Dear Isaac Newton, You're Ruining My Life

by Rachel Hruza

  I laughed and followed him to his mother’s car.

  “No more races. It’s cold out and I’m exhausted from them,” Mrs. Nelson said.

  “Don’t worry, Mom,” Oliver said, as she helped him into the car. “I was declared the winner already. You can contain your motherly pride until Truth leaves.”

  He put on his seatbelt, then rolled down his window to talk to me. “Whatever happens tomorrow, run,” he said.

  “Yeah, I’ll just run out the door before the presentation even starts.”

  “No. Be you. Be Truth. Run like only you know you can.”

  Oliver’s mother drove away and I waved goodbye. I was still too exhilarated to feel nervous about tomorrow. Instead, I ran the rest of the way home, as fast as I could in my brace.

  The next day, Mr. B wanted to make sure Brendan and I weren’t afraid of the mic. It wasn’t the microphone the scared me; it was the crowd of my peers staring up at me, and only me, for several minutes.

  On my way to the auditorium, I saw Jenny approaching from the other end of the empty hallway.

  “Hey,” she said.

  “Hey, Jenny,” I said. I’d been avoiding her ever since I’d blown up at her in the locker room. “Look, I’m sorry about last week—”

  She waved her perfectly manicured hand. “Don’t sweat it. I know you had a lot going on.”

  “You were right, though. You were the only person trying to be my friend, and I acted terribly. I’d love to call you my friend.”

  Jenny hesitated, but then she smiled.

  I smiled back. If Isaac Newton had wanted to destroy my social life, he surely hadn’t counted on Jenny and me becoming friends. But honestly, I hadn’t counted on it either.

  “Good luck today,” she said. “I’m looking forward to your speech more than Brendan’s, FYI.”

  She was probably the only one. Still, with Jenny’s encouragement, I walked through the doors of the auditorium with my head and shoulders high, hoping that if Isaac Newton were standing on my shoulders today, he would whack his head on the doorframe.

  Take that, gravity guru!

  Thirty minutes later, students filed into the auditorium like ants following each other to the mother of all anthills (though I imagine ants complain a lot less than twelve- and thirteen-year-olds). I stood there clutching my trumpet like a shield in the extra-large business wear my mom had bought me from the department store over the weekend. I had on black dress pants (tied with my trusty shoelace, of course) and a huge, not-at-all-body-hugging sweater Charity had found in the women’s department. I knew I didn’t look professional, and I’m certain my parents knew it too, but they’d sent me out for the day in my oversized outfit with two hugs and a piece of toast. I was still finding crumbs in the folds of my sweater, and it was after lunch.

  Mom and Dad were going to be at my presentation (“in the back” they said), so I’d have their full support.

  “Two more reasons not to picture the people in the audience in their underwear,” Charity had said.

  “Already ruled that out,” I’d replied, shaking my head with a grimace.

  Now, waiting backstage for the principal to introduce Mr. Borowitz, who would start his talk and then introduce us, I was already pitting out in my sweater that was almost large enough to serve as a chair cover. Mr. B would love that idea. This sweater could go places—do great things. I could picture him saying it.

  Voices echoed past the ugly brown velvet curtains and up onto the stage. Voices buzzing like bees and sirens and music all rolled together; I shut my eyes and felt myself begin to sway back and forth to the erratic rhythm.

  Bumping into someone with my right shoulder, I opened my eyes. I pulled away when I saw Brendan.

  “Hey,” he said.

  “Hi,” I squeaked.

  We stared at each other, silent.

  He was wearing a navy suit. I looked like a sloppy, chaotic mess compared to him. Hair gelled, cologned, he was a debonair young man. In comparison, I was a twelve-year-old child. I suddenly really didn’t want to go on stage.

  Instead of panicking, I took a deep breath. If I could stand up to a hundred or so bored tweenagers, I could stand up to one attractive, charismatic one. “You know, that was a really mean thing you said about me.”

  He looked confused. “What?”

  “Don’t act naïve. The toad thing. I get an occasional zit, but lumpy? Come on, that’s just a horrendous hyperbole.”

  “First of all, I didn’t start that, and secondly, I don’t know what hyperbole means.”

  “Exaggeration. And you did start it. I saw the note you gave Megan. Then that kid ribbited at me and the whole thing took off.”

  Brendan looked at the floor. “Megan wrote that. She was mad I hadn’t kissed her since I kissed you, and she thought that meant I still liked you. It was a joke—her way of apologizing for making a big deal out of it—but some people saw the note in class. I guess she didn’t want to throw it away in case someone else found it.”

  “You’re a liar,” I said.

  He looked up. “No, I’m not.”

  “Yes, you are. You couldn’t even look at me when you were telling that story. And Megan would never say that about me, anyway.”

  Brendan blushed bright red. He kept his gaze low, but he sighed. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for anyone besides her to see that. I was … showing off, I guess. It was stupid.”

  “Yes,” I agreed. “It was.”

  “I only came over here because I wanted to tell you good luck.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “You too.” Jerk-face. Pretty, pretty jerk-face.

  He walked away, and I stood alone with my trumpet, wondering how I’d ever trusted him at all. If he had really liked me, he wouldn’t have gone after my best friend seconds after letting go of my hand.

  Finally, Ms. Eastin sauntered up to the podium and introduced Mr. Borowitz. When she called Mr. B’s name, she began to clap respectfully. Quite a few people joined in, but from my hiding place behind the curtain, I could see a lot of them were already considering Mr. Sandman and his land of dreams. Mr. B ran out, swinging his arms and legs further than a runner naturally would. He grabbed the mic, and shouted, “Good afternoon, West River Junior High! How’s everybody doin’?”

  Some clapping again, but not very loud.

  “I can’t hear you! How are you doing?”

  Even fewer people clapped.

  “That’s wonderful!” Mr. B undid the button on his suit jacket so it hung open, and he placed his left fist on his hip. “How many of you are bored and tired with the same old day-to-day routine of junior high life?”

  I knew Megan would be writhing in her seat. This was the same speech her dad gave for many other organizations; he just substituted their age group in instead of “junior high.” Dozens of senior centers and business management training workshops had already heard this same schmaltzy speech.

  “Let’s welcome the two people you came here to see: the talented Brendan Matthews and the lovely Truth Trendon!”

  I followed Brendan onto the stage to the two chairs set out for us. The audience clapped wildly along with a few throaty croaks, but nothing too out of hand. I sat, frowning, because Mr. B had called me “lovely” instead of “talented” like Brendan. For one thing, did Mr. B not think I had talent? And for another, I was definitely not lovely in my sweater-robe.

  “We’re going to hear from these two in a few minutes, but first, I want you all to consider this: have you really lived?”

  “Duh,” a voice said.

  Several people laughed, but Mr. B was unfazed. He smiled. “Seriously, think about it. I know you’re hardly even teenagers, but that’s not too young to make an impact in the world. It’s never too early or too late to make a change.”

  He went on a motivational rampage for a while, and I zoned out, trying to pick out faces of people through the glare of the bright stage lights. When I realized several people were staring at me, I focused back on Mr
. B. Someone needed to pay attention to him.

  “Our goals for this assembly are to remember that we need to strive to have L.I.V.E.D. What do those letters stand for again?” Mr. B leaned forward with his hand behind his ear. The junior high student body started to repeat the words, and I could kind of pick out “Learn,” but that was it. The rest of it was just voices jumbled together into a garbled, un-enunciated mess.

  “Good!” Mr. B threw up his arm in victory. “Learn, Investigate, Value, Execute, and Develop. L.I.V.E.D.! Together, we can help each other live to our fullest extent.”

  I saw a girl yawn. She didn’t even bother trying to hide it; her elbows were resting on her knees, her head was in her hands, and her mouth opened in a huge stretch of her jaw muscles, her teeth showing all the way up to her gums.

  Staring at her made me yawn, but I covered my mouth, pretending I was going to sneeze. It wasn’t a great attempt, but at least I’d put in the effort. According to Mr. B, I’d probably L.I.V.E.D. more than she had.

  “Next up, we have a very talented seventh grader. He’s already been recognized for his talent in football, basketball, and track, and he has been on the honor roll the past two semesters. Let’s welcome one of your very own Junior High Bucks, Brendan Matthews!”

  The crowd of students erupted into applause, jolting awake the bored ones, including me. I knew I wouldn’t receive applause that loud; I wouldn’t even kid myself by dreaming about it. Mr. B would announce my name and we wouldn’t even hear crickets—not even bugs wanted to cheer for Truth Trendon, the toad monster. Maybe Harold had been right all along; maybe I did have cooties and they were finally rubbing off on people.

  While Brendan began his presentation (it was memorized—no speech written, no cue cards, nada), I pictured myself turning into a giant amphibious cootie mass. Eventually, I’d be eating children instead of passing off my contagious inept social skills; swallowing them whole, homework and all. I’d hide in the school broom closet, and I’d survive by eating the paper towels in the wee morning hours (everyone knows cooties don’t sleep). Pulling myself back to reality, glad to find my hands weren’t the lumpy green appendages I’d just been envisioning, I heard Brendan’s voice.

  “My success as an athlete has taught me dedication. Without that, I wouldn’t have the means to be responsible to this school or to myself. I have always believed I can do anything I put my mind to.”

  Not everything, I thought bitterly.

  “I believe he’s right. If you all dedicate yourselves to your goals, you’ll accomplish them too,” Mr. B summarized.

  My butt was falling asleep in my chair, so I shifted my weight, then sighed and mentally shook myself; I had to speak soon.

  Brendan said a few more words and then stepped back from the microphone. Everyone applauded, though a little less exuberantly than before. The charismatic charmer, the Brendan Matthews, had bored his peers.

  I scowled; that was bad news for me. You better get ready, fellow Bucks. Truth’s gonna put you to sleep.

  Mr. B leapt back into the middle of the stage. “That’s awesome, Brendan! Thanks for sharing that with us! Let’s hear it for Brendan one more time.”

  He started clapping, but very few people joined in. Mr. B was no idiot; he could tell he’d lost us. People were fanning themselves, yawning, and burying their faces in their hands. I was squirming in my seat on stage. Even Megan, sitting a few rows up, looked bored, not really caring if her father sank or sailed in front of her peers.

  So Mr. B asked for Brendan’s help. Brendan slowly walked back up to the mic.

  “Help lead us through the five stages of L.I.V.E.D., Brendan!”

  Mr. B pulled out a sign with the words listed vertically down it in white letters. “Repeat after Brendan!”

  It may not have been apparent to everyone in the audience, because of the bright lights already washing him out, but Brendan suddenly turned absolutely stark white. He clenched and unclenched his hands, and I saw beads of sweat on his forehead.

  I couldn’t remember all five words, even though Mr. B had just gone through them five minutes ago, so I would have been glad for that sign if I’d had to do the same thing. As I watched Brendan stand there in fear, a small part of me (maybe larger than I wanted to admit) began to rejoice. He’d broken my heart and tried to get me to cheat. If the universe was providing vengeance, who was I to intervene? But the rest of me began to panic for him. He’d know some of those words just from seeing them around school, but I wasn’t sure if he’d be able to pronounce them on the spot like this. I knew this was his fear: reading in front of other people. And this was not just a classroom full of his peers, but an entire lecture hall.

  “Okay,” Brendan said.

  A few students repeated “okay,” their laughter dancing up to the stage. Brendan laughed nervously.

  “Learn,” he said.

  Mr. B pointed at the crowd and they shouted back, more enthusiastically than I had expected, “Learn!”

  “In—investigate.”

  “Investigate!” Mr. B was on cloud nine, happily bouncing between Brendan and the crowd. He’d gained their attention back.

  “Value.”

  “Value!”

  Brendan paused. My heart went out to him. He laughed nervously again. Whispered voices began filtering throughout the crowd. I saw Miss Peters look at Ms. Eastin, who was watching the presentation with an unpleasant look on her face. I bit my lip. Then I saw Oliver. He could tell something was wrong, and when he turned his gaze to me, I felt an idea boiling in my gut.

  This was Brendan’s back brace moment—knowing he was different from everyone else and fearing everyone was going to find out. Some people need to hide things about themselves, to keep their secrets until they feel ready and comfortable to disclose them. At one time, that was me.

  Now, I knew I had to do something stupid enough to shock everyone and big enough to cover the mess Brendan was about to be in. Every self-conscious cell in my body was crying “Don’t you dare!” but I knew what I was going to do—what I had to do—in the next ten seconds. I set my trumpet carefully on the floor next to me.

  From my close proximity on the stage, I could see Brendan’s eyes were welling up with tears.

  They were pleading, someone save me.

  I felt myself leaning forward. Oliver smiled.

  I thought: Truth will set you free!

  And then I did what any self-conscious seventh-grade girl would do: I bounded out of my chair and tore off my tent-sized sweater (it didn’t even get stuck on my head like my shirts usually did). I hadn’t meant to shout “free,” but I did, and I think that threw people off more than my stripping, because it clearly was not one of Mr. B’s steps. But I was caught up in the moment and I couldn’t help myself.

  Now, with all of the glaring and judgmental eyes on me instead of my former-crush-turned-enemy, I began to regret my rash decision. In front of the entire seventh- and eighth-grade student body, I stood there in my brace and surprisingly breathable white cotton undershirt for all to see. Mouths were agape, and after the utterly complete and horrifying silence, everyone began to whisper to one another. No one was sure what was wrong with me.

  I took the microphone from Brendan, whose mouth was also agape, but I imagine he was more shocked by the fact I had saved him from definite social annihilation than he was by me exposing my secret to the world. I was Brendan’s hero, for once. Sure, people might find out he couldn’t read very well, but not if I could help it.

  I took a deep breath, lifted the microphone to my lips, and looked out at the now-very-wide-awake crowd.

  “My name is Truth Trendon, and I have scoliosis,” I said.

  The mic squealed a bit when I said “scoliosis” but I didn’t stop. “Scoliosis is a deformity of the spine. My spine curves to the right and shoves my ribs all cattywampus, so I’ve worn this brace since July. I was afraid to tell anyone because I thought everyone would think I was gross or weird.”

  I felt
their gazes burning holes in me. I kept talking and didn’t make eye contact, for fear I’d burst into tears or hysterical laughter.

  “But now you all know, and I guess I don’t care anymore. I’m not gross; I just have to wear this thing.”

  I tapped my fist against my brace. All was quiet again, except for a few hushed voices. I began to set the mic down in its stand, but then I pulled it back up to my mouth. “Oh, and I’m an okay kisser. Not stupendous, but not horrible. And nothing like a toad or a frog. Okay, thanks for listening.”

  I found my gaze drifting toward Oliver again. I thought about giving my prepared speech, but this seemed to be enough. Just like Oliver had said, I’d run with it. So I shrugged my shoulders and stepped back from the podium.

  Megan’s dad couldn’t contain his excitement. I could already hear him in my head: “You accepted yourself! You can now go on with your life without fear!” I thrust the mic at him and he took it.

  “Don’t you see?” His eyes seemed to light up the entire room as he thrust his left arm out toward me and tilted his head back. “Truth has L.I.V.E.D.!”

  “Except for the developed part,” some kid called out.

  Giggles wafted throughout the room. I crossed my arms protectively over my chest.

  Brendan moved closer to me. He lifted his hands and slowly began to clap. It was quiet. No one clapped along with him. Finally, he stepped up to the mic at the podium. Some people clapped for him as he pulled the microphone a little higher.

  “Truth Trendon is the bravest person I know,” he said. “You should all be grateful she goes to our school. I know I am.”

  He looked at me, and even though I knew I’d never feel the same way about him as I had a few weeks before, my heart fluttered one last time at that smile. One more smile just for me.

  “I’m grateful for Truth!” a familiar voice hollered. I looked up and saw Megan leaning forward in her seat in the middle of the rows of chairs.

  “So am I!” Jenny Henderson stood up and smiled at me. It was still shocking that we were friends now. I smiled back.

  “Me too!”

  Near the end of the row, Miss Peters stood up. She started clapping; and whether or not people were just excited because the boring, motivational talk was nearly over or because Miss Peters was their favorite teacher, they started clapping too. They were clapping for me.