Speak by Laurie Halse Anderson
I bounce the yellow ball, one two three. Up in the air like releasing a bird or an apple, then arcing my arm, rotate shoulder, bring down the power and the anger and don’t forget to aim. My racket takes on a life of its own, a bolt of energy. It crashes down on the ball, bulleting it over the net. The ball explodes on the court, leaving a crater before Nicole can blink. It blows past her and hits the fence so hard it rattles. No one laughs.
No fault. I score a point. Nicole wins eventually, but not by much. Everybody else whines about their blisters. I have calluses on my hands from yard work. I’m tough enough to play and strong enough to win. Maybe I can get Dad to practice with me a few times. It would be the only glory of a really sucky year if I could beat someone at something.
YEARBOOKS
The yearbooks have arrived. Everyone seems to understand this ritual but me. You hunt down every person who looks vaguely familiar and get them to write in your yearbook that the two of you are best friends and you’ll never forget each other and remember class (fill in the blank) and have a great summer. Stay sweet.
I watch some kids ask the cafeteria ladies to sign their books. What do they write: “Hope your chicken patties never bleed?” Or, maybe, “May your Jell-O always wiggle?”
The cheerleaders have obtained some sort of special exemption to roam the hall in a pack with pens in hand to seek out autographs of staff and students. I catch a whiff of competitive juices when they float past me. They are counting signatures.
The appearance of the yearbook clears up another high school mystery—why all the popular girls put up with the disgusting habits of Todd Ryder. He is a pig. Greasy, sleazy, foul-mouthed, and unwashed, he’ll make a great addition to a state college fraternity. But the popular kids kissed up to him all year. Why?
Todd Ryder is the yearbook photographer.
Flip through the pages and see who is in his favor. Be nice to Todd and he’ll take pictures of you that should have a modeling agency calling your house any day now. Snub Todd and you’ll look like a trailer-park refugee having a bad hair day.
If I ran a high school, I would include stuff like this in the first-day indoctrination. I hadn’t understood the Power of Todd. He snapped one picture of me, walking away from the camera wearing my dumpy winter coat, my shoulders up around my ears.
I will not be buying a yearbook.
HAIRWOMAN NO MORE
Hairwoman got a buzz cut. Her hair is half an inch long, a new crop of head fur, short and spiky. It’s black—no fake orange at all. And she got new glasses, purple-rimmed bifocals that hang from a beaded chain.
I don’t know what caused this. Has she fallen in love? Did she get a divorce? Move out of her parents’ basement? You never think about teachers having parents, but they must.
Some kids say she did it to confuse us while we are working on our final essay. I’m not sure. We have a choice. We can write about “Symbolism in the Comics” or “How Story Changed My Life.” I think something else is going on. I’m thinking she found a good shrink, or maybe she published that novel she’s been writing since the earth cooled. I wonder if she’ll be teaching summer school.
LITTLE WRITING ON THE WALL
Ivy is sitting at my art table with four uncapped colored markers sticking out of her bun. I stand up, she turns her head, and bingo—I’ve got a rainbow on my shirt. She apologizes a hundred million times. If it were anyone else, I would figure they did it on purpose. But Ivy and me have sort of been friendly the last few weeks. I don’t think she was trying to be mean.
Mr. Freeman lets me go to the bathroom, where I try to scrub the stains. I must look like a dog chasing its tail, twisting and twirling, trying to see the stains on my back in the mirror. The door swings open. It’s Ivy I raise my hand as she opens her mouth. “Don’t say it anymore. I know you’re sorry. It was an accident.”
She points to the pens still stuck in her bun. “I put the caps on. Mr. Freeman made me. Then he sent me in here to see how you’re doing.”
“He’s worried about me?”
“He wants to make sure you don’t pull a disappearing act. You have been known to wander off.”
“Not in the middle of class.”
“There’s a first time for everything. Go in the stall and hand over your shirt. You can’t wash it while you’re wearing it.”
I think Principal Principal should have his office in the rest room. Maybe then he’d hire somebody to keep it clean, or an armed guard to stop people from plugging up the toilet, smoking, or writing on the walls.
“Who is Alexandra?” I ask.
“I don’t know any Alexandras,” Ivy’s voice says above the rush of water in the sink. “There might be an Alexandra in tenth grade. Why?”
“According to this, she has pissed off a whole bunch of people. One person wrote in huge letters that she’s a whore, and all these others added on little details. She slept with this guy, she slept with that guy, she slept with those guys all at the same time. For a tenth-grader, she sure gets around.”
Ivy doesn’t answer. I peer through the crack between the door and the wall. She opens the soap container and dips my shirt in it. Then she scrubs the stains. I shiver. I’m standing in a bra, not a terribly clean bra, and it is freezing in here. Ivy holds the shirt up to the light, frowns, and scrubs some more. I want to take a deep breath, but it smells too bad.
“Remember what you said about Andy Evans being big trouble?”
“Yeah.”
“Why did you say that?”
She rinses the soap from the shirt. “He has such a reputation. He’s only after one thing, and if you believe the rumors, he’ll get it, no matter what.” She wrings the water out of the shirt. The sound of dripping water echoes off the tiles.
“Rachel is going out with him,” I say.
“I know. Just add that to the list of stupid things she’s done this year. What does she say about him?”
“We don’t really talk,” I say.
“She’s a bitch, that’s what you mean. She thinks she’s too good for the rest of us.”
Ivy punches the silver button on the hand dryer and holds up the shirt. I reread the graffiti. “I luv Derek.” “Mr. Neck bites.” “I hate this place.” “Syracuse rocks.” “Syracuse sucks.” Lists of hotties, lists of jerks, list of ski resorts in Colorado everyone dreams about. Phone numbers that have been scratched out with keys. Entire conversations scroll down the bathroom stall. It’s like a community chat room, a metal newspaper.
I ask Ivy to hand over one of her pens. She does. “I think you’re going to have to bleach this thing,” she says and hands over the shirt as well. I pull it over my head. It’s still damp. “What did you want the marker for?”
I hold the cap in my teeth. I start another subject thread on the wall: Guys to Stay Away From. The first entry is the Beast himself: Andy Evans.
I swing open the door with a flourish. “Ta-da!” I point to my handiwork.
Ivy grins.
PROM PREPARATION
The climax of mating season is nearly upon us—the Senior Prom. They should cancel school this week. The only things we’re learning are who is going with who (whom? must ask Hairwoman), who bought a dress in Manhattan, which limo company won’t tell if you drink, the most expensive tux place, and on and on and on. The gossip energy alone could power the building’s electricity for the rest of the marking period. The teachers are pissed. Kids aren’t handing in homework because they have appointments at the tanning salon.
Andy Beast asked Rachel to go with him. I can’t believe her mother is letting her go, but maybe she agreed because they’re going to double with Rachel’s brother and his date. Rachel is one of the rare ninth-graders invited to the Senior Prom; her social stock has soared. She must not have gotten my note, or maybe she decided to ignore it. Maybe she showed it to Andy and they had a good laugh. Maybe she won’t get in the trouble I did, maybe he’ll listen to her. Maybe I had better stop thinking about it before I go nuts.
She launches into a sob story about how much she hates being a Marthadrone. Indentured servitude would be better. They are just taking advantage of her, bossing her around. Her grades are all the way down to Bs because of the time she has to spend waiting on her Senior Marthas. Her father is thinking about taking a job in Dallas and she wouldn’t mind moving again, nope not one bit, because she’s heard kids in the South aren’t as stuck-up as they are here.
I eat more cookies. I’m fighting the shock of having a guest in my room. I almost kick her out because it’s going to hurt too much when my room is empty again. Heather says I was smart, “ … so smart, Mel, to blow off this stupid group. This whole year has been horrible—I hated every single day, but I didn’t have the guts to get out like you did.”
She completely ignores the fact that I was never in, and that she dumped me, banished me from even the shadows of Martha glory. I feel like any minute a guy in a lavender suit will burst into the room with a microphone and bellow, “Another alternate-reality moment brought to you by Adolescence!”
I still can’t figure out why she’s here. She licks a crumb off her cookie and gets to the point. She and the other Junior Marthas are required to decorate the Route 11 Holiday Inn ballroom for the prom. Meg ‘n’ Emily ‘n’ Siobhan can’t assist, of course; they have to get their nails painted and their teeth whitened. The privileged, the few, the Junior Marthas have been laid waste by mononucleosis, leaving Heather all by herself. She is desperate.
Me: “You have to decorate the whole thing? By Saturday night?”
Heather: “Actually, we can’t start until three o’clock Saturday afternoon because of some stupid meeting of Chrysler salesmen. But I know we can do it. I’m asking other kids, too. Do you know anyone who could help?”
Frankly, no I don’t, but I chew and try to look thoughtful. Heather takes this to mean that yes, I’d be happy to help her. She bounces out of the chair.
Heather: “I knew you would help. You’re great. Tell you what. I owe you, I owe you a big one. How about next week I come over and help you redecorate?”
Me:
Heather: “Didn’t you tell me once how much you hated your room? Well, now I see why. It would be so depressing just to wake up here every morning. We’ll clear out all this junk.” She kicks a chenille bunny who was sleeping in my robe on the floor. “And get rid of those curtains. Maybe you could go shopping with me—can you get your mom’s American Express?” She yanks my curtains to one side. “Let’s not forget to wash those windows. Sea-foam green and sage, that’s what you should look for, classic and feminine.”
Me: “No.”
Heather: “You want something richer, like an eggplant, or cobalt?”
Me: “No, I haven’t decided on colors yet. That’s not what I mean, I mean no, I won’t help you.”
She collapses into the chair again. “You have to help me.”
Me: “No, I don’t.”
Heather: “But, whiii—iiiiy?”
I bite my lip. Does she want to know the truth, that she’s self-centered and cold? That I hope all the seniors yell at her? That I hate sea-foam green, and besides, it’s none of her business if my windows are dirty? I feel tiny button noses against my back. Bunnies say to be kind. Lie.
Me: “I have plans. The tree guy is coming to work on the oak out front, I have to dig in my garden, and besides, I know what I want to do in here and it doesn’t include eggplant.”
Most of it is half true, half planned. Heather scowls. I open the dirty window to let in fresh air. It brushes my hair back off my face. I tell Heather she has to leave. I need to clean. She crams her cookie in her mouth and does not say goodbye to my mother. What a snot.
COMMUNICATION 101
I’m on a roll. I’m rocking. I don’t know what it is; standing up to Heather, planting marigold seeds, or maybe the look on Mom’s face when I asked if she would let me redecorate my room. The time has come to arm-wrestle some demons. Too much sun after a Syracuse winter does strange things to your head, makes you feel strong, even if you aren’t.
I must talk to Rachel. I can’t do it in algebra, and the Beast waits for her outside English. But we have study hall at the same time. Bingo. I find her squinting at a book with small type in the library. She’s too vain for glasses. I instruct my heart not to bolt down the hall, and sit next to her. No nuclear bombs detonate. A good start.
She looks at me without expression. I try on a smile, size medium. “Hey,” I say. “Hmm,” she responds. No lip curling, no rude hand gestures. So far, so good. I look at the book she’s copying (word for word) from. It’s about France.
Me: “Homework?”
Rachel: “Kind of.” She taps her pencil on the table. “I’m going to France this summer with the International Club. We have to do a report to prove we’re serious.”
Me: “That’s great. I mean, you’ve always talked about traveling, ever since we were kids. Remember when we were in fourth grade and we read Heidi and we tried to melt cheese in your fireplace?”
We laugh a little too loudly. It’s not really that funny, but we’re both nervous. A librarian points his finger at us. Bad students, bad bad students. No laughing. I look at her notes. They are lousy, a few facts about Paris decorated with an Eiffel Tower doodle, hearts, and the initials R.B. + A.E. Gack.
Me: “So, you’re really going out with him. With Andy. I heard about the prom.”
Rachel grins honey-slow. She stretches, like the mention of his name wakes her muscles and makes her tummy jump. “He’s great,” she, says. “He is just so awesome, and gorgeous, and yummy.” She stops. She is talking to the village leper.
Me: “What are you going to do when he goes to college?”
Argh, an arrow to her soft spot. Clouds across the sun. “I can’t think about that. It hurts too much. He said he was going to get his parents to let him transfer back here. He could go to La Salle or Syracuse. I’ll wait for him.”
Give me a break.
Me: “You’ve been going out for, like, what—two weeks? Three?”
A cold front blows across the library. She straightens up and snaps shut the cover of her notebook.
Rachel: “What do you want, anyway?”
Before I can answer, the librarian pounces. We are welcome to continue our conversation in the principal’s office, or we can stay and be quiet. Our choice. I take out my notebook and write to Rachel.
It’s nice to talk to you again. I’m sorry we couldn’t be friends this year. I pass the notebook to her. She melts a bit around the edges and writes back.
Yeah, I know. So, who do you like?
No one, really. My lab partner is kinda nice, but like a friend-friend, not a boyfriend or anything.
Rachel nods wisely. She’s dating a senior. She is so beyond these freshman “friend-friend” relationships. She’s in charge again. Time for me to suck up.