by Lara Avery
And when I look back, I will know I have tried.
But now I’m sort of stranded here on Maddie’s car. It’s probably been an hour or so.
She texted me: Where r u??
I told her, but when I texted her again to ask when we were leaving, my phone died. I don’t have Internet. I also didn’t get to warn Maddie about what I said to Stuart.
Shit, it’s gonna get lonely out here, Future Sam.
Okay, good. I can hear footsteps coming down the driveway. Probably Maddie here to chew me out and tell me to get back inside. Nooo way, I’m going to tell her. I said my piece.
I may be socially impaired but I know enough not to go back in there. I am going to pretend like I am typing something on my laptop because I am super busy as to effectively ignore Maddie.
Oh god.
It’s not Maddie. It’s someone dressed all in gray, looking around at all the cars.
It’s Stuart.
OH MY GOD
When he found me on the hood of Maddie’s car, Stuart just said, “Hey-y-y,” and started laughing, and I started laughing. The echolocation was overwhelming.
“Maddie wanted me to make sure you were okay,” he finally said.
“Yes. I’m okay,” I said. “Are you okay?”
“Why wouldn’t I be?” he said.
Before he finished asking, I blurted, “Because I just dropped, like, an emotional grenade on you. I just took out the clip and threw it and let it explode.”
I realized I wasn’t looking him in the eyes, just staring a hole straight through his broad gray chest.
“Yeah, you could have at least yelled, cover! Or something.” He made exploding sounds with his mouth. I giggled, which I try never to do except within the comfort of my own home, which is saying something about Stuart and how he made me feel.
“Yeah,” I said. “I should have.”
Then we were quiet. And the full weight of what I had done started to sink in, like for instance, the fact that I probably stared at him a lot, not just when we were in high school together, but a lot over this evening, without saying much more than telling him (a) that I was obsessed with him and (b) that we would be in the same city next year.
I said, “Sorry if that was creepy.”
Stuart said, “No! No, don’t worry about it,” and by then, thankfully, we could hear Dale and Maddie and Stacia coming down the driveway after us, so we stopped having to talk.
I purposefully sat in the front, trying to shrug the whole thing off. Trying to forget what I said, believe it or not. I remember thinking, damn, I might just erase the whole night from your memory, Future Sam.
When we got to my house, I called, “This is me!”
As I shut the door, Stuart called from the backseat open window. “Sammie!”
And of course I answered, “What?”
“Come here!” he said.
I turned around, thinking I had forgotten something, probably a half-eaten peanut butter sandwich in a Baggie that fell out from my bag or something.
Then he took my arm—that’s right, you read correctly—he took my arm, and turned it over, as if he were administering a shot. He brought a pen out of his pocket, uncapped it with his teeth, and wrote his email. Each curve of each letter of his name was like, I don’t know, having sex. I have never had sex, but have you ever had someone write on you? Have you ever had a writer write on you? He might as well have been doing it with his fingertip.
“I’m not a great texter,” he said.
It’s been a day since the party and I still have the faded letters of Stuart’s email address written on my arm in marker. I have his email because he gave it to me, and now he has mine because I emailed him.
Holy. Saint. James. Iago. Joan. Of. Fucking. Arc.
I still can’t believe it.
Wait. He’s online now. HE EMAILED ME.
Sammie,
Hey, glad you survived. Like I said last night, don’t worry about it. We were both in weird party mode. It was actually kind of refreshing. I mean, we don’t know each other very well but I will say I always felt this strange connection to you when I was at Hanover. Not a crush per se (ha-ha), because to be honest, I was always too busy acting and writing and doing homework to have much of a crush on anyone. But I remember seeing you in the cafeteria, and when Ms. Cigler read your essay aloud, I really was impressed. Maybe I should have chased after you tonight but it seemed like you wanted to get out of there. I guess I’m just not used to being so upfront with anyone. But I was glad when Maddie asked me to go find you. And I’m glad you told me that.
-Stu
Okay—I wrote back asking if he had a girlfriend. Not going to keep refreshing and checking for a reply. I have plenty of other things to do. I wait for no man. OH WAIT LOOK:
Ha-ha! No, I don’t have a girlfriend. If we’re going to keep playing the frankness game, I said “not really” to Ross because he always used to give me shit for not having a girlfriend. I had one before, in New York, but things ended last year.
Jesus, you really do just dig into it, don’t you? Ha-ha. Um. Why did I give you my email? Because I think you’re cute and smart.
-Stu
PS That book you were pretending to read? It was Anagrams by Lorrie Moore and when you get the chance (maybe when your schedule clears up) you should read it. It’s one of my favorites.
I have just been going back to my email inbox in between doing homework, expecting these emails to disappear, and they never do.
Especially this part: Because I think you’re cute and smart.
Because I think you’re cute and smart.
Because I think you’re cute and smart.
^^^ He said that. Stuart Shah said that!
THOUGHTS
Okay, it’s two a.m. but this thought just occurred to me: Maddie is a bigger fan of simplified plans as opposed to plank plans in 1AR (first affirmative rebuttal, in case you forgot that), but I think it’s just because she’s stressed and wants less to memorize.
Plus, if we go by records alone, we’ll probably be facing Hartford Prep, and those fuckers pack planks like they’re going out of style. Again, don’t worry if you forgot planks—it’s just what it sounds like—flat statements of “what we intend to do about the problem” on top of each other in a really specific order. Simplified plans are much easier and more natural to say, but planks are better at preventing you leaving anything out or (ahem) forgetting anything.
So I’m going to tell her, leave researching the planks to me on both the 1AR AND 2AR, and I’ll give her cards, she can just do the thing where she acts like each idea is occurring to her as she’s saying it.
Okay, you know what, I’m going to email this to Maddie.
Still up at four a.m. I hear a car coming up the mountain—Mom’s home from her shift.
Went down to visit Mom before she went to bed, and she was making tea. Her turquoise scrubs clashed with the old red-and-yellow tile on the counters and walls. Coop always used to say our kitchen and dining room looked like a McDonald’s. The house was dark except for one light above the kitchen table. While she filled up the kettle, Mom kicked off her white tennis shoes.
When I said “hi,” she jumped. I scared the bejesus out of her.
“What are you doing up?” she asked when she recovered and sat down at the chrome table.
I sat across from her. “It’s two days before Nationals, Ma, what do you think?”
She shook her head over the steaming cup. “Oh, Sammie. You gotta sleep. You can’t push yourself this hard.”
“You should talk. You’ve been working a lot of overtime.”
She muttered, “Well, these medical bills aren’t going to pay themselves.”
She immediately said, “Oh god,” and put her hand on my arm. I knew she was sorry. I forgave her. Her big eyes had dark circles around them.
“So what’s the deal with this one? With Nationals,” she continued. “It’s the big show, right?”
�
��Yes, ma’am.”
“And you’re done after this, right?”
I sighed. I hadn’t really thought about it that way. “Yeah, I guess I am.”
Mom smiled a bit, relaxing. “And does this mean you’ll be spending a little more time at home?”
“Depends. Why? I mean, Harrison is going to be fourteen soon, he can babysit just fine. Plus I paid him to do my chores while I’m gone this weekend…”
“No, hon. I mean just to be with us. Just to watch a movie or something once in a while.” She rubbed my arm. I got goose bumps.
She used this guilt tactic a lot. She would whisper to Bette and Davy while the rest of the family was watching the Patriots play on TV, sending them screaming across the house to coerce me from doing homework. When Puppy needed to be let outside, she would send him into my room until he practically dragged me from my desk. While he ran around me in circles, banging into the screen door with excitement, I would hear her from her spot curled up in the living room, laughing to herself.
I pushed out, “Yeah, sure. Maybe after graduation.”
“Mmhmm,” Mom said softly.
After a bit of silence, she reached for my face. “Can I—” she started, and after years of her checking for sore throats, for brushed teeth, for hidden hard candy, I opened my mouth automatically.
“Hmm,” she said. “How’s your tongue?”
I seized up and pulled away. “Fine. Why?”
She looked at me and shrugged, pasting on a smile. “Nothing.”
I put my hand to my jaw. “What, was I slurring?”
“No! No,” she said quickly. “Are you packed?”
She was trying to change the subject. Tomorrow, Maddie would tell me if I sounded weird. I mean, sure, I’d have to make up an excuse, like perhaps I drank a slushie too fast and my tongue was frozen, but anyway, nothing a few of her theater-kid tongue twisters couldn’t fix.
“Yep,” I said. I had packed last night. I would probably unpack and repack again, just for the satisfaction.
“Got your prescriptions?”
“Yep.”
“Even Zavesca?”
I grunted.
(What is Zavesca, you ask? Future Sam, have I not told you about Zavesca? It’s kind of like the grapefruit soda Fresca, except it’s not at all like Fresca, because actually it’s just a terrible pill! Side effects include: Weight loss! Stomach pain! Gas! Nausea and vomiting! Headache, including migraine! Leg cramps! Dizziness! Weakness! Back pain! Constipation!)
“Doctor’s note?”
“Yep.”
“Do you want some spending money?”
Now it was my turn to change the subject. “No, no, no, no worries, Mom.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, we raised enough at the raffle this year to cover everything we’ll need.”
“Mmhmm,” she said again, in only the way Mom can do it. Those “m” sounds. Her mantra. Her strength. If a hurricane started blowing the windows in, Mom would breathe through her nose and say Mmhmm. Once, when I was nine, I had slipped right where I was sitting tonight and hit my head on the edge of the counter, cracking my skull. Mom had made it from the yard to the kitchen in minus-five seconds without a word, wrapped my head in a T-shirt, and called 911, all the while rocking me and saying, Mmhmm, mmhmm, mmhmm.
I stood up from the table, feeling the scar on my scalp. “You know, Mom, someday I’m going to pay you back. When I’m a successful lawyer, or whatever. I’ll pay you back for all the medical bills.”
“Oh, honey,” Mom said, and came around the table in her stocking feet to hug me. I held her tiny body. Her head only came up to the crook of my neck.
“I’m serious! You can even make a ledger…”
“You just get better,” she said, muffled by my shirt. “That’s all I need. You just get better.”
“Okay, I will,” I told her.
And I will.
BY ALL ACCOUNTS, HERE’S HOW NATIONALS SHOULD UNFOLD:
SOME PREDICTIONS BY SAMMIE MCCOY
Maddie and I arrive at the Sheraton Boston via Pat’s van. We check in, hang up our suits, and camp out with snacks. We put on German techno. We go through fresh copies of every article on the living wage and highlight everything we need with the same color. With the same color. That is very important.
As the sun is rising, we roll into the lobby, both figuratively, in the badass word for “arriving,” and literally, because we are pulling tubs full of evidence on wheels. We register and find a spot to practice away from all the other teams.
We set up behind the affirmative desk, on a platform, under lights, in the largest conference room. We watch the other team set up with stony looks on our faces.
We shake hands with the judges.
Then the battle starts.
Maddie stands at the podium and offers the affirmative. Maddie presents a plan. She says why this plan will work. As I said, she’s damn good at it. The emotions she can pack into eight minutes stating nothing but facts in a particular order—it’s a beauty to behold. Think of every motivational speech at the halftime of every sports movie you’ve ever seen, but at the beginning of the movie, and with less tears, less yelling, and more logic.
The negative rebuts. They state their philosophy. They say why our plan won’t work. I listen to their points so closely I can hear their spit sloshing around.
Second affirmative: Here’s me. I gather all the holes in their argument, BUT. But. I have to frame them as if our plan anticipated all these holes to begin with. This is where pantsuits come in handy. Not for any utility reason, just to look down on in order to remind yourself that you are a streetwise BAMF who is never surprised by anything.
They point out the disadvantages of this brand-spanking-new plan.
Maddie comes back in, tries to talk about how stupid they are for arguing against our perfect plan (without losing sight of the original plan).
They pick further holes in our argument, and blow up their own balloon of an argument bigger. This is their last hurrah.
I am the final voice. I find the best facts on our side, the worst facts against them, and reaffirm with some poetry. It is my job to pop their balloon-argument once and for all, and to release our balloon-argument up to the sky. I am essentially Robin Williams in Dead Poets Society. No, I am Théoden, at the Battle of Helm’s Deep, and the round judges are the Riders of Rohan, holding out their questions like spears. I ride past them on a steed of rhetoric, and tap their spears with my sword of facts, leaving them no choice but to follow me.
Sorry, got a little carried away there.
Anyway, voilà, we convince the world that the minimum wage should be raised.
We do it again in a second round.
We do it again a third.
Then, if we can do it one more time, we will win the national championship.
LIFE DURING WARTIME
Last debate practice of our high school careers. We went through some mock rounds versus Alex Conway and Adam Levy, and by the closing statements, Alex was about ready to claw my eyes out. She would have loved to see me go down one last time. Not on your life, Conway. Maddie and I are both made of steel. No, mercury. We’re fluid and poisonous.
I’m going through cards like a nun praying on rosary beads, mouthing each phrase.
Maddie is pacing with her jacket over her head, reciting her opening.
Stacia walks past the government classroom, peering inside. Maddie’s saying, “But in the United States…”
“Maddie!” Stacia calls, leaning on the doorframe.
Maddie pauses and lifts up her jacket. “Hi, Stac,” she says.
“Wanna take a break?” Stacia offers.
“Nope, can’t,” Maddie says. “Sorry, dude.”
Stacia shrugs.
Maddie has put her jacket back over her head.
And that, ladies, gentlemen, and Future Sam, is our life during tournament time.
SO IT BEGINS
At the Sheraton af
ter our first round, Maddie is highlighting while I give my eyes a rest. Bass pounds from the speakers. She is hunched over on the floor, next to three stacks two feet high full of economic analyses and the names of obscure bills and percentage signs. Just a few more to go and we’ll be ready for bed. We both wear our complimentary white Sheraton robes. Our suits hang in the corner.
A momentary silence as the song ends.
“Deutschland, Deutschland! Again!” she shouts, lifting her pink highlighter.
“Again?”
“Again!”
We’ve been playing the same track on repeat for the last hour over the portable speakers Maddie brought. It’s basically three driving, heavy notes under voices of indiscernible genders screaming in German. It motivates us. Well, it motivates Maddie, and because it motivates Maddie, it motivates me. It’s our tradition.
Her mom, who’s in the connected room next door, has learned to bring earplugs.
Three years, twenty-plus tournaments. Thirteen first-place titles, four second-place. When everything is highlighted, and when the clock hits nine a.m., there’s nothing more we can do. This is it.
Last year we watched the outgoing seniors and I clenched my fists in anticipation, talking about how I wouldn’t make the same mistakes, how I would spend the next year honing on slower speech, on evidence organization, what I would wear.
And now it’s just hours away. Our reputation, our reasons for getting scholarships, the countless iterations of “sorry, I can’t come,” now packed into a twin double.
Stuart texted me. Good luck!
I said “Thanks!” and turned my phone off.
If I didn’t, he might start a conversation with me, and then I wouldn’t be able to stop imagining him writing an entire novella on my naked body.
Which would be distracting.
Okay, I had to go splash water on my face in the bathroom and say aloud to my reflection, “Sammie, now is not the time for you to be a lover. Now is the time for you to be a warrior.”
