by Lisa Yee
I knew he meant it. Nick never lied to me.
When we entered the debate room after lunch, the talking stopped. However, Rosalee Gomez seemed to have no problem with her vocal cords. “Good morning, Master Debater,” she said, waving a flyer in my face.
I didn’t reply.
“Love your slogan,” Rosalee continued. Her voice was dripping with more snark than usual. “ ‘Higgs for Dinky Dick of the Year.’ It’s very catchy.”
I could feel my face start to get red. At least I no longer broke out in hives like I used to when I was younger. “Are you proud of yourself, Rosalee?” I asked. “You’re the one behind the flyers, admit it.”
Rosalee emitted a high-pitched laugh that sounded like the French fry timer at Benny’s B-Burgers. “Higgs, you’re nothing but a pig — and I don’t waste my time on pigs, unless they’re barbecued and served with coleslaw on the side.”
“You’re deluding yourself, Rosalee. Not even a pig would allow you in their mud pit. You might get it dirty.”
It was so obvious. Of course. Of course, it was Rosalee. Who else could it have been?
Coach Valcorza sprinted over to us. He was wearing one of his many monogrammed shirts, and today’s tie was paisley. Coach was one of the only teachers at Sally Ride High who wore a tie to school. Every year, debate team members would try to outdo one another by giving him the ugliest Christmas tie we could find. Nick won last year with one that featured a photo of a mean-looking cat dressed as an elf.
“If you two are going to debate, at least do it parliamentary style,” Coach Valcorza said.
Rosalee and I glared at each other, neither one of us willing to back down.
Someone in the back of the room shouted, “Smackdown!”
Another person shouted, “Go, Dinky Dick!”
“I’m game,” Rosalee said, flipping her mess of black hair over her shoulder. “You man enough, Higgs?”
“I may not be as manly as you, Rosalee,” I told her. “But I’m man enough to decimate you in a debate.”
There was a buzz in the air as we each took our place behind a podium.
“Because we are forgoing the twenty-minute prep time, this will be an ad hoc parliamentary debate, and we’ll play loose with the rules,” Coach Valcorza announced cheerfully. “You can even combine your affirmatives and negatives and/or rebuttals with questioning. Do you both agree?”
We nodded.
In a way, I felt sorry for Rosalee. She was in for a rude surprise if she thought she could outdebate me. Sure, Rosalee may have been the national champion in Dramatic Interpretation, but that was a bogus win. Dramatic Interp was merely acting out someone else’s words. Imagine doing a passage from My Sister’s Keeper, over and over and over again, and thinking that there was any skill to that.
As for me? At state finals, Nick and I swept first place, again, and I took home the first-place speaker trophy to add to my collection. At nationals, we made it to semifinals, and would have gone to finals if that team from Scarsdale hadn’t won on a bogus topicality technicality.
“Let’s do this!” Coach Valcorza shouted, pumping his fist in the air. There was nothing he loved better than a spirited debate. “Shall we flip a coin and see who’s affirmative?”
I bowed to Rosalee. “Why not let Ms. Gomez be affirmative and choose the topic?”
Chivalry was not dead, but with any luck, it would be the death of my opponent.
Rosalee’s eyes widened. “Any topic?” she asked warily. Rosalee had debated a bit, but only as a floater if someone was sick. “Not one of this year’s resolutions?”
“Your choice,” I said generously. “Make one up. Anything you want. Anything.” I was feeling generous. “Think of it as my graduation gift to you.”
She stared at me, as if waiting for the punch line. None came. “All right, then,” Rosalee said. She bit her pen and began scribbling furiously on her legal pad.
“Who would like to judge?” Coach Valcorza asked. Two varsity debaters and a JV girl raised their hands. I tried not to smile. The guys were friends of mine and routinely made fun of Rosalee behind her back. She was one of those let’s-castrate-all-men feminists, so most of the guys were too afraid to openly mock her, for fear that she would do them bodily harm.
I studied Rosalee and tried to second-guess her topic. The death penalty? Immigration? Medical marijuana? No problem. I had those all covered, pro and con. Plus, I’d been clocked at speaking over three hundred words per minute. The poor girl didn’t stand a chance.
I took a deep breath. This was to be my last debate, ever. Even though Harvard had a stellar debate team, I had decided against joining. Just because I was an undergrad at Harvard, that didn’t guarantee that I’d get into their dental school. Harvard Dental only took thirty-five students a year, and it meant that in my first four years I’d need to ace organic chemistry, microbiology, physics, biochemistry … the scope of my collegiate commitment to a dentistry career was beginning to dawn on me. Honestly, I had been so focused on getting in that I never thought to look beyond an acceptance letter. And the only thing that piqued my interest during the campus tour was Harvard’s Community Garden — an ambitious student-run model for sustainable urban gardening.
Coach Valcorza nodded to Rosalee. “Okay,” he said, “affirmative constructive — you’ve got six minutes … go.”
He clicked his stopwatch.
Rosalee cleared her throat, gripped the sides of the podium, and began. “Resolved: Higgs Boson Bing is an asshole and therefore should immediately be stripped of his debate captain status —”
Groans and cheers echoed in the room after Rosalee stated her ridiculous proposition. Coach Valcorza rubbed what little hair he had with both hands, a habit he had when he was nervous. We used to joke that he had a full head of hair at the beginning of the school year, and was always bald at the end.
Rosalee’s argument was totally out of the realm of rational debate, and she reveled in it. She stopped slouching and her voice rose as she continued her assault. Rosalee Gomez was on fire and she knew it.
“One: Higgs Boson Bing is known as a powerhouse debater. However,” she continued, “it is common knowledge that his partner, Nicholas ‘Nick’ Milgram, does the majority of the research, writing, and prep, rendering Higgs little more than a talking head.
“Two: While Higgs Boson Bing is well known on campus, that does not equate to well liked, and therefore this reflects poorly on the debate team. His popularity was mostly due to his relationship with Rosemary ‘Roo’ Wynn, plus the awards heaped upon him by faculty who he has conned into thinking he is a somebody.
“Three: Higgs Boson Bing twists the truth to get what he wants. He is unethical, unprincipled, and equivocates to such a degree that false statements should be renamed Bing-isms.”
As Rosalee rambled on with her slander, I looked around the room. Some of the girls were cheering. A lot of the varsity guys were laughing. Coach Valcorza looked amused, though I was not. Clearly, Rosalee was out of control and her arguments had no substance — like her. I thought back to the night we shared at Howard Johnson’s and realized that she was hell-bent on exacting her revenge.
A third of the class, who happened to all be female, broke out in wild applause when Rosalee was done. I was momentarily speechless. I glanced at Nick, who looked as shocked as I was.
Okay, okay. Two can play at this game, I thought.
I took a deep breath and consulted my notes. Coach Valcorza gave me six minutes for my opposition speech, coupled with a cross-exam, and I was determined to make the most of it.
“My esteemed, or shall I say ‘steamed,’ opponent is confused,” I began slowly before ramping up my assault. “Ms. Gomez throws out so many false premises that it is a wonder her arguments don’t implode. She is so vague that I can barely see her. This much is true: Higgs Boson Bing is a ‘somebody,’ as confirmed by his acceptance into Harvard University. As to Ms. Gomez’s contentions, they are weak prima facie arguments tha
t are nothing less than fabrications of a — how can I put this nicely? Of a … deranged mind.
“The debate duo of Higgs Boson Bing and Nicolas ‘Nick’ Milgram, California State Champions two years in a row, is indeed a team. What evidence,” I said forcefully, “do you have that Milgram carried Bing, and not the other way around?”
Rosalee stood ramrod straight and stared at the back wall. “Mr. Milgram’s girlfriend, Samantha Verve, told me,” she said.
I was taken aback, but quickly gained my composure. “Can you elaborate?”
“Ms. Verve said that Nick said that he was getting tired of doing all the work and Higgs getting all the glory.”
I waved my hand dismissively. “Hearsay,” I informed the judges with a smirk. I looked at Nick, but he was playing with his cell phone. “You contend that Higgs Boson Bing is popular, but not well liked,” I continued. “Can you quantify this?”
“Well, I don’t have actual numbers, but —”
“Can you quantify this?” I asked, loudly. Always speak to the back of the room, Coach Valcorza had taught us.
“McDonald’s hamburgers are the most popular, but it doesn’t make them any good,” she said by way of evidence. “As for Higgs, everyone says that he’s a jerk, but they don’t want to cross him because —”
“Ms. Gomez,” I said, cutting her off. “Need I remind you that we are not discussing hamburgers, but rather, someone’s reputation? You ought to know that plucking rumors out of the clouds is not solid evidence. Your second point has no merit. As for your third accusation, that Mr. Bing is unethical, unprincipled, and …” I checked my notes. “… equivocates,” I continued, “it is fiction. Where is the proof for this?”
“Yes,” Rosalee answered. “I would be happy to. You — er, Mr. Bing created a bogus social service organization called the Society of Animal Protection, a.k.a. SAP. You then included it on your Harvard application —”
“Ms. Gomez,” I shouted. “Again, hearsay. You have no proof, no evidence, that what you are contending is true. Furthermore, yours is merely a slanderous case of rumored misconduct, clearly delivered because you have some sort of ongoing grudge against the aforementioned Mr. Bing. Your insinuations are pathetic, really….”
I couldn’t let her know that I was rattled. Did Nick really say that to Samantha? Did some people actually dislike me? What did Rosalee know about SAP and my Harvard application?
“Ms. Gomez,” Coach Valcorza said. “Seven minutes for the affirmative.”
I cracked my knuckles. I was always able to poke holes in my opponent’s arguments. That was where I shined. Normally, I was energized at this point in a debate. However, when I looked over at Rosalee, she winked at me and then blew me a kiss, and for the first time I doubted myself.
Whoa, Nick, wait up!”
He was hurrying out of the debate room. “Can’t talk to you, remember.”
“Right,” I replied. “Because of my moral compass. Hey, did you really say that stuff to Samantha?”
“I don’t remember,” he said, keeping his head down. “Look, I gotta go.”
I watched him disappear into the crowd. It was only when Zander Findley coughed into his hand and said, “Dinky Dick,” that I remembered the flyers. I felt like I had been hit with a solid one-two punch. Where was Mr. French? Mr. Avis promised that the janitor would be getting rid of them.
As I ripped down the flyers, Zander followed closely behind asking in his obnoxious pseudo-intellectual voice, “How does it feel to know you are despised?
“Why did you refuse to save Roo’s life?
“How dinky is your dick, Higgs?
“Did you really cheat on your Harvard application?”
Had that rumor already ignited? I wondered. I pivoted and started to light into him — “Zan … Zan … Zan …” To my horror, I couldn’t get his name out. Panic struck. My throat constricted. I shook my head and tried to ignore Zander, who was looking more smug than usual in his stupid brown corduroy jacket, despite the 85-degree heat.
As I pushed through the crowd, I ripped down more flyers along the way — and the more I tore down, the more pissed I became. I spotted Mr. French laughing and talking on his cell phone.
“Excuse me,” I said. “But aren’t you supposed to be taking these down?”
Mr. French looked at me like I was garbage. “Do I work for you?” he asked, putting his phone away. When he smiled, his crooked teeth showed. My teeth are perfect, thanks to my father, “the painless dentist,” and his colleague, Dr. Caprio, “the straight-up orthodontist.”
“Technically, yes you do,” I told him. “My parents pay taxes. Mr. Avis assured me that the flyers would be disposed of.”
“Did he, now?” Mr. French drawled. Despite his name, he spoke with a Southern accent. Rumor had it that he was a Sally Ride High School star quarterback twenty years ago and had earned a football scholarship, but his grades rendered him ineligible. “Well,” Mr. French said, “I’ll be sure to get right on it.”
“Thank you,” I said, turning around to leave.
“Yeah,” he continued, raising his voice. “It will be my pleasure to take down the flyers, since I have nothing better to do and you, college boy, are so important. Oh, and by the way, this is called a trash can,” he explained, motioning to one. “These are for trash.”
Clearly, Mr. French must have sustained head injuries during his football days.
“Do you know what a trash can looks like?” he asked, as if speaking to a toddler.
“Yes?” I said. I didn’t know what kind of game he was playing.
“Good,” Mr. French said.
“I gotta go,” I said awkwardly. He was starting to creep me out.
As I raced down the empty hall, I could hear him laughing.
* * *
In AP Literature, Ms. Gill was telling us about the time she saw her favorite author, Sherman Alexie, at the airport but was too starstruck to say anything. As she recounted how she followed him to baggage claim, I looked around the room. I was no longer convinced it had to be Rosalee Gomez who put up the flyers. For all I knew, it could have been Mr. Avis, or even Mr. French, or most likely Zander Findley.
I started a list.
I divided the yellow legal pad into two columns. The first one was for people who might hold a grudge against me. The second ranked their capacity for revenge on a 1 to 10 scale, with 10 being “Death to Higgs.” At first, I decided just to include people from the last year of high school. Then I changed my mind and listed everyone from anytime. Who knew about these psychopaths? They could have been harboring a grudge for years.
By the time the bell rang, I was shocked. I had used up two pages, and I wasn’t done yet.
Hey, honey,” Mom said when I got home. She was still wrapped in her Robe of Depression. “I thought you’d be staying after school since this is your last week.”
Charlie was sitting at the kitchen counter, eating a scone. She began to laugh when she saw me.
“What’s so funny?” my mother asked. She looked down at the spatula in her hand as if surprised to see it.
“Higgs got a lot of publicity today,” Charlie said with faux innocence.
Mom handed the spatula to Charlie and gave me a hug. “Why, that’s wonderful, Higgs. You want to tell me about it?”
“Yes, Higgs,” Charlie said. “Tell Mom all about it.”
“Go to hell, Charles,” I said.
As I marched down the hall, I could hear my mother yell, “Higgs! Come back right now and apologize to your sister!”
I flopped onto my bed. The navy-blue quilt had the Harvard crest on it, alongside the crest of the Harvard dental school. Grammy Bing had made it for Jeffrey to take to college. After he died, my parents gave it to me. I inherited most of his things, like his board games, and his police memorabilia, and his Rubik’s Cube collection.
Jeffrey could solve a Rubik’s Cube faster than anyone I knew. It took him over a year, but he taught me how to solve them too.
Then there was the Los Angeles Police Department stuff, like the badge he got on eBay, and the California penal code book his best friend, Connor Douglas, had given him. They’d play this game where one of them would make up a crime, and the other would tell them how many laws they broke.
We used to have Sunday Family Game Night. But without Jeffrey to organize them, they just stopped. I once asked why we didn’t have them anymore, and my father said, “Game Night would have stopped anyway once Jeffrey went off to Harvard.” I guess it had never occurred to any of us to continue it without him.
My bookshelves were packed. Half with books, the other half with Kram Notes. Both were in alphabetical order. On my desk was a neat pile of college acceptance letters. The one from Harvard was on top. Dad wanted to get that one framed and hang it next to Jeffrey’s acceptance letter in his den — which was next to my father’s Harvard letter, and my grandfather’s. A legacy of Bings.
I picked up a photo of Roo and me in front of the Sleeping Beauty Castle at Disneyland. We were both wearing Mickey Mouse ears and looked deliriously happy. I guess we were then, and for a moment, I missed her. The trouble was that out of our over two years together, we had maybe four good months total.
There was a knock on the door.
“Higgs, we need to talk.”
Mom looked worried.
“Sure. What?”
“Charlie told me what happened at school.”
I could feel my body tense.
“Is it true?” she asked. “Were there disparaging flyers of you all around campus?”
“Did Charlie tell you what they said?”
Mom shook her head. “She said to ask you.”
My sister strolled past my room and waved as if she were on a Rose Parade float.
“Nothing to worry about, Mom,” I assured her. “It was just a little prank, but I’ve got it under control.”
“You’re sure?” my mother said. She pushed her hands into the deep pockets of her bathrobe. For the first time, I noticed how much she had aged. She had stopped dying her hair, and the gray had suddenly outnumbered the brown.
