by Rob Buyea
“Your secret’s safe with me,” I said.
We smiled and continued turning in a circle on the floor. More important than Trevor’s feet were his arms and hands—the ones wrapped around my waist and placed on the small of my back. If he had even tried to slip them down to my butt like nimrod Mark was egging him on to do, that would’ve been the end of us—no question. But Trevor wasn’t that foolish.
I maintain, I wasn’t some hopeless romantic falling helplessly in love. We weren’t even boyfriend-girlfriend—were we? I didn’t know; I’d never done this before. This was new territory for my heart, so I had to keep control over the situation, which meant establishing rules and expectations.
I pulled Trevor aside. “Listen, we’ve got to get a few things straight.”
He swallowed and nodded. I loved that I could still intimidate him.
“One: Occasional hand holding will be permitted, but the PDA stops there. Got it?”
More nodding.
“You do know what ‘PDA’ is, right?”
No response. He didn’t. Unbelievable.
“ ‘Public displays of affection,’ ” I said.
“Oh. Right. Of course.”
“Two: No texting. We’re not ready for that. Phone calls are acceptable, but you should be the one who calls me.”
“When?”
“How about Tuesdays and Thursdays for now? Let’s start slow.”
“Okay,” he agreed.
I could see that he was more nervous than I was when it came to us.
“And three: Let’s not blab about us to our friends, i.e., Mark.”
Trev sighed. “I was hoping you’d say that. The last thing I want is him ribbing me at every chance.”
“Good,” I said, satisfied. I held out my hand and we shook, which wasn’t a very boyfriendy or girlfriendy thing to do, but it worked. For now, we were the perfect secret.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
It’s no secret that a book is read by many eyes and touched by many hands before it is finally ready for the world. The Perfect Secret was no exception. My daughter Emma and my wife, Beth, were the first to read the manuscript and will forever be two of my most important and trusted readers. I couldn’t do this without their feedback and support. I’m also extremely lucky that my daughters Lily and Anya made sure I got the gymnastics stuff correct—which wasn’t the case until they helped me.
Thank you to Kevin McQuade, who dedicated his time and expertise and helped me answer complicated immigration questions. Thank you also to Amy Jefferson and Robin Rowe Bradley for helping me with my questions about filing income taxes, as it relates to the story.
Once again, Gavin’s sketches are the work of Leslie Mechanic—and I love them.
I’m beyond grateful for my editor, Françoise Bui, who always makes me better than I ever could be without her insightful comments and questions and friendship. Thank you to my agent, Paul Fedorko. And to Beverly Horowitz, for the care you’ve shown me since the beginning. I will never be able to adequately express my gratitude.
Lastly, a huge thank-you to the entire team at Random House Children’s Books for continuing to support me and make my books look perfect.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
ROB BUYEA taught third and fourth graders for six years; then he taught high school biology and coached wrestling for seven years. Currently, he is a full-time writer and lives in Massachusetts with his wife and daughters. He wrote The Perfect Score, the companion novel to The Perfect Secret. His first novel, Because of Mr. Terupt, was selected as an E. B. White Read Aloud Honor Book and a Cybils Honor Book. It has also won seven state awards and was named to numerous state reading lists. Mr. Terupt Falls Again and Saving Mr. Terupt are companion novels to Because of Mr. Terupt. Visit him online at robbuyea.com and on Facebook, and follow @Rob Buyea on Twitter.
Things need to get ugly before they can get better. It’s that simple. It’s a fact of life. Think of a good bruise you got from a football game. That bruise is a nice black-and-blue to start. Then it turns into a nasty green-and-yellow mix before finally getting better. Think of a leaky pipe in your ceiling. My old man would tell ya you’ve gotta cut a big, gaping hole up there in order to fix it. It’s gonna be ugly before he can make it any better. And think of babies. A lot of people think babies are adorable, but I happen to disagree. When my little sister, Meggie, came home from the hospital, I took one look at her and said, “Wow, she’s ugly.” She was all round and pudgy like a snowman, with a floppy and misshapen head.
“Niño! Don’t say that!” Mom scolded.
“Well, she is,” I mumbled. Her dented head reminded me of someone who had just taken his football helmet off.
The good news is, after a while things straighten out and we don’t look so bad—usually. That’s not the case for everyone, though. There were definitely a few kids in school that hadn’t happened for yet—and might never—like Trevor and Mark and definitely like Scott Mason. That boy was a mess. He mighta been one of the smartest kids in the whole darn school, but that didn’t keep him from showing up every day with his shoes untied, his backpack half zipped, and scarecrow hair. He woulda looked better behind a face mask. Meggie, on the other hand, wasn’t all that ugly anymore, but I didn’t dare tell her that. Good looks aside, my little sister was still a royal pain in the you-know-what. Dad liked to say she was fortunate to have his good looks, but I think he meant Mom’s.
My old man said lots of things, and I made sure most of them went in one ear and out the other. He didn’t know what he was talking about half the time, but that truth about things needing to get ugly before getting better…I got that from him.
Except that bruise and leaky pipe and baby stuff is simple compared to the kind of ugly that went down this year.
I’ve been doing gymnastics since I was five. I’ve got a natural talent and body for it, but to be great, it takes more than that. It takes lots of hard work and commitment. So when I turned seven, Jane had me join the traveling team and I began practicing five days a week and it was fun.
By the time sixth grade rolled around, I was practicing six days a week. My sessions went for three hours—sometimes longer. Every so often I missed a Friday in school, because that’s when Jane and I were putting on the miles to get to the next meet, but it was worth it. Jane was always reminding me that if I managed to win at some big competitions and kept getting all As, then I’d get a college scholarship.
This year Jane had me scheduled for a few smaller warm-up meets in preparation for my big run at the end of the season—first the state championships and then Regionals. The top gymnasts in the state qualify for Regionals. I made it last year but didn’t do much at the meet. This year Jane’s plan had me winning States and making noise at Regionals. I was already picking at my calluses. Jane kept telling me if I placed high at Regionals, then I’d put my name on the map. She said that needed to happen so college coaches would start paying attention to my results.
Of course, I also needed to make sure I kept doing what I was supposed to in school. Jane said school and grades came first, but she didn’t seem to get nearly as worked up over my tests as she did my gymnastics. School was more like the thing I did in between my practices. That’s just the way it was.
I used to love gymnastics.
NATALIE KURTSMAN
ASPIRING LAWYER
Kurtsman Law Offices
BRIEF #1
Summer
I know the difference between right and wrong—always have. It amazes me how people can actually goof that up. I mean, it’s not terribly complicated. When in doubt, stop and deliberate with your conscience. I do it all the time.
Natalie, should you do this?
I know that if I have to ask myself this question, chances are I shouldn’t do it, because something is wrong. So you see, it’s really very simple. That’s why I pl
an to follow in my parents’ footsteps and be a lawyer when I grow up. (This is also why I document everything.) I know the rules and I follow them. I like rules. It’s also true that lawyers are generously compensated for their services, and naturally I want a job where I’ll make money—I won’t deny that—but not because I’m greedy and want to be rich and famous; that would be wrong. Rather, I hope to do something brave and important. What? I don’t know yet. Ambitious, certainly.
Now, two things happen when one’s always doing what one is supposed to in school. Being well-behaved and following the rules makes one perfect in the eyes of adults but repulsive in the eyes of one’s peers. As a result, one develops the reputation of being a know-it-all. And you might assume that since I’m a know-it-all, I must also be the teacher’s pet.
Objection! That’s speculation.
However, in this case, you’d be correct. I am the teacher’s pet—every year. I could let that upset me—kids saying those things about me—but that would be foolish. So what if I don’t have any friends; I don’t need them. My conscience keeps me company, and our conversations are far more important for my lawyer training than the meaningless gossip that would transpire with any immature kid my age. So what if everyone wants to call me a know-it-all? They can tell me how sorry they are when they come knocking, begging me to be their lawyer because they’ve done something wrong. Lucky for them, if that happens, I’ll do what’s right.
But, Natalie, not everything in life is so black-and-white.
Yes, I’ve heard that before. When it comes to right versus wrong, I don’t believe it.
* * *
—
I should’ve listened more to my conscience. Things got blurry this year. It wasn’t so easy to see clearly.
I might be messy, but I like to help, and I always mean well. It says that right on my old report cards.
Scott is a nice boy. He likes to help out, and he always means well.
They also say I need to work on self-control, because sometimes I say and do things without thinking. And I need to work on completing my assignments, especially in writing, because I hate to write. I love math and reading—but I hate to write! I also need to improve my organization. (Mom swears I’d lose my head if it weren’t attached.) But my report cards have said those things ever since kindergarten.
Something else I’m good at is coming up with ideas, but things don’t always turn out the way I hope or plan—even though I try hard. That’s been noted on my report cards, too.
Scott has no shortage of ideas,
but things don’t always turn out as he envisions.
Those are the exact words Mrs. Hollerbeck wrote back in first grade after I caught a snake at recess and brought it inside so we could have a class pet. Lightning—that’s what I named him—snuck out of my pocket, and I didn’t know it until he slithered across Mrs. Hollerbeck’s foot. Boy, did she holler then. I scrambled after my snake, but Lightning didn’t want to cooperate. I chased him this way and that way, zigzagging around desks. It took my fastest hustling, but I finally got him cornered and grabbed him.
By then a bunch of kids were standing on their chairs, screaming and yelling. Trevor and Mark, too, only they were hooting with laughter. And Hollerbeck was still hollering.
I didn’t have to go see Principal Allen that time because there was so much noise coming from our classroom that he came and found me. We walked outside and released Lightning back into the wild before going to his office.
* * *
—
None of this changed in sixth grade. It only got worse. Way worse. I really made a mess of things this year.
I couldn’t wait for school to start—and I didn’t like school. But I liked summer even less. I’d had enough of summer.
What’s next on
your reading list?
Discover your next
great read!
* * *
Get personalized book picks and up-to-date news about this author.
Sign up now.
