I worked on that speech for weeks. Researched and studied, outlined and organized. I went to the library to watch speeches by MLK and Gandhi and Maya Angelou for body language and rhythm. Practiced in front of a mirror. Filmed myself. Memorized. Tweaked. Memorized again.
Luke gave his speech, and it was an unsurprising success. He was relaxed and confident, friendly and informative. Was it one for the ages? Not really, but if I'd been his teacher, I'd have given him an A. Maybe an A-plus.
Mr. Abernathy congratulated him fondly and told the class that tomorrow, we'd be treated to mine. Sweat flooded my armpits and back at the mention of my name. There were groans and sighs from the Cheetos.
"Don't worry, Nora," Mr. Abernathy said absently as I left the class. "You'll do fine."
"That's a tough act to follow," I said.
"I'm sure you've worked hard, dear. Try not to worry."
Ha.
I thought Mr. A liked me. Maybe he was even rooting for me. He was the classic English teacher--rumpled and kind, disorganized and eloquent. His classroom was cheerfully messy, books overflowing from the back bookcase, faded posters of great authors hanging on the walls, a few straggling plants on the windowsill. His desk was covered in papers and books, and the huge dusty blackboard (which was actually green) was crowded with homework assignments he never managed to erase, quotes from literature and abbreviations like GMC for goal, motivation, conflict, or KISS for keep it simple, stupid and doodles of Walt Whitman and Emily Dickinson. Though I was a science geek, he made me love reading.
"Don't worry," he repeated, sensing my insecurity. "I have every faith in you."
At least someone did. I went home and practiced the speech again and again and again in the cellar, so Lily and Mom wouldn't overhear me. I slept horribly, having nightmares about getting lost, missing my speech, then giving it, only to realize my legs were covered in fur. I couldn't eat that morning (a rarity, let me tell you), and my heart thudded and twisted all morning.
I slid into English and slunk to my desk. "All right, then," Mr. Abernathy said. "Nora, you're up, dear."
I went to the front of the class, and before the sweat could start oozing from every pore, I began.
The class was about to be stunned. So was I.
That saying about practice makes perfect? Being prepared? It worked.
Rather than give statistics (as Luke had), I had chosen a fellow student to use as an example.
"Sullivan Fletcher was convicted of underage drinking and illegal drug use after a devastating car accident in which he was the driver," I began. "Tragically, his twin brother, Luke Fletcher, was also in the car at the time and suffered the complete severing of his penis."
The class burst out in surprised laughter. Except for Luke.
The rest of the speech followed the fictional life of juvenile delinquent Sully Fletcher, his poor-quality education, the violence he would encounter in our woefully underfunded correctional facilities, his difficulties in getting a job, finding a wife, his high odds of divorce and becoming a deadbeat dad. I talked about his struggles with drug use and alcoholism.
I walked between the rows of desks, addressing the students by name. "Picture that, Lonnie. Seven out of ten. What if you were in the bunch? Caroline, you have a little sister. Imagine if she had to visit you in State."
I ended by stopping by Sullivan's desk. "I hope you're never in an accident, big guy," I said fondly, as if I could actually have a conversation with a Fletcher boy, let alone call him by a nickname. Then I turned to his twin. "And, Luke, I hope your parts stay intact." Another big laugh. "But now you all know what to expect once you start down the dark road of a criminal."
Then...shockingly...applause. I think Xiaowen started it.
"Very entertaining, Nora," said Mr. Abernathy. "Well done."
I went back to my seat, my face now burning, the sweat now drenching me, my face so slick with oil that I could write my name in it, but the speech was over. I had faked my way through that composed, relaxed, funny persona, and it worked. The minute class was over, I bolted for the bathroom before my bowels melted.
I had to miss my next class, thanks to nervous diarrhea.
The next week, when our speech papers came back, there was a big fat A-plus at the top of mine.
I covered my grade with my hand, but Luke saw mine...and I saw his. A-minus.
He gave me a cool, assessing look. In that moment, it seemed like Luke Fletcher realized that he might not get something he wanted. Something he felt was his due.
Later that day, he hip-checked me in the hall, sending me sprawling, my corduroy jumper riding up over my thick thighs, my books splaying all around me. "Watch where you're going, Troll," he said, his voice the same sneer the Cheetos used, slashing like a razor because it came from his perfect mouth.
He stepped on my notebook and pivoted, tearing the cover.
He had never called me Troll before.
It was November; the semester would be ending in December, just before Christmas. Per Dr. Perez's request, our grades would not be posted from now until the announcement. We had midterms coming up, and based on what I knew, I ran the numbers.
Despite the A-minus on his presentation, Luke was more than likely going to pull an A, if not an A-plus, in English. Because of my stupid gym grade, even if I got a perfect score on every test (as I fully intended to do), Luke's GPA would be 0.008 higher than mine. He'd get the scholarship. He'd go to Tufts.
I'd have to go somewhere else. I'd be saddled with debt, have to take on a couple of jobs, try for every merit scholarship there was. It was possible. I could do it.
I'd applied to the colleges like Harvard and Yale that had huge endowments for kids in my shoes, but I wasn't likely to get in. All their applicants had fabulous grades, too, and grades were the only thing I had going for me. I lacked any extracurriculars aside from the Math Olympics, too busy studying. No sports to sweeten the pot, no hours of community service, no trips abroad to dig wells.
I wanted to be a doctor--I loved science, and I could see myself in surgery, saving lives, beloved by my peers, not having to worry about clothes because of scrubs. For that career to come true, I needed great grades from a great college to help me get into med school, which would cost at least another quarter of a million dollars.
It would be a long, long road without the Perez Scholarship.
The Fletcher boys had everything. Two parents who loved them and each other. Their father owned the boatyard, his mother was not only the postmistress of our town but also ran the general store (same building, very cute, a must-visit if you were a tourist). As year-rounders went, they were set. They weren't wealthy but they were solid. I imagined that Luke would be accepted at many colleges, get plenty of merit and sports scholarships.
But I needed the Perez Scholarship. And it looked like I wasn't going to get it.
One day in early December, as I sat in the cafeteria, not eating (chubby girls didn't eat in public), reading The Scarlet Letter, Luke approached me, his sycophants trailing behind him.
"Hey, Troll, guess who called me yesterday?"
Even as he insulted me, I couldn't help the blush of attraction that burned my chest and throat. "I don't know."
"The soccer coach from Tufts. Said he can't wait to have me on the team. Guess the scholarship's mine. Nice try. But you knew it would go to me, didn't you? Deep down inside that fatty heart of yours?"
His fan club laughed. He rapped his knuckles on my table, making me jump, getting another laugh, then left.
Tears stung my eyes, and hatred--for Luke, for high school, for myself--churned in my stomach. There had to be something I could do. Something that Luke couldn't. What that was, I had no idea.
Finals were approaching, and both Luke and I knew we had to ace every damn test. Uncharacteristically, he was studying, no doubt to make sure he wouldn't hand me the win. Every day after school, I saw him in the library, once my refuge, and he'd mouth, "Sorry, Troll."
; I was doomed.
With two weeks left in the semester, with the January announcement of the Perez Scholarship recipient coming just after break, I was desperate. I pored over my report cards, doing the math again and again. Even if I got an A-plus on every exam, if Luke did the same, he'd win.
But there was that matter of the A-plus on my speech to his A-minus. The tiny ray of hope. It was possible that one A-minus could drop his term grade to an A, and if that happened...well, shit. Even if that happened, he'd still be the tiniest bit ahead.
On the last day of classes before exams, Mr. Abernathy wished us luck, told us to study hard. "Won't make a difference," Luke said as he passed my desk, bumping it with his hip.
I sat there, my face burning, pretending to take a few last notes, waiting for everyone to leave. It didn't take long.
"Everything okay, Nora?" Mr. Abernathy asked, gathering up his own stuff from his cluttered desk.
"Oh, sure," I lied.
"I have a meeting, I'm afraid. Do you mind turning out the lights?"
"Not at all, Mr. A."
He smiled and left, and I sat there for another minute. Told myself I'd done all I could. That the University of Maine would give me a good package. Or maybe I'd go to community college for a couple of years and then transfer somewhere. I told myself that while the road to my adult life would be longer and harder without the scholarship, it was still a road I could travel.
But my heart, that stupid organ, ached. My stomach, that bottomless pit, growled. I'd go home, stuff my face, have a cry and a binge before Lily came back from whatever she did after school.
Tufts had been so close. A free ride. The beautiful dorm room. Expenses. The pizzas. The friends.
I got up to turn off the lights.
Then I saw it.
There, on the messy, dusty blackboard filled with quotes from Shakespeare and Frederick Douglass and Sojourner Truth and homework assignments from the last two months, was my chance.
It had been there all along, written in Mr. A's messy scrawl on the very first week of school, on the far left-hand side of the board. Underneath a caricature of Edgar Allan Poe and above a quote from Heart of Darkness, was my future.
The words were faded and smudged, but still mostly legible.
ECP: 12 Great Works
ECP stood for extra-credit project.
Now I remembered. Mr. Abernathy, his eyes twinkling from beneath his bushy eyebrows, had told us on the first day of the school year, back when the board was still clean, that if anyone had extra time, he or she could do a twenty-five-page essay on any common theme running through twelve great works of literature. In the twenty-nine years Mr. Abernathy had been teaching at Scupper Island High School, no one had ever taken it on, he told us. Not even Dr. Perez. Nevertheless, Mr. A had passed out a list of a hundred suggested titles, all in addition to the ones we already had to read, from Homer's Odyssey to We Were the Mulvaneys by Joyce Carol Oates. It was due at the end of the semester.
Ten days from now.
Even I hadn't had the time to tackle that project. Not with all my other advanced classes and AP workload.
Twelve books, a twenty-five-page paper during finals. That was freakin' impossible.
My heart began a sickly roll in my chest. Already, I knew I would do the project, and I'd get an A, goddamn it. And Luke would not do the project.
I wasn't going to let him.
If he hadn't called me Troll...if he hadn't told me the scholarship was his...if he hadn't made me fall that day...if I hadn't once loved him with all the fervor that every fat, ugly, ignored girl has nurtured...
I poked my head out the door. School was over, and the halls were empty. From far away, I heard Mr. Paul, the nice janitor, start to whistle. The sharp smell of disinfectant was barely detectable. He was washing floors over by the gym, then. I was alone.
ECP: 12 Great Works
My heart felt huge and sick, heaving now.
Carefully, I pressed my arm against the already-fuzzy words. Just a little smear--didn't want to be too obvious. I erased the round part of the P, subtly added a line to the C. I faded out the 1 of the 12... Just a little rub. Smeared the k, picked up a stub of chalk and added a squiggle, then topped the whole thing off by tapping the eraser so a shower of chalk dust antiqued my efforts.
Just in case.
I stepped back and took a look. I was pretty sure the extra-credit assignment had been there long enough to be virtually invisible--it had been to me--but if someone looked now, it looked more like EGI 2 Great Words.
Just in case.
Was I proud? No. But the hate burned white-hot in my chest, outweighing morality.
It was possible that Luke had already done this project, but I was almost positive he hadn't. He was a braggart, and if he'd whipped off a twenty-five-page paper and read a dozen extra books on top of our already-heavy syllabus, he would've said something.
Also, I imagined Mr. Abernathy would've given me the heads-up that my competitor had done the assignment. A gentle, "Don't forget that extra-credit project, Nora. Luke finished his." He was like that, Mr. A.
But he would not be able to give Luke the heads-up, because I was going to hand mine in at the last possible second. It was due the last day of the semester--December 23, and December 23 was the day Mr. Abernathy was going to get it.
Because I was organized, I still had the list of books in my English folder. I went to the Scupper Island Library and did something I'd never done before--I stole six books, stuffing them into my backpack. If I checked them out, it might get back to Luke. His girlfriend's mother worked at the library. Everyone wanted Luke to get the Perez Scholarship. No one was pulling for me.
I didn't know if the project would make a difference, but I had to try.
For the next ten days, I worked like a fiend. I read and studied constantly, when I was fixing a snack, eating, sitting on the toilet. I only allowed myself two hours of consecutive sleep a night, sleeping on the couch, claiming I was sick and didn't want to give my germs to Lily. If Lily was home in the afternoon, I slipped down to the cellar to read those damn books. Truth was, I was afraid she might rat me out.
I read, I scribbled notes, I studied for exams, I stole six more books from the library. I read some more. Wrote. Studied. Read. Wrote. Crammed.
"You okay?" my mother asked. "You look tired."
"Exams," I mumbled. "I'm fine."
She knew something else was going on, but she didn't press it. She never did. I didn't have time to wish she were the type of mother to sit down and say, "What's wrong, honey?" I was on a mission.
By the time my last exam rolled around, I was a wreck, literally shaking with fatigue. Five minutes before the end of the last day of the term, I handed my paper in to Mr. Abernathy.
He looked at me in surprise. "My heavens, Nora," he said. "I can't believe it. You're the first student ever to complete this."
"And, boy, am I tired," I said. And I leaned against the blackboard and sighed dramatically, smearing what I had done in case Mr. A took a closer look. "Phew."
It was sleeting out, the sky heavy and dark as I walked home. Tears slid out my eyes, and I didn't bother wiping them away. I went straight upstairs, crawled into my bed and slept for seventeen hours straight.
Christmas came. Lily was civil for an hour as we exchanged gifts but didn't stay for dinner. Mom and I ate alone, then watched TV. I slept most of break, watched TV, stayed in my pajamas.
I didn't know how I did on my exams, because the teachers hadn't posted the grades, per Dr. Perez's request. I didn't know how much extra credit I'd get from Mr. Abernathy, or if it would make a difference. All I knew was that I tried, and there was an ugly, hard part of me that hadn't existed before.
Technically, I hadn't cheated. Morally, I knew I had. I told myself I didn't care, that it would be worth it, that Luke Fletcher didn't deserve every single bright and shiny thing in the world.
On January 4, the first day of the new term. Dr
. Pedro Perez came to school, and the entire student body and faculty gathered in the gym at nine o'clock sharp. I sat in the back, closest to the door, because if Luke won, I knew I would cry.
Xiaowen sat next to me, and I broke out in an icy sweat.
Xiaowen Liu. Holy crap on a cracker, what about Xiaowen? I didn't even know what her GPA was! Forget my AP classes, forget Luke... What about Xiaowen? I hadn't even thought about her. It had been Luke and me for three years, and now this transfer student would nab our town's most distinguished honor.
"Hi, Nora," she said.
"Hey," I said, my voice choked.
"Good luck," she said.
"You, too."
Luke walked past with his posse, his arm around Dara, his hand in her back pocket. I looked at my feet, not wanting to see his triumphant, perfect face. I heard the words lard ass and a ripple of ugly laughter.
My heart was beating so hard I could barely hear as the principal kissed up to Dr. Perez, thanked him, praised him, all but leg-humped him as the billionaire genius sat in a folding chair next to the podium, looking at the floor, a faint smile on his face.
Finally, finally, he stood up. "Hello, kids," he said. "It's my honor to present the Perez Scholarship to the Scupper Island student with the highest GPA. This year's winner, with a GPA of 4.153, is Nora Stuart."
There was a collective gasp. For a second, I didn't know why.
It was because Luke hadn't won.
And neither had Xiaowen.
I had.
There was some applause. Not much, probably just the teachers.
"Nora, come on up here," said the principal, a touch of impatience in her voice. Another Luke fan. She went to every soccer match.
"Congratulations," Xiaowen said. I looked at her, my eyes feeling stretched open too wide. "Go," she added.
On wobbling, watery legs, I went up to where Dr. Perez waited. "Well done," he said, shaking my damp hand.
"Thank you," I breathed. "Thank you, Dr. Perez. I...I... Thank you." Tears streamed down my face, and Dr. Perez chuckled.
If only Daddy could see this.
It had been six and a half years since I had seen him or talked to him, yet that was my first thought.
My eyes found Lily in the crowd. She was staring at me, listening as Janelle Schilling whispered in her ear.
There might've been a trace of a smile on her face.
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