OyMG (4 page)

CHAPTER 7

I set down my lunch tray next to Megan. “I am so screwed.”

“Hello to you, too,” she said. Then she tucked her blueberry tie-dyed skirt under her legs and patted the bench.

I sunk down and took a long breath. Normally, I'd pause for a minute to marvel that the cafeteria air actually smelled decent. But today, the thought depressed me, along with the smooth tables that weren't carved up with graffiti, the floors that didn't stick with every step, and the cool overhead lights that hung down on invisible cables. I wanted a chance to eat lunch here every day. Thanks to my stupid impromptu, I might never get it.

It looked like I'd interrupted Megan in the middle of a slice of pepperoni and a gossip session with Anna. I could tell I was going to like Anna Hernandez, even though we'd just met yesterday at lunch.

Megan had sat next to Anna in their acting workshop, and they'd immediately bonded over a love of Ophelia and Juliet. In other words, Anna also had a thing for Shakespeare's suicidal victims of love gone bad. She said she'd come to see a play at Benedict's when she was in fifth grade and knew instantly that life would not be worth living if she couldn't act on that stage. She put her name on the waiting list that same day, and still hadn't gotten in. Like me, she was holding out hope for a Benedict's Scholarship.

Anna had dark skin, wavy brown hair to her shoulders, and deep brown eyes. Today, she wore a white V-neck and khaki capris. A sack lunch spilled out in front of her, and she held a half-eaten Ding Dong in her hand. She had a pretty bad case of acne along her jawline, but a knockout smile. Which, at the moment, was covered in chocolate.

“So what happened?” Megan asked through a mouthful of crust.

“Mock impromptu.” I stared at my lunch tray. Tiny pools of yellow grease had gathered on my cheese pizza.

“It tastes better if you don't look at it too long,” Megan said, eyeing my pizza.

“And?” Anna urged.

I shoved the tray away. “My topic was Christmas trees.”

“Isn't that an easy topic?” Anna asked.

“Not if you're Jewish,” I said.

“You're Jewish?” Anna repeated. She'd moved on to her sandwich and gave me a peanut-butter-coated grin. “That's so cool—I love bagels and cream cheese.”

“I bet you did fine.” Megan grabbed a carrot off my plate. “You always come up with something.”

“This time it was something hideously bad.”

Anna laughed.

“It couldn't have been that bad,” Megan insisted.

I twisted open a bottle of juice. “Remember your birthday when you turned seven and you wanted to give Island Princess Barbie a bath?” I asked. “And we decided to use the kitchen sink, but Barbie slipped down the drain? Remember how you went to turn on the light but accidentally turned on the disposal? Remember Barbie's legs when you fished her out?”

Megan nodded, trying not to laugh.

“That's how bad it was,” I said. “And I haven't even told you the best part.”

“It gets better?” Megan asked.

“There was a woman in the room. She must have come in the back door while I was turned away, preparing. She had silver hair and blue eyes.”

Megan's smile crumbled into a startled
o
. “Mrs. Yeats was there?”

I nodded.

Even Anna looked worried now. “Uh-oh,” she said under her breath.

My stomach did a 180. “What do you mean, uh-oh?”

Anna shrugged. “I've heard she can be tough. Some of the girls at registration were calling her Dynamite Doris—because she has a short fuse.”

“Great.” I groaned. “Just great.”

Anna leaned in. “I heard she keeps a list of all the applicants for her scholarship. She looks for any reason to cross someone off so she doesn't have to interview as many kids.”

It was a good thing I hadn't eaten. I felt like throwing up. “So what do I do?”

“Just forget it,” Megan said. “It's only day two of camp.”

“It was just one class exercise,” Anna seconded.

“The final tournament is what really counts,” Megan added.

Everything they said was right, but right didn't matter. Winning did. I wound my fingers through my hair. “I've got to do something.”

The cafeteria doors clanged open, and I looked up in time to see a pair of shoulders and a butt disappearing into the lobby. A nice set of shoulders. A nice butt.

Devon Yeats.

I straightened. If anyone could help, maybe …“I've got an idea.”

“What idea?” Megan asked.

I grabbed my tray and stood up.

“Where are you going?”

“I talked my way into this mess,” I said. “Maybe I can talk my way out of it.”

Benedict's was laid out like a spider. The lobby, cafeteria, and auditorium were all in the center section of the school, and then eight hallways led off in different directions like legs. When I pushed open the cafeteria door, Devon had passed through the lobby and was heading down one of the legs on the right.

“Devon!” I called. He had his hand on a door. “Wait up.” I hurried across the lobby, trying not to look like I was hurrying. “You got a minute?” I asked, a little breathless.

He gave me a funny look, then pointed at the door.

It was the boy's restroom. My face heated like a toaster. I backed away a couple of steps. “Right. No hurry. I'll be … uh … over here.” I realized I was pointing my finger in the air like an idiot. I crossed my arms over my chest. “Just find me.”

He grinned and disappeared inside.

I wanted to kick myself, but the way things were going, I'd lose my balance and fall over. I walked farther down the hall. There was a series of framed posters on the wall, all scenes from Shakespeare's plays. I pretended to read the one for
Romeo and Juliet
while I tried to slow my heart. A minute later, Devon caught up to me.

“What's up?” The sky blue color of his polo brought out his eyes—as if they needed bringing out.

I shook back my bangs and took a calming breath. At least, it was supposed to calm me. My heart was still thudding. It was hard enough to ask a favor when you knew the person. It was especially hard when the person in question was standing there looking bored and checking his watch. I forced a smile. “I wanted to talk to you about the exercise we did in class today.”

He slid his hands in his pockets and nodded.

“I liked yours, by the way. Great intro—the whole paste thing.”

“Thanks.” He didn't return the compliment, I noticed, but he did smile wide enough for me to see that his teeth were white and straight.
Was anything about him
not
perfect?

“So,” I said. “This might sound weird, but I couldn't help noticing a woman in the back of the room.”

He leaned against the wall. “My grandmother?”

“So it
was
your grandmother,” I said, trying to sound like I hadn't been sure. “I heard she likes to catch the performances, but I didn't think that meant classroom exercises.”

“She likes those, too.” He nodded slowly, as if he'd figured out a puzzle. “You're one of
them
, aren't you?”

“That depends,” I said, “on who ‘them' are.”

“One of the applicants for a Benedict's Scholarship.”

I swallowed nervously. “Are there a lot of us?”

“More than you'd think.” He pushed off the wall. “And I can't help you, if that's what you're hoping.” He took a step toward the lobby like I was being dismissed.

I moved to cut off his path. I wasn't worried anymore. I was too annoyed to be worried. “I don't need help. Not exactly.”

He eyed me suspiciously. “Then what?”

“I caught you exchanging looks when I finished. I just wondered if she said anything.”

“About what?”

“About my performance.”

His eyes narrowed. “She wouldn't say anything to me.”

“But you exchanged that look.”

“It was just a look.”

“It didn't look like just a look.” My voice was rising, but I couldn't help it. Did he have to make this so hard? “The thing is, I wasn't exactly sharp this morning, and I don't want her to get the wrong idea.” A group of girls walked past. I glanced toward the lobby—it was starting to fill. Lunch must be almost over. I turned back to him. “Can you just tell her I was having an off-day?”

“How would I know that?” he said. “I only met you yesterday.”

“I made sense yesterday.”

“During our ice breaker, you spaced on the topic.”

“I did not!”

His lips curved up. “Yeah, you did.”

Arrogant jerk!
And he wasn't all that good looking either, I decided, now that I saw him up close. He had a crease on his forehead—probably from looking down his nose all the time. “I still out-argued you.”

“You didn't even know what you were arguing about.”

“Which makes my performance even more impressive.”

He started to say something, then stopped. His mouth hung open for a second. I couldn't tell if he wanted to laugh, or scream.

More kids worked their way down the hall; time was running out.

“I'm not asking you to lie,” I said. “Just tell her I have potential.”

His eyebrows dipped. “Unseen potential?”

I gasped as my nails dug into my palms. “I'm good enough to kick
your
butt.”

He smiled. He actually smiled.

Which made my blood boil. “Fine. Wait until Friday. I'll prove it.”

“Then you'll get your chance with my grandmother,” he said.

I glared at his perfectly detestable face. “What does that mean?”

“It means there's one thing that always gets her attention.” He flashed me a cocky half grin. “Beat her grandson. If you can.”

CHAPTER 8

“Can you believe he said that?” I waited for Zeydeh to look as mad as I still felt.

I'd spent the night at Megan's and fumed about it for hours with her. Megan said it was obvious that Devon needed a good butt-kicking, and I was just the person to give it to him. I hadn't had a chance to tell Zeydeh the whole story, so I'd gotten up early for Juice Duty. I figured I could tell him every detail before it was time for camp. I didn't count on his putting me to work.

“Careful,” Zeydeh ordered, looking over my shoulder. “Scoop gently.”

The early morning sun slanted through Zeydeh's kitchen window, turning the batter a pale yellow.

Zeydeh lived five houses down from us in the smallest home on our street. It was tucked back—almost like an afterthought. When it came on the market after Bubbe died, Zeydeh said it was perfect—he didn't want to get in anyone's way. Mom laughed at that. She said Zeydeh's greatest pleasure was getting in
everyone's
way.

I sighed and slid my fingers into the mixture of matzo meal, eggs, salt, pepper, and Zeydeh's seasonings. I cupped a palm full of the batter and rounded it into a lumpy circle. When the matzo balls cooked up, they would be light and fluffy—like melt-in-your-mouth dumplings. But right now, the batter was gooey and stuck to my palms.

“It's not a baseball in your hands,” Zeydeh snapped. “And if you're not gentle, it'll taste like one.” He gestured for me to keep working. “So, this Devon Yeats sounds very sure of himself.”

“It's because of that stupid topic yesterday. I still can't believe it. Everyone else gets books or movies, and I get Christmas trees.”

“I told you this camp was not for you.”

“It's just bad luck.” I dropped a sticky ball into the pot of soup. “Explain to me again why you're cooking matzo balls at eight in the morning?” I held up my hands, coated in batter. “Make that, why am
I
cooking matzo balls at eight in the morning?”

“It's only three weeks until the contest—I have no time to waste. If I could roll the batter myself, I would, but you know my arthritis is bad in the mornings.”

I sighed and dug back in. “Why did Mrs. Yeats have to pick that minute to stop in our room?” I paused, suddenly noticing Zeydeh's orange juice on the counter. It had separated so the top half was a lighter orange than the bottom. “Zeydeh, you didn't drink your juice!”

He rolled his eyes. “Always with the juice.” He reached for the glass and took two swallows, swishing it around his mouth like mouthwash. “There, happy?”

Then he squinted down at my hands. “Smaller, Ellie.” He wagged a finger. “That's the secret. Smaller balls in bigger pots. You mark my words: they'll fluff up like your Bubbe's hair in a windstorm.” Suddenly, he leaned forward and looked out the window.

“What?” I asked.

“I caught Mrs. Zuckerman spying on me yesterday. I wouldn't be surprised if she's skulking in the bushes.”

I dropped another ball into the soup. “You think she's spying?”

“I don't
think
. I
know
.” He went into squint mode. “I caught her walking by the house this morning, as if she likes to take morning walks.”

“Zeydeh,” I said, “she
does
like to take morning walks.”

Mrs. Zuckerman lived across the street at the end of the block. She used to walk with her husband every afternoon. After he died, she shifted to mornings. I saw her all the time on my way for Juice Duty. Like Zeydeh, Mrs. Zuckerman also entered the Har Zion Cooking Contest every year. But unlike Zeydeh, Mrs. Zuckerman won the Har Zion Cooking Contest every year.

“
Hoomf
,” he muttered. “It's a cover. She's sniffing around to see what I'm cooking. She knows, Ellie. She knows this year it'll be Samuel Levine's name on the plaque.”

“Just don't let your blood pressure get out of whack,” I warned.

“Don't worry about me,” he said, shrugging. “Either I win or I die trying.”

I stopped rolling the batter. “Is that supposed to be comforting?”

“Quit worrying and keep rolling,” he retorted. “You're the one whose blood pressure is off the charts today.”

I squeezed a hunk of batter, feeling it squish out between my fingers. “Devon Yeats is going to eat his words.”

“And what is the speech about for Friday?”

“I don't know,” I said. “Mrs. Lee will tell us today.”

“Whatever it is, I'll be there to watch. You've been wearing Bubbe's necklace?”

I shook my head. “I don't want to lose it.”

“You won't lose it,” he said. “Wear it. It'll bring you good luck.”

I rolled a finger around the tip of the mixing bowl, dropping spatters of mix back to the bottom. “I could use some luck after the whole Christmas tree disaster.”

“Enough already,” Zeydeh snapped. “I'm tired of hearing it.”

I blinked up at him, startled. Zeydeh never snapped at me. He never got mad at me for real. But now his jaw was sticking out and his eyes were glaring.

“If it was so important, you would have opened your mouth.”

“What do you mean?” I said. “I did open my mouth. Just nothing good came out.”

“I'm not referring to the words that came out of your mouth. I'm referring to the words that did
not.
”

I stared. “What are you talking about?”

“You could have asked for another topic. Explained why you wanted one.”

“I would have looked like a whiner.”

“No,” he said, pointing a finger at me. “You would have looked like a Jew.”

I gasped. “That doesn't have anything to do with it.”

“Doesn't it?” he retorted. “It seems to me you had a choice. Look like a Jew, or look like an idiot. You chose to look like an idiot.”

“I didn't choose anything!”

“We all choose, Ellie,” he said. “Sometimes by not choosing at all.”