Reputation Contest

Author: Rachel Wells
Translator: Zhang Yin
Country: United States
Publisher:
Publish Date: 2002-06-01
Features: Excerpt marks a left-right structure with "" on the left and "" on the right. "You're the cucumber," I replied. Maybe they didn't hear. I got up from the ground, slung the soccer bag over my shoulder, and hurried after them. To say something to regain my composure, I almost wanted to joke that I was running so hard I was drenched, but I decided against it later. The truth quickly proved that decision right, because just as I shut my mouth, Tommy and Jonas Levi came around the corner, and I silently thanked Defne. "Hey," Jonas greeted us, blushing slightly. He was mainly addressing Morgan. Morgan didn't respond. I replied, "Hey!" Jonas smiled at me, but then turned to Morgan and said, "Don't you hate wasting time at the assembly on Tuesdays? But we escaped choir yesterday." Morgan lowered his head but still said, "Be serious." They quickened their pace, mocking the choir teacher's enthusiasm. Both said they hated choir, but clearly they loved talking about it. The rest of us talked about the band. "The band is just—" I changed the subject, but then remembered Defne's advice and forgot my comments about the band. Olivia and Tommy looked at me, waiting for me to finish. But I just tucked my hair behind my ears. "Too—what?" Tommy's voice sounded very angry. "Are you mad at me?" I blurted out without thinking. Tommy stopped walking. I took a step forward and stopped, looking back at him. Olivia did too. I asked myself, Can't you just keep your mouth shut? "Mad at you?" Tommy countered, squinting one eye. Morgan and Jonas walked back toward us. "Hurry, we're going to be late," Jonas urged Tommy. "No," he still addressed me. "Why would I be mad at you?" It looked like a challenge. We stared at each other. That note, I thought, but if I mentioned it, how embarrassing, how awful. I felt my right shoulder push up an inch. Tommy slowly closed his eyes, but he opened them in time as his brother dragged him into the boys' locker room before glaring at me again. When the door closed behind them, I said, "I was hit." "Why would he be mad at you?" Olivia asked me. "He might be mad because of CJ," Morgan explained. "Maybe he thinks you made CJ break up with him." "So, you think they've broken up?" I asked, trying to sound indifferent, as if I didn't care about the outcome either way. "Yesterday morning, CJ said she didn't like him, almost right in front of him," Morgan pointed out. "Not officially," Olivia said. "But he definitely heard it, no doubt about it." "Anyway, who cares?" Morgan turned to me. "Do you really care?" She stuck her fist in her pocket, looking ready to fight. "No," I quickly lied. "Why should I care?" I managed a small smile. I was a great runner, but carrying a book and a lunchbox in one hand significantly affected my performance. Faster, faster, run, run! I yelled in my head. As we approached the turn, his elbow bumped into mine. I was on the inside, so I didn't push very hard with my elbow, but I pushed him out and then sped up. It seemed fair to me. I heard myself hum softly. I arrived at the bus stop first, set down my lunchbox and book, jumped up, and slapped the bus stop with my palm. It made a sound. Tommy bent down and grabbed the hem of his shorts. I did the same. We were both gasping for breath, sweat droplets falling onto the pile of things we'd carelessly placed between us. This went on for about a minute. I didn't want to look at him. I thought he should say something first, because I had won. "What?" After staring at him for a long time, he finally asked. "You won," I said. He was panting. "You elbowed me." "No!" He spat on the ground. I almost spat on my shirt—last week he'd said something about me being like those guys. Ever since then, I'd tried to be a lady. I didn't know much about being a lady, but at least I knew spitting on the ground didn't match wearing high heels and nail polish. "You were slow," I added. He didn't answer, but picked up his own book from the pile and took his things. "Ouch," I said, trying my best to get a response, any response. "That's a strong comeback." He looked in the direction of the bus, but it hadn't arrived yet. I knelt down to gather my books and muttered to myself, "Well, I'll beat your labor in the election." "Dream on." Tommy wiped the sweat from his face into his hair. The bus rumbled out from the corner. "Last year, you won because of that great campaign you ran." "Oh, please!" I exclaimed. "Who's dreaming now?" Jonas ran toward us, his brown curls bouncing on top of his head. Like Defne, he was always late. "Hey, Jonas," I greeted, my voice overlapping the bus's screeching brakes, sounding like "Jonassssss." "Hey," he replied in his sweet, high voice. He hadn't started going through puberty yet. As he hopped onto the bus, he complained to Tommy, "I thought you were waiting for me." I turned to see Tommy's reaction and found him looking at me. I grabbed the bus rail and quickly looked at my hands, clenching my fists. Such a pretty friendship ring, I thought, then thought, So I guess he wasn't waiting for me after all. Well, that was fine. I shook my T-shirt to cool down my sweaty body. I smiled at Jonas and said cheerfully, "He tried to get to the stop before me, but he just embarrassed himself. Oh, Tommy's still laughing." When I sat down despondently, I risked a glance at Tommy, though I didn't really want to. He was the baritone sax, and I was the last clarinet player, whatever that was—a failed clarinetist—so we sat close together. He practiced a lot. I'd heard him practicing in the backyard. He practiced there because he didn't want anyone to hear him, but my window faced his backyard, so I'd seen it. The saxophone isn't a quiet instrument, so I'd heard him play scales. No matter where his fingers were, the notes weren't messy. This time I didn't feel my face flush, so I didn't smile smugly at him. I even forgot to tilt my head appropriately. I just stared at him habitually, unintentionally. When I realized we were staring at each other, I almost quickly averted my gaze. I was strong, but one could only take so much. Yet he smiled at me, just a small, gentle smile. I smiled back at him, though I didn't want to. It was like whenever someone smiled at me, my face didn't know how to hold back. Like a mirror, with no choice. I thought, Aside from that, how comforting it was! He smiled at me, as if he liked me again. I knew he didn't, but I let myself imagine it for a few seconds. Mr. Ridaque tapped the black, peeling metal podium in front of him with his thin baton. Tommy put the mouthpiece in his mouth, between his lips, but he was still smiling, so he couldn't play the first few notes. I had the same problem. I should switch to the drums, I thought. How great it would be to play an instrument while smiling! Throughout the entire painfully awful performance of "When the Saints Go Marching In" by the Boggs Middle School band, I just moved my fingers randomly over a few keys without playing and wondered what I'd done to make Tommy stop hating me. I didn't figure it out until the bell rang. I took the clarinet apart, some spit came out of the mouthpiece and splashed into my eyes, and I heard Tommy laughing. I failed. I felt like I'd cracked a code. I slammed the clarinet case shut and walked out of the band room with my hips leading the way, happier than I'd been in a long time. If all I had to do was fail, that was fine. I could fail. Everyone in the band could tell you that. Anyway, failing was easier than succeeding, wasn't it? Or winning. You didn't even have to try. In fact, you had to avoid trying. That's when I came up with a better campaign strategy than neon posters or pencils with "Zoey for President" printed on them. "My dad fixed the sink on Sunday, but obviously—" "Oh," CJ sighed. She slid elegantly into a dining chair. "My dad fixed the sink once. Then we had to redo the whole kitchen." "Don't tell me that," Mom said. "I thought my dad could fix anything," I mumbled. "You'll understand as you get older," Mom sighed and sank into a chair next to CJ. I shrugged at CJ, as if I'd discovered the truth about Dad and had to rearrange my entire impression of him, as if it were nothing special. Suddenly, Mom jumped up, as if she'd sat on a pile of coals. "What is that?" "I didn't hear anything," I hadn't finished speaking when I heard the car door slam shut. I ran over and looked out the kitchen window. "Dad!" "Go to the basement," Mom commanded. She hurried to the basement door and quickly opened it. The plumber stood up, didn't have time to pack his tools, and limped toward the basement door. Mom waited impatiently by the door. Just as he reached the middle of the kitchen, I saw Dad's head through the window. The plumber moved his steps very slowly. He looked like he was a hundred years old, and Mom looked like she might grab his belt and throw him down the basement stairs. "Zoey!" Mom called. "Guide him. Quickly!"