by Katie Nelson
Watterson walked down the aisle, stopping by my seat. He saw my case sitting there and nodded. “Good, you’re ready.” He continued up to the podium at the front of the room. “Interp, Oratory, Expos. You people head to the practice rooms and run through your speeches. Everybody else, take a seat. We’ll read affirmative cases. If you aren’t reading a case, get out your notebook and practice flowing.”
There was a commotion as people rearranged themselves and pulled notebooks and papers out of their backpacks. Someone tapped me on my shoulder. It was one of the freshmen—Emma, I think. “What’s he talking about?” she whispered. “What’s flowing?”
A couple of guys sitting next to us laughed. She blushed and looked like she might cry. I held up my yellow legal pad, then flipped to the front. It was covered in my chicken scratch, but she narrowed her eyes, trying to read it. “Flowchart.” I said. “It’s how you take notes during a debate. Keep a separate column for each speech. You’ll figure it out.”
Watterson called my name, and I stood and walked to the front. Though I’d given these speeches dozens of times, I still felt my heart beat a little faster as I looked out across the room. Tran had his laptop closed, a smirk plastered on his face; Emma was flipping through my legal pad, trying to make sense of it. Everyone else seemed pretty uninterested. Watterson nodded. “Tomas will time. Whenever you’re ready.”
I smoothed my papers on the podium, and took a deep breath. I’d done this a bunch of times—I could do this now. I looked out at the audience and then began. I started slowly, stumbling over my first quote. My voice was flat, but as I got going I felt myself finding my rhythm. I’d spent hours on this case over the summer. Working with my mom, I’d written a plan to provide treatment for the mentally ill homeless. My plan would use hospital systems already in place to allow the homeless to get therapy, prescription drugs, and health care, regardless of where they did or didn’t live. I advocated increasing funding for Dial-a-Ride, and education and outreach conducted through local shelters and soup kitchens. To prove the need for my plan, I read quotes from doctors, provided statistics about crime rates, and read the results of a pilot program similar to the plan I was proposing, which was already running in London.
As my time wound down, I slowed my pace, focusing on the last quote of my case, one from President Obama about the desperate need for a society such as ours to take care of its most vulnerable members. Tomas gave me the signal for ten seconds remaining and I set down my papers. “I urge an affirmative vote. I’m now open for cross-examination.”
Watterson was scribbling on his flowchart. Garrett was whispering to Josh, his new partner. The Duke had his phone out and was reading something on the screen. Had anyone paid attention? I ran my fingers across my hairline, then wiped the sweat onto my jeans. The silence in the room felt like a tie that was too tight. I was conscious of each breath I took.
Finally, Watterson looked up. “Okay. Who’s got questions for cross-ex? Tomas, start the time. Three minutes.”
Garrett’s arm shot into the air. “So let me see if I understand this. Your plan is to have every homeless person in America come to emergency rooms to get meds?”
“There’s a little more to it, but—”
“Let me ask you something, Tanner.” Garrett smiled. “Have you ever been to an emergency room?”
“Yes. My mom works at one. I’m sure I’ve spent more time there than you have.”
Leaning back in his chair, he said, “I’m sure you have. And how long do people usually have to wait to get into the ER?”
“It depends on the situation.”
“But it’s a long time, right? And you think that having hundreds of crazy homeless people begging for meds is going to make that wait time better?”
I shook my head, trying not to let him get to me. “Obviously, there will be some kind of system in place. Local doctors and nurses can work something out, depending on their particular needs.”
I looked across the room, ignoring Garrett’s smirk. The Duke was still on his phone. I didn’t expect him to defend me. I wasn’t that naïve. I guess I did think he’d at least pretend to be interested, though.
Tran spoke up, tired of me ignoring his raised hand. “And how do you plan on tracking all these homeless people? Couldn’t the same person go from hospital to hospital and get tons of meds and then overdose or something? Sounds like a huge liability.”
“My plan mandates a nationwide database. They could use the same kind of identification that anyone uses. Even snap a digital picture. It’s totally doable.” Tomas had one finger in the air. One more minute of this. I couldn’t let them get to me.
Tran turned to Jason. “Yeah. The homeless totally have driver’s licenses, birth certificates, and social security cards. They keep those filed neatly in their shopping carts, right?”
Everyone laughed. Garrett nodded across the room to Tran and said, “Nice.”
“Look,” I said, but everyone in the room was talking, and I couldn’t get my answer out. Tomas called time. I stood there, waiting, looking finally to Watterson to tell them to quit being ridiculous or defend me.
He turned the page in his notepad and finally looked up. “That’s time, Tanner. Have a seat. Mr. Tate. Why don’t you go next?”
I picked up my papers and walked back to my seat. I’d known Garrett and Tran were a couple of jerks, so I should have expected that. But I was totally humiliated. Even though my analysis was solid—the evidence from legitimate sources—nobody had even given my case a chance. I should have anticipated this kind of reaction. I should have known they’d look for any tiny weakness to exploit. I dropped into my seat and stared at my notepad, unwilling to look at anyone.
The Duke took his place behind the podium, ran his hand through his hair, and smiled. “What, no cameras?” he said. Some of the girls giggled. Everyone was anxious, waiting to hear what he’d say. Especially me.
I wondered if the Duke even knew what the resolution was this year. He knew I was irritated with him for constantly blowing me off. He didn’t care. I’d spent hours at the library researching or writing briefs; he’d probably spent the same amount of time trying to get girls into his. Flipping to a clean sheet of paper, I watched him, waiting to see how he was going to pull a case out of his ass.
Tomas started time and the Duke began his argument. “There’s an old Chinese saying that goes something like this: ‘Give a man a fish and he eats for a day. Teach a man to fish and he eats for a lifetime.’ Because I believe in this saying, I stand before you today to advocate for those who are starving. Those who need fish. Not just for a day, but for a lifetime. I am here to speak for the children. Homeless children. Who deserve an education.”
I rolled my eyes. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. Every debate website on the Internet had an education case on it. He must have printed the first one he’d found. It was such an obvious case. Even JV teams would have case attacks prepared for it.
While the Duke presented statistics, I thought of at least three disads to throw at him. I couldn’t wait for cross-ex.
As he wound up, it sounded more and more like a sappy Rotary Club speech than a solid case. When I thought it couldn’t get any worse, he actually quoted Mr. Rogers. It was beyond ridiculous. I scoffed, but when I looked around the room, expecting to see eye-rolling and laughter, I couldn’t believe it. They were hanging off every word.
With a minute and thirty seconds to spare, the Duke ended his speech and was open for cross-examination. Expecting to hear Garrett or Tran jump in, I was surprised when the room remained quiet. After about fifteen seconds, the Duke asked, “No questions? You don’t even want to ask me where I got my new shirt?” He pulled on his collar, and everyone laughed.
I couldn’t take any more. “I’ve got a question. Why aren’t homeless kids going to school now? Last I checked, K–12 isn’t optional in this country.”
He launched into a sob story about two homeless kids who lived in a Dodge Carava
n with their mother and spent their days scrounging for aluminum cans. He was avoiding the question, running out the clock. After almost two minutes, I cut him off.
“And how does your plan prevent any of this? Johnny and Susie already should be in school, but don’t go. How is your plan going to fix that?”
“By providing access to schools, we open up a world of possibilities for these kids,” he said, looking around the room. “Access to free breakfast and lunch, vision and hearing screening, PE, libraries. We change lives. And by doing so, we change the future.”
Tomas called time, and I didn’t get a chance to point out that he never answered my question. It didn’t matter. There was no way that case would ever see competition. He’d fulfilled the requirements of the assignment by putting in as little effort as possible, and now we’d use my case.
I leaned back as Garrett, then Jason got up and read their cases. Tran got a reprieve when the bell rang before he had a chance to amaze us with his brilliant, top-secret case. As I was gathering my stuff, Watterson called me and the Duke up to the front. The classroom emptied while I waited for the Duke to finish his conversation with Peyton and wander over.
“Good job today,” Watterson said. “But you both have a lot of work to do in the next two weeks.”
I nodded, remembering the tournament schedule I’d printed and tacked up next to my desk. Our first invitational at Berkeley. Maybe this would finally convince the Duke to get off his arse and get to work.
“We’ll be ready,” I said. “I’ve got solvency briefs done already. And topicality—”
“You’re not using the mental-illness case. You two need to work on that education one. By the way, I know you printed it off the Baylor website.”
The Duke shrugged. I wondered what room Watterson had been in for the last hour. “Coach, my case is solid. I’ve been working on it all summer—”
“It’s not consistent. Your evidence is solid, but it sounds like a train wreck. You saw what happened in cross-ex.”
“I didn’t have a chance for rebuttals.”
“Doesn’t matter,” Watterson said. “You won’t win with that. Fix the education case.”
I clenched my hands. The Duke appeared unconcerned. I could feel the tension constricting my muscles. I wasn’t going to take this. “This is bullshit—”
Watterson stood. Staring down at me, his face tight, he held out a jar. This close, I could smell cigarettes and the mints he used to try to cover it up. When he spoke, his voice was low and even. “Five dollars. First offense. It doubles every time. You don’t get to swear on my team.”
“What?”
“You heard me. Pay up.”
I shook my head. I couldn’t believe any of this. Watterson held out the jar, his eyes never leaving my face. “Did I offend you?” I asked, my voice thick with sarcasm.
“No. But it will offend somebody. And you can’t give them a reason to vote against you. Even if it’s not in the round. Judges hear it, they form opinions, and you lose. And because it’s a sign of ignorance. You’re better than that.”
I pointed to the Duke. “He uses British swear words all the time. That’s okay?”
“For now.” Watterson waited, the jar still outstretched.
Standing there next to the laziest partner on the planet, across from the most unjust coach in California, I wondered what I’d been thinking last summer. Why I’d agreed to come here. Why I thought I wanted this—this school, this team, this pressure. I didn’t care if it was my only ticket to Stanford. Right then, I was ready to pack up my stuff and drive home and embrace a lifetime of landscaping or burger-flipping.
They waited.
I reached into my pocket, pulled out a crumpled five, threw it in the jar, and marched out of the classroom.
CHAPTER SEVEN
TWO WEEKS. I HADN’T EVEN lasted two weeks.
On the drive home, I could already hear everything people would say on my first day back at public school. That I wasn’t good enough. That Bannerman classes were too hard for me. That it served me right for thinking I was some kind of genius, or thinking that I could ever compete on that level. My stomach felt like a lead weight. But what else could I do? I didn’t belong at Bannerman. I was stupid for thinking I ever could. I parked my Bronco in front of our duplex and tried to get up the guts to go inside and tell my mom I was quitting.
The blinds moved in Sam’s window, then three inches of his face appeared. Time to go inside and get it over with. I climbed out and walked slowly up the front walk, twisting my key in the door, unlocking both deadbolts before going inside.
My mom was in the hall, wiping her hands on a dishtowel. “Tanner? What are you doing home?”
Before I could answer, she was hugging me and it was all I could do not to cry. I held on a little longer, biting my tongue to keep the tears inside.
Then Sam was there, his cane in one hand, the other pressed against the wall as he pushed his way toward us. “Hey buddy,” I said. “Did you miss me?”
“No.” He shook his head, a huge grin on his face.
“Liar.” Mom swatted his head. She looked me up and down like she was assessing one of her patients. “Are you here for the whole weekend? Or just tonight? Did you bring your laundry? There’s a chicken casserole in the oven. I’m picking up a shift tonight, but Abby’s coming over to stay with Sam, so if you want to hang out with Ben or anyone that’s totally fine.”
“Mom, you’re in trauma mode. Dial it down a little.”
She laughed. “Come into the kitchen and talk to me. I want to hear everything.”
I sat at the table while she worked: making a salad, washing the dishes, wiping down the counter. My mom only had two modes: she was either going at warp speed or she crashed. I’d been so pissed off earlier—so ready to tell her everything—but now, sitting in the kitchen watching her work, how could I?
So we talked about everything else. I told her about my classes. I told her how I hated soccer and was going to switch to indoor track next season. The food was usually pretty good, once you learned what to avoid. We’d had two cool guest speakers at the forum assemblies—a twenty-four-year-old CEO of a tech start-up and a sculpture artist who worked with materials from torn-down buildings. I complained about Huang and his obsessive need to clean every surface in our room with Lysol wipes seven times a day.
“Be kind to him. You never know what he might be dealing with.”
“Now I know why he was the only guy on the floor without a roommate.”
“Try and ignore him. You don’t have to be best friends.”
She set the casserole on the table and called Sam in. While we passed everything around, she told me about Sam’s aide, Jesse, who had started earlier that week. He was a college student majoring in Special Ed, and was going to come twice a week for a few hours. The lawyer who’d helped set it all up? Tran’s mom. Apparently Tran wasn’t literally the spawn of Satan.
I could tell Sam really liked Jesse. He was teaching Sam to ride the city buses, so they’d been to Taco Bell, the grocery store, and the post office. Next week, they were going bowling. And Sam was learning to vacuum. He didn’t like it and complained the vacuum was too loud, but I was impressed that this Jesse guy was trying. Imagine what Sam might learn in a few months. Or even a year.
Would it all go away when I quit? I had no idea what Mrs. Nguyen had done. She certainly wouldn’t want to help if I was back at school here, competing against Tran. I took another bite and chewed while Mom talked, barely able to taste my food.
Mom took a sip of her water. “How’s debate going?”
I stabbed at a carrot, and when I glanced across the table, I could tell she knew something was up. My fork hit the plate, and I let out a loud sigh.
“Well, our first tournament is in two weeks. Watterson says the case I spent the whole summer working on is garbage. My partner refuses to do any work. Oh, and everyone on the team hates me.”
“That good, huh?” She squee
zed my hand. I didn’t know what else to say.
“Want me to come down there? Kick somebody’s ass?” Sam said, then burst out laughing. Not just a giggle, but full on evil-villain laughter. His face was bright red, he was gasping for breath, and I was afraid he was going to fall out of his chair. He didn’t stop. I looked back at my mom, and once our eyes met, we both started laughing, too. Sam pretended to throw a couple punches, and when he swung his arm down onto the table, it hit the serving spoon in the casserole dish, and a huge clump of noodles flew across the table and landed on my mom’s neck.
“Sam!” she shrieked.
My brother and I stopped laughing. We sat in silence as Mom pulled a chunk of chicken out of her hair and we waited for the lecture. For Sam to get sent to his room. I was sure she’d explode, but then she threw the chicken and hit Sam right in the middle of his forehead.
She started laughing, and I started laughing, and when Sam finally realized he wasn’t in trouble, he did, too. It felt so good to let go with my mom. I couldn’t remember the last time we’d had so much fun together. We were all making so much noise that we didn’t hear the knock at the door, or Abby’s voice, until she was standing in the doorway.
“Who let the monkeys out of the zoo?”
Mom jumped from her chair. “Is it already six? I’ve gotta change.” She hurried down the hall, still giggling. Mom never giggles.
“Do I even want to know what that was about?” Abby asked.
I shook my head.
She took Mom’s chair. “When did you get back?”
“I don’t know. Half-hour ago, maybe? You hungry?”
Abby grabbed a plate and loaded it with salad.
“Why is Mom working tonight?”
Abby held up her hand while she finished chewing. I waited.
“Honda needs a new transmission. And tires. She’s picking up any extra shifts she can get.”
I stared at the food on my plate. It shouldn’t have been a surprise. Mom always worked extra shifts around Christmas, but it was only September. How long did she think she could keep this up?