The Fine Art of Keeping Quiet Read online

  I haven’t told her I’m failing speech.

  “Speech team practice,” I say.

  “Speech team practice?” Caro’s voice pitches an octave higher. “Since when? You hate speaking in front of people.”

  She knows me that well. Even after a full weekend of thinking up excuses, I still don’t have a good one. I can’t confess here, not in front of Jeremy and the rowdy jocks at the next table, all spilt milk and spilt dreams.

  “I ... thought I’d try it,” I say at last. “Mr. Henderson says I can get extra credit.”

  Caro squints at me, like she doesn’t believe me. Why should she? I don’t believe me. She grabs my wrist and then turns to Jeremy.

  “We have to go to the bathroom. Can you take care of our stuff?” She waves a hand at our discarded lunch trays.

  “Sure, babe.” Jeremy swivels and starts shouting at the boys at the other table. I’m sure our lunch trays will still be there when the bell rings for next block.

  In the bathroom Caro does a stall check, shoving each door open, and sings out, “Anyone home?” Her hair gleams in the light. Caro’s curls are high maintenance but totally worth it. She slathers on every product you can buy at Target just to keep them fashion magazine glossy. Between that, her dusky skin, and eyelashes that need no mascara, she’s the prettiest girl in tenth grade, maybe the whole school—something all the boys noticed this fall.

  Of course, after winter break, no one noticed I’d gotten my braces off—not even Caro. Now, in the bathroom, I try to ignore my reflection—my chin length hair, super straight without a curl in sight. At least now my teeth match.

  Caro whirls and stares me down, arms crossed over her chest. “What’s going on?”

  “I—” My voice deserts me. It’s speech class all over again, words frozen in my throat, my mouth feeling all awkward and weird. I channel all my thoughts into one wish: Please remember.

  I know she does, up to a point. In fact, back in grade school, I used to make her laugh by doing chipmunk impressions. But when you’re ten, big front teeth are kind of cute and funny. It seemed like they kept getting larger, until I almost couldn’t press my lips together.

  “Her mouth is just too small to handle all of these teeth,” the orthodontist had told my parents. I’d never been self-conscious about how I looked before. Overnight, I went from being the girl with the cute chipmunk teeth to donkey girl. The orthodontist tried a few things—tooth extraction, for one—to see if my teeth would sort themselves out. They didn’t. So my braces went on just as everybody else’s were coming off—or so it seemed.

  The first day I walked into school after getting braces, my whole head ached, from my jaw to the top of my skull. I tried to keep my mouth closed, my braces hidden, but girls kept noticing, first one, then the other until at lunch, everybody wanted to see.

  “Wow, your teeth are really crooked,” one girl said.

  “It’s why I got braces,” I mumbled.

  Caro leaned across me and got in the girl’s face. “Wow, thanks Captain Obvious. You should be a detective,” she said, then waved her hands in the air, silencing everyone. “Viewing hours are over.”

  That put a stop to it. Almost. Later, in the bathroom, I heard two girls talking, whispering like they were afraid Caro could hear them all the way in the cafeteria.

  “Her teeth are so ... I don’t know what. I’m glad that’s not me.”

  “Seriously. Can you even imagine anyone wanting to kiss that?”

  “Ew, what if he, like, got his tongue stuck or something.”

  “I can’t remember why I ever thought she was pretty.”

  I hid in a stall until they left. I never told Caro.

  That afternoon, I froze in front of class. Caro and I were doing a presentation on the War of 1812 for social studies. I opened my mouth to speak and nothing came out. My upper lip felt weird, like my front two teeth were pressing against it. At any moment, they would burst through, ugly and crooked.

  I pressed my fingertips against my mouth, desperate to push my teeth back inside. My braces dug into my lips. I couldn’t speak, couldn’t remove the hand from in front of my face. At last, Caro gave me the laser pointer and read my part of the presentation.

  When we were back at our seats, she leaned over, her face worried. “Does your mouth still hurt?” she whispered.

  That was it! Relief ran through me, and I nodded.

  Except that wasn’t it. Every time the urge to speak up hit me, soft, insidious whispers filled my head.

  Can you even imagine anyone wanting to kiss that … his tongue stuck or something … can’t remember why I ever thought she was pretty.

  Over the next few years, I’d perfected the art of keeping quiet: whether it was for a group presentation or reading out loud, I found a way not to open my mouth. Until I slammed into speech class, it had worked, too.

  Now Caro studies me. Her eyes radiate doubt, her hair a little frizzy from our flight through the cafeteria. “Speech team?” she says. “Really?”

  My teeth threaten to sprout through my upper lip. I resist the urge to check my reflection in the mirror. The braces have been off for weeks, my new teeth polished and shiny. But like someone who has lost a limb, I can still feel how they used to be, how they crowded my mouth and made it impossible to speak.

  Telling Caro this is a lot like admitting I’m ugly. Not in an “Ugh, I look awful” kind of way, but deep down ugly, like there’s something wrong with me that can never be fixed. And who wants a broken best friend?

  “I really could use the extra credit,” I manage at last. That, I tell myself, is not a lie. Not really. I start to say more, but Caro interrupts me.

  “I guess it kind of sucks to have to do something you really, really hate.”

  I let out a breath. Yeah. It really does.

  I stand in the doorway of the speech team room—not all the way in, not all the way out. My stomach is tied into a bunch of little knots, each one sharp and stabbing. My palms are sweaty, but really, at this point, that’s minor.

  I take in the Fremont Free Speakers. I know most of them. Some are in pre-calculus with me. Others are in my Honors American Literature class. But when one starts to stare, they all do. I’m not a total stranger to school activities. I play violin in the orchestra, and I’m vice president of the knitting club. But this?

  “Are you joining speech?” Co-captain Ryan Dinsmore calls from the back of the room. He’s lounging across two desks like he owns the place.

  I nod.

  Disbelief crosses his face. “Do you even talk?”

  Everyone laughs. My head buzzes. I don’t belong here. And they know it.

  Mr. Henderson appears at the door and forces me inside the room. He welcomes everyone to a new season and goes on to introduce all the members. This takes less than a minute. Ryan Dinsmore might be all lazy and cavalier in the back of the room, but his brow crinkles. Despite the recruiting effort, the team is small.

  I’m taking notes about the available PowerPoints on the team website (polished presentations, dress for success, tournament etiquette) when co-captain Tory Dinsmore blows into the room. In grade school, kids called her Tornado. Behind her back, some still do. She levels a look at her twin, Ryan. He jerks up, soles of his sneakers slapping the floor. Then, Tory takes the rest of us in.

  Her eyes say it all: we are puny and unworthy of her speech team. I can’t say how I know this. I just do. Probably the same way I instantly know that despite sharing the team co-captain slot with her brother, it’s Tory who’s in charge.

  “Tory, so glad you made it,” Mr. Henderson says without a trace of sarcasm.

  “Sorry,” Tory says. “I had to catch the bus back from Fremont State.”

  Next to me, two freshmen raise eyebrows at each other. Yes, Tory wants all of us to know she’s taking college classes already. I refrain from rolling my eyes.

  “This is a student-led, student-run team,” Mr. Henderson says. “I’m here for consultation an
d critique, but now that we have both co-captains, I’ll leave you to it.” He spreads his arms wide, encompassing the whole room, then retreats to his desk in the back.

  Tory gives us a huge grin. “Welcome to the Fremont Free Speakers!”

  For one awful moment, I think we’re in for a repeat of Mr. Henderson’s introductions, but apparently Tory doesn’t need such things.

  “Ryan,” she says, digging through her messenger bag. “Take the returning members and go over the strength-weakness matrix and work on event and piece selection.” She hands Ryan a stack of papers. “Think strategic. Think beating Winnetka. Think State.”

  “It’s a lock,” Ryan says. He’s the lazy river to her whirlwind of activity. He pushes himself from the desk like this is the most difficult thing he’s done all day and heads to one corner of the room.

  “Okay, newbies.” Tory drags a chair to the white board in the front of the room. “Once you understand the events, we can get into the fun stuff, like piece selection and refinement. But first, I gotta show you this.” From her messenger bag, she pulls out a digital video camera.

  “Christmas present,” she sings. “Ryan got one, too. Sure, there’s the team equipment.” She waves a hand toward the back of the room, acknowledging and dismissing the equipment all at once. “But this is better. Now we can spot-critique on the fly, catch you from two angles at once. Everyone will get plenty of chances to record their piece.”

  As in speaking into the camera? I’m pretty sure I have something to say about that. But my throat goes tight. Any words I might have are stuck. A croak emerges, not from me, but from the boy one seat over.

  “Recording our pieces?” he asks, his voice cracking on the last word. He’s a junior named Ben, and he’s in my pre-calculus class.

  “It’s the best way to improve your performance.” Tory leans forward and clutches the camera like it’s made of gold. “It’s like magic.”

  Tory talks us through the two overall events: public speaking and interpretive. Public speaking is about speeches of all kinds: your own, someone else’s, pulling a topic and writing a speech at each tournament. Interpretive is poetry and storytelling and drama. You pick a piece and perform it all season long. I know all this. I did some research over the weekend and asked Mr. Henderson during class if I could use serious prose as my category.

  “I suppose that’s up to you and the team captains,” was all he said.

  Tory lists each event up on the white board. “During the first week or two, you can change your mind, and of course we’ll want to leverage strengths, but let’s see who’s interested in what.”

  By the show of hands, it’s clear. Every last one of us wants serious prose, poetry, or drama.

  “What?” Tory widens her eyes in what must be mock astonishment. “No one wants extemporaneous speaking?”

  “Ex … tem … who?” Ben says. Tiny drops of sweat sprinkle his brow. He’s a wrestler and isn’t someone I’d expect to see on the speech team. He casts me a look, and I wonder if somehow his reasons mirror my own.

  “Each time you go to a tournament,” Tory says, her voice patient. “You’ll draw a topic—usually something about current events. Then you write and present your speech. It’s so invigorating!”

  “So’s getting your face washed in a snow bank,” Ben whispers. “You don’t see me signing up for that.”

  “I will personally coach anyone who signs up for extemporaneous speaking.”

  “Sure,” Ben mutters. “Like that clinches the deal.”

  I snort a laugh. Tory glares at us through half-lidded eyes. We are unworthy. Again.

  “Okay, okay. It’s a little intimidating at first,” she concedes. “But if you’re doing any of the interpretative categories, piece selection is key. You simply can’t pull something you read in the American Lit textbook and call it done. The piece needs to be fresh but not off the wall. If it’s new, it’s got to have some literary street cred. If it’s a classic, it can’t be run into the ground. Plus, it should fit your personality.”

  I inch my book bag closer. Part of my weekend research included finding the perfect piece. I even typed the scene I wanted to do into my laptop and formatted it the way the speech team handbook said to. Now, while I sit facing Tory, my hand ransacks the contents of my book bag until my fingers find the folder with my piece.

  “For example,” Tory says. “Every year, half the new kids in the prose category do something from Flowers for Algernon.” Here, Tory pauses to stick her finger down her throat like she’s gagging. “Nothing will mark you as a noob faster than that. Same goes for anything from the American Lit text.”

  My hand freezes on the folder, my heart thumping hard and sharp.

  “I’m saying it now: There will be no Algernon on the Fremont Free Speakers. Got that?”

  I shove the folder with my piece—the one I had so carefully copied from Flowers for Algernon—back into my bag.

  “Anyone have a piece picked out yet? Anyone?” Tory looks around.

  The freshmen slouch in their seats. Next to me, Ben tucks a battered copy of the American Lit text beneath his sweatshirt.

  “Jolia, how about you?” Tory asks.

  I’m caught in her blue-eyed gaze, like an animal trapped in headlights, my hand still stuck in my book bag. At last, I go with the truth. “Well, I had this scene from Flowers for Algernon …”

  Ben bursts out laughing; even the freshmen giggle. From across the room, Ryan snickers. Tory stares at me hard, like she knows what I said isn’t a joke. I want to sink into my seat or run to the bathroom to check my teeth. I can’t do either, so I stare back and take in the full force of Tory’s message:

  I am not worthy.

  Chapter 3

  In less than a week, I will speak at my first tournament. I will stand in front of judges and students for eight minutes. For those eight minutes, words will have to come from my mouth. I’ll have to do that three times.

  Three times eight is twenty four. Twenty four minutes of speaking. Just me. Caro can’t save me; I know Tory won’t. My stomach clenches every time I think about it.

  So I try not to. Instead, I think about my other problem: finding eight minutes worth of words. I’ve paged through dozens of books, read so many short stories that my eyes are starting to cross. The words all blur into each other. I search the National Book Award and Printz Honor lists, looking for the perfect title, but nothing feels right. I’ll have to live with this piece for the entire season. It’s not exactly like picking a best friend, but I can’t help thinking of it that way.

  Tonight I’m ready to give up. It’s Sunday and I must have a final piece selected by tomorrow at speech team practice. I’ve picked so many for Mr. Henderson’s approval that even if I do find the perfect piece, I’m not sure he’ll take me seriously.

  Instead of searching, I grab one of my favorite books from the shelf. Five minutes, I tell myself, then I’ll go back to looking.

  Twenty minutes later, Mom pokes her head into my room.

  “Reading?” she asks.

  I eye the book in my hands but don’t say anything since the answer is pretty obvious.

  Mom laughs as if she knows it was a silly question. “Homework done?”

  I nod.

  “Visiting old friends?”

  I glance at the copy of Jane Eyre and nod again.

  “It’s one of my favorites.” Mom gets a dreamy look, and for a second I’m afraid she might snatch the book away from me, dash off to the living room, and read it herself.

  She doesn’t. Instead, she says, “What’s funny is I’ve always liked the first part of the book better, before Jane meets Mr. Rochester.” Mom shrugs. “He’s kind of a jerk.”

  “That’s one word for it,” I say, but an idea tickles the back of my mind, and I grip the book tighter.

  “Don’t stay up too late reading.”

  “I won’t.”

  Mom blows a kiss and turns to leave.

  I wait until her
footsteps fade, then I sit up straight in bed. Just like Mom, my favorite part is BR—before Rochester. I page to a passage I think might work, the one where Jane has just been sent to that horrid boarding school. The superintendent, Mr. Brocklehurst, calls her a liar and makes her stand on a stool, in front of everyone, for hours.

  Really, could a speech tournament be any worse? I doubt it. Besides, why not read something I love? That way, no matter how awful the tournaments are, I’ll always have this one thing. I may not be worthy, but something tells me Jane Eyre is.

  Monday afternoon at speech practice the only thing that keeps me running from the room is my copy of Jane Eyre clutched in my hands. One of the other prose girls, Savannah, wanted to look at it, and I seriously could not pry it from my grip. I can’t let it go. I can’t approach Mr. Henderson either. He’s sitting at his desk in the back of the room.

  I need his permission to perform Jane Eyre in the tournaments. I wait and I wait, but Ryan is lounging across the back desks again, and Mr. Henderson hasn’t budged from his own. I don’t want an audience for this, but since practice is half over, I don’t have much of a choice.

  I inch forward, hoping Ryan will decide to move—or Tory will decide for him. I scoot past, still hoping, but he peers at me, one eye covered by a fringe of blond bangs. He looks like a refugee from a boy band.

  “Mr. Henderson?” My voice is all froggy, so I clear my throat and try again. “Mr. Henderson?”

  He glances up. I think he sighs. I am probably the last person he wants to see.

  “Yes, Jolia?” he says.

  “I was wondering if I could change my piece, you see—”

  “Seriously?” Ryan. He has his head tipped back and is giving us an upside down stare. “You change pieces like I change my underwear.”

  My thoughts explode with sudden anger. This isn’t any of his business.

  “Well, that’s not saying much,” flies from my mouth before I can think twice.

  Ryan’s eyes go big, like he can’t believe I said that, but Mr. Henderson looks like he hasn’t even heard us. Instead, he says, “So, you want to change your piece.” He doesn’t add again, but I hear it in his voice.