Ms. Bishop cuts off the music.
“Thank you, row three!” Ms. Harper says as we return to our seats. “You were all outstanding today. I want you to give yourselves a big hand.”
Everyone around me cheers and claps, but I just clap once.
“The cast list will be posted tomorrow by the beginning of class. I can’t wait to get started!”
The bell rings, and as I’m picking up my backpack to leave, Grace says, “Hey, Charlotte.”
I freeze. I’m not sure I can talk to anyone right now, so I answer without looking up. “Yeah?”
“You have a really nice voice. I love that song.”
Now I have to look up. I search Grace’s face for sarcasm as she tucks a stray corkscrew curl behind her ear, but I don’t see any. I think she actually means it. “Thanks. I thought you were amazing.”
Her dimples spotlight her smile. “Thanks.”
We walk toward the door, and right as I break off to go to my bus, she says, “See you tomorrow!”
“Yeah, see you!” I say. And somehow, even after my terrible audition, I feel better.
When I climb onto the bus, I look up just in time to lock eyes with Ben in the first seat. He smiles at me. Does he know I gave him the note? Nah, he couldn’t. But maybe the note made him smile. I grin back, and quickly move my eyes to the floor until I reach an empty seat closer to the back. I feel Maddie’s eyes on me as I go.
I’ve always thought of myself as a good person. I never make fun of other people. I recycle plastic bottles to help save the planet. When I find a bug in the house, I don’t squash it. I set it free outside. So, why can’t I figure out how to do the right thing with Maddie?
I don’t know if Maddie read my “I’m sorry” note before she crumpled it. She might not even want a note from me, but I could make her feel better with a secret note. If anyone needs one, it’s her.
No, that won’t work. She knows my handwriting, and she’ll definitely realize it’s me if I sign it “The Biggest Chicken…”
But I need to do something right. Something good.
I think about my tryout, and then I think about leaving the auditions with Grace. I take out a sheet of paper, and write:
Dear Sophie,
I think it’s really cool that you sang that song from Anastasia. It’s a hard song and you were brave to sing it—way braver than I would be.
—The Biggest Chicken at Carol Burnett Middle
It’s not a big thing, but Sophie’s voice cracked like mine. At least I can make someone feel less alone…even if it’s not Maddie.
* * *
I go straight to my room when I get home, and I don’t come out when I hear my parents arrive. I just burrow deeper under the covers and replay the disaster that was my audition.
There’s a knock at my door. “Charlotte?”
“Mfff?”
Mom opens the door. “How did it go?”
I poke my head out from under my blanket. “Is it too late to drop out of this class and take something else? Like study hall or something?”
“It couldn’t have been that bad.”
I sigh. “It kind of was.”
She sits down next to me on the bed. “What happened?”
I tell her everything. How everyone else seemed to have it so together, and even though I practiced nonstop, I still choked when I stepped onstage. I feel the familiar heat moving into my face, and tell her about the moment I first stuttered, which is big for me because I never talk about that. I just like to move on and pretend it didn’t happen. “Mom, I just…I wish I didn’t stutter. You know? I hate it. I have all these things I want to do, and stuttering makes it so much harder.”
She strokes my hair. “Have you met your new speech teacher yet?”
“No!” I push the covers back. “And I hope I don’t, either. It’s so stupid. They can’t fix me, so why announce to everyone that I’m different?” I’m not going to grow out of stuttering. It’s part of me, just like the freckles on my nose, except you can’t always see it. I don’t know how long I can keep ignoring Ms. Garrett. Sooner or later, she’s going to send for me.
“No one’s announcing anything.”
“Oh yes, they are! We know when kids get called out of class. It’s super obvious.”
“I think you’re paying way more attention to it than anyone else does. They’re too busy worrying about what people are thinking about them.”
Jeez, my mom is so old. She has no idea what middle school is really like. “Every time they take me out of class, I miss something important, or I get stuck with homework because everyone else gets to finish their work in class.”
She shakes her head. “You have to give it a chance. It could help.”
I scowl. “It won’t. I don’t know why the school makes us have meetings every year. I just want them to leave me alone!” Especially now. It always takes a few weeks at the beginning of the year before the speech teacher pulls me out of class. I have just enough time to feel like everyone else, and then it’s like the universe says, Not so fast, Charlotte Andrews!
“I know you do. And when you’re older, we can talk about whether you still need to meet with a speech teacher,” Mom says. “But for now, I want you to keep trying the exercises to see if they can help you.”
“Ugh. I wish I were already older. Or maybe just invisible.”
“I don’t believe that,” Mom says.
I groan. “Why does everything have to be so hard? I just want…” I actually let myself say it. “I want to speak perfectly like everybody else. If I have to be onstage, I want to be good at it. Not like…” I bury my face in the pillow. Me. That’s what I want to say.
She waits for me to finish. When I don’t, she says, “It wouldn’t be a dream if you didn’t have to fight for it.”
I prop myself up with my elbow and rest my chin in the palm of my hand. Several of the kids in my class have been in dance since they could walk. They’ve had voice lessons, they’ve done summer arts programs, and one of the eighth-grade girls can even twirl a baton when it’s on fire. It’s not that I didn’t have the opportunity to do those same things. Every year, my mom asked if I wanted to sign up for an extra class, and I always said that I didn’t want to. She never knew that I secretly did but I was too afraid to try. I didn’t want to be made fun of. But saying no didn’t work this year. My mom made me do musical theater anyway. So now I have to work twice as hard as everyone else to be half as good. I don’t have any training, unless watching every musical under the sun counts. But I want to be good. I just don’t know how to make it happen.
I make a beeline straight to Ms. Harper’s classroom, but there’s no cast list on the door or the wall yet. I walk back toward homeroom. When I reach the bathrooms, Maddie turns from the water fountain. For the first time in forever, there’s no one else around. It’s just us, the way it used to be.
“Hi,” I say.
She wipes her mouth on her sleeve and gapes at me. “Hi? Are you kidding me, Charlotte?”
I inwardly cringe, but I can’t give up now. This could be my one chance to fix things. “I just wanted to say hi.”
She rolls her eyes. “That’s great. Thanks.” Her words drip with sarcasm.
I want to make this right. I have to try. “You know I’m still your friend, right?”
“No.”
I attempt a smile. “I am.”
She stares at me with disgust. “Just leave me alone, Charlotte.”
“Wait! I could sit with you again!” I search her face, desperate to fix this mess. I’ll sit with her every day for the rest of middle school, if she’ll just forgive me.
“No,” she says, her eyes cold. “You can’t.”
I was right. I completely blew it. What do I do? “Okay, so if we don’t talk on the bus, maybe we ca
n still talk here in the hallway sometimes. If you want.”
“You mean like secret friends?”
My mouth drops open. I didn’t dream she’d ever be embarrassed by me. “You don’t want to talk to me anymore?”
The moment the words leave my mouth, Maddie’s eyes flash with anger.
“I never said that, Charlotte! You’re the one— Did you actually think I’d—” She sighs. “You’re such a coward. It’s like you’re afraid of me or something.”
I’m not afraid of her. But actually, right now at this moment, she’s a little scary. “I am not.”
“Please. You’re the biggest chicken in the whole school.”
My jaw drops. I thought I was the only one who knew that.
She tilts her head. “And you know it. I feel sorry for you.”
“You—I mean—you feel sorry for me?”
She shakes her head. “Better go before someone sees you with me. Since we’re secret friends and all.”
“Maddie, I—”
She turns and walks away.
By the time I get to homeroom, Maddie is already reading a book at her desk, and I walk past her like we were never friends at all. It’s so weird how one little thing can erase what you are to someone. I mean, I guess it wasn’t so little. It was a big thing, a bad thing, and I did it without even thinking about it. And then poof, I was erased.
No. I did the erasing. And now I can’t take it back.
Mr. Burton walks over to my desk and hands me an envelope with familiar handwriting on it. “Hey, Charlotte, this came for you.”
“Thanks,” I mutter. This time, there’s a cartoon sticker of a hedgehog wearing a top hat next to my name. I rip through the envelope and pull out the note.
Dear Charlotte,
I’m sorry we keep missing each other! I was sick last week and couldn’t be at school like I’d planned. But don’t worry—I’m going to pull you out of class soon so we can get to know each other and discuss your goals. Looking forward to meeting you!
—Ms. Garrett
I close my eyes and rest my head on my desk. Why does this have to happen now? Someday I won’t be in middle school anymore. I won’t have to do things that make me different. I can just be Charlotte. I sigh. What would that even be like?
* * *
At lunch, the line barely inches along while I hold my tray. It’s supposed to be grilled cheese, but the bread is hard to the touch and the cheese looks like plastic.
Tristan and Josh are in line ahead of me because today wants to go down in history as awful. I hang back enough that they don’t speak to me, but I can still hear what they’re saying.
Josh says, “I’m just so tired from all the travel games. And have you seen the practice schedule for next week?”
“Tell him you need a break.”
Josh lets out a bitter laugh. “Yeah. Try doing that when your dad’s the coach.”
The line moves forward.
Josh grabs a drink from the cooler. “Want to come over tonight and watch our plays from the game?”
Tristan sighs. “I can’t. My dad has to work late and I have to watch my little brother.”
I look up. I didn’t know he had a brother. Or that he couldn’t do everything he wanted to do.
“Oh, okay. Next time,” Josh says. He pays for his sports drink and leaves.
Tristan enters his code at the register.
“Hold on a second,” says the cafeteria lady. “Young man, your account is in the negative. You’ve maxed out the most you can owe.”
Tristan runs his hand along the back of his neck. “Can’t I pay you tomorrow?”
I try not to listen, but I can’t help it. I’ve never seen Tristan look embarrassed before. Ever.
She raises her eyebrows into her hairnet. “No, but you can put that pizza down and have a peanut butter sandwich instead. No charge for that.”
I guess he can’t control everything in his life, either. Like I can’t always control my speech. Like Maddie can’t magically make everything better for everyone, even though she wants to. Being totally helpless is one of the worst feelings in the world, and I hate seeing anyone that way. Even Tristan.
He digs through his pockets. “Hang on.”
The cafeteria lady purses her lips.
I feel so bad for him. But what am I supposed to do? Help him? I frown. If he knew I didn’t have lunch money, he’d probably eat a candy bar in slow motion just to make me miserable. He’d never do anything to help me.
She sighs. “Come on, hon. Just take a sandwich. You’re holding up the line.”
Tristan shifts his weight, his face scarlet. He steals a glance over his shoulder at the long line behind him, his eyes full of worry.
I reach into my pocket and pull out a few dollars from my lunch-money stash. It doesn’t matter what Tristan would do. I don’t have to be like him. I get to choose to be kind. Taking a deep breath, I brace myself and tap his shoulder.
He whirls around, his eyes wide. “What?” he snaps, his voice higher than usual.
I hand him the money without a word. He can’t make fun of my stutter if I don’t speak.
“Uh, thanks,” Tristan mutters. He sneaks a glance at my face, like he isn’t sure what else to say, and then he bolts to a nearby table.
After I pay for my own lunch, I feel his eyes follow me all the way to my usual seat by the trash can. I glance over my shoulder.
He quickly looks away.
* * *
I keep checking outside Ms. Harper’s door in between every class, and finally catch her taping a list to the wall right before musical theater. She slips back through the door, and the whole class pushes forward to find our names.
Grace shrieks. “DOROTHY!” She covers her mouth with her hands, and I think she’s going to cry. “I can’t believe it!”
An eighth-grade guy turns around and high-fives Jack. “Hey, Tin Man!”
With my heart pumping overtime, I burrow into the throng of kids and fight my way to the cast list. I place my finger at the top of the list and scan it all the way down. There are so many parts. There are even understudies for the main characters. I’m not any of those, though. Oh, please let me be cast as something. Let me be cast— And there’s my name! I’m ON THE LIST! I take a deep breath and follow to the next line, where it says, “Apple Tree #1” and “Horse 2/2.” My mouth drops open. Honestly, I’m happy I got a part. But a tree? Really? And what is this horse role?
Aubrey pushes to the front, finds her name, and turns around with the biggest smile on her face. “I’m Glinda! I knew it!”
Jack smiles at her and says, “You’re going to be an amazing Glinda.”
I turn to walk into the classroom. Some of the seventh graders follow behind me, their conversations peppered with excitement.
The bell rings. “Okay, everyone,” Ms. Harper says. “Now that you know your roles, welcome to The Wizard of Oz!” She picks up a huge stack of papers. “I’m passing out your copies of the script. Take a few minutes to look it over. Today we’re going to do our first read-through, minus the musical numbers!”
I open my copy and flip through the pages as quickly as I can. I finally find Apple Tree #1 in the pages right before Dorothy and the Scarecrow find the Tin Man. I actually have lines!
But where is the horse? Maybe there was one in Munchkinland that I missed? Or is it the one in the Emerald City that changes colors?
Ms. Harper clears her throat. “Okay, now that you’ve familiarized yourself with the script, let’s put our desks in a big circle and go through it together! Try to read it in character and make it come to life. Get a feel for how it sounds when all the scenes are connected.”
We screech our desks across the floor. Looking around, I realize that there are so many kids that I really don’t k
now yet. I’m next to Sophie, who’s also been cast as a horse. Her straight, white-blond hair falls across her face as she settles into her chair, so I can’t tell if she’s disappointed or just quiet. I wish I could find some way to slip the note I wrote for her into her bag, but she placed it too far away. So I fold the note and drop it near her foot when she isn’t looking. I’m so smooth. She’ll never know it was me!
We begin the read-through, and before I know it, we’re on the page where Apple Tree #1 starts throwing apples at Dorothy. I take a calming breath and read my lines. I only stutter once. But no one laughs. I sneak a peek at their faces, and they’re all looking at their scripts, eyebrows furrowed in concentration, some of them smiling at the funny parts. Maybe this class isn’t like everywhere else. I rest my chin in my hand. I may have a different kind of role, but I’m still part of the play. And every part is important.
Even being a horse isn’t going to be that bad. All I have to do is walk offstage when someone says, “That’s a horse of a different color.” Sounds easy enough. No lines. Just exit stage left. I can do that.
That’s it. I don’t know what I was expecting, but this seems really simple. What could go wrong?
When the bell rings, Sophie bends down to pick up her band instrument case and scoops up my note without unfolding it. I watch her out of the corner of my eye as she strides to the back of the room and tosses the note into the recycling bin. I sigh. At least I tried.
* * *
In the evening, Mom and I walk down the grocery aisle picking out soft drinks to go with the pizza we ordered.
“Honestly,” she says. “I think it’s great! You’re going to be amazing.”
I grin. Maybe I could be.
We round the cereal aisle on the way to the checkout and almost collide with Maddie and her mom.
Say It Out Loud Page 6