by Karole Cozzo
There seems to be a general understanding among the children and teens in the group—you’ve got your issues and I’ve got mine. Your issues aren’t a big deal to me.
It’s a nice feeling, one I’m very grateful Alex helped cultivate. Regret squeezes my heart in its strong, inescapable grasp.
I keep my eyes on my brother, willing the sad feelings away. He is happy here, and this makes me smile. I realize there’s not always an inverse relationship between his happiness and mine. I just wish that Phillip’s playground expanded beyond this space. I wish the scope of his happiness was broader, that it came easier.
At eleven o’clock, Phillip is still content, which I’m thankful for, so I can attend the small ceremony taking place on the colorful wooden bridge between the two big sections of the jungle gym. The mayor gives a speech, thanking all the participants who helped bring the playground to life. Prominent fund-raisers and representatives from the charity organizations that contributed are front and center, but so is Alex. He is given special recognition and is the only person on the bridge who draws a standing ovation from the crowd. His mom rings a cowbell from her wheelchair, which is positioned right at the base of the bridge.
Alex’s cheeks are pink and he smiles humbly toward the ground, but I can detect the pride in his expression. Everything else about him looks exhausted, from the slump of his shoulders to the unfamiliar shadows under his eyes, and it’s obvious how stressful his past few days have been, separate from the stress I added to them.
I long to hug him in a way I haven’t even allowed myself to think about in over a year, an outdated yearning from those sticky summer afternoons sitting beside him on the picnic table at the club. I wish I could gather him in my arms and let his tired forehead rest on my shoulder. I would whisper in his ear exactly how proud of him I am.
The desire is all-consuming and crippling. Alex opened the door to my feelings that I’d closed, and this time I can’t seem to shut it again. I shove my hands into my pockets and stare uselessly into space.
Someone jostles my arm, pulling me from my sad daydream.
I turn and I’m surprised to find Erin at my side, red hair glistening against the collar of her bright green peacoat.
“Hey,” I greet her tentatively. “I didn’t know you were coming out this morning.”
Our communication is definitely hurting these days.
She smiles in Alex’s direction. “Oh, I wanted to come out and give him some support. I felt bad I couldn’t help on the workday.”
“That’s really nice of you.”
As I look around at the crowd, I realize not too many kids from school are here. Some people from our classes and some other members of the football team, yes. But mostly, now that the playground is up and running, it’s families and kids. People were willing to pitch in and help when Alex asked for it, but it doesn’t seem like it crossed too many people’s minds to show up today.
But Erin is thoughtful enough to come, which makes me feel worse than ever.
We both end up staring at the ground, silent.
“I’m really sorry, Erin,” I spit out breathlessly. “I just want you to know that. I have a lot of regrets right now. Some people aren’t going to let me do anything about them, but maybe some people will.” I glance at her from the corner of my eye, hopeful.
She takes a minute to respond, and I follow her gaze. She is watching a mother help her daughter clean up. Even though the girl must be about our age, she has spilled bright red juice down the front of her shirt and sports a juice mustache above her lip. The girl is dressed like a much younger child, and her pigtails are pinned up with colorful hair ties. She shrieks loudly and jumps up and down while her mom tries to clean her.
“It can be kind of embarrassing at times,” I whisper. “It can get in the way. But it never took away from me wanting to be your friend.”
Erin inhales sharply, still watching the interaction between the girl and her mother. Erin, who is forever picking apart her own image, who never seems satiated when it comes to the approval of others. “I get it,” she answers. She twists to look at me. “I was hurt, but this wasn’t about me. I knew that; it just sucks being lied to. In whatever sense of the word.”
“I’m sorry,” I repeat.
“Like I said, I get it, and if you want to . . .” A real smile finally appears, one I haven’t seen from her in a while. “. . . then, hell yeah, of course I still want to be your friend.”
Relieved, I smile in response, and I reach for her hand to give it a quick squeeze. “Cool. Thanks.”
I glance toward the swings, suddenly remembering that I haven’t checked in on Phillip in a few minutes. He still looks happy as a clam and I take a deep breath. “You know . . . my brother’s actually here today. If you want to meet him.”
My heart hammers, conditioned with fear, but I manage to propose the introduction.
She nods and follows me toward the swings. “What should I say to him?”
“Just say ‘hi.’ He’ll probably say ‘hi’ back. He’s calmer when he swings.” I grin. “Then be prepared, he might ask you if you’d trust a shifty-eyed moose.”
Erin shrugs mildly. “Of course; who wouldn’t?”
I crack up and, feeling impulsive, offer an invite. I haven’t cleared it with my parents, but I know they won’t mind. They’ll be surprised as heck, but they won’t mind. “You want to come over later? Hang out?”
Her eyes light up, and again I feel bad about how easy it would have been to set our friendship on a different path. “Yeah. Absolutely!”
We stand on the edge of the swing area. I know better than to actually interrupt Phillip’s swinging, so I call to him from the ground. “Phillip, this is my friend Erin. Say hi, Phillip.”
He whizzes by us, pumping his legs. “Hi, Phillip.”
Erin smiles. “It’s good to meet you, Phillip.”
He passes us again on his way back toward the sky. “Hi, Phillip.”
I turn to her and shrug. “That might be the best we’re gonna get.”
“That’s okay, you tried. He tried.” Then her gaze drifts over my shoulder and she nudges me with her elbow. “I think your buddy wants to talk to you anyway.”
I turn and look, and the hammering in my heart escalates to a whole new level.
Alex. He’s dressed in a drab olive-green Boy Scout button-down with an American flag patch on the chest and his troop number on the left sleeve, jeans, work boots, and a navy down vest. He is staring at me, but he’s too far away for me to read anything in his eyes. His expression is flat. If it’s an invitation, it’s not a very warm one.
Then I look back at Erin, realizing that her expression is sort of knowing, and I decide something. When she comes over tonight, I’m telling her about Alex. The whole sordid story. Lord knows I could use some advice on how to turn things around. If she thinks there’s any way I could at least get my friend back.
But for now . . . Alex is waiting. For what, I don’t know.
“Do you have, like, two minutes?” I ask her. “Do you mind keeping an eye on Phillip for a sec? He won’t move, I promise.”
Erin nods and turns her attention to the swing set, granting us some privacy.
I trudge nervously toward Alex. He’s not exactly smiling or anything. The shadows under his eyes make him look sort of scary, too.
I stop several feet in front of him.
His eyes flicker toward Erin and the swing set and I wonder if he’ll put two and two together and realize I brought Phillip. I hope he doesn’t think I did so to make a point, because I didn’t, other than that my brother really likes to swing.
“Hey.” I try a small smile.
“Hey.” He doesn’t offer one in return.
I nudge at the ground with my toe. “I guess you’re still pissed at me.”
“Yep.”
His curtness is unexpected and unusual and I inhale as the pain of it hits my chest.
I swallow hard. “I know that. I
wouldn’t have missed this, though. I wanted to say congratulations in person.” Alex still says nothing, so I forge ahead. “Congratulations. You did an amazing thing here.”
He allows his eyes to meet mine for only a quick second. There is a trace of warmth but the embers die down quickly. “Thanks.”
It’s a cold and empty response and I sense that I’m offering too little, too late.
“Is that what you came to say?” Alex asks. “Is there anything else?”
My eyes fly to his and I think I can detect a trace of hope behind the anger, one maybe he wishes I didn’t see.
But before I can think about how to begin saying all the things I want to say, he steps away. “If not . . . then I should go. There are a lot of people I need to talk to, and thank.” Only one side of his mouth lifts as he offers me a half smile. “Thanks for coming, though.” His words aren’t authentic, and I guess my presence doesn’t count for much at all anymore.
“Bye, Alex,” I whisper.
I stare at his retreating back, wondering why the hell it can’t be even half as easy with him as it was to repair things with Erin.
But then again, maybe I did a lot more damage to Alex.
Chapter Twelve
That night, after changing into my pajama pants, I find myself pacing back and forth across my room, restless. Even though it was a full day, sleep seems a long way off. I gnaw at my fingernails as I walk.
Erin’s not mad at you anymore, I remind myself. And you did some good deeds for your brother and parents. There’s no reason to be this upset.
But I can’t stop picturing the dismissive look on Alex’s face before he turned and walked away at the playground, and feel like I have plenty of reason to be upset.
I stare at my car keys on my desk. A moment later, I grab them.
Fibbing to my parents about Erin being in the midst of her latest romantic crisis, I drive across town. Only it’s not her house I head toward. I end up parked across the street from the Colby household, fingers poised over the keypad of my phone, ready to dial his number.
But I don’t get any farther than that. Earlier at the park, I thought I was silent because I hadn’t fully thought through what I want to say to Alex. Now I realize I don’t have anything to say to him. Not anything worthwhile, at least.
Suddenly I remember thinking one time last month, when Alex said or did something pretty great, that Leighton didn’t deserve him.
Do I?
For over a year, I’ve held on to a memory. Countless times I’ve wished for a do-over for that moment when I pulled away from him in the supply closet. But that one kiss was a long time ago.
If I consider the person I am now, the choices I’ve made since then . . . it’s hard to believe that Alex would want to kiss that girl anyway.
When I squeeze my eyes shut against this troubling realization, tears seep from the corners. I face the sad realization that if I didn’t lose him for good last year, I probably have now. As a potential boyfriend or a friend, it doesn’t matter. I’m just sad that I’ve lost him.
And I decide, for the first time in forever, that I’m tired of feeling like the victim of my own life. It’s always been so easy to blame Phillip and my parents for anything that’s lacking, to use Phillip’s disability as an excuse for all the shortcomings in my own life. I’ve been so comfortable with this attitude, and Alex was right—it’s pathetic that I’ve never managed to step up and reach for something I’ve wanted if going after it presented any type of risk or put me in an unwanted spotlight.
It’s a weak, tired attitude, and as I sit outside his house, accepting that it’s indeed my attitude, it’s hard to feel great about myself. It’s hard to believe an apology alone could repair anything between me and the boy inside. I drop the phone onto the passenger seat and head toward home, clueless about how to fix us if I can’t find a way to fix me first.
Once a year, my parents need to sign off on my continued participation in the Gifted and Talented program. Monday morning before homeroom, I stop by the small classroom to return the completed paperwork. Mrs. Adamson isn’t in the room, so I search for an empty spot on her cluttered desk, hoping she’ll see the envelope.
As I push some papers aside, a neon flyer, the one Alex showed me a month and a half ago, catches my eye. It’s the announcement for the regional Oracle Society’s upcoming high school competition. The date of the contest is little more than a week away. Yet for whatever reason, as I search for the registration deadline, I find myself hoping I haven’t missed it.
There it is. If I register by tomorrow, I can still participate.
I let the paper dangle between two fingers and laugh at myself. Am I seriously considering this?
I don’t get up in front of crowds of people willingly, and I certainly don’t do so by choice.
Plus, the contest is just over a week away! I’m sure that other participants have been working on their speeches—editing, polishing, and practicing in front of the mirror—for weeks, if not months. With one week to go, I’d probably just end up making a fool out of myself.
But I can’t stop staring at this year’s topic in large, boldface text in the center of the page. “The Power of Speech.”
When Alex showed me the flyer before, I thought I had nothing to say on the matter. These days, I feel like I have plenty to say. It’s just a matter of, you know, actually saying it.
Without further thought, I fold the flyer into a tiny square and shove it into my back pocket as I look around for bystanders, like I’m doing something really shady. Then later, in the library during study hall, I unfold the flyer, log on to the Web site listed at the bottom, and quickly complete the online entry form. I have to provide a teacher’s name as a sponsor, and I assume Mrs. Adamson won’t mind that I use hers.
When I see the confirmation message pop up on the screen—“Congratulations, Jordyn Michaelson! You are confirmed to participate in the sixteenth annual Southeastern Pennsylvania Oracle Society’s high school speech competition”—an unfamiliar thrill goes through me. I’m registered. There’s no going back now.
It’s sort of liberating, doing something so entirely out of character.
Putting myself out there. Calling attention to myself, my thoughts, and my feelings. On purpose.
I might never tell my parents or friends about the experience, but it’s something. It’s a first step.
I lean back in the wooden library chair and cross my arms, thinking, focusing my attention on the speech that I now need to get cracking on.
I’ve been thinking a lot about the concept of speech lately, and it seems like a good place to start.
Remembering the video of Phillip’s therapy session, I consider something. To a large capacity, my brother lacks the power of effective speech. I’ve wasted mine. He can’t speak up; I simply choose not to.
We both need a voice, and it’s high time I put mine to use, since I can. Even if I’m only ready to share it with a roomful of strangers.
Eight days later, I sit by myself in a crowded auditorium in a Gothic stone building on Villanova University’s campus, seriously questioning the sanity behind the belief that I was ready to do anything in front of a group of people this large.
The environment is overwhelming in every possible way. The room itself is intimidating, with high ceilings and crystal clear acoustics. I can hear individual voices echoing off the walls, and I feel the cold chill of perspiration under my arms as I imagine how loud my voice will sound in the room when I’m the only one speaking.
I sit near the front right of the crowd and I have a clear view of the panel of judges sitting at a conference table in front of the stage. I know some are college professors, some are local entrepreneurs, and some hold local political office. They have stopwatches, legal pads, and scoring sheets. I’m sure what they don’t have is any interest in what I have to say about the concept of speech.
I wipe my clammy palms on the front of my dressiest black pants, which I’ve pa
ired with loafers and a French blue button-down shirt. I glance around as I do so, thinking that my attire is another area where I’ve come up feeling inferior to those around me.
Several of the boys in the crowd are dressed in blazers bearing the insignia from local prep schools, the Hill School and Malvern Preparatory Academy among them. Some of my fellow girls in the group are wearing professional-looking dark suits with heels, as if they’re on their way to interviews or board meetings.
And none of them seem to be alone. They sit with teachers or mentors, parents or siblings, and friends from school. They appear both calm and excited, like they’re looking forward to this. They make thumbs-up signs as parents’ cameras click-click away.
I stare down at my lap and fold my hands. When I confided in Mrs. Adamson about the contest, she wanted to come to support me, but I begged her off, insisting this was something I needed to do on my own. My parents think I’m at a study group for history class. I’m probably the only high school junior who uses the excuse of a study group to cover up participation in an oratory contest. This probably seals my fate as a dork with a capital D.
At seven o’clock on the dot, the president of the local chapter of the Oracle Society welcomes us and makes some announcements, and then divides us into more manageable groups of eight. Each of us will be allotted ten minutes to present our speeches, with a short intermission halfway through. Lists are handed out and I find my name. I am slated as fifth in line in group one, which will remain in this auditorium to present.
The other groups shuffle off to various rooms, causing a mass exodus of students, teachers, and parents. The crowd left behind is much smaller, and my utter aloneness in the large room becomes obvious. I see several people turn and assess my solitary presence, which does nothing to calm my nerves. I keep my eyes dead ahead, refusing to look back, because acknowledging anyone in the crowd will only worsen my fears about standing up in front of it.