“—and invite her to share any advice her parents have given.”
Was “no” an acceptable answer? He hadn’t phrased his statement as a question, but my parents had drilled into me that those two letters were the most powerful in my arsenal and mine to employ if I ever felt anyone was imposing upon me.
“Come up here, Eliza.”
The students in my row stood to let me pass. Headmaster Williams had done this before—cold-called on students during Convocation. Poor Rory had it happen before Christmas break. I wondered if her walk up the aisle had felt this endless. My parents’ voices were in my head, lecturing me that it was their reputation I’d sully if I flubbed this, since I’d been asked to speak as an extension of them.
“I hope you don’t mind that I’ve put you on the spot like this,” Headmaster Williams said as I reached the three steps up to the podium.
I’m sure my resentment simmered in my narrowed eyes, so I didn’t bother with the polite lie. “What do you want me to say?”
“Give us a taste of what they’ve told you about the Avery. Any tips or hints for how to wow them with a good project? There are a few days left to turn in applications. What would you tell someone to convince them to go for it?”
I ground my teeth. What would this roomful of my peers and teachers think if they knew I hadn’t spoken to my parents about the Avery? That I’d learned they were judging from Nancy, and the only communication we’d exchanged about it was a few lines of email and that comment about my appearance? That every science junkie in this room knew more than I did, because they’d likely gone on the website or read the brochure?
I’d chosen my project six hours ago. My application was still incomplete—all I’d done was fill in my name and check the “no photos” box.
Headmaster Williams thrust the microphone at me, his shaved head shining beneath the bright fixtures that spotlighted us both. I scanned the room. Merri was trying to climb out of her seat; both Toby and Fielding were gently restraining her with hands on her arm and around her waist. And as much as I loved her for whatever distraction she was trying to launch, I appreciated them for not letting her. The actions of all three left me weak-kneed with relief, because it looked a lot like forgiveness.
I exhaled into the microscope as I spotted someone else. Someone who’d tried to prevent this from occurring. Skipping was never going to be my answer—but I wished I’d given him enough credit to pause and ask why he’d wanted me to do it. Curtis met my eyes and nodded. The same you’ve got this gesture he’d given me the first time he placed a video game remote in my hand, or when he nudged the batter scoop in my direction and pointed toward a muffin tin lined with cupcake wrappers. I nodded back.
“They haven’t told me anything.” I’d had a lifetime of doing parental PR. Twisting the truth to protect their reputation wasn’t mentally tricky; the only toll was emotional, as I processed the difference between others’ perceptions of them and my reality. “They can’t.” I paired this with a small smile. “That would give me an unfair advantage.” Some people laughed, and others exchanged looks of disbelief. “But they’re excited to be judges and see what everyone comes up with.”
When Headmaster Williams didn’t move to take the microphone back—clearly hoping this would prompt me to elaborate—I set it down on the podium and left the stage.
Merrilee Rose Campbell might not be tall in stature, but her figurative heart was enormous and her capacity for loyalty was astounding. My best friend shrugged off the boys she loved best and chased me down the aisle. I wasn’t staying to sing the school song. I couldn’t.
Merri emerged through the door carrying both our coats and bags. She dropped them onto the sidewalk and threw her arms around me. The hug was fierce and slightly suffocating. “Dang Convocation mortification. It’s like a Hero High rite of passage.”
I snorted, the sound nasally and wet. “I’m sorry about yesterday.”
“I know.” She picked up her coat and put it on. “What you said isn’t okay—but I don’t think you meant it, and I forgive you.” She passed me my left glove, which had gotten wrapped in her hat, then added, “I’m sorry too. Because I should’ve known something was going on and guessed it was this whole science fair thing.”
The doors to the Convocation Hall burst open to release a flood of Friday-afternoon enthusiasm. And I couldn’t correct her. Not when we were about to be absorbed by a mass of students whose weekends began right there on the sidewalk. Yes, something was going on with me, but it wasn’t just my parents. It wasn’t even mainly them. I nodded and forced a smile, leading the way to the parking lot. “So, catch me up. I hate that I don’t know what happened when you told Fielding you loved him.”
“Do you think it’s too soon?” Merri stopped walking and peered at me. “I can’t tell if that’s a judgey face.”
It hadn’t been a “judgey” face, but now it was me masking a hurt face. I twisted the strap on my backpack and chose my words carefully. “I think you know your feelings, and you know the timing that’s right for you. I also think he’s a good person, and you two complement and help each other.”
“Those are some of the nicest things you’ve ever said to me . . .” Merri’s eyes glistened. I braced myself for another hug ambush, but she fanned her face and sniffed. “We should fight more often.”
I handed her a tissue. “Don’t push it.”
18
I smoothed the bottom of my sweatshirt, making sure it covered my leggings-clad butt, and shuffled my sneakers on the Everyone Is Welcome mat.
Curtis answered the door still in his school uniform. He said “Hey?” with such an audible question mark that my hands clenched around the clothing I’d borrowed yesterday, which was now freshly laundered.
“Do you not remember inviting me to go running less than twenty-four hours ago?” I wanted this to be an invective against his memory, but it came out as a worry.
“Of course I do.” He swung the door wide and smiled. It looked sincere, but doubt sat itchy on my skin. “Come in. The twins can keep you company while I change.”
They were sitting on the couch and didn’t take their eyes off the fantasy game on the TV, saying “Hi, Eliza” and “S’up” while jamming buttons and muttering to each other. I set Wink’s clothes on the bench and shut the door.
“Oh, and put your number in here, so next time we can confirm when and stuff.”
I was so focused on his casual use of “next time” and trying to decide whether to be annoyed or pleased by his assumption that I fumbled the phone he tossed me before disappearing down the hall.
“Whoa. Did he just trust you with his unlocked phone?” Win paused the game and dropped his remote on the couch before spinning around and stretching his hands over the back. “Gimme.”
“Don’t!” said Wink.
“C’mon, you know he wants a picture of my butt as his home screen.”
Wink ignored him and turned to me. “Do you have brothers?”
I shook my head and quickly entered my number, then texted myself so I’d have his. Win hopped over the back of the couch. He pulled the phone from my grasp with a triumphant “Aha!” that turned to a “Boo!” when he realized I’d relocked it.
“Lucky,” said Wink. “If you ever want one, I’ll sell you either of mine for cheap.”
“Hey now,” said Curtis, reemerging in joggers and a zip-up red running jacket. “You’d be lost without me, Lincoln Cavendish.”
“Keep telling yourself that,” she said as Curtis tied his sneakers and grabbed his gloves. “But meanwhile, Eliza, if you want to get him lost midrun, go for it.”
I smiled. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
The Cavendish boys playfully scuffled over the phone. Curtis crowed, “Got it!,” when he emerged triumphant, then leaned over the couch to unpause their game. The twins shouted and scrambled for their remotes.
To me he said, “Let’s go,” and then we were back out the door. We hadn’t run yet, we h
adn’t even exchanged more than a few dozen words, but after five minutes with his family, I already felt better.
Not that I’d admit it.
“Just so you know, I’m only here because I miss running outside.”
“Oh,” Curtis said as we walked down his driveway and he adjusted the RunPlanner settings on his phone—which reminded me, I needed to take off my iLive band. I wrapped it around the driver’s-side mirror as we passed my car. “I see. You must live in one of those neighborhoods that only has indoors.”
“A: That joke doesn’t make sense. B: Now that cross-country’s over, I don’t have a running partner. Merri refused once it got cold.”
“Why not go by yourself?” He pointed to the left and we began, both of us awkward as we tried to match each other’s speed and stride. I was fast, but his legs were longer. He pointed left again at the corner. “You realize we live in a safe town. I go running by myself—even after dark.”
“To do that I’d have to run with my finger on pepper spray and with earbuds in so no one would talk to me, but the sound off so I could hear someone sneaking up.” My feet matched the flow of my rising resentment, and he scrambled to keep up. “Which means I hear the comments about my outfits or the way my body bounces. And worry about far worse than just words.”
“Yikes. I mean, I am a Brown boy—so it’s not like I get a free pass. I’ve had stupid people blatantly cross the street or check to see if I’m running from something. But I never thought about . . . that.” He shook his head. “You can always come with me. I meant it about the half-marathon—I could use a training partner.”
“Thank you.” My relief at being heard and understood slowed my breathing and pushed away thoughts of Brazil. “But let’s see if we make it through a single run without killing each other first.”
We traveled a whole block without speaking, which had to be some sort of record for him. Pitting Curtis and Merri against each other in the quiet game would be all sorts of amusing.
“Soooo,” he said thirty seconds later, and I bit back a laugh. “You know my Knight Light adoptee? Huckleberry?”
“His name is Huck, but yes.”
“He’s got this thing he does—on bus rides to lacrosse games or while JV’s on the field and we’re on the bench—he calls it ‘The Question Game,’ but it’s not really a game. You just take turns asking questions and both answering.”
We were stopped at a corner. It seemed like even the red hand on the DON’T WALK sign was signaling a million ways this scenario could go wrong. But I said, “Let’s play.”
“Okay!” His response was too fast, like he was trying to hide his shock at my agreement. “Um, let’s start easy—I’ll paraphrase our shared friend Anne Shirley: Would you rather be divinely beautiful, dazzlingly clever, or angelically good? I know you’re already two of the three, but if you could only pick one.”
“Clever. The others are subjective and unimportant.”
“You think ‘clever’ isn’t? By whose definition? What’s an accurate measure?”
“Valid point.” One that I usually made whenever my parents got science-elitist or failed to acknowledge the classist privilege of educational opportunities. “But if those are my choices, it’s my answer.”
“I’d choose good. I mean, it’s never going to happen. I was king of the time-out throne. Anyway, your question.”
I pushed away the visual of a tiny, pouting Curtis in time-out. “Why a half-marathon? What do you like about running?”
“Sometimes it feels like the only way to slow down my thoughts is to speed up my body—if that makes sense. And a half-marathon because I never have and why not. You?”
I kept my eyes focused straight ahead. If I didn’t look at him, I could pretend he wasn’t there and that I was confessing things to myself. “I feel like I finally fit within my body when I’m running. Like we’re not at war. I’m connected to it in a way that doesn’t happen often. Like this body is mine and not everyone else’s, and I’m putting it to use for something I want to do.”
“I’m not asking this next question to make you mad; I want to preface that so maybe you’ll hear it differently. But . . .” He inhaled audibly, and even his footsteps hesitated; I had to slow my own to hear him ask, “You’re beautiful—like, objectively so. Why do you hate that?”
I curled my hands into fists, turning each swing of my arms into a punch at an invisible foe. “It’s DNA. I’m not a better person because some combination of nucleotides dictated my face is symmetrical or created an aesthetic that’s socially conditioned as attractive. I know I sound like I’m complaining about the stupidest thing, but . . .” I slammed my thumb against the crosswalk button, refusing to look and see if he understood or was judging me. I hit the button again. And again.
“People take pictures of me sometimes. What do I do with that? I’m pumping gas, and it’s okay to take my picture? If I acknowledge it, they ask if I’m a model. Then feel like they have permission to tell me I should be one. If I’m quiet, I’m stuck-up. If I’m polite, I’m flirting. If I turn down a date . . . it doesn’t end well.”
The signal changed, and I flew across the street. If he wanted to hear the rest of my answer, he’d have to catch up, because I couldn’t slow down. Not with the specter of so many bad memories chasing me. “I just want to know what response would be acceptable. How do I live in this body that so many people have opinions about? I mean, Fielding is classically handsome; would you ask him this? Do you realize that both your questions have centered on my appearance—is that what you think is most interesting about me?” I stopped short and held my breath as I waited for his answer, hope and fear clustered among the carbon dioxide in my lungs.
“No. I wouldn’t have asked him.” Curtis looked sheepish. “And no, definitely not. I’m trying to figure you out. I know I hurt you in the past; I’m trying to understand the why of it, so I don’t do it again.”
“It’s just . . .” I threaded my hands together and stretched them above my head, reaching for the words to explain. “Stories are about obtaining the beautiful ones; Helen of Troy, Guinevere—those women don’t get to be the hero. They don’t get agency. I don’t want to be remembered because of my face. I want to be recognized for my achievements. Just once without someone saying, ‘the lovely Eliza,’ or naming my parents, or adding ‘brains and beauty,’ like these are mutually exclusive.”
“But . . .” He sighed and let that ellipsis dangle in the air as he resumed running.
This time I was the one catching up and prompting. “But, what?”
“You keep saying you didn’t earn your appearance and it’s genetic . . . but aren’t mental capabilities also partially genetics and privilege? I’m not saying you don’t put in a ton of effort, but you’ve got genius genes and your parents are paying for private school—your achievements aren’t a fluke.” He paused to catch his breath. “I know I’m oversimplifying, but I wish you could be as comfortable and confident with who you are physically as you are about who you are intellectually.”
I didn’t know if that was a criticism or a compliment, but it made my face flush. “Yeah, well . . . you’ve never met my parents.” I shook off the topic with a lash of my ponytail. “It’s my question. Is there anything I can do to get you to switch books so I can read Anne of Green Gables?”
We had reached the middle of the largest hill in town. The creatively named Hillcrest Road wound around it in switchbacks that stole my breath, so I assumed he was quiet for oxygen-deprivation reasons. But as we neared the top, he spoke: “I’ll switch books with you under one condition.”
“What is it?” My voice was wary, but my pulse fluttered with hope.
“Beat me at the science competition and it’s yours.”
“The Avery? You’re entering?”
“Yeah. Are you? Dr. B’s been coaching a few of us all year. I kept waiting for you to show up.”
“All year?” My project was coachless and last minute. Fantastic. Bu
t at least I’d picked one. I’d stolen moments all day to brainstorm my first script.
We’d reached the top of the hill. There was a little free library and a bench on the edge of the sidewalk. I veered toward these out of habit. Merri always browsed when we came here.
Curtis leaned against the bench and caught his breath. “You’re entering, right? Can you, with your parents judging?”
I nodded. “They won’t judge my project.” My eyes were glued to a bright green cover with dirt-red lettering that sat in the precise middle of the library’s second shelf. It was the exact same version Ms. Gregoire had had on her desk.
“Good,” he panted. “Anyway, if you beat me, you do Anne of Green Gables. If I win, I do.”
I pulled my gaze away from the book to meet his. “And what if neither of us does?”
“That’s a bit insulting, Firebug. You clearly don’t know what my project is.”
It was only the fourth time he’d called me that, but it made my cheeks light up like they were bioluminescent. “You don’t know mine either.” And I hadn’t technically started it or even read the rules. “But on the off chance we don’t win, what’s our backup plan? And you do realize the competition is the week before our projects are due. So, you’ll have to prep a whole other book for when you lose.”
“If I lose, I’ll do whatever book you picked that you now want to ditch. So winner gets Anne and loser does . . .” He raised an eyebrow and gestured for me to fill in the blank.
“Frankenstein.”
“Cool. And if neither of us wins and that’s not a sign of the end-times, then we’ll flip a coin for Anne.”
I wrinkled my nose. “That’s chance, not merit.” But unless I could talk my parents into disclosing our raw scores, I didn’t have a better idea.
“So I guess one of us better win, then.” He paused. “And let’s not tell each other our projects. We’ll find out day of, when we see which of us gets custody of Anne and who’s stuck with Frank. Deal?”
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