by Cara Chow
My impatience has fallen to the soles of my shoes. The pendant is warm against my sternum from Theresa’s body heat. I want to thank her, but I’m afraid that I might lose control and cry. I’ve got a big day ahead and must maintain my composure. I nod thanks to Theresa, avoiding her face. Slowly, I step out of the car.
After spending nearly four years at St. Elizabeth’s, I forget how large other high schools are. I belong to a class of ninety-six girls. How many seniors will commence at this school, two thousand?
Ms. Taylor, my teammates, and I are standing on the playground, awaiting our room assignments. We’re a pretty small group. There are only three speakers on the St. Elizabeth’s team: me, Salome Sanchez, and Diana Chandler. We’re an oddly matched trio. Salome has dark spiked hair streaked with red, blue, and blond. She wears heavy makeup, a nose ring, and a gold crucifix necklace. Diana is the star dancer in the dance department. She is tall and extremely thin, with long arms and legs that seem to have no joints. She looks like a dancer even when she’s not dancing. When she raises her hand in class, she looks like a swan lifting its wing. She sits tall and straight, as though a string were attached to her head, pulling her up.
Secretly, I think Diana Chandler is the most beautiful girl in the school. I envy her Grace Kelly poise, her clear, translucent skin, her cloud of dark brown hair, and her willowy figure. My only consolation is that Diana is the weakest speaker on the team, whereas I am the strongest. Also, I have better grades.
“Listen up, ladies,” says Ms. Taylor. She motions for the three of us to huddle. “Competition is about comparing people, judging who is the best. According to those rules, whoever wins is successful, and everyone else loses.
“But I want you to think about success differently. Winning is part effort and part luck. What judges think, how well other competitors do, that’s luck. Talent, that’s also luck. Some people are born with more and some with less. Luck is totally out of your control.
“What is under your control is your effort. You have all worked hard for this competition. You have all made significant improvements over the last couple of months. It takes incredible courage to speak in public and to speak your truth. You should all be proud and hold your heads up high.
“You’ve done the work; now it’s time to reap the rewards. Reward time isn’t after the competition, when they hand out trophies. Reward time is now. It’s the thrill of competing, the opportunity to show them what you’ve got. Relish this time. Don’t worry about how other people are doing. Focus on what you’re doing. If you’re doing your best, if you’re having fun, then you’re a success.”
I detect the faintest odor of cigarettes on Ms. Taylor’s clothes. For someone who is confident that we’re all winners, she is smoking like someone who’s nervous for us.
The room assignments are posted. I am number three out of a group of five speakers. I’m disappointed. The last spot is the best spot, because the final speaker gets to leave the lasting impression on the judge. The first spot is the second luckiest, because you get the freshest ear. Being in the middle is the worst, because you are easily forgotten. I am careful not to show my frustration, because Ms. Taylor hates whiners. Instead, I wish Salome and Diana good luck, I assume my speech pose—straight spine and shoulders back—and I walk confidently to my room.
It is a typical classroom, similar to Ms. Taylor’s. Yellow sunlight filters through the windows. Seated in the middle of the room is the judge. She looks like a cross between a cookie-baking grandmother and an absentminded professor. She wears round metal-framed glasses. Her half-inch-thick lenses protrude from their frames, making the frames look like tongs holding ice cubes. Her curly salt-and-pepper hair pokes out in all directions. Her body is lean and frail, and her mannerisms are nervous and fidgety. She smiles kindly at me as I walk in. I pick a seat behind her and off to the side and sit down.
I discover quickly that a side seat is a good seat. From this vantage point I can scope out my competition. A girl with brown skin and thick, wavy black hair walks in, then a white girl with straight brown hair. They both pick inconspicuous seats at the opposite side of the room. Then a tall, freckled girl with curly red hair enters. She sits way in the back, behind the judge. Then the fifth competitor walks in. He is tall, lean, and blond and wears a dark suit and a long black coat. He looks at me. His eyes are like arctic glaciers.
It’s Collins.
Chapter Seven
My heart starts pounding. As he approaches, I look away, pretending not to recognize him. He sits down one row behind me and two seats over. I wish I could make myself invisible or disappear.
The judge asks the first speaker to begin. It is the girl with the wavy black hair. She is giving a speech about apartheid. A paragraph into her speech, she begins to lose track of where she is. She does this frequently, as if she hasn’t spent enough time rehearsing. I’m irritated. If she hasn’t prepared, why should she waste our time like this? Then it occurs to me that in a competition, her disadvantage is my advantage. So I sit back and watch her unravel.
The brown-haired girl is next. Her speech is about education. Oddly, she too starts losing track of where she is in her speech. She begins by stuttering here and there. I don’t know whether to feel confused or glad. Then she says a few sentences, then stops, then tries to begin again. After the second time of starting and stopping, she seems to forget how her sentence is supposed to end and then tries to backtrack. Soon she can no longer remember where she was in the speech at all. I notice that her eyes keep traveling to the same spot just before she makes each mistake. Her mouth is frozen open, but no words come out. She seems mesmerized, her eyes transfixed on the same spot in the back of the room.
I look to see what she is staring at. Sitting at the back is the red-haired girl. Her chin is resting on her palm. She has the most bored expression on her face. She rolls her eyes, then crosses them. I look at the brown-haired girl. Tears well in her eyes. Her bottom lip is quivering.
It was no coincidence that the first girl also faltered. That red-haired girl probably sabotaged her too.
Suddenly, I no longer see the brown-haired girl as my opponent. She has become an ally, a fellow good guy against the bad guy sitting in the back. I try to hide the horror on my face. Not that she would notice. She isn’t looking at me. She is still staring at the red-haired girl.
The brown-haired girl has been silent for several seconds. Why isn’t the judge saying anything? Doesn’t she notice what’s going on? I turn to look at her. Half the time, she is looking at the brown-haired girl and nodding encouragingly. When she is not watching the girl, she is buried in her notes and scribbling furiously. She is so focused on what she is doing that she has tuned everything—and everyone—else out.
Does Collins notice what’s going on? I steal a glance in his direction. He is cringing, as though watching a car accident in slow motion.
Finally, the brown-haired girl runs out of the room. I can hear her clamoring footsteps and the faint sounds of choked sobs echoing down the hallway.
The judge looks puzzled and concerned. “Uh … speaker number three?” she says.
As I walk towards the front of the room, I realize that no rehearsal is ever enough to prepare you for the real thing. As I recited my speech at school, all my classmates smiled and nodded in encouragement. Ms. Taylor never coached us on how to deal with mean-spirited saboteurs.
The cool breeze from the hallway licks my cheek, beckoning me to follow the brown-haired girl out of this room and out of this competition. I’ll never have to see these people again, so what does it matter?
Then I realize that that’s not true. I’ll have to see Collins again. I would have to die a thousand humiliations each time I went to Princeton Review. And I would have to explain my cowardice to Ms. Taylor. She would be so disappointed in me. All that time spent after school would have been a complete waste.
I have no choice but to face the red-haired girl. I close the door, symbolizing my decision. I
make my way to my battleground at the front of the room. This is an impossible task. How can I conquer the red-haired girl when two others have failed?
“Now, no need to feel nervous,” says the judge. “Just do your best.”
Easy for you to say, I want to tell her. Why don’t you try looking behind you?
I try to recall the first line of my speech, but I only hear my heart pounding. I try to visualize the first line, but all I see is the red-haired girl rolling her eyes. My mind races like a hamster in a wheel, running faster and faster and getting nowhere, unable to escape the redhead and the ticking clock.
My thoughts are interrupted by the brief sound of a chair scraping the floor. It’s Collins. His elbows are resting on his desk and his hands are folded in front of his mouth. He nods at me, so slowly, so subtly, that it is detectible only to me. Come on. You can do it, his eyes say. My frantic thoughts quiet down. I take a deep breath and begin.
“Recently, in Newsweek, there was an article titled ‘Asian American Whiz Kids,’ ” I recite. I direct my words to Collins. If I can maintain eye contact with him, I won’t have to look at the red-haired girl.
“The article noted the high success rate of Asians in academics,” I continue. “It posed the question of why Asians are so successful. Is it genetics or is it due to social factors? Or are nonimmigrant students merely doing less well than their predecessors? Have they grown complacent? I would argue that the success rate of Asians in academics does not stem from superior genetics, but rather from a set of values that includes education and loyalty to family.”
As I continue reciting, Collins exhales a sigh of relief. He smiles triumphantly, as if to say, You did it! I remember Ms. Taylor’s advice to connect with everyone in the room, especially the judge. I peel my gaze away from Collins and direct it towards the judge, who is smiling and nodding. Eventually, I venture to look at the girl with the black hair, the first speaker.
Several minutes later, in a moment of lapsed concentration, I notice that the red-haired girl is laying on the facial expressions. She even adds a facial tic for good measure. At first, I try pushing her face out of my mind, but I soon discover that thinking Don’t think about her is like telling myself not to think about pink elephants. It’s like that old Chinese saying: The more afraid you are of stepping on doggy doo, the more likely you are to step on it.
I look at Collins. His eyes narrow. Don’t let her win.
So instead of avoiding the red-haired girl, I decide to step on her. Step on her and twist my foot into her, smooshing her into the ground.
“In the pursuit of individualism and focus on the self, they have lost focus on their families and feel no obligation to reciprocate their parents’ financial and emotional investment,” I say. “As a result, they become complacent.” I pierce the red-haired girl with dagger eyes, emphasizing the word complacent.
I walk closer to the red-haired girl and maintain eye contact with her as I continue. “Their energies become diffused, even stagnated. This is true not only of American teens but of American society. We are currently the richest and most powerful country in the world. Meanwhile, Japan is creating better technology, and European countries are planning to consolidate their economies. At the top, where life is comfortable, where else can America go but down?” I say this to her as if this is all her fault.
Just minutes ago, I was intimidated by this girl. But she was stronger than I was only because I believed her to be. The other two girls confirmed this belief. But now I am towering over her. Her tactics haven’t changed, but they no longer have power over me.
Finally, I conclude my speech. “When President Bush speaks about the thousand points of light, I think about my mother and others like her, who make up the backbone of our families and the foundation of our country. Thanks to them, our future is still bright.”
Before bowing my head, I steal a glance at Collins. He gives me a subtle thumbs-up. I return his gesture with a small smile and go back to my seat.
“Speaker four,” says the judge. She looks relieved that at least one speaker in her group didn’t bomb.
The red-haired girl is speaker number four. How should I pay her back? Should I make faces? I might get caught. Perhaps I don’t need to pay her back. I just did by giving a good performance. So I’m going to do the most powerful thing: nothing, the greatest insult of all. As she speaks, I gaze at her pleasantly. Her speech topic is why prostitution should be legal. I suppress the urge to laugh but only halfheartedly, so I end up grinning and looking like I’m trying not to grin. She tries to stand up tall, as I did, but she keeps her face high, so high that she is literally looking down her nose at us. Her voice is serious and haughty. I sneak a look at Collins. He smirks. She’s not that great, his eyes say. I nod in agreement. As she finishes and walks back to her seat, I smile to myself. He’s right. Her speech wasn’t half as good as mine.
Finally, it is Collins’s turn. His speech is about the pitfalls of compassionate conservatism. To my surprise, he is not the same boy who walked into a doorframe just days ago. He emanates poise and confidence. His voice sounds half formal and half conversational, neither amateurish nor too rehearsed. His hand gestures look natural, perfectly punctuating every point. He navigates the floor like he owns it. He is doing everything Ms. Taylor has taught us to do. His speech is organized and succinct, yet caring and not clinical. Though I have never competed before, I know instinctively that this guy is a champion. I, Frances Ching, first-time competitor, big speech fish in a small school pond, am no threat to his dominance.
After his speech, he walks back to his seat. As he passes, I give a humble thumbs-up. He smiles. After we are dismissed, I hesitate for a moment before leaving. If I linger a bit, maybe he will talk to me. Then I remember my resolve to control my emotions, and I rush out of the room.
I place second in my first round. The confidence I gain from my first round helps me through the subsequent rounds. Diana is cut before the semifinal round, and Salome is cut after semifinals. Only I among the students in our speech class get to go to the final round. Ms. Taylor is ecstatic. She tells me that this is an amazing feat for a first-timer. Salome and Diana have to sit around and wait until I’m done. Understandably, Salome is less than ecstatic. Strangely, Diana seems perfectly happy to wait. I do not see Collins again until the final round.
He walks quietly behind me as we head to the competition room. As I reach for the doorknob, he reaches over me and opens the door for me. My face flushes hot. I nod, acknowledging his gesture as I step through the doorway. Once again, I pick a seat off to the side. I wait to see how he will react. He picks the seat right next to me. This time, he is speaker two and I am speaker four. As he speaks, I give him nods of encouragement—not that he needs them—and he does the same for me when I speak. As I deliver my speech, I find myself emulating some of his gestures and his tone. My delivery feels more natural and confident. Like Collins, I am assuming a different persona, somebody stronger and more confident. Throughout the round, I feel tingly excitement from my chest all the way to my fingers and toes. All five of us are very good, and fortunately, no one here is a saboteur. I rationalize that I shouldn’t feel bad if I place last, considering my competition.
After the last round, I walk very slowly to the door so that Collins can stay right behind me. I reach for the doorknob in slow motion, waiting for his reaction. He reaches over me to open the door. Our hands brush. His skin is soft and warm. The fine hairs on the back of his hand tickle my skin. A lightning bolt of excitement runs up my arm. I step in front of him and walk down the hallway in slow, even strides, aware that he is following and watching my every move.
By the time we get outside, the orange sun is low in the sky. I look behind me. He is gone.
I squash my disappointment and cross an outdoor area to join my team. It is then that I see him again. He is standing a few yards away, leaning casually against a wall, smiling and chatting with his teammates. Speakers from other teams greet him
as they walk by. If all these other people can just walk right up to him and say hello, then why shouldn’t I? With my heart in my throat, I take a step towards him.
Then Diana approaches him. She stands much closer to him than the others. She leans into him and kisses him on the cheek. Collins returns her affection, giving her a soft peck … on the lips. Slowly, it dawns on me. They know each other. Very well.
Quickly, I turn away and walk towards Salome and Ms. Taylor. My chest hurts, but I don’t know why.
Ms. Taylor, Salome, and I make our way to the gymnasium for the awards ceremony. I haven’t been inside a gymnasium since grade school. In high school, we are required to take one year of PE, but Ms. Costello waived the requirement for me to make room for all the college-prep courses. The shiny floor feels waxy under my soles. The painted lines bring back the old days of torture in grade-school PE, in which I got hit in the head with many a dodge ball and lost many a basketball while attempting to dribble, sometimes to the wrong basket, because I was so directionally confused. At the center of the gym is a podium next to a long table with the three trophies—large, medium, and small—and several ribbons with medals. The wall behind the trophies sports a painting of the school’s mascot, a roaring tiger with big white fangs. We are sitting among the other teams and their coaches. The chaos of the conversations around us bounces off the walls, enveloping us like a hive of bees.
One of the coaches seated in the bleachers waves at us. “Hey, Shannon,” he calls out. He is a friendly-looking heavyset man with thin strawberry blond hair, a ruddy complexion, and glasses. He wears a polo shirt and khakis.
Ms. Taylor waves back. “Rodger!”
She introduces Salome and me to the coach, whose name is Mr. McCormick.
“I’m missing one of my kids,” says Mr. McCormick. “Have you seen Derek Collins?”