OyMG (3 page)

CHAPTER 5

About the only thing Mom and Zeydeh agree on is the importance of family dinners. And—that Zeydeh should cook. Zeydeh is a gourmet, while Mom is still trying to perfect microwave popcorn. But tonight, she'd insisted on cooking dinner in honor of my first day of camp. Zeydeh said at least he would make a pot of matzo ball soup—homemade chicken broth with fluffy dumplings.

So the chicken breasts would be dry, the green beans would be mushy, the red potatoes would be half cooked, and the rolls would be burned on the bottom. But the soup would be great. The rich scent of carrots and chicken had spread through the house, and ever since I'd gotten home from camp, I'd been walking around sniffing and listening to my stomach growl.

Finally, Mom called us down, her face flushed from the oven with her hair pointing in six directions. She wore her hair in a bun almost every day. She said it was easier that way, but her hair was even straighter than mine. Strands kept popping loose and she was forever stuffing them back in the bun or behind her ears. Mom had natural beauty—which was lucky, because she rarely bothered to fix herself up.

Mom sat at one end of the oval table and Dad sat at the other. Dad is six feet, and the only one in our family with sandy-colored hair and blue eyes. In summer, he works outside so many hours, he gets weird tan lines from his sunglasses that make him look like a raccoon. Benny and I call him Skippy Raccoon. That's actually his name—Skip.

He loves designing yards and picking out the right mix of trees, bushes, and flowers. He has a crew who can do the planting and maintenance, but he says he likes getting his hands dirty. Which they usually are.

Benny sits next to me. He's going into seventh grade but still acts like a kindergartner. He has the curliest hair of all of us, and he slicks it back with this goop that smells like gym shorts after a week in a locker. You can always smell Benny coming.

Zeydeh sits across from Benny and me. Usually, he asks us both lots of questions about whatever, but not tonight. Tonight, he kept sipping the soup and then shaking his head. It had to be the contest. For five years, Zeydeh had been trying to win the Har Zion Cooking Contest. Har Zion is his synagogue, and he'd never finished better than second. This year, he was thinking about entering his matzo ball soup.

Mom passed me the potatoes. “So tell us—what do you think?”

“The soup is too salty,” Zeydeh said.

She shot him a look. “I was asking Ellie about camp.”

He shrugged. “Am I stopping you?”

She rolled her eyes and looked back at me. “So?”

“So, it was good.”

“That's it? Just good?”

“Did they do the secret Christian handshake?” Zeydeh asked.

“I didn't see any handshakes.”

“Exactly,” he said, pointing at me with his soup spoon. “That's because it's secret.”

I laughed and reached for a roll.

“Did you get recess?” Benny asked.

“Recess?” I peeled off the burned bottom. “We get forty-five minutes to eat and a ten-minute bathroom break in the afternoon.”

“You're kidding,” he said. “What if you've got to pee?”

“You have to sign a waiver before camp relinquishing all rights to pee.”

His eyes widened a second, then narrowed. “Ha. Ha.” He stabbed a piece of chicken with his fork. “Sounds lame to me.”

“Anyone you recognize from speech tournaments last year?” Dad asked.

I nodded. “Yeah, a couple. You know how tournaments are. There are so many kids from different schools. Even if you break through to the later rounds, you never see everyone.”

“Maybe it's the parsley,” Zeydeh said, smacking his lips together. “You think it's the parsley?”

“The soup is wonderful,” Dad said.

“The parsley is perfect,” I added. I slurped up another spoonful.

Zeydeh shrugged off our compliments. I'd never seen him so tense.

“So what else about the camp?” Dad asked.

Mom shoved Benny's napkin onto his lap. “Who's going to be the toughest competition?”

I took another swallow of soup and set down my spoon. “There's this guy named Devon Yeats.”

Mom's eyebrows lifted. “Any relation to Doris Yeats? The one who offers the scholarship?”

I nodded. “Devon is her grandson. Apparently, he's just moved here and he's going to Benedict's next year.” Megan had gotten the whole scoop from a girl in her class.

“And he's good?” Dad asked.

“That's the rumor, but it's too early to tell. He's smooth, though, I'll give him that.”

“Does anyone else taste the salt, or is it only me?” Zeydeh asked.

“Would you stop already with the salt?” Mom snapped.

“Of course,” Zeydeh snapped back. “Don't worry, my soup is a disaster. So what if I should lose the contest again and my name is not etched onto a plaque. Who needs immortality?”

“Zeydeh, the soup is great,” I said. I showed him my empty bowl to prove it.

He shrugged halfheartedly.

Mom's bangs ruffled in the hot air she blew out. “For heaven's sake,” she muttered.

“If you want, you can come and watch me perform during lunch this Friday,” I offered. “We're doing a mini–mock tournament. I'm not sure what it's about, but parents are welcome.”

“I wish I could,” Mom said. “I'll be teaching summer school.”

Dad smiled at me. “The rest of us will be there. Right, Benny?”

“What?” Benny mumbled around a mouthful of food. “Who said I was coming?”

“Of course you're coming,” Zeydeh said. “We'll all go.”

Benny groaned and slouched in his chair.

“It'll be fun,” Dad said. “We can see this Devon Yeats in action.”

Against my will, Devon's eyes flashed in my mind … that moment when we'd locked eyes.

Mom suddenly leaned toward me. “Are you cold?”

“What?” I blinked. “No. Why?”

She rubbed my shoulder. “I could've sworn you just shivered.”

“Salt,” Zeydeh muttered. “It must be the salt.”

CHAPTER 6

“Not again,” Sarah muttered from the corner of her mouth. One finger had already snaked around a chunk of hair and was twisting nervously.

I'd taken my same front-row seat this morning, and ended up next to Sarah. She'd seemed fine until Mrs. Lee announced an impromptu speech. Now, she was the color of the whiteboard.

“You okay?” I whispered while Mrs. Lee pulled stuff out of her briefcase.

“I hate impromptu. We'll have to give a speech with hardly any time to think. That's why I'm in oratory. So I can
prepare
.”

After we'd taken notes for almost two hours, a chance to give a speech sounded like fun to me. But I felt bad for Sarah, even if she was a competitor.

Mrs. Lee faced us again, only now she held a letter-sized envelope. “One of the things we discussed this morning was how every oratory should have a purpose. Are you trying to inform, to persuade, or to entertain?” She wiggled the envelope. “In here, I've got index cards with impromptu topics written on them. These topics, by the way, were all used at speech tournaments last year. You'll pick a card, and I'll tell you your goal. Then, you'll have three minutes to prepare a two-minute speech on your subject.” She paused. “We'll start with Sarah, then go around the room and finish with Ellie.”

Sarah flashed me a panicked look.

“You'll be great,” I mouthed, wondering how white she could get before passing out.

“Even though this is an impromptu speech,” Mrs. Lee added, “it still requires the same elements as an oratory: a strong opening, supporting arguments, and a summation.” She held out the envelope to Sarah.

With one hand, Sarah twirled a piece of hair; with the other, she picked a card. I got a quick look at it; the words were written in big block letters:
ICE CREAM
.

“Your goal,” Mrs. Lee said, “is to persuade us you need more of it.”

Cool topic, if you asked me—but Sarah still looked freaked. Her panicked gaze darted back to me again. She'd also applied for the Benedict's Scholarship, which meant hers was one of the butts I was planning to kick. But … oh, what the heck. Before she looked away, I leaned forward and mouthed “calcium.”

Then she moved to the center of the room, turned her back to us, and curled in her shoulders like a snail. Three minutes later, she launched into how teens weren't getting enough calcium. The solution—more ice cream. She was good, too. Smart. Organized. Hid her nerves well. I wondered if I shouldn't have helped her. But when she sat down and shot me a smile, I shot her one back. I'd still kick her butt when it mattered.

Next was Peter Burrows: Blond hair, hazel eyes—followed by the smell of oranges. Tic Tac guy, I guessed. He was a Benedict's kid, I remembered. Dressed like it, too—polo shirt tucked into khaki shorts with a belt. Peter had to entertain us about movies. He did a thing about sticky floors. Very funny, but a little hard to understand. He talked fast and swallowed the last consonant of most words. Either that, or he still had a Tic Tac in his mouth.

Then Tim Fielding: Buzz cut, glasses, red canvas sneakers. Funny, but no organization. His topic was TV, and he jumped from reality shows to 3-D technology.

Tammy Fong went next: Black hair in a pony, Q-tip skinny, very sharp, but a weak voice.

Nancy Moreno: Curly brown hair, short. Silver cross earrings today. So much energy you'd swear she just drank a Red Bull. She rushed through an informative speech on summer camps.

Kim Perry: Huge brown eyes like a puppy, white cardigan over a green dress. Soft voice but very e-mo-tion-al. Probably wrote tearjerker oratories.

Ethan Reynolds: Red-haired retainer-clacker, but did a good job on why speech team should be mandatory in high school.

Andrew Sawyer: Buttoned-up brown shirt over brown shorts, serious expression, nervous delivery—but he might be better with a prepared speech.

Next up, Devon Yeats. I straightened in my chair as he strode up to the front and picked an index card. He had the same Benedict's look as Peter, only his polo was hanging loose over navy cargo shorts. “Toothpaste,” he said, announcing his topic.

“Entertain,” Mrs. Lee said.

He didn't curl up like Sarah. He didn't pace like Tim or Nancy. He didn't chew his lip like Andrew. He slid his hands into his pockets and sat on the edge of the table. I was torn between admiring him and wanting him to screw up. Then he stood and began.

“When I was five years old, I fell in love with paste. I didn't know there was a special type for teeth. I liked to eat all kinds.”

Crap
. He had charm, too. Before I could help it, he'd sucked me into his speech, into his humor—into him.

And those eyes. Those stupid blue eyes made you want to believe him. He rolled to a close and it was obvious to me and everyone else in the class: Devon was the guy to beat.

As he walked back to his seat, he flashed me a look. Like a smirk, only with his eyes. I turned my head away but couldn't keep my jaw from clenching. I'd stood by him this morning while Mrs. Lee opened the classroom door. I'd even looked him in the eye to prove I could without having a brain fade. He'd been talking to Peter, but when he walked by me, he whispered something in my ear. It took me a minute to realize what he'd said: “Driving age.”

I'd rolled my eyes at his perfect back. Let him enjoy it while he could. I'd show him.

And this was my chance.

I walked to the front table, smoothing my cranberry tank over the top of my denim skirt. Mrs. Lee smiled and held out the envelope. “Your goal will be to persuade.”

I shook back my bangs and pulled a card from the envelope. The words stared up at me like a joke. A really bad joke.

“Your topic, Ellie?” Mrs. Lee asked.

My fingers curled around the card, crunching it in a fist I couldn't control. “Christmas trees: real versus fake.”

It's not like I've never seen a Christmas tree. You'd have to go blind from October to January to miss them. Megan alone had three Christmas trees every year—her mom paid someone to decorate them. But we never had one in our house. Dad might have been born and raised Lutheran, but he'd agreed to raise Benny and me Jewish. So we had Hanukkah—menorahs and dreidels and latkes to eat.

Once I asked Dad if he minded giving up Christmas. But he said Christmas was really about family, and helping others, and you could do that no matter what holiday you observed. Grandma Taylor heard that, and she said Christmas was really about the birth of Jesus. Then Dad said many scholars believe Jesus was most likely born in the fall, so what's the point of celebrating his birthday in December? That made Grandma Taylor mad.

As much as Zeydeh wants us to be Jewish, Grandma Taylor wants us to be Christian. It might have been a problem for us, but they live in Virginia and only visit once a year—at Easter. Still, Grandma Taylor used to read us books about Jesus and tell us about heaven for kids who believed in him. She still has us paint eggs every Easter. And every year, she sends us boxes of Christmas presents, wrapped in green and red. One year, I even sat on Santa's lap because that's what Grandma Taylor wanted for her present.

But I didn't know a thing about a Christmas tree. Real or fake.

“Real always beats fake,” I began. “Real butter beats margarine. Real sugar beats Splenda. A real singer beats a lip-syncher. So naturally, a real tree beats a fake one.” I paused. “Because … it's real.” I took a few steps, waiting for my brain to figure out where I was going. I'd had three minutes to prepare, but most of that time I'd spent frozen in shock.

“The Christmas season is about what's real. What is ‘real' about our lives.” I made quote marks with my fingers and took a few more steps. This was starting to feel okay. I went on. “Real family traditions. A real return to charity and goodwill. And what could be better than honoring these ideals with a real tree?

“Finally,” I said, stretching out the word while I scrambled for a third point. “Finally, a real tree is simply much more beautiful. In fact,” I said, picking up steam, “a real tree is so beautiful, it doesn't need decoration. Why have a real tree if you're going to put fake icicles on it, and fake shiny globes, and fake snowflakes? Because the next thing you know, you've got a real tree that looks fake. And people ask, is that tree real? And is it? Is it a real fake, or a fake real?”

A fake real?
Had that really just come out of my mouth?

“In conclusion,” I said quickly, “the natural choice is the fake one. I mean, the real one.”

I looked at Mrs. Lee. I forced a smile. I wasn't sure, but it was possible that I'd just screwed that up.

“Thank you, Ellie,” Mrs. Lee said. “I'm not sure how persuasive that was, but it was certainly entertaining.”

I nodded, trying not to look as embarrassed as I suddenly felt. Megan once said I had an irrational fear of failure. But there was nothing irrational about it. Failure
sucked
.

I'd never been happier to head back to my seat. I was about to slide into it, when I caught a flash of red in the back of the room. I paused with my butt in midair and shot another look at the back corner—at a lady in a red blouse. She hadn't been there earlier. I would've noticed an older woman with silver hair and pale blue eyes. It couldn't be.

It couldn't be.

I twisted just enough to risk a quick look at Devon. Just in time to catch him exchanging a smile with the woman.

I squeezed the edges of my desk until my fingers ached. I leaned over to Sarah. “Who is that in the back of the room?”

“I've never met her,” she whispered back. “But I think it's Doris Yeats.”

I shut my eyes and groaned silently. “When did she come in? Did you see?” I opened my eyes, half afraid to hear the answer.

“She slipped in the back door a few minutes ago,” Sarah said. “Right before you started.”