“Ready?” he asks.
I whip my sword around, then nod.
“Let me get up to my balcony.” He scales the jungle gym and edges along the upper walkway until he’s near the climbing wall. “You can climb up there,” he says, pointing to the wall with its red hand and footholds.
Climb up and then what? I think my mouth is hanging open. The air is cold against my lips and tongue, and I can taste dank mud and dead leaves.
Sam stares at me and I glance at the script. Yes, that’s right. Romeo starts the scene, and I’m Romeo.
“But, soft! what light through yonder window breaks? It is the east, and …” I hesitate, because I’m not really looking at a Juliet. “… and Romero is the sun.”
Sam raises an eyebrow, and his lips twitch, like he’s trying not to laugh. I continue. I don’t remember Romeo saying so much, or things like: O, it is my love! and O, that I were a glove upon that hand, That I might touch that cheek!
I know it’s probably impossible to get sunburn during February in Minnesota, but my face feels that hot. I’m certain the blush will never leave my cheeks.
Sam sighs Juliet’s Ay me! and I speak a few more lines until it’s his turn to say those famous ones:
“Jolia, Jolia, wherefore art thou, Jolia?” Sam pauses, looking pleased with the way my name sounds in the scene. “Deny thy father and refuse thy name, for if thou wilt not but be sworn my love, and I’ll no longer be a Capulet.”
I hear the echo of my next lines in my head: Shall I hear more, or shall I speak at this?
I am about to speak when a whoop cuts through the air. The sound is followed by the splash of bicycle tires slicing through water and the splatter of damp footsteps. I freeze, my fingertips crushing the script in my hand. My other hand goes slack, and I nearly drop the tree branch. The whoop comes again, the sound tearing through me. I know who it is without looking.
It’s Crandall, Meadow Park’s alpha rink rat—and he’s brought along reinforcements.
Chapter 8
Crandall rides around the jungle gym, planting a foot at each turn and letting the wheels of his bike shoot mud with a force so strong, it covers everything. Mud hits the gazebo, the little kids’ play area, the water fountain. Some hits my cheek. When I lick my lips, grit fills my mouth.
“Are we interrupting something?” Crandall skids to a stop near the climbing wall, near me.
“Go away,” Sam says. His voice rings strong from up above, but his hands tug nervously at the weeds beneath his hat. He can’t pull them out fast enough, and I can tell Crandall notices.
“It’s a free country,” Crandall says, “and a free park. And I want to ride my new bike.” As he speaks, he points, sending a boy to each corner of the jungle gym. “Hey, bay-bee,” he says to me, “what do you think of my new bike?”
I don’t say anything. Crandall pops a wheelie and then spins around. It’s a trick bike, and I’m guessing it was expensive. Derek thought about buying one but decided it wasn’t worth the price.
I take a step forward, but Crandall brings the bike down, the front wheel nearly brushing my toes. I jump back.
His laugh sends a shiver through me. I don’t know how we’re going to get out of this. My phone is in my jeans pocket, but my hands are full of script and stick. With my eyes never leaving Crandall, I inch my hand toward my pocket. Maybe I can hide the phone behind the script. If I can just call Dad.
Crandall whips his bike in a tighter circle around me. I jerk my arms up to protect my face. The tree branch makes a hollow thunk against the bike’s handlebars.
“Watch it!” he says and spins even closer. “My dad paid a lot for that.”
Footsteps pound above my head. Up on the walkway, Sam hovers. The other three boys block the routes down the slides and climbing wall. He’s trapped. I’m trapped. Still, he leans forward and shouts.
“Leave her alone!”
Crandall glances up and his lip curls. “You don’t think he’s—” He points at Sam. “Your boyfriend, do you? Why don’t you want to go out with me, bay-bee?” Crandall’s voice goes all smooth, like he’s trying to be charming. This scares me even more. He gestures at Sam again. “You know he wants to.”
From all sides, the boys laugh. Sam dashes up and down the walkway. He’s trying to fake them out, I can tell, trying to find a way down to me. He ignores the insults and the laughter. He’s not scared or frozen like I am, but he’s not going anywhere either.
Crandall whips his bike around again, edging me away from the jungle gym. I know that’s bad, very bad—in a way I can’t let myself comprehend. No matter what happens, I can’t leave Sam. I glance up and catch the worry in his green eyes. I think he mouths, “Can you run?”
But Crandall has me trapped like a scared rabbit. He rides so close, our jackets brush, and the smell of his sweat makes my stomach turn. I inch close to the jungle gym just as he swerves for me. I have nowhere to go. He isn’t stopping.
His front tire runs over my foot.
I yelp, more from surprise than pain. Muddy tire tracks stain my green All Stars. Crandall pulls the bike around, ready for another pass. He’s not afraid to hurt me, which means he’s not afraid to hurt Sam either. From the corner of my eye, I see one of the other boys start to climb up a slide.
Crandall aims his bike straight at me. Tires churn the mud. I tighten my grip on the tree branch and brace my legs. Right before he reaches me, right before the treads connect with my feet, I ram the branch through the spokes of his front tire.
For an instant, the world stops. I see everything. The snapped branch. Crandall’s mouth in a little O, his eyes wide with shock. The back of the bike tipping upward, like a bucking bronco.
Then the world speeds up again. Crandall flips over his handlebars. The bike goes careening, and he lands in a snowdrift. He doesn’t move.
I’ve killed him, I think. I’ve killed him. Something grips my lungs. I can’t take a full breath. I can’t think. All I know is he tried to hurt us, and now I’ve killed him. What does that mean? A trial? Jail? Do they put you in jail for self-defense?
I barely hear the footfalls behind me. Someone grabs my hand. His grip is warm, my fingers like ice. “Come on,” Sam whispers, his voice urgent.
He tugs, but my legs refuse to move. My mouth, too. I can’t even explain to Sam that I’ve killed Crandall.
A groan fills the air. “Son of a—” comes from the snowdrift. Then, like some sort of Midwestern Yeti, Crandall bursts from the snow. “My bike! You little ... you broke my bike!”
Sam tugs harder. This time, my legs wake up. With our hands clasped, we run. We run as fast as we can. And Sam is the boy who can tear up the ground with his feet.
“I’m telling my dad!” Crandall shouts after us. “He’ll sue you for everything you’ve got!”
We race across the street, leaving the park and the rink rats behind us. Sam leads me one way, then the next, through backyards until we break away from the houses completely and into a field.
My legs churn. The ground is uneven and I stumble, my feet getting caught in ruts.
“Where … are we?” I pant more than ask.
“Nature preserve.” He sounds just as breathless.
I halt, gazing around. I don’t think I’ve been here before. For an instant I forget everything—the rink rats, Sam holding my hand, how cold and damp my feet are.
“Come on.” Sam tugs my hand.
In the distance, I hear something that could be sneakers pounding wet asphalt. My shoes make a sucking sound when I pull them from the mud, and I run as fast as the earth will let me.
The nature preserve borders a playground for an apartment complex. I think we’ve run in a huge circle, but I don’t ask. Sam pulls me inside an open garage and we hunker down behind a pickup truck.
For a long time, all we do is pant, breath echoing in our ears. I listen for other sounds, the ones that mean Crandall has followed us. A few birds chirp. A bell from a little girl’s princess bike
rings out.
I look around at the garage. It smells like oil and sawdust. There’s a workbench to one side. The truck barely fits. We’re squeezed in between its front and a canoe.
We’re still holding hands.
“Where are we?” I ask.
“My house,” Sam says. “Well, my garage.” He hits the truck with his script. After everything, he still has it. I glance down and see that, in the hand not holding Sam’s, I clutch my copy.
“I figured my house was closer, and if they were watching, they won’t know where you live.”
“Then.” I swallow hard. My throat feels dry, my stomach like I might throw up. “What if he—I mean, do you think he’s going to tell his dad? What if he sues?”
“Not going to happen.” Sam sounds so sure about that. He must see the doubt on my face, because he keeps talking. “What is he going to say?” He drops his voice in an exact imitation of Crandall. “Hey, Dad, I was harassing this girl and she fought back, and now my bike is broken.”
I laugh. His imitation is so spot-on, right down to his expression. Some of the fear inside me melts. Sam smiles, and I find it hard not to smile back.
“Plus, you have a witness.” He points to himself. “And I bet those other guys would sell him out in a minute.”
I nod, only partly reassured. “I thought I killed him.”
“Yeah, the world should be so lucky.”
Sam pulls himself up, and since we’re still holding hands, I follow. We creep forward. He squints into the sunlight and scans the driveway, the street, the neighborhood. “I think we’re okay. Thirsty after all that running?”
He gives me a crooked sort of grin. My mouth goes even dryer than before. All I can do is nod. But we don’t move. He drops my hand, but it’s only so he can bring his fingertips to my cheek.
“You have some mud,” he says. “Right here.”
He brushes my skin, and my heart rate doubles. I feel as if I haven’t stopped running away from the park. Except now, I feel like I should be racing toward something.
Sam licks his ring finger. Halfway to my face, he freezes. “Uh, do you mind?”
“No.” I squeak the word, more mouse than girl. I wonder if I look awful with mud on my face. Then I wonder if that matters at all, not when he touches me.
“There.” He grins that crooked grin.
Just as I’m thinking I’ve never seen such light in his green eyes before, he leans forward. His lips brush mine. Warm. Soft. Quick. Real.
“Do you mind?” he whispers.
“No.” This time, the word is all air.
“Good.” He nods toward the door. “Let’s go.”
Inside, he squeezes past a few boxes in the entryway, and I follow. They look like moving boxes, and I glance around. The apartment is small, clean, and bright, and I can’t tell if they’re coming—or going.
“Are you guys moving?” I ask, part of me dreading the answer.
Sam shrugs. “Who knows?”
We unload our coats and kick off muddy shoes. My socks are soaked. They leave little impressions on the tile. Sam vanishes into a small room that smells like detergent and emerges a moment later with a pair of what are clearly boy socks.
“Here,” he says. “I can toss yours in the dryer.”
I tug on the socks, not sure I want to hand Sam my wet ones. I wrinkle my nose, but laugh at the face Sam makes when he takes my socks. I leave my cell phone with my jacket but take the script. It’s Sam’s, after all, even if it is smudged and crinkled.
“Hey, buddy, you home?”
I recognize Sam’s dad from all those summers in the park. He’s in socks, like we are, and carries an open laptop in one hand. When he sees me, his eyebrows go up a notch.
“We got thirsty,” Sam says. “Dad, you remember Jolia, the girl I used to play with at the park right?”
His dad stands back and gives me a long look before saying, “Of course. Good to see you.”
“Jolia’s in Speech at Fremont,” Sam adds. “We’re practicing.”
His dad continues almost like he hasn’t heard him. He has the same dark hair and square jaw as Sam. “How are your parents?”
“Good,” I say.
“Tell your dad I read his article in Wired. Very impressive.”
“I will. He likes it when people actually read what he writes.”
Sam’s dad laughs. “And your brother—Derek, was it?”
I nod. “He’s going to the University of Wisconsin.”
“Good school.” He leans against the wall like he’s settling in for a long conversation, but before he can get too comfortable Sam clears his throat.
“Well.” Sam’s dad grins at both of us, and I can see the resemblance between father and son. “I’ll let you practice then.” He hefts the laptop. “Work calls. Drinks in the fridge if you’re thirsty.”
Sam digs two bottles of soda from the refrigerator while I think of all the questions I probably shouldn’t ask, like: Is it just you and your Dad? Are you moving soon? Is it somewhere far away? But I sense Sam doesn’t want to talk about these things. He rips open a bag of chips, and for a while, the sugar and salt are enough.
At last, he says, “We should practice.”
I glance at the scripts on the table and feel my cheeks heat. “I don’t get this,” I say, “the whole role reversal and different script thing.”
“It’s to help you relax. It’s impossible to be tense if you’re having fun.”
“I don’t think speech can be fun,” I say.
“See,” he says, standing up. “That’s what I don’t get. You used to be so good at it.”
I have no idea what he’s talking about. “I’ve never done speech before.”
“Sure you have. All those times in the park, you know.” And here, his cheeks color, a quick pink rinse that’s gone almost before I can see it. But is it adorable? Oh, yes. Yes, it is.
“That was playing.” I can barely force the words from my mouth. “You know, pretend.”
“That’s what speech is.”
I give my head an emphatic shake. “No, it’s not. It’s nothing like that. That was fun—well, you know, back then, when we were little.” Do I sound dumb? I wonder. Yeah, I sound dumb. But I’m smart enough to hold in what I really want to say to him: Those were some of my favorite days.
“Speech is exactly that.” Sam picks up a script and pages through it. “Why do you think I do it? People hand me awards for doing what little kids do every day.”
“You don’t get scared?”
“Well, sure.” He shrugs and I’m certain he’s never felt the fear I have. “But you just use that as fuel.”
“You’re not afraid someone will laugh at you?”
He gives me a look. “I’m hoping they will.”
I laugh, because clearly that’s what he wants right then.
“My problem is I want to do everything. I drove my coach crazy last year by switching categories and trying new pieces. This year, she’s all: ‘Pick two, pick two.’”
By my count, he’s done more than two. “Still having problems with that?”
“Yeah.” He hangs his head in mock shame. “I am.”
He’s so joyful about the whole thing. He really does love speech. If only I could capture a tenth of that, maybe speech wouldn’t be so bad.
He hands me my script. “Don’t think. Just pretend you’re Romeo, even though it’s silly, okay?”
I nod, grip my script, and wait for my cue. He climbs onto the kitchen table (which I can’t believe his dad lets him do) and then heaves a dramatic sigh, his gaze on an invisible moon and stars. Maybe it’s the high pitched voice he uses as Juliet, or the fact that my sword is now a soup ladle. I relax. Not all at once. Not completely. Some of the tension melts from my shoulders. The fear inside me thaws.
I feel like spring.
When we finish, applause sounds behind us. I spin, the ladle flying from my hand, striking the kitchen window and landing in the sink.
“That’s two points,” Sam says.
Sam’s dad laughs. “I think that performance—all of it—deserves some pizza.” He turns to me. “Jolia, can you stay for dinner?”
I peer at Sam and he nods, like he really wants me to stay. “I’ll have to call my parents.”
“I’ll be glad to talk to them,” his dad says. “And afterward, Sam can walk you home.”
Sam picks up the phone and hands it to me. I don’t know why my fingers tremble when I punch in the number, or my voice shakes when Mom picks up. A nervous flutter fills my stomach, and I’m sure I won’t be able to eat any pizza.
Mom says yes, and I hand the phone over to Sam’s dad. I turn toward Sam. One look into those summer green eyes and I know.
This is more than just playing in the park. At least for me.
I make it through pizza and garlic bread without getting tomato sauce on my shirt or cheese stuck to my chin. It’s dark when we finally leave Sam’s apartment, and the air feels like winter again. A thin layer of ice crunches beneath my Converse sneakers. Sam’s pulled on a matching pair, and I’m trying to act like I haven’t noticed this.
“You were really brave today,” he says, voice hushed.
“I think you were.” My voice is also quiet. It’s like we’re both scared Crandall is close enough to hear us. “You were trying to stop it. I just froze.”
“Yeah, and then you shish-kabobed his bike.”
“Do you think—”
“I think it was awesome.” Sam laughs. “He so deserved that. I bet no one ever fought back like that before.”
I let his praise push the worry to the back of my mind. Crandall doesn’t know my name; he doesn’t know where I live. I can’t decide if I should feel guilty about breaking his bike or glad that it gave us the chance to escape.
“Can I ask you something?” he says.
I nod, although I’m not sure he can see me.
“Were you scared?”
Couldn’t he tell? “I was terrified.”
“You didn’t look it.”
Up ahead, my house comes into view. I have a question of my own and not a lot of time to ask it. I swallow hard, then say, “Can I ask you something?”
The Fine Art of Keeping Quiet Page 7
