, that’s the worst thing they can do. According to my father.”
She sounded vaguely exasperated. “Especially if you’re a florist.”
“Well, that sucks,” I replied. It didn’t bode well for my relationship with Joey, either.
“Hang in there, Lady Lou.” Emily hugged me. “Everybody fucks up sometimes.”
It was Monday morning of what promised to be a stormy Thanksgiving week. I’d been one of the first students through the EHHS front doors. I’d hurried to Joey’s orange locker, slipped my folded letter inside, and hovered near the corner at the end of the senior hall to watch his reaction.
Dear Joey,
I’m sorry for what I said on the porch. I wasn’t thinking clearly then, but I am now.
Thank you for pointing out what a jackass I was. It won’t happen again.
I’ll be braver and explain what’s really on my mind.
I really want to talk you in person. Please give me a chance. I swear, what you took away from the conversation and what I was trying to get across — farthest thing.
So I completely, hugely apologize for screwing up but not for thinking what you think I think because I don’t think that. I would never think that. I already know better than to think that.
I was nervous. I babbled. I do that when I’m nervous.
What I said or was trying to say — I was babble, babble, babbling, a gushing waterfall of babbles. The freaking Niagara Falls of babbles, but I had good intentions, great intentions — mega flattering intentions, FYI, since this is a full-disclosure situation.
Not that my intentions matter more than you do. Or that you should have to listen.
But I’m not some random asshole. You and me, we were good together. Great together. So maybe you want to know what went wrong.
You may be wondering, for example, why did I go full-on babble-head?
Well, not only sex. More like a swirling storm of debris.
Swaths that blindside, bruise, divide. Shards tearing into lungs.
You know how it goes. Day after day, we live our lives. When the breeze turns mean, we shut our eyes, fuse our lips, but sooner or later, we dare to breathe.
We have no choice. We crave air, however polluted, to keep our hearts beating, to give them voice. In their brum, brum, brum, brum, that’s where our hope thrives.
This isn’t an excuse. It’s the beginning of an apology, an explanation, an apologetic explanation. Is there a difference, Joey?
I hate people like me sometimes.
Your (Hopefully Not) Ex-Girlfriend,
Louise
I’d labored over those words. Fretted and sweated and pinned my heart on them. I’d researched how to apologize and revised six times. It was an A apology, I was sure of it.
Okay, maybe A-/B+ on account of pushiness and self-centeredness.
(Yes, Shelby had really got me thinking.)
Joey unfolded the paper, flicked his gaze to my signature. Without hesitation, without reading a word I’d written, he ripped my letter into two pieces, then four.
They fluttered, like so much trash, to the institutional tile floor.
When the first bell rang in Journalism, we were missing Joey, Daniel, and, most notably, Mrs. Powell, the sub. “Looks like we’re on our own,” Karishma said.
Without bothering to ask permission, the editors had decided to crash a special holiday edition to run the next day. Otherwise, our musical coverage — the story of the year — would be old news by the next scheduled publication date a week from that Friday.
“Not so fast,” Ms. Wilson called, making her grand entrance with the managing editor. She had a long cardboard tube tucked under her arm.
Karishma opened her mouth to say something, but our teacher cut her off.
“Back to work,” Ms. Wilson said. “Don’t forget the rules.”
She held up a finger. “Don’t bother me unless you’re on fire.”
She held up another finger, and we all chimed in to add, “Don’t catch on fire.”
The newsroom erupted in cheers and applause, hugs and high-fives.
An overjoyed Karishma wiped away a stray tear, and I pretended not to notice. It couldn’t be easy, having to be the strong one all the time.
With a flourish, Daniel ripped the Honeybee Pride poster off the bulletin board and turned to Ms. Wilson. “Can I give you a hand with that?” he asked.
Together, they hung a new First Amendment poster in its rightful place.
“Cut the feather,” Karishma said a half hour later. “Otherwise, it’s good to go.”
“Without the feather, how are readers going to know?” Nick countered from his desk in the far left-hand corner of the newsroom. He pointed at her. “Dot.” Then at me. “Feather.”
The editor in chief didn’t bother scolding him. “We’re running the video interview with Hughie in the same issue as the musical coverage. People should be able to figure it out.”
“Can I take a look?” I asked. Technically, it wasn’t my place to get involved, both because the musical had been partly my beat and because of the focus on Hughie.
Karishma waved me over anyway, and then Alexis slowly rose from her desk and walked up behind us, too.
On Nick’s screen, his latest editorial cartoon depicted Hughie in a T-shirt and jeans with an upright feather in his hair. He was facing off — like a fighter in a boxing ring — against a wizard sporting a pointy dunce (wizard-style) cap, vertically labeled B-A-U-M.
Meanwhile, Ms. Wilson was pretending not to eavesdrop. Emily was doing a phone interview. Joey was still “out on assignment.” Or hiding. For all I knew, he was just hiding.
A copy of The Wonderful Wizard of Oz, tabbed in two places, rested on Nick’s desk.
I bent to read over one of his shoulders. Alexis bent over the other one.
In the cartoon, the Baum-Wizard’s speech bubble read:
If I should go out of this Palace my people would soon discover I am not a Wizard, and then they would be vexed with me for having deceived them.
Hughie’s speech bubble countered: I think you are a very bad man.
“Enough hovering,” Nick said, glancing over each of his shoulders in turn.
“The wizard quote is long,” Alexis put in as we both stepped back. “It’s crowding the illustration, making it too gray.”
“Besides, hasn’t Baum said enough?” I added.
Karishma and Nick exchanged a meaningful look. He double-clicked and deleted the Baum-Wizard’s words, the speech bubble that had framed them, and then the feather.
I hated to admit it, but Nick kind of had a point. Anyone who hadn’t watched Emily’s interview with Hughie probably wouldn’t understand the editorial cartoon.
“Do you mind?” I asked, gesturing to the keyboard.
Nick moved his wheelchair, giving me room to type.
To cartoon Hughie’s T-shirt, I added #NDN.
Call it a compromise. A clue. Readers could click to learn more.
Once the editorial cartoon was finalized, Nick said, “Lou, I heard about your fight with Cam over the spirit signs. I, uh, helped make one of them. I drew the . . .”
He paused, collected his thoughts. “I didn’t realize it would upset anybody.”
Sting the Braves! “Yeah, I figured. Thanks for taking it down.”
“I didn’t,” Nick replied. “I mean, I would’ve. Because we’re friends and it was god-awful and Cam Ryan is a total douche.” I could tell Nick longed to say more about the mascot cartoon but wasn’t sure of his words. Instead, he assured me again, “I would’ve ripped it down, but somebody beat me to it.”
Alongside his nana’s retirement complex pool, Cam and I were both dressed in layers. Bundled up. He was in his letterman jacket.
This had been our place, a semiprivate getaway, in the weeks leading up to junior prom. Somewhere we could go to unwind and splash in soaking wet, skimpy swimwear.
I shivered in the icy mist. “You know, that day on the bridge when we argued about the spirit signs?” I began. “Later, somebody tore them down. Was it you?”
“Hannah,” Cam said. “She thought about what you said.”
As of that moment, I officially liked Hannah. So far as I was concerned, she belonged at the top of the JV Cheer pyramid.
“I could have practically any girl in school.” Cam snapped his fingers. “Like that. I don’t know why I keep going for girls who’re so uptight.”
As he dragged a couple of lounge chairs closer together, it occurred to me that, maybe, despite noises to the contrary, Cam had more respect for girls who didn’t automatically defer to him. On the other hand, I still didn’t appreciate what he’d said about me being a “crazy nympho.” I wouldn’t have shown up at all if I hadn’t been so curious about the spirit signs.
But now, looking at Cam in the letterman jacket I’d once been so proud to wear, the memories of our good times outweighed the bad. And after the way I’d screwed up with Joey, I was in a more forgiving mood.
I set down my bead-accented purse and lowered myself onto a chair, careful not to tip it. Hannah had been the one who’d asked for this meeting. What did closure mean to Cam?
“I’m sorry I broke up with you that way,” I said. “We should’ve talked in person.”
Nothing would change the fact that Cam had been my first real boyfriend. I wanted to make peace with him and with that fading part of myself.
“If it makes you feel any better, Joey dumped me.”
The pool had been drained for winter and covered with a tarp. Without the scent of chlorine and sparkly moonlit water, this place had lost its magic.
“It doesn’t make me feel better,” Cam said, cracking his knuckles. “Kairouz dumped my ex-girlfriend? That’s bullshit. Loulou, you’re way out of his league.”
Was it wrong that some small part of me appreciated Cam for saying that?
“Joey just stopped speaking to me.” I shot Cam a look. “He didn’t even send an e-mail.”
That earned me a reluctant grin. Cam took off his jacket and wrapped it backward around me. I let him. He was trying to be considerate, and I was freaking freezing.
Neither of us seemed sure where to take the conversation from there.
Cam and I had gone out for months. We should’ve had more to say to each other.
“You and Hannah make a cute couple,” I finally ventured. He towered over her, but it was still true. And, thankfully, she wasn’t some wide-eyed, starstruck freshman.
“She’s incredibly hot,” Cam needlessly reminded me. “But I never would’ve dated Hannah if I hadn’t known you. You’re the reason that I like smart girls.”
It was his version of a non-apology apology.
“Thanks.” I’d take my victories where I could get them.
An hour before school, Karishma brought me a cup of hot tea in the newsroom. “I’m not trying to rush you,” she began. “But Alexis has already filed the story for News.”
What with the musical successfully behind us and the public nature of the graffiti on my garage door, the affected families had all green-lighted my going public.
I seized the opportunity to make what had happened the topic of my editorial, but I felt like I was failing everybody. Especially Hughie.
My laptop screen was blank. I’d started and deleted three drafts.
Karishma added, “If you want your tie-in editorial to run today . . .”
“I do — I really do.” I took a sip. “But whenever I start typing, I get pissed off and can’t think what to say and I freeze up because I feel like I have to be hyper-rational so I don’t come off like some self-indulgent, fragile flower. . . .” I shook my head. “How do you do this every week?”
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