OyMG (5 page)

CHAPTER 9

“Since it's Wednesday, you may be wondering about Friday's speech,” Mrs. Lee began. This morning she'd lectured on research. We had to cite seven to ten sources in our final oratories, plus keep note cards on how each resource related to our topic. It was pretty dry stuff, but now my heart sped up.

“Imagine,” she said, “you've gathered for the funeral of a pet. This could be a most beloved pet of yours. This could be the evil cat next door or a little green ferret from Mars who lives only in your mind. It can be any pet you imagine, but you are the one giving the eulogy—the speech commemorating the life of this pet. Your eulogy must be between three and five minutes. I'll be judging on six criteria,” she added.

I took notes as she listed them off, but half my brain was already thinking up the perfect pet. Talk about potential. I just needed something cool. Something that would stand out.

She checked the clock. “You have twenty minutes before lunch. By the time the bell rings, I'd like a piece of paper on my desk with your name and the pet you plan to eulogize. Questions?” She scanned the room, and then nodded. “Get busy.”

I pulled out a clean sheet of paper. I wrote “Eulogy” at the top. Then I left my pen poised over the paper. The trick to brainstorming was to write whatever came to your mind, and eventually something good would come. So I started writing.

cats dogs lizards hamsters gerbils pigs

piggy banks—cracked open a piggy bank?

mules moles monkeys—chimp—

Curious George ????

fantasy pet—teacher's pet

I tapped my pen on the paper. A splinter of worry stabbed deep in my stomach. Nothing seemed right. Nancy, Kim, and Peter had already turned in their papers. My ears felt hypersensitive, waiting to pick up the sounds of the next person walking to Mrs. Lee's desk. I bent over my paper and started again.

fish? eulogy over a toilet?

frog—Prince Charming

parrot—singing parrot—American-Idol-

winning parrot

Sarah, Ethan, and Andrew handed in their sheets. Was I the only one drawing a blank? My pen tapped faster, keeping pace with my thudding heart.

Devon walked by next, in his perfectly pressed gray shorts and white polo. He looked fresh out of a movie poster. I felt a little sticky under my arms, and the back of my neck was hot. His paper flapped in the air. I leaned forward without meaning to, and caught myself squinting to read his writing. I couldn't make out a word of it, and I sat back, mad at myself for even looking.

Concentrate.

I felt him glance at me as he passed my desk. I covered my notes as if there was something worth covering. As soon as he went back to his desk, I scanned my scribbles again.

Nothing!

I glanced at the clock. Less than ten minutes before lunch.

I wadded up the sheet and tossed it at the trash can. It hit the rim, and fell to the carpet.
Figures.
I slid out of my seat, reached the paper, and dropped it into the barrel.

And froze.

The trashcan wasn't empty. There was a white plastic liner inside, and at the bottom were four sheets of paper wadded up, some ripped index cards, an empty water bottle—and a snack-size box of cereal. Colors and images flashed up at me. Chocolate brown, orange feathers, and a yellow beak. A seriously huge, yellow beak.

That beak was my break!

I walked back to my desk, but inside I was skipping. Inside, I was turning cartwheels and high-fiving my fabulous self. I pulled out a clean sheet of paper and wrote, “Sonny, The Cocoa Puffs Cuckoo Bird.” Six little words. They'd be enough to put me back in the running.

Proudly, I handed the paper to Mrs. Lee. She blinked, then looked up at me.

I expected a smile—maybe even a glimmer of approval in her eyes. Instead, she frowned. Her green eyes narrowed.

I reached for Bubbe's necklace, my good-luck charm. I ran a finger around the chain. “What?”

She cleared her throat. “Could I see you outside in the hall for a minute?”

I swallowed and looked at my paper, my heart stuttering a little. She'd said any pet I wanted. “Yeah, sure.”

She flipped through the other sheets of paper and pulled one out. “Devon,” she said. “Would you join us in the hall?”

I didn't know what to think—which was good since my brain had frozen with panic. Mrs. Lee was only a little taller than me, but I felt two inches high as she led the way into the hall, and then closed the door behind us.

She held a sheet of paper in each hand. “I have two papers with the exact same pet.”

Devon and I swapped surprised looks.

“The odds of this happening are only slightly better than my winning the lottery. And I never win the lottery.” She looked mad. “I simply have to ask the question: How did you both choose your pet?” She looked at me. “Ellie?”

“There was a Cocoa Puffs box in the trash.” I gestured toward the room. “You can take a look, if you want. As soon as I saw it, I got the idea.”

Devon shot me a look. “That was my box. I ate the cereal on the way to camp this morning.”

Mrs. Lee let out a long breath. “Thank goodness.” She handed back our papers. “I didn't want to escort one of you out for cheating. So,” she added, “we know how it happened. The question now is what would you like to do about it?”

Devon fluttered his paper. “Why do we have to do anything?”

“We can't both do the same pet,” I said.

“Why not?”

“We won't be unique.”
Duh.
And, I added to myself,
Jerk!

“Yeah, we will.”

I rolled my eyes.
Could he possibly be any more annoying?
I looked at Mrs. Lee. “I think it's a bad idea.”

“Fine,” Devon said with an easy shrug. “Then pick another pet.”

I raised my eyebrows. “Why should
I
pick another pet?”

“Because you're the one who cares.”

It was confirmed. He could be more annoying
.

Mrs. Lee sighed. “Nothing's easy with speech students, is it? You have until the bell rings, and then I need your decision.” She slipped back into the room.

I glared at his paper. He wrote like a guy—blocky and messy—but the words were still clear: “Coocoo Bird.” I narrowed my eyes and stared harder. “That's not how you spell ‘cuckoo.' ”

He glanced at his paper. “So?”

“So why should you get the pet if you can't even spell it?”

“Who cares about spelling?”

“If you liked cuckoo birds, you'd know how to spell the word.”

“I don't like cuckoo birds,” he retorted. “I like little round cereals with lots of chocolate and sugar. And I like saying ‘cuckoo,' ” he added.

“That's why you chose it? So you can say ‘cuckoo' in front of an audience?”

He slid his hands in his pockets like Mr. Too-Cool-for-Words. “You got a better reason?”

“Yeah,” I snapped. “I chose it because it's a perfect way to beat you.”

He rolled his eyes. “You're not going to beat me.”

“Not if you do the same pet.”

“I picked the pet first. You were going to do Curious George.”

I gasped, my cheeks suddenly burning. “You looked at my notes?”

“How could I miss it? I mean, Curious George?”

“He happens to be a very cool monkey.”

I shot him a glare, and he surprised me by grinning. There was a challenge in his eyes, but also laughter. He was enjoying this.

“I'm
soooo
glad you find this funny.”

“Well, we have to do something.” He checked his watch. “What do you think? Rock, paper, scissors?”

“Rock, paper, scissors? Are you crazy?”

“If you're afraid to go head-to-head—”

“Who said I was afraid?” I interrupted. I lifted my chin again, wishing I were taller so I didn't have to look up. “I thought it would be better to have different pets, but if you don't mind, then I don't mind.”

“You don't?”

“I can beat you either way.”

He was smiling again. “You think so, huh?”

“I know so.”

His eyes glinted at me, dark and light—hot and cold—all at the same time. “We'll find out on Friday,” he said. He held out his hand. “May the best dead cuckoo win.”

It was a dare—a bet—and I took his hand to seal the deal. A quick, firm handshake to show him I meant business.

And then it happened.

A jolt.

An electric shiver. From his hand to mine.

It was like seventh-grade science class. The day we mixed baking soda and vinegar. And two things that were calm suddenly sizzled.

I sizzled.

“Describe the sizzle—exactly!” Megan demanded.

Dad had dropped us off after camp at the corner store for ice cream cones. Megan had a double scoop of pralines and cream. I got a triple of brownie fudge. If anything could settle my churning stomach, it was chocolate.

“It wasn't really a sizzle,” I said, heading for the crosswalk.

She crunched a praline in her teeth. “You said sizzle.”

I never should have used the word “sizzle” with Megan. “It was sizzlelike. Okay? As in, approaching sizzle.” I picked a brownie off the top of my cone and ate it. “It was just competitive fire—you know, from the challenge.”

She gave me her death stare. “Just describe it.”

I waited for a car to pass, and then we crossed the street. “I don't know. Like a shiver, only bad.”

“That's not competitive fire, Ellie. That's love.”

“You think everything is love.”

“That's because I'm an optimist,” she said, flashing a sticky smile.

“It can't be,” I said. “How can I sizzle for a guy
and
want to kick his butt? I don't even
like
him. He's arrogant, he acts like he knows everything, and you can tell he's used to getting whatever he wants.”

“And,” Megan added, “he's smart, and funny, and you know you have a shallow thing for model-boy good looks.”

“Ninety-nine point nine percent of the population does, too.”

“Can I help it if I'm more highly evolved?” She dug back in to her ice cream, and so did I. As we walked, my tower of scoops turned into a small hill. Megan was down to the cone.

“So did Anna get a letter from Yeats?” I finally asked.

Megan pretended to chase after a drip of ice cream, but I saw the flinch of her shoulders, which meant she'd just tensed. Which meant that yes, Anna had gotten a letter.

Just like that, it felt like I had a brick of brownies in my stomach. “When did she get it?”

“This afternoon.”

“Megan!” My stomach churned again—not even chocolate could help me now. I tossed my cone as we passed an alley.

“It doesn't mean anything,” she said.

“Yeah, it does,” I muttered. “It means everything.” It meant Doris Yeats had sent out letters to set up interviews. And I hadn't gotten one.

“She doesn't interview everyone,” Megan added. “That's what it said on the application, right? Only if she has follow-up questions.”

“That's just to make complete losers feel better when they don't get a letter.” We crossed to my street. My house was the third one down where the sidewalk showed a patch of shade from our ficus tree. “She only sends out letters to the ones she's serious about. I'm already off the list. Game over.”

“Just until you do your eulogy.” We reached the shade of the tree and Megan paused. “You're going to get up on that stage and blow Devon out of the cuckoo water.”

The branches of the ficus tree hung down over me like the fingers of a giant hand. I stood in the tiny bit of cool, imagining that it was God's hand spread over my head. Every week on the Jewish Sabbath, there's a special prayer parents say for each child. But in our house, it was always Zeydeh who would rest his hand over my head and ask for God's blessing. I thought of that now, standing under the protective branches that trembled just a little—just like Zeydeh's hand.

“I have to beat him, Megan,” I whispered. “I have to.”

Even to me, it sounded like a little prayer.

CHAPTER 10

“Some said Sonny was a strange bird,” I began solemnly. “But Sonny was just a little cuckoo.” I paused and held up a box of cereal. “He was the Cocoa Puffs Cuckoo Bird.”

I stood center stage, looking at the small audience in the auditorium. Dad, Zeydeh, and Benny sat in the third row. There were other families, too—enough to fill the center seats of four rows. The Big Three sat in the front: Mrs. Lee, my judge; Mrs. Clancy, my timekeeper; Mrs. Doris Yeats, my future.

People said you could feed off laughter and it was true. Standing up there, I felt like a human Pac-Man—swallowing up bites of laughter and growing stronger. I could hear Zeydeh's laugh—a low rumble that always sounded on the verge of exploding into a cough but never did. And Dad. He'd heard the eulogy so many times he could probably recite it, but he still laughed like the first time. The rest of the audience was laughing, too.

I kept my face straight and blinked dramatically, pretending to dab at a tear with a white lace hanky I'd borrowed from Mom. I wore black pants and a black shirt just to set the mood.

“Sonny struggled to live a normal life. He tried low-carb diets, hypnosis, and years of therapy. But in the end, he always gave in to his love for the puffs of cocoa.”

I paused to breathe in more laughter and launched into the details of Sonny's life. The words flowed as I moved across stage—I was totally in the zone. I dabbed a last time at my eye, then said, “One taste of the munchy, crunchy chocolaty puffs sent Sonny flying high. Until one day, he flew just a little too close to the ceiling fan. Now, just like Sonny”—another pause—“mourners everywhere are falling to pieces.”

There was a burst of groans and laughter, then applause. I smiled and bowed to the front row, careful to make eye contact, then walked down the steps and took my seat next to Sarah.

“Nice,” she whispered.

“Thanks.” I tried not to beam.
Mrs. Yeats had been smiling—definitely smiling!
Andrew Sawyer was halfway through his ode to Odie—a pet goldfish—before I felt the ground under my feet again.

Then Andrew took his seat and Devon climbed the stairs. He wore a suit—coat, tie, the whole works. I had a sudden image of Devon in a tuxedo. Cooler than cool—but hot. Like James Bond before he got old. Devon's level of “hotness” was a daily afternoon-break topic with the other girls in class. I never said anything. I couldn't exactly deny it. Still, I secretly hoped he'd show up today with a huge zit on his chin. Did guys like Devon ever get zits?

“Flighty at times, but with a heart as big as his beak. That was our cuckoo.” Devon launched into his eulogy with a seriousness that should have made me gag. But he pulled off the whole sensitive-guy thing. When he finished, I had to admit he was good.

I just didn't have to admit it to him.

I stood to let him slide in past me.

“A standing ovation?” he said, pretending to look flattered.

“You were good,” I muttered. “But not that good.”

He grinned.

I rolled my eyes. He couldn't even take an insult the right way. I made myself as skinny as possible so he could pass with no contact, but my face still felt warm for some stupid reason.

Twenty minutes later, everyone had presented and Mrs. Lee had tallied up all our scores. She stood at the edge of the stage, a notepad in her hands. “First of all,” she said, “nice job, everyone. And thank you, family and friends. It always adds an element of reality to have an audience.” She looked down at her pad. “I'll have in-depth notes for each of you, but for now, I'm pleased to announce our top three. In third, Sarah McCloud.”

I shot Sarah a big smile and a thumbs-up. Then I sat forward and crossed my fingers.

“Second place, Ellie Taylor.”

Oh God!
It was like someone had taken wet fingers and pinched out the flicker of hope inside me.
Zzipt.
Gone. Dark. I plastered on a fake smile, but I had to close my eyes against what I knew was coming next.

“And the winner,” Mrs. Lee said, “is Devon Yeats.”

That was that. My shoulders slumped in defeat. Not only had I lost, but I'd lost to
Devon
. It was only the first week of camp, but it might as well be over. I might as well write another eulogy. For me.