The Start of Me and You (4 page)

“Okay, then. Moving on.” She erased the five outlawed phrases. “I have two goals for you this year. The first is for you to learn about literature. The second is for you to learn about one another. So, to that point, I have decided to mix up your seating assignments.”

I wrinkled my nose. Of course, after Morgan and I got the best seats.

“In this bowl, I have all your names. I will draw at random, and that’s where you’ll sit. Starting with the seat closest to my desk … Morgan Sullivan!” she said, reading off the first piece of paper.

Morgan moved to her new desk, displacing a girl I didn’t recognize. Three rows later, my current seat was filled by Tyler Roberts, leaving me standing in the back. I waited for my name to be called as most of the classroom filled up. Finally, it was only me and Ryan Chase left standing at the back of the classroom.

“Hello again,” he said to me.

“Hey.” My voice sounded breathy, like I hadn’t used enough air in my attempt to speak. I hoped it came off more like “flirty” and less like “bronchitis.”

“Second to last seat by the door will be …,” Ms. Pepper said, plucking the final papers from the bowl. “Paige Hancock, making the last seat for Red-Hot Chili Chase.”

I took my seat, feeling the sudden compulsion to smooth the back of my hair. My stomach fidgeted as I situated my things, clenching with the fear that I would somehow drop all my books or spontaneously fall out of my seat.

“Hey, man,” Ryan Chase said, high-fiving Tyler Roberts one row across, in my old seat.

“
Lucky
,” Morgan mouthed, making eye contact from across the room.

I stared directly ahead, already tuning out Ms. Pepper in favor of planning how my relationship with Ryan Chase would begin with this seating arrangement.

“Okay. Moving right along. As you’ll see on the syllabus, the first piece we’re studying this year is
Hamlet
. For
those of you who plan to move on to AP English next year, you should know: the AP exam is obsessed with the Bard. And, therefore, we are also obsessed with the Bard. Aren’t we?” she asked. “Repeat after me: I am obsessed with the Bard.”

“I am obsessed with the Bard,” everyone mumbled. Only Max Watson’s voice rang out. Luckily for him, he was now too tall to be shoved in a locker, but that kind of enthusiastic participation might inspire people to try anyway.

“Sonnet Fourteen,” Ms. Pepper continued, “which was part of your summer reading, culminates with these two lines: ‘Or else of thee this I prognosticate: thy end is truth’s and beauty’s doom and date.’”

From behind me, Ryan Chase whispered something to Tyler that I couldn’t quite make out.

“Mr. Chase, what does ‘prognosticate’ mean?”

“It’s when …,” he began, seriously, “you procrastinate, but … the prognosis on your decision to procrastinate is good.”

I laughed along with the rest of the class, and even Ms. Pepper fought a smile. “I assume that was your approach to the reading assignment. Let’s try cousin door number two. Max?”

I wondered how she knew their relation to each other. I wouldn’t put it past Max to introduce himself before class.

“To prophesize,” Max said.

“Correct,” Ms. Pepper said, turning to the board. “Now let’s talk briefly about Shakespeare’s choice to use ‘truth’ and ‘beauty.’ Those two words are tied together in another famous work by which English Romantic poet?”

Maggie Brennan raised her hand. So did Max. This kid had no public school survival skills. “Maggie?”

“‘Ode on a Grecian Urn,’” Maggie said. “Keats.”

“Indeed. ‘Beauty is truth and truth beauty.’” She wrote on the board: TRUTH = BEAUTY? BEAUTY = TRUTH? “This is one of the great questions of all art, including writing. What makes something beautiful? What makes it truthful? Beauty is subjective. Is truth? Are they really related? I want you to keep these questions in mind, as we’ll be returning to them throughout the year.”

“Now,” she continued. “Back to your summer reading. The sonnet form: how many lines does it contain?”

“Fourteen!” Ryan Chase called from behind me. “Same number as the title of the Sonnet we were supposed to read: Fourteen.”

“Very good,” Ms. Pepper said.

Before I could stop myself, I smiled over my shoulder.

He winked at me. “I read it. I was just joking before.”

His smile flustered me as I began to script the many, meaningful conversations we’d have in this class. Ryan Chase was right: we were going to make it a great year.

Chapter Three

Aaron was camping with his Boy Scout troop when he jumped off a rocky ledge into the river below. He was goofing around, showing off, but the river current picked him up with unexpected force. It wasn’t anyone’s fault, and no one could have stopped it. Still, I ached for the guys in his troop. They’d carry that day—those images, the panic—for the rest of their lives.

My drowning nightmares began the week after he died. Only it wasn’t Aaron in the dream—it was me. In slumber, my foot would twitch, and in the next moment I was falling, falling, falling. The water stung as my skin hit the surface, wrapping around my body and filling my mouth as I sank, flailing.

At least twice a week I awoke breathless and teary in the darkness, trying to convince myself that I was okay. I’d throw my duvet off my body, overheated and terrified of feeling trapped. It always took at least one episode of
Friends
on my laptop, the familiar jokes and laugh track lulling me back to sleep.

Even thinking about the nightmare, I relived the uncontrollable thudding of my heart, the cold sweat, and the dryness of my mouth.

I had a similar panicky reaction near Ryan Chase. Before sitting next to him, I believed that my social skills were about average for an introvert. Nope. Fear of embarrassing myself rendered me totally mute. My language neurons detached from my brain, leaving me only symbols: ! or ?! or :). My entire presence could have been replaced with a mannequin, and he probably wouldn’t have noticed.

In the week that followed the assigned seating, I said four words to Ryan Chase. Total. And that was if you counted “hmm” as a word. They happened on Wednesday.

Ryan: Do you think we’ll have a quiz on that play from our summer reading?

Me: Hmm, I don’t know.

Ryan: I kind of skimmed it. I mean, the title spoiled the whole thing, right?
Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead
? Okay, well, now I know. Why would I read it?”

Me: (
Flirtatious laughter, flipping of hair, blanking of mind
.)

I turned back around.
I can’t produce dialogue in simple, everyday conversations, but please, screen-writing school: pick me!
At least this way, he had a close-up of my perky ponytail. Paige Hancock: sad sack, social mute, and the uncontested winner of Oakhurst’s Most Brushed Hair award. How could he resist?

By Friday, I resigned myself to spending the weekend learning about sports. Preseason football seemed to be Ryan and Tyler’s topic of choice, so maybe I would start there. He would be so impressed when I chimed in with my predictions for this year’s football Golden Globes, or whatever awards they give out. I’d have to look it up. When Ms. Pepper began class, I scribbled down the terms I heard—zone blitz, 4-3 defense, safety—in the back of my planner, as Ryan and Tyler kept whispering to each other in football language. Ms. Pepper’s voice, escalating in volume and pitch, broke into my thoughts.

“Ryan. Tyler. I’m going to be honest with you. This is not working for me, you two having your little guy time back there,” she said, turning on her heels to face them.

“Ryan, if you could please switch seats with …,” she trailed off, glancing around the room, “… Max.”

My heart sank.

“Is this permanent?” Tyler asked.

“Like a tattoo,” Ms. Pepper said.

Max obediently picked up his books and slid out of his chair in the front.

“Ms. Pepper,” Ryan groaned, packing up his things. “I thought we could be friends.”

“Okay. Let’s be friends.” She smiled. “And friends don’t let friends fail English.”

“My therapist says it’s important for me to be social,” Ryan joked, clapping Max on the back affectionately as they crossed paths mid-switch. The class laughed.

“That’s why I’m putting you in the front, my little problem child,” she said, tapping the desk where Ryan was now seated. “So we can have super-fun chats!”

“They’re going to be about literature, aren’t they?” asked Ryan.

“Yes, yes they are.” Ms. Pepper surveyed the new seating arrangement. “I like it. It stays. Now, back to
Rosencrantz and Guildenstern
.”

Forty-five minutes of Shakespeare-inspired existentialism later, Ms. Pepper faced the class. “One last thing. I’m advising the Oakhurst QuizBowl team this year, and we’re looking for at least one more member.”

I didn’t know much about QuizBowl except that it was a game-show-style student activity, with two teams from
different schools answering academic questions. I also knew that it was possibly the least cool activity at Oakhurst High. Even the chess team had more participants.

Despite all that, something inside of me whispered:
do it
.

“We could particularly use strength in the language arts arena, so my Honors students would be well suited,” she continued. “Hint, hint.”

No hands went up. The bell went off overhead, and as everyone collected their things, Ms. Pepper added, “At least think about it, okay? Come talk to me if you’re interested.”

When I’d promised myself I’d participate in a school activity this year, I figured I’d rejoin Key Club or French Club or maybe even chorus—something low commitment in a big group, where I could easily be anonymous. There would be no hiding in QuizBowl, which seemed much scarier.

But maybe that—the fear I felt in challenging myself—was exactly why I should do it.

I packed my things up slowly, stalling so that no one would realize I was staying after to talk to Ms. Pepper.

As everyone bustled out of the classroom, Maggie Brennan pointed at me. “You coming to my party tomorrow?”

I almost said maybe, but I caught myself. “Maybe” had carried me as far as it was ever going to. “Yes. For sure.”

“Good.” She nodded decisively—my RSVP finalized.

Morgan lingered, waiting for me, but I told her I’d meet her in the cafeteria.

Once everyone was gone, I approached Ms. Pepper’s desk. She opened her mouth to say something, but I cut her off before I could chicken out. “I, um, had a few questions about QuizBowl. If that’s okay.”

Ms. Pepper pressed her hands together, almost a clap. “Oh, great! Of course!”

“Is it totally academic?” I asked. “Or more pop culture?”

“Both,” she said. “We could really use more support on the pop culture side, though.”

That I could do, with the years of novels and TV trivia stored up in my mind. “Do I need to, like, try out or something?”

Her mouth quirked into an amused smile. “What’s the last thing you read for pleasure?”

“
Looking for Alaska
,” I said. “Well, I
re
read it for pleasure.”

“Ha,” she said. “You’ll be fine.”

I squirmed a little, wringing my hands together. “So, are there team practices?”

“Not really. There’ll be one sort of organizational meeting, but other than that, QuizBowl is very low commitment. Matches are only once a month, and they last for about an hour. So you can put it on a college application without having to put much time in. Plus, it’s fun.”

“Okay.” I wondered if I’d need a car to get to different meets, but maybe I could work that out. “I have to ask my parents, but I … think I’ll do it, if that’s okay.”

“Of course it’s okay! It’s great!” She pressed her hands together again. “I think you’ll be just the right fit for the team, Paige. And if you come up with any other questions, let me or Max know.”

“Max?”

“Max Watson. Who sits behind you? He’s the team captain.”

Oh, of
course
he is
, I thought. “Right. Thanks. I’ll see you Monday.”

“See you Monday,” she said.

By the time I got to the cafeteria, I had the feeling of highway hypnosis. I’m sure I passed people in the hallway, but they blurred over. Had I really just volunteered for
QuizBowl
?

When I plopped into my usual seat in the cafeteria next to Kayleigh, Morgan glanced up from unpacking her lunch bag. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah,” I said, nestling my books in the middle of the table. “I just had a quick question.”

I stood up to go to the lunch line, but not before Tessa sank into an open seat at the table. Our original schedules had the four of us sharing a lunch period, but Tessa had blown through the first few days of precalculus, receiving perfect scores on a homework assignment and the first
quiz. The teacher insisted on moving Tessa to senior-level calculus despite her protestations. The advanced class probably wouldn’t be that much harder for her, but it meant that her lunch and math periods were now switched.

“Aren’t you supposed to be in calc in, like, two minutes?” asked Morgan.