OyMG (9 page)

CHAPTER 17

Before I could blink, my heart had jumped into hyperdrive. How could I ask him anything with my breath coming so fast? Besides, Peter was standing there, too, shaking orange Tic Tacs into his mouth. Plus, other kids were wandering up and the hallway was filling. A second after Megan took off, Sarah showed and we compared weekends. By the time we were done, Mrs. Lee had opened the door. Everyone pressed forward, but I hung back. My mouth turned dry as toast when I realized Devon had waited, too.

He tilted his head in greeting. “Wonder what torture Lee's got planned for us this week?”

“Can hardly wait,” I said.

We shuffled forward a few more steps until he was so close I could smell the fabric softener on his shirt and feel the warmth of his arm next to mine. Breathe, I reminded myself.
Breathe.

“My grandmother mentioned you this weekend.”

I shot him a surprised look, but this close, all I could see was the underside of his chin. “What did she say?”

“She thought you were very poised.” He paused. “Or did she say possessed?” He dipped his head just enough for me to see his half grin.

I rolled my eyes, and he laughed. Then we were in the door, and I went to my chair and he went to his. If we both went to Benedict's next year, would it be like this?

Totally and completely perfect?

I didn't have more time to daydream. Today we were picking topics. “This is the most important part of your oratory,” Mrs. Lee told us. “Once you pick a topic, you'll spend all your time researching, writing, practicing, and performing. You'll live and breathe this topic for the remainder of camp, so you'd better make sure it's one that resonates with you.”

She walked down each aisle and laid an index card on every desk. “Too often, oratory topics can become a lecture on a general world problem. Students scan the headlines and write a well-researched argument.”

I found myself nodding. That was how we'd done it in middle school.

“What can sometimes be missing is the personal connection,” Mrs. Lee said. “No matter how far reaching your topic, it should be one that also hits close to home.” She walked back to the front of the room. “Remember, oratory is the only event that allows you to choose your subject and then argue any position you want. That's why it's called ‘original.' So think about the issues facing you at school, at home, and in your clubs—and choose something that strikes an emotional chord. Use the index card I've provided to write down something that's affected your world. What was the last thing that made you angry? What scared you or excited you?” She nodded encouragingly. “If you're wondering how this will translate into a broader speech topic, trust me. It will.”

For a few minutes, it got completely quiet. So quiet, you couldn't think, because all you could concentrate on was how quiet it was. Fortunately, I'd flashed on an idea in 0.1 second. A brilliant idea. I scribbled it down and read it over. I got tingles. Tingles were a good sign.

“Who wants to go first?” Mrs. Lee asked a few minutes later. “Nancy?”

Nancy nodded, her head bobbing up and down. She was like a hummingbird—always fluttering in high gear.

“My brother plays football at his high school,” she began. “Last year, his coach wanted him to take a special PE class. But the only way to make it work with his schedule was to give up honors English for regular English. And he did it.” Her hand flew up in disgust. “And my parents let him!”

“Okay,” Mrs. Lee said as she wove her way through our desks. “What are the issues here?”

“How coaches pretend that education is important, but it's all about winning,” Andrew said.

Tammy raised her hand. “How sports are treated as more important than everything else at school.”

“Yeah,” Ethan added, popping his retainer in. “If you're a good athlete, it doesn't matter what grades you get.”

“Good,” Mrs. Lee said, nodding. “There are important issues underlying what happened with Nancy's brother. And because it has meaning for Nancy, she has a better chance of creating that same emotional response in her audience.” She looked around again. “Let's do a few more. Ellie?”

“This happened a few months ago,” I began. “I needed a physical for school, so my mom took me to the pediatrician's office.” I swiveled in my seat so I could look at everyone. “That's my doctor—still. I'm practically an adult, and I got examined in a room with Mickey Mouse wallpaper. It was humiliating. So it makes me wonder: there are special doctors for infants and old people; why aren't there special doctors for teens?”

“Interesting,” Mrs. Lee commented. “Class, what are the issues?”

“Equal rights for minors,” Sarah said.

Andrew added, “They call us young adults and treat us like babies.”

“How our medical needs change through life,” Peter offered.

Tammy's hand shot up. “And how the medical world is falling behind.”

“Very nice,” Mrs. Lee said. “I think you can take this in any number of directions, Ellie, depending on what captures your interest. It also has great potential for humor, which is definitely one of your strengths.” She smiled, then looked around again. “One more?”

Hands went up around the room. Everyone's hand, in fact, but Devon's. Mrs. Lee must have noticed, too, because she walked over and perched on the edge of his desk.

“Devon?” She looked pointedly at his index card. He shrugged, and she slid the card out from under his fingers. She flipped the card over—it was completely blank.

“I don't know,” he admitted. “Nothing hit me.”

“Well, let's see if the class can help,” she said. She folded her arms across her chest. “Tell us something you really like, Devon. Off the top of your head.”

“Fast food?”

Everyone smiled, but Mrs. Lee seemed to take it seriously.

“Okay. What can you tell us about fast food?”

“I don't get to eat it enough.”

There were a few laughs.

But not from Mrs. Lee. “Why not?”

He spiked a hand through his hair. “Because my mom thinks it's bad for me.”

“Do you disagree with her?” she asked. “Do you feel her health concerns are unwarranted?”

He leaned back, stretching his shoulders in an exaggerated shrug. “My granddad grew up eating chicken-fried steak and mashed potatoes. How healthy was that? I think it's a double standard.”

“Okay.” She stood and faced the rest of us. “What do you think, class? Are there larger themes here?”

I raised my hand. “Has there always been some kind of junk food? Was it any better than what we eat today?”

Mrs. Lee nodded. “That would make a good informative oratory. What else?”

“Is comfort food healthier than fast food?” Peter said.

“Were the good old days really so good?” I said, then added, “And if food is so unhealthy now, why do people live longer?”

Mrs. Lee turned back to Devon. “What do you think? Something there to interest you?”

“Yeah.”

She smiled and tapped his desk with her knuckles. “Good.” She checked the clock. “It's almost time for lunch. I'll give you the rest of the afternoon to continue brainstorming topics. You're welcome to work at your desks, or if you'd prefer to brainstorm with a group, you can find a table in the lab. In fact, work wherever you like, as long as you're not disturbing other classes. You can use the next few minutes to arrange groups or organize your notes. By the end of today, I want everyone to have a topic and a list of potential issues to research. Tomorrow, I'll want to see your thesis statement.”

Around me, everyone started moving. Sarah shifted back to talk to Tammy, and I heard Andrew behind me talking to Kim. I shut my notebook and just sat a minute, feeling a mix of relief and excitement. I had a kick-butt topic.
Nish-kosh-eh
, as Zeydeh would say—
Not so bad
. It had potential for humor, plus a serious side. I shut my eyes.
Benedict's, here I come.

“You asleep?” a voice said.
His voice.

I opened my eyes as a ripple of warmth worked its way up my neck. “Just thinking.”

“You mean celebrating.” Devon sat on the edge of Sarah's chair. “That's a great topic.”

“It is, isn't it?” I couldn't help smiling.

“So you working with anyone this afternoon?”

I blinked. “Uh … not yet.”

“You want to work together?” He shrugged. “You already have so many ideas on my topic, I won't have to come up with my own.”

The ripple of warmth turned into a flood, and I let my hair fall over my face, hoping to hide the blush. “Well, normally I don't like to help the competition,” I said lightly, “but since you're in such sorry shape …”

He laughed.

I got a whiff of orange a second before Peter appeared next to Devon. “Ready?”

Devon nodded. “We're going to grab some lunch. Where do you want to work?”

“I don't know,” I said. “The lab?”

“How about the hall?” he said. “The window seat. Mrs. Lee said anywhere.”

“Okay,” I agreed. “Great.”

After he left, I sat there a minute longer. Not because I was still thinking.

Because I wasn't sure my knees would hold me up.

CHAPTER 18

I got there first.

I wasn't going to—Megan said not to. Anna said definitely be late—make him wait. Then Megan added that if Devon got there first, he could watch me wiggle my hips on my way down the hall. That convinced me. I had no wiggle. I had no sexy hip move, no hair flip, and no eyelash flutter. And I didn't see why I needed to point that out to Devon Yeats.

So I was waiting for him when he came down the hall. He didn't have a wiggle either—which I had to admit was a good thing for a guy.

He dumped his backpack next to mine and sat across from me in the same spot as last week. “I don't know who invented fish sticks, but they should be shot.”

“You got the fish sticks?”

“I was sick of pizza.” He held his stomach. “Now I think I'm going to be sick of fish sticks.”

I smiled. “Nice research for your oratory.” I pulled out my notebook and a pen.

He leaned back, looking ready for a nap. “You're one of those organized team leaders, aren't you? The kind who writes out a schedule for everyone in the group with assignments and due dates?”

I pretended to be insulted, even though he was right. “And what about you? You're probably the type who says he's got it all under control, then shows up the day before a project is due carrying half-finished index cards smeared with chocolate.”

“Not even close,” he said. “French-fry grease.”

I laughed. “As long as it's McDonald's fries.”

“McDonald's?” He shook his head. “Burger King has the best fries.”

“They have a funny aftertaste. Mickey D's are way better.”

“You crazy?” he retorted. “They oversalt.”

“The salt is the best part.”

“Salt should be a personal decision.”

The sun snuck in through a crack in the blinds, slanting lines of gold through his hair. As if he needed good lighting.

“What about ice cream?” I asked. “Dairy Queen or Baskin-Robbins?”

“Sonic,” he said. “Awesome milk shakes.”

“PC or Mac?”

“Mac.”

I sighed. “Even I can't argue that.”

“That's a first.” He gave me a smart-ass grin and reached for his notebook. I figured it was time to work, but then he shoved it behind his head like a pillow. “Have you always liked to argue?”

I nodded. “I was born with a big mouth. Literally. I have the baby pictures to prove it.”

He laughed.

“Plus, I come from a family of arguers. You should hear my mom and my grandpa. They argue about everything.” I tucked my hair behind one ear. “What about you?”

“I guess I inherited it from my dad. He competed in oratory, too.”

He looked away when he said “my dad,” and I could see his jaw tense.

My throat tightened. “I saw his name on some trophies in the lobby case. He must've been really good.”

“Yeah,” he said. “My mom donated them to the school after he died. She's sure I'll earn my own trophies to go next to his, and then go on to law school like he did.”

“So you're following in his footsteps, huh?”

“Something like that.”

“I think about being a lawyer sometimes,” I admitted. “Arguing in front of a jury … making a case … someone wins and someone loses. I like that. But I also want to do something where you can change the way people think.”

“About what?”

“That's the part I don't know yet.”

“Something tells me you'll be good at whatever you do—you like to win.”

“It beats losing.” His eyes were so warm, I felt myself melting again. I wondered if Crayola could make a crayon that color? They could call it Hypnotic Blue.

“Maybe I shouldn't be working with the enemy,” he said.

“Maybe,” I agreed. “But then again, my grandpa always says, ‘Keep your friends close, keep your enemies closer.' ”

“Wise man,” he said.

I had to laugh. “He also says, ‘Everyone is beautiful if you squint enough.' ”

Devon smiled. “He sounds cool for a grandfather.”

I nodded, and reached for Bubbe's necklace. It wasn't there. I'd left it at home. I licked my lips, suddenly tense. Here was the opening I
hadn't
been looking for. But I had to say something. Put it to rest, once and for all. I let out a breath, fiddling with my forgotten notebook.

“Hey, so I've been meaning to ask. What did you mean the other day? That thing you said about your grandmother being weird about Jewish people? She's not a neo-Nazi or anything, right?”

“My grandmother in combat boots?” he said. “Can't picture it.”

I relaxed a little. I couldn't picture it either. “I told my grandpa it was nothing bad.”

“No. Nothing bad.” He met my eyes for a second, then leaned down to retie a shoe. “The scholarship program is in memory of my dad, and my dad was a Christian. That's all it is.”

“That's it?”

He leaned back. “Like I said, no big deal. It's just easier if she only knows about your Christian half.”

It didn't exactly feel “easy” inside me, but what he said made sense. “I guess I can understand that,” I said. I thought it through again, and felt myself nodding.
Yeah. Even Zeydeh would understand.
I smiled, and flipped to a clean page of paper. “I guess we should work, huh? We've got to turn in thesis statements tomorrow.”

He pulled the notebook from behind his head. “If we have to.” He fished a pen out of his pack. “So—special doctors for teens?”

“Yeah,” I said, trying to focus. “I love the idea, but I have to show there's a problem with the system as it is. I need more than personal humiliation and Mickey Mouse wallpaper.”

He raised a knee, balancing his notebook. “I thought that was pretty strong.”

“Do guys have to go through that?”

“You mean personal humiliation?” He nodded in slo-mo. “Oh yeah.”

“But you don't have to wear the little gown, do you?”

“You think we get boxers and a T-shirt?”

I grinned. “You, in a little gown with clouds on it?”

“It's worse for guys than girls. At least you're used to wearing a dress.”

“Not with a gap in the back.” I shook my head at the memory. “The doctor wore Tweety Bird earrings and called me sweetie. Then she wanted to discuss puberty.”

“At my last physical,” he said, “I had to put on the gown and hop on one foot.”

A picture of it flashed in my mind, and I busted up laughing. Then he started laughing, too, and when we finally stopped, we were both breathless. I had to swipe at my eyes, where tears had leaked at the corners. “That's definitely got to be in my speech,” I said, making a note. “If only the serious stuff were as easy.”

“It will be,” he said. “You can talk about depression among teens. STDs and condoms. And steroids are a big deal now. A lot of teens are abusing steroids and growth hormones. Are pediatricians trained for that?”

“Good point.” I wrote fast, his ideas giving me new ideas of my own. In no time at all, I had a page of notes. “This is great,” I said. And it was. I'd been so nervous about working with Devon, but it all just … clicked.

“So now it's your turn. Let's talk about fast food,” I said.

“You think I screwed myself with the topic?”

“Are you kidding? It's a great topic. It all depends on what you want to accomplish. What's your thesis statement going to be?”

He thought a minute, his gaze shifting to the windows. The slivers of light had moved, and I wondered how long we'd been sitting here talking. He had a watch, but I didn't want to ask. I didn't want this to end.

“I want to strike a blow for fast food,” he finally said. “It gets a bad rap.”

“Mostly deserved,” I had to admit.

“So you don't think I can do it?”

“Oh yeah, you can.” I grinned. “It'll be fun.”

He gave me a strange look.

“What?”

“You,” he said. “Nothing scares you, does it?”

I swallowed. “Why? Is that bad?”

“No. That's cool.” He paused. “You're cool.”

I met his gaze—but just for a second. For a cool person, I suddenly felt way too warm. I looked back at my pad, taking a deep breath. “So, uh, junk food that isn't really junky. You can talk about food over the centuries and what people used to eat every day—cow brains and chicken feet and fried bugs.”

He started writing. “Can you write my speech for me, too, while you're at it?”

I rolled my eyes. “Right. Mr. Unbeaten in Chicago last year.”

He stopped writing and looked at me from the corner of his eyes. “You checking me out, Taylor?”

“No,” I said. “Megan heard it from your grandmother. At the charity dinner where you met.”

“Oh, right.” He tapped a shoe against the seat cushion. “Kids Crisis Center. My grandmother forces me to go. There's another one this weekend she's been bugging me about—a fund-raiser for the Children's Theatre League.”

“Megan's going,” I said. “She asked me to tag along, but …” I shrugged.

“Maybe we should both go,” he said. His voice was casual, but my face still felt hot enough to set off a fire alarm. “We can sit together and argue about how bad the play is,” he added.

I tried to sound as casual as he did. “Who says I'd sit with you?”

“We can fight about that, too.”

I laughed.

“Come on. We better get back.” He shoved his notebook in his pack and zipped it up.

I did the same.

Then he stood, slinging his backpack over his shoulder. “So we're on for Friday? Crappy food, old folks, bad theater?”

I fought a smile. “Well, when you put it like that.”

“Good,” he said. The look he gave me was so warm, sweat broke out on the back of my neck.

Then he reached out a hand to help me up. I slid my palm into his. Our fingers twined, and it happened again. A warm spark shot through me like a tiny bolt of lightning.

I sizzled.

But this time, I was pretty sure he sizzled, too.