by Nancy Osa
I could feel the brown roots of my blondish hair burn red with embarrassment as I hunched over to retrieve my books. Mr. Soloman abandoned me and went off to work with Vera.
The Ax pulled up his desk chair, all business.
“Your coach tells me you’re having trouble with consistency and focus.”
Nothing like a little secondhand criticism to buck you right up. “Um, yeah, that sounds about right. My critiques are never the same. I’ve been scoring 1–6, 2–7, 1–5.”
“Mmmm,” The Ax ruminated, leaning against the desktop.
I tried to swallow my nervousness.
“Let’s see your routine,” he commanded, and I performed.
“Mmmm,” he said again, afterward.
I stood there, waiting for him to pull his thoughts together. How did Leda stand this scrutiny?
Finally, he motioned for me to sit in the chair next to his desk. “You’re losing your narrator,” he diagnosed abruptly. “Start over.”
“Excuse me?”
“Start over as if you were just memorizing your lines, bar by bar, like a musician. Each time, make your narrator be the melody. Your narrator is what holds the piece together.”
He was speaking my language. I nodded. “That’s the way I learn a piano piece by heart. First the bass part, then the treble.”
He clapped his hands and rubbed them together. “You’ve got it, Ms. Paz. You obviously don’t need my help there. Just practice like crazy, et cetera, et cetera.”
His matter-of-fact confidence stunned me for a moment, but I managed to look him in the eye. “Thanks, Mr. Axelrod. Thanks a lot.” My gaze involuntarily fell on the desktop, and I stiffened. His wife’s laughing face peeked out of the picture frame at us. And the envelope marked LETTERS covered a sheaf of papers.
The Ax reached for the stack and pulled one out, sighing. “Letters of recommendation. Well, it’s good to see my students going places.”
Oh.
I took this as my cue to leave.
“See you at the tourney, then, Mr. Axelrod. And . . . I’m s-sorry—about going through your stuff and everything.”
He eyed me, not unkindly.
“We all have our bad days. Don’t mention it, Ms. Paz.”
I followed The Ax’s prescription, even though Mark kept sticking his head in my bedroom and telling me to shut up when I repeated the same couple of lines over and over. I ignored him, my eyes fixed somewhere above his beady ones; it was a good focus workout. By Friday night, I could’ve performed my O.C. on a unicycle in the middle of a cattle stampede, with a trick monkey on my back.
“Good luck, Violet,” Vera said the next morning as we found our names on the board.
“Back at you,” I said.
The high school cafeteria was done up in maroon and blue crepe paper, in honor of Forestfield’s home tournament, and Evian bottles sprouted everywhere. The Forestfielders seemed to have a booster club for the speech team; observers filled the rooms. The large audience would have bothered me if not for the last, intense forty-eight hours of work on my focus. An elephant doing the cancan on a bowling ball would not have caused me to bat an eye-lash. My mind was a steel trap.
Guy “Pimpleberry” gave me a sneer as I sat down in my first round. But he and Ms. Infomercial conferred worriedly afterward, glancing back at me in the hallway.
After Round Two, “Dr. Speak Easy” introduced himself as George VanderHouten and said I’d been great. I didn’t want to say I agreed with him wholeheartedly, so I just murmured, “Thanks. You too.”
I hurried to Leda’s Oratory round, but the door had been closed, and crashing the party was a no-no.
The hallway was empty. I walked to an unlocked exit and stuck my head outside the building. The winter sky stretched low and full, one long whale of a nimbus. A cold wind whipped sharply, with a wet snap that promised snow or sleet. Let it be snow, I thought, pulling back and letting the door fall shut.
I wandered back to the cafeteria and joined my teammates to wait for the final-round postings. When they went up, I didn’t rush over right away. I tried to act like I wasn’t even worried.
“Yeah, Violet, I know how you feel,” F. David Worthington said, pushing his chair back and kicking his feet up on the table. “When you’ve made final round so many times, it’s hardly even worth checking.”
I looked at him, suddenly feeling nauseated, and made a beeline for the posters.
Clarence stopped me en route. He gently grabbed me by the forearms in that double grip of his and smiled. “So you’ve made your first final round. Congratulations.”
I turned to jelly. “I . . . did?”
He tried to hold me steady, but I slipped from his grasp and rushed for the posters to make sure it was true.
Unless there was another V. Paz, I was in. I happened to glance over at the coaches’ table and saw Mr. Soloman and The Ax watching me, looking pleased. I pumped a fist at them, grinning like a goon, then checked the clock.
Enough fun and games. It was time to get in character.
28
Miss Sippy. Dr. Speak Easy. Ms. Infomercial. Mary Ann Pimpleberry. The curly-haired guy, whose driver’s ed skit had improved dramatically. And me. The cream of the north suburban Original Comedy crop gathered to compete before a standing-room-only crowd in Room 248 of Forestfield High School. History would be made here today, ladies and gentlemen. I ate an extra sugar cube for luck.
The judge called me second. “Violet—Pazz?”
Surprise! I was actually able to move and speak. I simply imagined Mark sticking his head in the door to bother me, and nothing could shake my concentration.
My siren opening startled the room. I could feel the electricity.
“The story you are about to hear is true. . . .”
Mr. Axelrod would have been proud of me—for about five seconds. I remembered my lines, all right. But I concentrated on them so hard that I rushed my body comedy. People seemed not to get it. After I’d bombed with the conga-line act—and I do mean no laughs, ningún —even my closing pantomime with the cell bars felt hokey. Today, Marcel Marceau I was not.
Great physical shtick distinguished each of the other acts: Miss Sippy cocked that hip and waggled her neck; Ms. Infomercial overacted her “And, s-t-r-e-t-c-h!”; even Mary Ann Pimpleberry got some laughs with one of those solo hugs that look like you’re making out with yourself. The others gave their characters that third dimension too.
Afterward, teammates who had never spoken to me before came up to offer congratulations anyway. Greg Ibarra, Leda, and Janell joined me in the hall. Janell gave me a huge hug, and Leda punched me in the arm, her highest form of praise.
“Way to go,” said Greg, who looked neat in a suit, with his straight, short dark hair freshly cut and silver wire-rimmed glasses polished.
“Thanks. Where’s Clarence?” I asked, disappointed. “I thought he’d be with you.”
He shook his head. “Extempers do have free will, you know.”
Thud. He’d chosen not to come.
“Besides,” said Greg, “he didn’t want to miss his own final round.”
Soar. “We both made it?” I’d forgotten to read the rest of the finals postings.
Janell was smiling. “And me, in Verse. I had to run to get here in time.”
I squeezed her hand. “This is so great! Come on, let’s go find Mr. S.!”
Forestfield’s drama department has a real 250-seat theater. Speechies filtered in for the awards ceremony and sat in school clusters. Both Mr. Soloman and The Ax shook my hand.
“How’re we doing for team?” I asked them.
“Excellent,” said Mr. Axelrod. “Ten of twelve events went to final, and some doubled up, like Ms. Campbell and yourself.”
Mr. Soloman consulted his clipboard. “But New Beverly South and Forestfield are close contenders.”
Ugh, if Evian High won their own tournament, we’d never hear the end of it.
“Time to chant,” said Leda.
“Nam-myoho-renge-kyo . . .” She struck a yoga position in her seat. Luckily, she was wearing pants.
Clarence and F. David returned from their Extemp round and sat in front of us. Then Clarence made Greg switch seats with him, ending up by me.
“How’d it go?” I asked. “What was your topic?”
Clarence grimaced. “It was a bear. ‘Why China Deserves Most Favored Nation Trading Status.’ ”
“Why does it?”
“Why doesn’t it?” corrected Clarence. “At least, that was my point. I editorialized. I’m probably disqualified.”
Leda heard this. “Dude, we could use you in Oratory.”
“Save me a place,” he answered wryly.
The house lights dimmed, and a local speech coach started the show.
Torture! Fifteen events to get through, each placing four to six winners, and finally, the team standings. Suspense began to build early on, when F. David took the first-place Extemp ribbon and Clarence was at least officially recognized with fifth place. Clarence came back to his seat and reached over, and I suddenly found myself holding hands with a guy in a dark theater.
Check that one off my list.
As the awards droned on, Tri-Dist took first or second in nearly every event. The theater came alive with adrenalized kids jogging to and from the stage. Then I was one of them.
“And for Original Comedy,” announced the Forestfield coach, “in sixth place, Violet Paz! Fifth place, Guy Chamberlaine . . .” My ears shut down as I concentrated on climbing the stairs, crossing the stage, and accepting my ribbon with the ghost of Father Leone hovering over me. Success! Packing a suitcase full of smiles, I headed back as Vera came forward for her award. Second! And first had gone to the girl from Forestfield, Ms. Infomercial. The hambone actually took the microphone, liter of Evian in one fist, thanked the judges, and said, “And, s-t-r-e-t-c-h!” Mine wasn’t the only groan in the audience.
Janell got fourth place in Verse, and by the time Zeno and Trish took first for their duet, the Tri-Dist speechies were pumped. But Forestfield and New Beverly South had also made a strong showing, with lower ranks, but doubling up in nearly every event.
We were neck and neck and neck.
“And now, the moment you’ve been waiting for,” said the Forestfield coach, taking a swallow from her bottle of Evian. “The team awards.”
By this time, my amphibious palm had fused to Clarence’s larger, spongelike hand. As each place was announced, we both clutched harder.
“Third place, with sixty points: New Beverly South!”
An extremely giddy girl fell all over herself accepting the trophy. “This is for you, Principal Fernandez!” she said with tears in her eyes.
“Second place . . .”
Janell grabbed my other hand and squeezed it.
“with a new team record of sixty-two incredible points . . .”
I couldn’t take the pressure.
“our very own, hardworking, talented team: Forestfield High School!”
Janell and Clarence let go. With inward breaths, we looked at one another. Then a spontaneous cheer rose from the Tri-Dist seats.
“And first place . . . with sixty-three points . . .”
I didn’t hear her finish.
“Ms. Paz,” came a strong, gruff voice in my ear. “You’re on.”
Amid the mad applause, I turned to find The Ax nodding at me.
The team trophy?
“Me?”
“Well, go on, go on.” He waved me away.
And then I was the one falling all over myself, though not over the Forestfield coach, as I gripped the first-place team trophy and said through tears into the microphone, “This is the greatest moment of my life. Thank you to the judges here today, and especially to our coaches, Mr. Axelrod, Mr. Soloman, and Ms. Joyner. I thank you, and Tri-Dist thanks you!”
Roars from our side, and applause all around. It wasn’t just good sportsmanship, either—who cares about that? We’d sent Zeno to a double win, killed in duets, and then there was the way Vera and I had practically swept O.C. Speechies may keep poker faces during rounds, but they know when someone deserves to win.
We packed up to leave, and Clarence walked me up the theater ramp. “Well, that’s it for this year,” he said. “I don’t know what you’re up to, but I’d like to see you during vacation sometime.”
Uh-oh, another vague rendezvous.
“Like, next Friday?” Clarence added. “Night?”
“To do . . . ?”
“A movie!” he said triumphantly. “My mom’ll drive.”
“Sure, Clarence,” I said, as though I accepted dates all the time. “Next Friday. That’d be fun.”
We pushed through the double doors with the crowd and stepped outside to a wintry breeze. Giant flakes swirled through the air, seeming never to light.
The year’s first snowfall. It was an omen, a pristine start to a beautiful relationship between Clarence and me. Either ours would be a frigid, stormy affair—or the chemistry between us would be hot enough to melt glaciers, flood rivers, and dry them back up again. I was hoping for the latter.
29
I tried to imagine everything that might happen Friday night, so it wouldn’t look as though I was on my first date.
Clarence had apologized about his mom having to drive us, but, hey, he was fourteen. What was he going to do, steal a car? And a license? Anyway, he made up for the chaperone bit by picking a really cool place to go. Not the Lincolnville Dozenplex for a matinee. But an evening trip downtown to Water Tower Place to see the new Jackie Chan movie, plus dessert at the chic café next door. Mrs. Williams planned to shop, not sit between us at the movie.
I figured I was guaranteed at least ninety quiet minutes alone with Clarence, give or take any extra time in the popcorn line. The popcorn line! I should have something intelligent to say there. And I should probably come up with something to tell his mom on the drive down. At which point it would be dark in the backseat, except for the street-lights. . . . But maybe Clarence would be sitting up front. In that case, we might not be able to talk, because of the seat belts. The conversation factor was going to be tricky. I decided to come up with three topics and go from there.
Then there were the ninety minutes in the dim theater to consider. I was really looking forward to those minutes, certain I’d give my best performance under cover of darkness. Even if I did have to compete with Jackie’s costar. Afterward, I knew I could eat dessert without any practice. So I had it covered.
Of course, things didn’t go the way I’d imagined. Amazingly, I didn’t care. We got to Water Tower Place and said good-bye to Mrs. Williams early. Clarence and I took the escalator up to the top, floor by floor, browsing in shops along the way. By the time we passed the Popcorn Gourmet, he had me laughing, and by the time we stopped at the puzzle-filled window of Gamekeepers, we were holding hands.
We made it all the way up to the theater without my having to use any prepared topics. As Clarence paid the admission (I told myself I would next time), I stepped back and watched his long, lean figure framed by the ticket window. He looked good in jeans and a gorgeous ocean-blue sweater, and, for the first time I’d seen, contacts. His dark brown eyes seemed to be dancing on waves when he smiled down at me and asked if I wanted any refreshments.
How can that be a romantic thing to ask someone?
But it was.
I went with him through the line, and we laughed at all the giant boxes of everything.
And that’s the end of the part that I remember in order. The rest of the night passed in big brushstrokes of color. I was left with impressions: the warm pressure of Clarence’s arm around me in the theater, the intimate, dizzy feeling of sitting alone together in the café afterward, the golden rush as though I were being cast for a statue when Clarence’s lips touched mine.
And then, later, alone in my room, the lovely rosy color of success. Sweet success.
I pretty much floated through the next few
days, not noticing holiday preparations. Christmas came in a rush. And who should walk in the door that day but Tía Luci?
Mom was filling the double ovens with turkey and a pan of congrís when Chucho set up a fuss. I ran to the door.
“Feliz navidad, kiddo.”
It was Luz, with a shopping bag full of presents, surrounded by a swirl of snowflakes. Luz shares Dad’s rich dark eyes and skin, but unlike him, a cascade of black curls runs down her back and her clothes usually match. She brought the bag inside, calling hello.
Smiles spread through the house like scarlet fever. Hugs and kisses were exchanged. Mom put a pot of cider on to mull.
“What are you doing in town, Tía?” I asked after we had opened presents and all settled down in the living room, where our tinselly tree stood. Mark lay on his back on the floor amid the wrapping paper, reading the book about airplanes Luz had given him.
My aunt hadn’t stopped smiling on the couch next to me. “I came here to see you, chica.”
I beamed.
“I’m on my way to a shoot in New York. But I have a couple of days. Then I’m hoping to make it down to see Mami and Papi in Miami. It’s been ages.” She looked at Mom and Dad in their wicker armchairs. “God, it’s good to see you. How’s my brother? And how is your family, Diane?”
Mom said all was well and that her mother had sent sausages for the holidays. Dad, looking a little less tired for the day off, told Luz how much he liked the music she’d sent.
“Good stuff, no? I thought you might like it. I brought some more CDs.”
“Cool,” I said.
“So, how’s it going, my favorite niece? How was your Spanish presentation?”
“The best. I got an A.”
“That’s great! More importantly, did you learn anything?”
“Well, yeah. Sure.”
She cast eyes on Dad. “Y tú, Alberto?”
Dad grinned sheepishly. “Who, me?”
In between playing dominoes, going out with Luz, and taking Chucho for his walk, I couldn’t stop thinking about Clarence. I had allowed myself to call him after our date to say thanks, and another time just to talk. And he called me, but I was out at Starbucks with Tía Luci the first time. I stayed home after that, and he called again. The more we talked, the more we had to say.