Shrinking Violet (6 page)

I wrestle with the lock on my locker and pull out my pre-calc book and the couple other books I need for the day. I see Stacy and her friends, Laurie and Valerie, walking toward me. They're all wearing short bouncy skirts and tight tops exposing some serious skin that I'm sure more than tempts the limits of the dress code. I duck my head into my locker in an attempt to hide.

Stacy stops next to me. "Boo."

I cringe and look up at her out of the corner of my eye. I shut my locker door and try to step around her and her crew, but they block me in.

"You heard me." She laughs. "I've just got one question. Are you retarded?"

My face heats up like a stove top, and I feel like I've got a 65

spoonful of peanut butter lodged in my throat. I don't even bother formulating an answer.

Her friends burst out laughing. Then Laurie says, "If she is, how's she going to answer you?"

They laugh some more, until they sound like one of those overzealous laugh tracks on a failing comedy show.

The peanut butter thickens. I can hardly breathe. I don't look at their faces. Instead, I push through them, letting my stack of books serve as a shield.

Their cackles follow me as I speed-walk to class. I hurry to my seat in Ms. Peters' room and chug my water bottle until the peanut butter dissolves. I've gotten through three years of school without running into Stacy and her crew, and now two digs in one week.

I must be getting lamer by the minute. Even if I could get out the words to let Stacy know how hard I tried to tell Ms. Peters she was going to be late, she'd never understand.

I take out my notebook and doodle, mostly flowers. They don't start out dead, but by the time I'm done drawing, they're all wilted. Gavin is drawing, too. His doodles actually look like abstracts. He's back to squiggly lines, but there's a definite pattern to them.

He's wearing another all-black outfit today. I can't make out what it says on his shirt, but there's a silhouette of a guy on a skateboard on the front.

"You skate?" Gavin lifts his head from his masterpiece.

Me?
Oh, great, he thinks I was staring at him. I wasn't! Okay, 66

maybe a little, but I was just trying to make out the words on his shirt.

I shake my head and point to him. "Yeah, I got a board."

I picture him sliding down the front steps at the regional library, with the security guard a few feet behind him, yelling at him to get lost, while Gavin's black hair flies in the wind like a flag of defiance. I never noticed how dark his hair is before. I mean, it's really black.

Some people would kill for hair like that!

I smile at him and quickly look away. He seems oblivious, so I immediately go back for seconds. I can't help myself---he's such a cutie. The type of person who, the more you get to know them, the cuter they are. And trust me, smiling directly at a guy is a lot for me.

I sneak a few peeks at Gavin all through the Jane Austen reading. He has one eye on the book and the other on his notebook. I can't believe we've gone to school together for the past four years and this is the first year that my radar has picked up on him.

Freshman and sophomore year, I spent most of the time drooling over Patrick Olsen, the guy with the English accent. He had such a sexy voice, and the funny thing is I never spoke to him, not even once. He moved away at the end of sophomore year. And the next year was a real toss-up. I went out to dinner with Audrey and a couple of band guys. But Gerald, my date, was a strict opera buff. We were such music polar opposites that I don't even know why Audrey bothered setting us up.

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Ms. Peters reads most of the chapter and calls on a few volunteers. Luckily, I'm spared for today. At the end of class Gavin has filled a whole notebook page with his geometric design.

I stand over it as I zip up my backpack. Something about all those lines and shapes pull me in.

"If you stare at it for long enough, you'll go blind," Gavin says with a straight face. His dark brown eyes look like onyx. I watch as a smile tiptoes across his face.

"I like."
I like it.
Okay, now he must think I'm an idiot. Maybe Stacy's right. I am retarded.

I walk briskly out the door and don't even bother peering back. The first real words I say to Gavin put me back in preschool. Maybe I'd have better luck talking to a toddler.

I don't see Gavin for the rest of the day, and that's fine with me. It's only right that I keep away from him, for at least twenty-four hours, to make sure this stupidity virus isn't contagious.

I head off to pre-calc. I've got an A so far in that class and don't want to screw it up by speaking.

Pre-calc's a breeze because we work on our own most of the class, and in sociology we have a sub and watch a short documentary about arranged marriages. The whole idea of marriage is kind of freaky. I mean, I don't have the best role model, that's for sure. I hope Mom stays with Rob forever because he's way better than all her old boyfriends and definitely better than her first husband, Tony. I wonder if my dad is married. He probably lives in some huge mansion on the beach with a wife and five 68

kids. I'm sure he has no idea I exist. Definitely no room for me in his perfect world.

Next is my free period. I decide to spend the time demoronizing myself after my speech flub with Gavin. If I'm hanging out at SLAM today, I have to not only be able to speak, but speak properly.

Maybe if I loosen my vocal cords, I'll feel more comfortable on Derek's show later. I can try some of the exercises that the chorus teacher had us do in middle school, but all that comes to mind is "moo." Somehow I don't think me standing in the courtyard mooing will help my social status.

I lean against the concrete wall between the cafeteria and the library, trying to come up with an idea. I could read a book aloud, but the thought of anyone hearing me clamps my mouth shut. There has to be a place around here where I can rehearse without being labeled a nut. The library? No, too quiet. Mr. Sanchez lets kids hang in the ceramics studio, but no one
reads
in there. People practice in those little booths in the language lab. That might be a good place. I mean, how could it possibly be full? It's not high on the popular hangout spots, so it should be safe. This just might work! I head down the hall, snacking on pretzels, my lunch leftovers.

The room is lined with small booths and chairs. At the front Mrs. Tripp is thumbing through a catalog, marking certain items. On her desk is a sign-up sheet. I fill out my information.

"What would you like to work on?" she asks.

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The peanut butter is there again, but I swallow hard. "Pronunciation."

"What language are you taking?"

"English."

"Excuse me?" She puts down her stack of mini Post-its.

Okay, wrong answer. I took Spanish in middle school and my first year of high school and German last year. Just enough to fill the school's foreign language requirement.

"Deutsch."

"First year?"

I nod. I hardly remember anything.

A minute later Mrs. Tripp comes back from the supply closet with a CD and a companion workbook. I choose a booth in the back and plug in the headphones. These hard plastic clunky things are nothing like the soft leather ones I have at home.

At first I let the disc run and don't say anything, listening to the thick German accent. It starts off pretty easy, counting from one to twenty. I don't know how they communicate with all those hard K sounds. I'm afraid I'd accidentally let loose some flying spit and hit someone in the eye. Not so attractive for a speech-deprived girl.

I glance around the lab. There's only one other student in here and she's on the other side of the room. I doubt she can hear me with her headphones on.

I breathe deep.
I
can do this.

I begin the lesson again and whisper,
"Eins, zwei, drei ..."
One . . two . . three. Short and sweet. That wasn't so bad.

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I quickly scan the room again to make sure nobody else has showed up.

Coast is clear. I move on to short sentences.
"Ich habe eine gute idee."

I have a good idea?
I'm not so sure about that. After a while I pick up the momentum and am repeating every word after the speaker.

Wo ist die Toilette?

Ich fühle krank.

Where is the toilet? I feel sick.
Those are two sentences I should definitely hold on to in case I ever travel to Germany.

I take a break and look around again. It's pretty sparse except for the posters of Spain, France, and Germany on different walls. It's really strange to be here willingly. Most people are sent here begrudgingly by their foreign language teachers. At least no one knows my true mission--me giving up my free period to practice German. Yeah, I'm cool.

Finally Mrs. Tripp comes over to my station and tells me that school is over.

I practice my verbal skills on her.
"Danke."

She smiles and takes my materials back, and I head off to the library to do my homework. I have to hang around the school for over an hour. I stay until it's time to catch the Number 16 bus downtown at three-fifteen. It's only a twenty-minute ride to the station, then I'll be driving home with Rob. I told Mom that it'd be a whole lot easier if I had my own set of wheels. She said,

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"We'll see about that after graduation." But that's almost three months away and doesn't help me now.

The whole bus ride I practice speaking in my head, but after a few minutes I find myself counting in German. For some reason it's more soothing.

A couple of stops away from the station, an old guy nudges me in the side. "Welcome to Miami," he says.

I jolt my head back. Who does he think I am? I certainly don't look like any famous celebrities.

"Do you like living in Germany?" he inquires so loudly that the couple in front of us turns around.

"Ahh," I point to myself.

"Your accent is very nice. I heard you counting the stops. Lived in Berlin as a teenager."

He grins like a kid. "My father was in the military."

I smile and nod. I can't believe the words slipped out without me even knowing.

The bus screeches to a halt and the man stands up. "Miami's a big city; watch out."

"Danke,"
I whisper.

There's nothing like the truth.

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73

I've never been to SLAM alone before. There's no one to hide behind today. Maybe Mom's right. I'm not ready for this. My whole body's shaking by the time I reach the station. I feel like an earthquake victim. Maybe I should turn around, forget the whole thing, and catch the next bus home. Mom would be happy, but I would not.

I clutch my backpack with one hand and grasp the handle to the front door with the other. If I hold on to something, maybe the trembling will stop. I take small steps until I reach the security desk in the middle of the lobby. The sign-in sheet glares at me. I write down my name and where I'm going, then hand the guy my driver's license.

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"Here to pick up a prize?" he asks me.

"My dad." I point to the elevator. I can't believe I just called Rob my dad, but there's no way I'm correcting myself.

"Oh, you're here to pick up your dad." He nods.

I nod back so he doesn't think I'm some psycho. Then I take off to the second floor before I change my mind about being here. I open the glass door and step inside. The station seems a lot bigger than it was last week.

There's a new girl sitting at the front desk answering phones. Maybe Patty's solitaire addiction finally got the best of her. New Girl can't be much older than me. She's wearing a supertight, low-cut SLAM tank. Her boobs look like Pop-Tarts sticking out of the toaster.

Pop-Tart snaps her gum at me. "Can I help you?"

I swallow hard. "Derek."

"What?" She cups her hand over her ear.

I open my mouth wider but don't look directly at her. "Derek."

"What about him?" The phone rings and she answers it, "SLAM 92.7 . ."

It's not easy dealing with the dense ones.

I look at the carpet and wait until she transfers the call. "Tere Adams," I say.

"Nobody by that name works here." She wrinkles her nose. I point to myself.

"Oh,
you 're
her. I get it." She picks up the phone. "I'll let Derek know you're here."

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I play with one of the loops on my jeans. I sneak a quick glance at the red couches. Two old ladies armed with clipboards are sitting there with a large plastic jar stuffed with dollar bills nestled in between them. I wonder what they're collecting money for. I squint to read the label on the jar. It says
Edna's College Fund.
Okay, I guess it's never too late to realize your dream. I wonder which one is Edna.

Pop-Tart puts down the phone. "He says to go right in."

I start to walk away but she yells, "Wait."

I quickly stop. What's wrong? My face goes beet red. Is my fly down or something?

She leans over the counter. "It's so cool that you're here."

Really? Rob told everyone I was coming? How sweet.

Pop-Tart leans over even more, letting it all hang out. "This is incredible. I've never met a deaf person before."

Oh, brother, this girl needs more than Hooked on Phonics.

A lady in a black suit passes me as I walk down the hallway. She must work in the sales department. Those are the only people that really dress up around here.

I stand outside the studio and wait until the on-air light goes off. The hallway is filled with photos of the DJs and celebs that have come by the station. In front of me, I'm staring at a picture of Rob and Gracie May at the New Year's Eve bash. I've never seen Rob smile that widely before.