OyMG (18 page)

It made me want to change
them
!

The realization buzzed through me like a shot of carbonation to my blood. My fingers tingled … everything tingled. Even my hair felt electric and alive. This was it. The thing I was meant to do. I'd told Devon I wanted to change people's minds about something important, and this was my chance.

Starting with Mrs. Yeats.

But how? The thought brought my head out of the clouds. If I showed up and gave my oratory, she would say it only proved she was right. But if I didn't show up, why would she listen to me ever again? And I had to make her listen.

Unless … A crazy idea swirled through my head. A way to prove myself and guarantee she listened. My heart thumped. If I could make Mrs. Yeats understand, then I really could have everything. But I only had four days; it wasn't enough time to do it right. I'd be crazy to even try. I half smiled to myself. As crazy as my zeydeh.

I sprinted toward the front door. Suddenly, I was too nervous to be tired. For the first time, I'd be arguing for something I really believed in. Me.

CHAPTER 32

The stage curtains were drawn, and the overhead lights in the auditorium were dimmed. Spotlights lit the center of the stage like a full moon in a dark sky. A podium had been centered for those who wanted to use it, with a microphone attached. Andrew stood under the glare of lights, trying to look relaxed. Those first few minutes when you stood there waiting for the judges to give you the nod—those were the hardest.

This was it, our final tourney. Tomorrow was Friday, the last day of camp, when the Benedict's Scholarship would be announced. I sat in the dark, in the front row, with the rest of my class. Sarah nervously twisted her hair on my right, and I could hear Ethan popping his retainer in and out on my left. It wasn't as if I'd purposely sat as far from Devon as I could, but I wondered if he had. Tonight was the first time I'd seen him since the hospital, since I'd blamed him for everything and told him to go away. How could I blame him for wanting to avoid me now?

He didn't look like he'd lost any sleep over it. He still looked so good it made my stomach hurt. He wore a deep blue suit and a pink shirt the color of Pepto-Bismol—and he still managed to look hot. From now on, I was only falling for ugly guys. It was so much easier when you broke up.

I knew I had to face him, but I couldn't do it now. Not before I spoke. After I'd finished … well, I guess we'd see.

Andrew worked his way through a speech on why our society was so fixated on winning—kind of ironic, since he was trying to win. It was the best thing I'd seen him do all month, though. Sarah nailed her oratory on the loss of personal communication in a high-tech world. When Devon took the stage, I could hardly breathe. It felt like that first day of camp when I looked into his eyes and blanked on the topic. He dove into the intro and I smiled, remembering every word because we'd worked on it together. But then he transitioned into the main body, and it was like he had moved away from me. Moved on. Like none of it had ever happened.

My head felt dizzy. Had it all been a dream, Devon and me? I looked at my hands curled in my lap. He'd held my hand and squeezed my fingers and I'd felt goose bumps up my spine every single time. I rubbed one hand over the other, as if I could still feel the imprint of Devon's hand. As if I could prove to myself that it had been real.

The audience was still clapping when Mrs. Clancy stepped back to the podium and leaned toward the mic. “Our next orator will be Ellie Taylor.”

My lungs squeezed at the sound of my name.

This is it.

I slipped off the jacket I'd been wearing, trying not to feel half naked. I lifted the black canvas bag with the last piece of my outfit and walked to the stage steps, careful not to wobble on my high heels. Behind me, two rows back, I could hear my cheering section: Mom, Dad, Benny, and Zeydeh, plus Megan and her parents.

But Mrs. Yeats was out there, too, I knew. With a scholarship that could still be mine, a future at Benedict's, and—I thought with a pang—the only guy who'd ever made me sizzle. I'd only known Devon a few weeks, but my heart didn't seem to care. It just … ached. I'd done my best not to think about any of it over the past few days, but it all flooded through me now—everything I stood to lose.

My legs felt heavy climbing the steps. One. Two. Three. I still couldn't catch my breath—not surprising since my heart was racing out of control. I stood in the heat of the spotlights and shivered. I propped my bag behind the podium and gathered another breath.

The rows of people had turned into a shadow of black. In the sixth row, I knew, Mrs. Lee sat with the other judges. She'd been amazing. I'd called to tell her about Zeydeh, and I ended up telling her everything.
Everything.
She excused me from camp, offered to help if she could, and promised me a spot for the tourney. “Do this for yourself,” she'd told me.

But I wasn't thinking of me. I was thinking of Mrs. Yeats. One of the things a good orator always considers is her audience. If you could target your speech to your audience, you'd have more success. And I had targeted my speech. But my audience of one wasn't going to love it. She was going to hate it.

She was going to hate me.

Or was she?

The tongue is the pen of the heart.
It was another one of Zeydeh's favorite sayings and it flitted through my mind. If I spoke from the heart, I could do it. I could get through to her. And maybe, I could still have the dream. With that thought flowing through me like adrenaline, I took a breath and began:

“I haven't even said a word yet, and most of you have already judged me.” I looked around the auditorium. “Maybe you had me figured out by the time I climbed these stairs. I'm a girl, after all. My speech is bound to be more emotional, right?”

I held out my arms and did a slow turn. “And look at the way I'm dressed.” My skirt reached just above my knees, and the black lace camisole I'd borrowed from Megan hugged tight to my stomach and barely stretched across the padded bra I'd worn. “If you're showing cleavage, you can't be too smart, right? Though,” I added, “I've got brown hair—which means I can't be a dumb blonde.”

I smiled like we were all in on the same joke. “Come on, admit it. We all judge each other on appearances and it's harmless, right?”

I reached into my bag and pulled out a white shawl with a beautiful pattern embroidered along the edges. I held it up. “But what if I had walked on stage wearing this shawl? You might have a completely different image of who I am.” I wrapped the wide shawl over my shoulders, covering myself completely.

“What if I tell you this isn't any ordinary shawl? It belongs to my grandfather, Samuel Morris Levine. It's his tallis
—
his Jewish prayer shawl.” I paused again. You could hear a fly flap its wings, it had gotten so quiet. “Does this change anything? Does this change everything?

“It shouldn't,” I said matter-of-factly. “We all know stereotypes are wrong. Racism, bigotry, discrimination are old news. This is the twenty-first century, right? Heck, we've even elected an African American president.” I paused. “The fact is, stereotypes of all kinds are still alive and well. Asians are good musicians. African Americans are good athletes. Beautiful people are shallow. Fat people are lazy. Guys who don't play sports are gay. Goths are druggies. We tell dumb-blonde jokes and Polish jokes and Jewish jokes and Irish jokes. And we tell ourselves they're harmless.

“I mean, why get all bent out of shape over a joke? Quit being so sensitive. What's the big deal?” I shrugged, then continued more softly. “So we keep quiet. We conform. We hide our true selves. And our true voices. We convince ourselves it doesn't matter. And this, I intend to argue, is the greatest problem we face. Not the prejudice itself, but the way we accept it, live with it, and enable it to continue. It does matter,” I said. I stabbed the podium with a finger as I emphasized each word. “It. Does. Matter. If we are truly to become the greatest generation ever, then the smallest injustice is big enough to stand against.”

I moved across the stage then, moving into the main body of my oratory. I quoted statistics showing that hate groups were on the rise in America. I spoke about peer pressure and issues of self-esteem and the way society expects us to conform. If my voice shook when I spoke about acceptance and rejection, it was because I was close to tears and I couldn't help it. And I didn't really care. I didn't want to silence even that part of me. I spoke from the heart until finally, I found the center of the spotlight for one last thought.

My heart thudded. My muscles tensed and my insides contracted as if I were drawing myself in, giving it everything I had. “So today,” I said, in a voice strong and sure, “when you judge me, judge me as a person. Judge me not on our differences but on our similarities. And I will pledge to do the same, knowing the most difficult thing in the world is for us to be ourselves—but that is exactly who we must be.”

I finished with a sigh, and a wave of relief that made my legs feel weak. Applause reached me, a swell of sound that pulsed through me like a heartbeat. I'd done it! I'd done what I set out to do. I let the sound wash over me. It felt like more than appreciation tonight. It felt like support. For my message. For me.

I wondered … I couldn't help hoping … was Mrs. Yeats applauding, too?

The judges took forty minutes to come to a decision.

Megan saw them come in and grabbed my wrist. “They're back,” she whispered.

We'd gathered in the front corner, my family and the Swans. Other kids had done the same—found a corner or a row to hang out and wait. I think we were all too nervous to talk with each other until we knew.

And now we would.

I started back to my seat, only half feeling all the hands patting my back. Of course my family thought I'd won it all. Zeydeh had practically danced himself into another faint. I laughed with everyone else, not caring that he looked like Tevye from
Fiddler on the Roof
. I'd already outed him myself. And he loved it.

I kept my back toward the far corner where Devon and his family stood. But I couldn't stop thinking about Dynamite Doris. I guess I'd know soon enough.

Mrs. Lee led the judges back in. I was careful not to look at their faces, careful to keep my fingers crossed tightly. If I had won, I'd take my trophy and I'd find Doris Yeats and I'd make everything all right.

Okay, God? Deal?

Mrs. Lee took the stage and stood behind the podium. She smiled widely. “I want to thank everyone for being here tonight. We've witnessed some amazing performances. It's been a pleasure to work with your children during the past month.”

The audience applauded loudly, then Mrs. Lee went on. “Without any further ado, it's my pleasure to announce our top three winners. In third place, Andrew Sawyer.”

Andrew stood up, beaming, and looking dazed for the first time ever. He jogged up the stairs to loud applause. Mrs. Lee shook his hand and presented him with a silver medal on a red ribbon.

“In second place,” she continued, “Devon Yeats.”

Again, thunderous applause. I clapped until my palms stung, but inside me, it felt like a blender whirled through my stomach. Had I won it all—or not even placed?

“And tonight's winner of the CSSPA Best in Original Oratory: Miss Eleanor Taylor.”

It took my brain a second to believe my ears. It was Zeydeh's huge shout from behind that started my heart beating again. I felt hands on my back, pushing me up, and then I was standing, my knees barely holding steady. I walked to the stage, but it all felt unreal and dizzy. I never even felt the stairs under my feet, as if I were riding an escalator of clouds.

Mrs. Lee beamed as she handed me the trophy. “Congrats, Ellie!” She pulled me into a hug. “We'll talk later,” she whispered.

I nodded, still dazed, pretty sure this would all sink in by next year sometime. I took a quick bow, then walked back down.

I got mobbed at the stairs. Everyone had stood, and Tammy, Sarah, and Nancy surrounded me with more hugs. From there, I got pulled into hugs with my family—a shoulder pat from Benny—and a huge squeeze from Megan. It felt like everyone was there.

But deep down, a part of me was keeping track. A part of me knew not
everyone
was there. Even surrounded as I was, I still felt a gap, a hole, from the one person who didn't come to congratulate me. Devon. Not that I was surprised. He had to stand with his family now. I'd just spoken out against his grandmother's beliefs, even if the rest of the audience didn't know it. Maybe Devon could never forgive me. Or accept me. The thought hurt.

So much for my speech about the importance of accepting ourselves.

By the time I'd finished showing off my trophy, the auditorium was nearly empty. The lobby had been set up with a dessert reception, and everyone would be stuffing their faces with cream puffs and brownies by now. Benny had dragged Dad and Zeydeh with him a few minutes ago. Mom had stayed to help fold up the tallis and pack up the rest of my things.

“You ready?” Mom asked.

I nodded. I was ready, but there was still one thing I had to do. I looked again at the trophy in my hands. It was shaped like a podium and it weighed enough to be made of solid gold. Next week, they'd engrave my name on the base. My name, like Zeydeh's, etched into history. But even without the engraving, it was official. I'd done it. I'd proven myself best of the best.

And maybe I'd proven something else. It was time to find out. I straightened up and lifted my shoulders. Toward the back, the judges were still hanging out with Mrs. Doris Yeats. “There's something I have to do, Mom,” I said. “I'll see you in the lobby, okay?”

Before I could talk myself out of it, I started walking. Mrs. Yeats said I reminded her of herself—so she'd have to see the strength and courage it took tonight and respect me for it. I turned up the main aisle and hefted the trophy in my hand, feeling the solid weight. Everything else tonight had gone right. This would, too.