OyMG (2 page)

CHAPTER 3

I noticed him during orientation. Or, actually, Megan did.

We'd signed in at the front lobby and been given “Christian Society—Faith in the World” name tags to smack on our shirts. Then we were directed to the auditorium for an assembly. I couldn't stop looking around. Benedict's was the nicest school I'd ever seen. The floors were tiled in different shades of tan and brown, and the walls were cream with dark wood molding along the ceiling. It smelled like wood polish and everything gleamed—even the classroom doors.

The school had been here for sixty years, but it didn't feel old in a run-down way. It felt old in a rich way. The campus itself was off a main street in the downtown area, but it was tucked back behind a screen of old trees. The front courtyard had a fountain, ceramic statues on pedestals, and cobblestone walkways leading to the main doors. I actually wiped my sandals on the mat before I walked in. It just felt
different
.

Like everything else at Benedict's, the auditorium was amazing. There were movie theater chairs with blue seat cushions, a stage with full-length curtains, and hanging lights. At Canyon View, the cafeteria doubled as a stage, and you got metal folding chairs to sit on. Even the air at Benedict's smelled better. I could get used to this.

A woman stood behind a podium on the stage, but we ignored her and checked out the other campers. Most of the kids were dressed like me, only with better logos over their chests and their butts. I saw one girl toss down a blinged-out backpack that must have cost more than my clothing allowance for the year. Someday, I'd have enough money to trash nice things, too.

Megan rolled up her sleeves as she looked around. “Not bad,” she whispered. “Definite potential.”

There were about eighty kids, I guessed, more girls than guys. Not that Megan was wasting time on the girls. She had an internal radar system for a certain type of guy. Unfortunately, not the tall, dark, handsome type that might have come in handy. She went for the intense, brooding, angry guy who wore black everything, snapped rubber bands against his wrist, and looked slightly twisted. If he had a book of poetry or something depressing from the AP list—even better.

“Check him,” Megan breathed, nudging my shoulder. “Two rows up, far right.”

I looked. Then looked again.
Holy crap.
The guy was definitely intense, as in
intensely hot
. He was sitting at an angle, talking to the guy next to him. He had short, black hair with that perfectly messy look. Squarish face, tanned skin, nice lips, and the arm that hung over the back of his seat had actual muscle attached. If he had nice teeth, he'd be a perfect ten.

Megan leaned closer. “Isn't he—”

“Hot!”

Megan's surprised eyes shifted to my face. “Please! He's probably as fake as my mom's boobs.”

“Then why are you scoping him out?”

“Because that's Devon Yeats.”

I sucked in a breath. “You mean—”

“Doris Yeats is his grandmother.”

I leaned forward, my heart quickening. Doris Yeats was the private donor who funded the Benedict's Scholarship. There would be a panel of judges to determine who won my oratory event, but Mrs. Yeats would determine who won an all-expenses-paid trip to Benedict's in the fall. “How do you know that's Devon?” I asked.

“I met him at a charity event last Christmas.”

Megan's mom was the queen of charity events. Not because she liked helping people, according to Megan, but because she loved to dress up and schmooze.

“You didn't tell me that!”

“It was for all of two seconds. My mom insisted.” Megan rolled her eyes. “I didn't pay much attention. He lives with his mom in Chicago or somewhere. He was just visiting for winter break.”

“So what's he doing here now?”

“I don't know. My mom said something about Devon's dad dying a few years back and how Mrs. Yeats wanted Devon and his mom to move to Phoenix. Maybe she talked them into it. Or maybe he's just here for summer camp. Supposedly, he's big into speech team. He's in oratory, by the way.”

“My event? Is he any good?” I slanted another look at him. He was too pretty to be smart.

“According to Granny Yeats, who bragged about him the entire time, he was practically unbeatable. Junior high stud. Four first-place finishes, blah, blah, blah …”

“Blah, blah, blah?” I repeated. “This is my competition and that's all you can remember?”

“I didn't know he'd show up here.”

I lifted the hair off my neck and fanned cool air against my skin for a second. “What about Doris Yeats? Is she here?” I'd Googled as much info about her as I could. She had bazillions from a business her husband had sold before he died. As far as I could tell, her official job now was Charity Do-Gooder—and her favorite cause was Benedict's. She was on the school board, plus benefactor of the speech program. Google had turned up a picture of her at some charity dinner, but I wasn't sure I'd recognize her in person.

I waited while Megan looked around. “I don't see her. She's got silver hair and walks like there's a stick up her butt.”

I glanced around the edge of the auditorium where the adults had gathered. “I want to introduce myself as soon as I can.”

“First impressions,” Megan muttered.

“Exactly.” Doris Yeats had a rep for being tough. Supposedly, she spared everyone five minutes of her time, and then made up her mind. Your first impression could be your last.

“So what did you think of Devon?” I asked.

Megan looked in his direction again. “He seemed nice enough for a guy born with a perfect face. Wait until you see his eyes. They're amazing.”

I shrugged, unconvinced. The last time Megan said that, the guy in question turned out to have a lazy eye. She dated him for two months. Devon could have
three
eyes and Megan would call that amazing, too.

“Welcome to CSSPA.” The pinched voice flooded the auditorium. Megan and I turned to the stage. The lady paused until everyone quieted down. “I am Mrs. Clancy, camp director.” Mrs. Clancy looked like she'd gotten up on the wrong side of the bed and fallen into a vat of lemons. Her mouth puckered into a circle of wrinkles as she talked.

“You should all have your schedules with group and room assignments. Other than assembly each morning, where we'll share announcements and prayer, you will be spending your days with your group. Lunch will be held in the cafeteria from 12:00 to 12:45.”

I glanced at Megan, my mouth puckered into a tiny
o
, but she'd puckered, too. We both sputtered a little, trying not to laugh.

“When we break,” Mrs. Clancy continued, “you'll please move quickly to your rooms. Your instructors are anxious to begin. Now, if you'll bow your heads, in Jesus's name we pray.”

Here it was, as advertised—daily prayer. It was actually part of the syllabus. Zeydeh had loved that. But I also showed him the place on the website that said applicants of all religions were welcome. And no one said I had to pray.

I kept my head up and looked around. Mrs. Clancy started saying something Jesus-y. I figured there would be other kids looking around, but all I saw were necks … lots of bent necks. I shifted in my seat, wishing she'd finish already. It felt weird. Christians thought Jesus was the son of God, but Jews thought he was a man. So listening to prayers in the name of Jesus made me feel traitorous to God.

And Zeydeh. I sighed. If he could see me now, it would kill him.

Again.

The first time Zeydeh died, I was five years old.

Zeydeh didn't actually die in Aisle 12 of Fry's grocery store—but Mom thought he had. It was the summer before I started kindergarten. Bubbe had died a few months before, and Zeydeh had gone into a depression. He'd always loved to cook, but now he wouldn't even eat. Mom would take him with us to the grocery store, thinking he'd get interested in food again.

That day, Benny and I were with Mom in the frozen foods aisle. Benny was strapped in Mom's cart, and I was wheeling my toy cart around her legs. Zeydeh had gone to look at the pasta. Next thing we knew, a woman started to shriek from across the store. I'm not even sure how Mom knew. But she did.

When we careened around the corner of Aisle 12, there he was. Sprawled flat on the linoleum, a trail of red bleeding from his forehead to the floor. I remember thinking that only Zeydeh would die in a grocery store. He wouldn't even die like a regular grandpa.

Then the screaming started.

It took me a minute to realize it was coming from my own mother. I'd only ever seen her fight with Zeydeh, but now she dropped to her knees beside me. Her whole face sort of caved in on itself. She screamed and sobbed as if she could raise the dead. And she did.

Because suddenly Zeydeh woke up. Turned out the “pool of blood” was Prego marinara. He'd fainted with a jar of spaghetti sauce in his hand, and it had splattered everywhere. He had a gash on one arm from the broken glass, but other than that, the paramedic said he was fine.

Mom said otherwise. She took Zeydeh to the doctor and found out he had hypotension, which means low blood pressure. He had to take better care of himself and drink plenty of liquids, or he'd be susceptible to dizziness and could end up fainting again. The doctor said mornings were especially dangerous because blood pressure could decrease overnight. So Mom said Zeydeh couldn't be alone so much. She said every morning one of us would go to his house and make sure he drank a big glass of juice. Usually, that someone was me.

Nine years later, I could still picture him dead on the floor of Fry's. It made me feel sick. Sitting in the Benedict's auditorium, I squeezed my eyes shut, and sent up my own prayer.
Dear God, please watch out for Zeydeh. And could you help me make a good first impression on Mrs. Yeats?
I paused.
And, uh, Jesus, if you're up there—nothing personal or anything.

CHAPTER 4

When I pushed open the door to 6C, everyone stood in the back of the room and a lady was gesturing for them to make a circle. I'd hung around the auditorium as long as I could, hoping to spot Mrs. Yeats and introduce myself, but no luck. Maybe I'd see her at lunch.

I dropped my pack by a front-row desk that looked empty and took a quick glance around as I joined the circle. It was the nicest classroom I'd ever been in. The desks were a dark, polished wood with matching chairs. There was a bank of windows along the back with black and gold blinds, and walls painted to look like gold speckles. Another door in the far corner of the room was framed by posters of old presidents. A huge whiteboard covered the front wall. Written in green marker were the words “Mrs. Becca Lee, Original Oratory.”

I slipped in between two girls and checked out Mrs. Lee. She looked thirty-something, with short brown hair that just cleared her ears, straight eyebrows, and intense green eyes.

“I'm Mrs. Lee, your team leader,” she said in a deep, throaty voice. “I competed in speech tournaments for many years and now teach at Benedict's. According to the NFL, the National Forensic League, an original oratory is an original speech—no longer than ten minutes—about any topic you choose. The speech must be presented from memory without the use of notes or a script. Simple, right?” She raised her eyebrows, as if challenging us. “In fact, it's not simple at all.”

I took a deep breath. Someone near me was sucking an orange Tic Tac—I could smell it.

“Why do some oratories break through the competition when other oratories don't?” Mrs. Lee asked. “And most importantly, how do you create the kind that will break through?” She turned slowly, her gaze locking with mine for a second before moving on. “That's what you're about to find out. By the end of this camp, you will have researched and written an original oratory. You will present your oratory on stage at our mock tournament in front of a panel of judges and compete against your peers for the privilege of calling yourself the best of CSSPA.”

A current of electricity seemed to crackle around the room. Goose bumps prickled on my arms.
The best of CSSPA.
That was going to be me.

“I happen to believe in the value of performance—the more you do, the less nervous you'll be,” Mrs. Lee explained. “So, expect many opportunities to perform. In fact, let's start now with a little icebreaker.”

I exchanged glances with the girl on my right. Her eyes looked huge. She twirled a piece of hair around shaky fingers.

“There are ten of you in this class,” Mrs. Lee said. “You'll be working closely together as teammates as well as competitors. This exercise will give you an opportunity to get familiar with one another.”

The room got so quiet I wondered if everyone was holding their breath. Even the air conditioner had kicked off into silence.

“Here's how it works,” she explained. “You'll turn to the person next to you and I'll call out a topic. The person on the right can argue any position on that topic for one minute. I'll call time, and the other person will rebut the argument. After that, you'll introduce yourselves and say where you attend school. Then, I'll call time. You'll switch partners and we'll start again with a new topic. Any questions?”

I tried to hide my grin. This would be a piece of cake. I could talk for
ten
minutes and say nothing. I could do one minute in my sleep.

I turned back to the hair twirler. Her name tag read “Sarah.” She was taller than me, with dirty blond hair and a nervous smile.

“The covers of glamour magazines are pornography,” Mrs. Lee called out. “Go.”

Sarah began with an argument about women being turned into objects. I listened with half of my brain and plotted with the other. When it was my turn, I rebutted with freedom of speech. I was working my way into the body as art when Mrs. Lee called, “Time. Introduce yourselves, then switch.”

I ruled on standardized tests with a red-headed guy named Ethan wearing a retainer that clacked when he talked. I gave an inspired rant on mandatory college against Nancy, who wore Virgin Mary earrings. When Mrs. Lee called switch for the fourth time, I turned, and there was Devon.

My heart froze, midbeat.
Holy crap
. His eyes were … startling.

Vaguely, I heard Mrs. Lee call out something.

His irises were the clearest, lightest blue I'd ever seen, but rimmed in a deeper blue. They looked like pools without a bottom. For once in her life, Megan had understated something.

Then Devon started talking and my brain refocused.
Uh-oh!
What was the topic?

“It can create huge limitations,” Devon said. “What about work? After-school activities? If the law were changed, how many lives would be affected?”

What law? Come on, come on … restate the topic …

“Time!” Mrs. Lee called.

Crap!
A blur of voices filled the room as everyone rebutted the arguments. Except me.

Devon's dark brows slanted down.

I licked my lips. I was going to have to wing this. I lifted my shoulders and tried to look taller than five feet three. Half of winning was looking like a winner.

“If I appear to be speechless,” I began, in an airy voice, “it's because I am. Your argument defies logic.” I planted my hands on my hips. “In fact, your argument lacks the subtle truth that I think we need to consider when we look at this, uh, issue. Because … this issue … however you might disagree, requires a thorough and complete understanding of the other issues that impact it. For instance—”

“Time!” Mrs. Lee called.

Yes!
I let out a silent breath and smiled.
There. Not too bad.

Except Devon had a funny look in his bottomless eyes, and his brows had dipped down again. “You don't know what the topic is, do you?”

My smile faded. “Of course I do.” Before he could say anything else, I added, “I'm Ellie Taylor. Canyon View High School.”

“Devon Yeats. Benedict's.”

Benedict's? Did that mean he'd moved here for good?

Then he added, “Driving age.”

I shifted on my feet. “What?”

“That was our topic. Raising the driving age to eighteen.”

Heat shot through my cheeks. “I knew that.”

I met his eyes, ready to stare him down. Only, he stared back. Our eyes held, and a strange shiver raced to the pit of my stomach.

“Switch,” Mrs. Lee called.

I swallowed. Hard. Without looking at him again, I stepped around Devon so fast, my shoulder brushed his. I kept my eyes forward, shook back my hair, and willed my heart to calm down. I just wasn't used to being challenged like that. I pasted on a smile for the tall, blond-haired guy who was next. “Peter,” his tag read. His eyes were hazel.

But all I could see in my head were a pair of blue, blue eyes. What was my problem? I never got distracted by a pair of eyes—I didn't care how gorgeous they were. I shivered again, but this time with disgust.

While I was losing myself in Devon's eyes, I had the feeling he'd been looking right through me.

I have a long and pathetic history with romance. It's not my fault. If romance worked logically, it would be a different story. But you can't argue your way into someone's heart. I know.

I've tried.

In third grade, I told Gabriel Garcia all the reasons he should like me: My hair was brown like his. I was better than him in math. No one else liked him.

He backed away like ants were crawling out my eyes.

In sixth grade, I grew wiser. I fell for Brad Willets—football hero. I went to a district board meeting and argued the school fields shouldn't be locked on weekends since taxpayers funded them. I got more playing time for Brad Willets's football team. Brad was thrilled. But Brad did not dump his girlfriend, Ashley, to invite me to the sixth-grade dance.

Megan said I couldn't force romance. It had to happen naturally. So, when Kyle Walters, science wiz and overall nice guy, asked me if I wanted to hang out this past March, I said yes. I liked Kyle. Kyle liked me. Logically, it should have worked. But after two weeks, it fizzled out. According to Megan, that was the problem. Too much fizzle.

Or, to be exact, not enough sizzle.

For Megan, sizzle was the magic something that meant true love. You couldn't organize, plan, research, or convince someone you had sizzle. Either you had it, or you didn't. “Respect the Sizzle,” Megan liked to say.

Only I wasn't the sizzle kind. So maybe I'd felt a shiver when I met Devon's eyes—but that didn't mean anything. I wasn't the weak-kneed romantic type who melted into a brainless mess just because some guy was cute. Not even if the guy was Devon Yeats and cute enough to be on a magazine cover.

That shiver meant nothing.

A shiver, I reminded myself, was the opposite of a sizzle.