Speak

  Librarian: “Calm down, calm down. It’s OK. Don’t get upset. You are Melinda Sordino, right? Don’t worry. I’ll mark you present. Let me show you how it works. If you think you’re going to be late, just ask a teacher for a late pass. See? No need for tears.”

  She holds up a small green pad—my get-out-of-jail-free cards. I smile and try to choke out a “thank you,” but can’t say anything. She thinks I’m overcome with emotion because she didn’t bust me. Close enough. There’s not enough time for a nap, so I check out a stack of books to make the librarian happy. I might even read one.

  I don’t come up with my brilliant idea right then and there. It is born when Mr. Neck tracks me through the cafeteria, demanding my “Twenty Ways the Iroquois Survived in the Forest” homework. I pretend that I don’t see him. I cut through the lunch line, loop around a couple making out by the door, and start down a hall. Mr. Neck stops to break up the PDA. I head for the Seniors’ Wing.

  I am in foreign territory where No Freshman Has Gone Before. I don’t have time to worry about the looks I’m getting. I can hear Mr. Neck. I turn a corner, open a door, and step into darkness. I hold the doorknob, but Mr. Neck doesn’t touch it. I hear his footsteps lumber down the hall. I feel the wall next to the door until I find a light switch. I haven’t stumbled into a classroom; it is an old janitor’s closet that smells like sour sponges.

  The back wall has built-in shelves filled with dusty textbooks and a few bottles of bleach. A stained armchair and an old-fashioned desk peek from behind a collection of mops and brooms. A cracked mirror tilts over a sink littered with dead roaches crocheted together with cobwebs. The taps are so rusted they don’t turn. No janitor has chilled in this closet for a very long time. They have a new lounge and supply room by the loading dock. All the girls avoid it because of the way they stare and whistle softly when we walk by. This closet is abandoned—it has no purpose, no name. It is the perfect place for me.

  I steal a pad of late passes from Hairwoman’s desk. I feel much, much better.

  DEVILS DESTROY

  Not only is the Homecoming pep rally going to spring me from algebra, it will be a great time to clean up my closet. I brought some sponges from home. No need to goof off in filth. I want to smuggle in a blanket and some potpourri, too.

  My plan is to walk toward the auditorium with the rest of the crowd, then duck in a bathroom until the coast is clear. I would have made it past the teachers with no problem, but I forgot to factor in Heather. Just as the Escape Bathroom comes into sight, Heather calls my name, runs up, and grabs my arm. She is bursting with Merryweather Pride, all perk and pep and purple. And she assumes I am just as happy and excited as she is. We troop down for the brainwashing and she can’t stop talking.

  Heather: “This is so exciting—a pep rally!! I made extra pompoms. Here, have one. We’ll look great during the Wave. I bet the freshman class has the most spirit, don’t you? I’ve always wanted to go to a pep rally. Can you imagine what it must be like to be on the football team and have the whole school supporting you? That is so powerful. Do you think they’ll win tonight? They will, I just know they will. It’s been a hard season so far, but we’ll get them going, won’t we, Mel?”

  Her enthusiasm makes me itch, but sarcasm would go right over her head. It won’t kill me to go to the rally. I have someone to sit with—that counts as a step up on the ladder of social acceptability. How bad could a rally be?

  I want to stand by the doors, but Heather drags me up into the freshman section of the bleachers. “I know these guys,” she says. “They work with me on the newspaper.”

  The newspaper? We have a newspaper?

  She introduces me to a bunch of pale, zitty faces. I vaguely recognize a couple; the rest must have gone to the other middle school. I curve up the corners of my mouth without biting my lips. A small step. Heather beams and hands me a pom-pom.

  I relax an eensy bit. The girl behind me taps me on the shoulder with her long black nails. She had heard Heather introduce me. “Sordino?” she asks. “You’re Melinda Sordino?”

  I turn around. She blows a black bubble and sucks it back into her mouth. I nod. Heather waves to a sophomore she knows across the gym. The girl pokes me harder. “Aren’t you the one who called the cops at Kyle Rodgers’s party at the end of the summer?”

  A block of ice freezes our section of the bleachers. Heads snap in my direction with the sound of a hundred paparazzi cameras. I can’t feel my fingers. I shake my head. Another girl chimes in. “My brother got arrested at that party. He got fired because of the arrest. I can’t believe you did that. Asshole.”

  You don’t understand, my headvoice answers. Too bad she can’t hear it. My throat squeezes shut, as if two hands of black fingernails are clamped on my windpipe. I have worked so hard to forget every second of that stupid party, and here I am in the middle of a hostile crowd that hates me for what I had to do. I can’t tell them what really happened. I can’t even look at that part myself. An animal noise rustles in my stomach.

  Heather moves to pat my pom-pom, but pulls her hand back. For a minute she looks like she’ll defend me. No, no, she won’t. It might interfere with her Plan. I close my eyes. Breathe breathe breathe. Don’t say anything. Breathe.

  The cheerleaders cartwheel into the gym and bellow. The crowd stomps the bleachers and roars back. I put my head in my hands and scream to let out the animal noise and some of that night. No one hears. They are all quite spirited.

  The band staggers through a song and the cheerleaders bounce. The Blue Devil mascot earns a standing ovation by back-flipping right into the principal. Principal Principal smiles and awshucks us. It has only been six weeks since the beginning of school. He still has a sense of humor.

  Finally, our own Devils hulk into the gym. The same boys who got detention in elementary school for beating the crap out of people are now rewarded for it. They call it football. The coach introduces the team. I can’t tell them apart. Coach Disaster holds the microphone too close to his lips, so all we hear is the sound of his spitting and breathing.

  The girl behind me jams her knees into my back. They are as sharp as her fingernails. I inch forward in my seat and stare intently at the team. The girl with the arrested brother leans forward. As Heather shakes her pom-poms, the girl yanks my hair. I almost climb up the back of the kid in front of me. He turns and gives me a dirty look.

  The coach finally hands the wet microphone back to the principal, who introduces us to our very own cheerleaders. They slide into synchronized splits and the crowd goes nuts. Our cheerleaders are much better at scoring than the football team is.

  CHEERLEADERS

  There are twelve of them: Jennie, Jen, Jenna, Ashley, Aubrey, Amber, Colleen, Kaitlin, Marcie, Donner, Blitzen, and Raven. Raven is the captain. Blondest of the blondes.

  My parents didn’t raise me to be religious. The closest we come to worship is the Trinity of Visa, MasterCard, and American Express. I think the Merryweather cheerleaders confuse me because I missed out on Sunday School. It has to be a miracle. There is no other explanation. How else could they sleep with the football team on Saturday night and be reincarnated as virginal goddesses on Monday? It’s as if they operate in two realities simultaneously. In one universe, they are gorgeous, straight-teethed, long-legged, wrapped in designer fashions, and given sports cars on their sixteenth birthdays. Teachers smile at them and grade them on the curve. They know the first names of the staff. They are the Pride of the Trojans. Oops—I mean Pride of the Blue Devils.

  In Universe #2, they throw parties wild enough to attract college students. They worship the stink of Eau de Jocque. They rent beach houses in Cancún during Spring Break and get group-rate abortions before the prom.

  But they are so cute. And they cheer on our boys, inciting them to violence and, we hope, victory. These are our role models—the Girls Who Have It All. I bet none of them ever stutter or screw up or feel like their brains are dissolving into marshmallow fluff. They all have
beautiful lips, carefully outlined in red and polished to a shine.

  When the pep rally ends, I am accidentally knocked down three rows of bleachers. If I ever form my own clan, we’ll be the Anti-Cheerleaders. We will not sit in the bleachers. We will wander underneath them and commit mild acts of mayhem.

  THE OPPOSITE OF INSPIRATION IS … EXPIRATION?

  For a solid week, ever since the pep rally, I’ve been painting watercolors of trees that have been hit by lightning. I try to paint them so they are nearly dead, but not totally. Mr. Freeman doesn’t say a word to me about them. He just raises his eyebrows. One picture is so dark you can barely see the tree at all.

  We are all floundering. Ivy pulled “Clowns” as her assignment. She tells Mr. Freeman she hates clowns; a clown scared her when she was a little girl and it put her into therapy. Mr. Freeman says fear is a great place to begin art. Another girl whines that “Brain” is just too gross a subject for her. She wants “Kittens” or “Rainbows.”

  Mr. Freeman throws his hands in the air. “Enough! Please turn your attention to the bookshelves.” We dutifully turn and stare. Books. This is art class. Why do we need books? “If you are stumped, you may take some time to study the masters.” He pulls out an armful. “Kahlo, Monet, O’Keeffe. Pollock, Picasso, Dali. They did not complain about subject, they mined every subject for the root of its meaning. Of course, they didn’t have a school board forcing them to paint with both hands tied behind their backs, they had patrons who understood the need to pay for basic things such as paper and paint …”

  We groan. He’s off on the school-board thing again. The school board has cut his supply budget, telling him to make do with the stuff left over from last year. No new paint, no extra paper. He’ll rant for the rest of the period, forty-three minutes. The room is warm, filled with sun and paint fumes. Three kids fall dead asleep, eye twitches, snores, and everything.

  I stay awake. I take out a page of notebook paper and a pen and doodle a tree, my second-grade version. Hopeless. I crumple it into a ball and take out another sheet. How hard can it be to put a tree on a piece of paper? Two vertical lines for the trunk. Maybe some thick branches, a bunch of thinner branches, and plenty of leaves to hide the mistakes. I draw a horizontal line for the ground and a daisy popping up next to the tree. Somehow I don’t think Mr. Freeman is going to find much emotion in it. I don’t find any. He started out as such a cool teacher. Is he going to make us thrash around with this ridiculous assignment without helping us?

  ACTING

  We get a day off for Columbus Day. I go to Heather’s house. I wanted to sleep in, but Heather “really, really, really” wanted me to come over. There’s nothing on television, anyway. Heather’s mom acts very excited to see me. She makes us mugs of hot chocolate to take upstairs and tries to convince Heather to invite a whole group for a sleepover. “Maybe Mellie could bring some of her friends.” I don’t mention the possibility that Rachel would slit my throat on her new carpet. I show my teeth like a good girl. Her mother pats my cheek. I am getting better at smiling when people expect it.

  Heather’s room is finished and ready for viewing. It does not look like a fifth-grader’s. Or a ninth-grader’s. It looks like a commercial for vacuum cleaners, all fresh paint and vacuum-cleaner lines in the carpet. The lilac walls have a few artsy prints on them. Her bookcase has glass doors. She has a television and a phone, and her homework is neatly laid out on her desk. Her closet is opened just a tad. I open it farther with my foot. All her clothes wait patiently on hangers, organized by type—skirts together, pants hanging by their cuffs, her sweaters stacked in plastic bags on shelves. The room screams Heather. Why can’t I figure out how to do that? Not that I want my room screaming “Heather!”—that would be too creepy. But a little whisper of “Melinda” would be nice. I sit on the floor flipping through her CDs. Heather paints her nails on her desk blotter and blathers. She is determined to sign up for the musical. The Music Wingers are a hard clan to break into. Heather doesn’t have talent or connections—I tell her she is wasting her time to even think of it. She thinks we should try out together. I think she has been breathing too much hairspray. My job is to nod or shake my head, to say “I know what you mean,” when I don’t, and “That is so unfair,” when it isn’t.

  The musical would be easy for me. I am a good actor. I have a whole range of smiles. I use the shy, look-up-through-the-bangs smile for staff members, and the crinkly-eye smile with a quick shake of my head if a teacher asks me for an answer. If my parents want to know how school went, I flash my eyebrows upward and shrug my shoulders. When people point at me or whisper as I walk past, I wave to imaginary friends down the hall and hurry to meet them. If I drop out of high school, I could be a mime.

  Heather asks why I don’t think they would let us in the musical. I sip my hot chocolate. It burns the roof of my mouth.

  Me: “We are nobody.”

  Heather: “How can you say that? Why does everyone have that attitude? I don’t understand any of this. If we want to be in the musical, then they should let us. We could just stand onstage or something if they don’t like our singing. It’s not fair. I hate high school.”

  She pushes her books to the floor and knocks the green nail polish on the sand-colored carpet. “Why is it so hard to make friends here? Is there something in the water? In my old school I could have gone out for the musical and worked on the newspaper and chaired the car wash. Here people don’t even know I exist. I get squished in the hall and I don’t belong anywhere and nobody cares. And you’re no help. You are so negative and you never try anything, you just mope around like you don’t care that people talk about you behind your back.”

  She flops on her bed and bursts into sobs. Big boohoos, with little squeals of frustration when she punches her teddy bear. I don’t know what to do. I try to soak up the nail polish, but I make the stain bigger. It looks like algae. Heather wipes her nose on the bear’s plaid scarf. I slip out to the bathroom and come back with another box of tissues and a bottle of nail-polish remover.

  Heather: “I am so sorry, Mellie. I can’t believe I said those things to you. It’s PMS, don’t pay any attention to me. You have been so sweet to me. You are the only person I can trust.” She blows her nose loudly and wipes her eyes on her sleeve. “Look at you. You’re just like my mom. She says ‘No use crying, just get on with your life.’ I know what we’ll do. First, we’ll work our way into a good group. We’ll make them like us. By next year, the Music Wingers will be begging us to be in the musical.”

  It is the most hopeless idea I have ever heard, but I nod and pour the remover on the carpet. It lightens the polish to a bright vomit green and bleaches the carpet surrounding it. When Heather sees what I have done, she bursts into tears again, sobbing that it isn’t my fault. My stomach is killing me. Her room isn’t big enough for this much emotion. I leave without saying goodbye.

  DINNER THEATER

  The Parents are making threatening noises, turning dinner into performance art, with Dad doing his Arnold Schwarzenegger imitation and Mom playing Glenn Close in one of her psycho roles. I am the Victim.

  Mom: [creepy smile] “Thought you could put one over on us, did you, Melinda? Big high school student now, don’t need to show your homework to your parents, don’t need to show any failing test grades?”

  Dad: [Bangs table, silverware jumps] “Cut the crap. She knows what’s up. The interim reports came today. Listen to me, young lady. I’m only going to say this once. You get those grades up or your name is mud. Hear me? Get them up!” [Attacks baked potato.]

  Mom: [annoyed at being upstaged] “I’ll handle this. Melinda. [She smiles. Audience shudders] We’re not asking for much, dear. We just want you to do your best. And we know your best is much better than this. You tested so well, dear. Look at me when I talk to you.”

  [Victim mixes cottage cheese into applesauce. Dad snorts like a bull. Mom grasps knife.]

  Mom: “I said look at me.”

  [V
ictim mixes peas into applesauce and cottage cheese. Dad stops eating.]

  Mom: “Look at me now.”

  This is the Death Voice, the Voice that means business. When I was a kid, this Voice made me pee in my pants. It takes more now. I look Mom square in the eye, then rinse my plate and retreat to my room. Deprived of Victim, Mom and Dad holler at each other. I turn up my music to drown out the noise.