A few students raised their hands, Kennedy included. Ms. Santos called on Deena Yousef. “Martin Luther King Jr.’s speech?” she said.
“Yes, great,” Ms. Santos responded. “The ‘I Have a Dream’ speech.”
“Notice how half the class turned to look at me,” Wallace mumbled. He was one of three black kids in their grade, and the only one in Brie’s English class.
Brie turned to look at him as he sighed. She gave him a look of sympathy that felt more like a cringe. She obviously wasn’t the only one who thought their small school was stifling.
Ms. Santos continued on, and Brie tried again to focus, even if she didn’t see how any of this was supposed to help her. She raised her hand.
Ms. Santos looked surprised. “Yes, Brie?”
“I thought we were supposed to be writing essays, not speeches.”
Ms. Santos tapped her nose. “Patience. But you raise a good point. Now that we’ve passed our grammar unit, I know you’re all ready to dive into essay structure. We are going to spend the rest of the school year focusing on that, especially in preparation for the May Crowning in a few months.”
Shaun grumbled in his seat.
“Okay, maybe not all of you are exactly eager to dive in,” Ms. Santos amended. “That being said, why start with speeches?”
Ms. Santos was the type of teacher who never answered questions without trying to get the class to answer them first. Sometimes Brie wished she would cut to the chase.
Kennedy raised her hand. Brie sank in her seat, feeling her cheeks grow warm.
“Go ahead, Kennedy,” Ms. Santos said.
“Someone’s going to have to read their essay out loud, right?” Kennedy said. “So it’s sort of like a speech, isn’t it?”
“Exactly,” Ms. Santos said.
Brie knew the saying there are no stupid questions, but she found herself feeling pretty stupid anyway.
“And we’re going to spend the next couple of months reading essays and listening to speeches and talking about the techniques used in both. By the end of this term, you’ll all be pros.”
Brie groaned again.
“What?” Wallace whispered.
“I have to crown Mary,” Brie said. “Paying attention was supposed to help, but this all sounds exhausting already.”
Wallace laughed. “Yeah right. Someone like Kennedy Bishop or Anthony Esposito is going to end up crowning Mary. No offense.”
Some taken, Brie thought. Even if she knew he was right. There wasn’t an award or an academic privilege won at OLPH that didn’t go to Kennedy or Anthony.
Mostly to Kennedy.
“Here’s what I want you all to do for homework,” Ms. Santos said, resulting in a chorus of sighs and groans. “Go home and listen to speeches. All different kinds. Historical speeches, movie speeches, sports-related speeches. Any kind you want—just make sure you listen to a bunch. Then I want you to make a list of at least five things that you think a great speech needs to have. And don’t Google for an answer! I want you to come up with these lists on your own. Sound good?”
Ms. Santos received more sighs and groans in return.
When lunch rolled around, Brie talked Parker into accompanying her to find Ms. Brophy, even though Parker would have much rather gone straight to Jack Thomas’s table in the cafeteria. Parker grumbled the whole way—that is, until they walked into Javi Martinez.
Literally walked into. Parker had turned a corner and collided with him. “Whoa,” Javi said as he did a little spin move to avoid falling, brown paper lunch bag crinkling in his hand. He wore his shirtsleeves rolled all the way up, skinny arms on full display, a style Sister Patricia in particular was not fond of. “You good?”
Parker, beet red, responded to him in a voice that was about an octave higher than her usual one. “I’m good!”
With a satisfied nod, Javi headed to the cafeteria.
Brie gave Parker a once-over to make sure she wasn’t having a stroke. “You good?” mocked Brie.
Parker sighed. “He’s so nice, isn’t he?”
“Yeah, yeah,” Brie said. “Let’s get moving.”
Ms. Brophy was the eighth-grade art teacher, the seventh-grade religion teacher, and in charge of the drama club. Sure, their school was small, but Brie could only assume the Catholic diocese was cheap. Ms. Brophy’s office was basically a supply closet, though she didn’t seem to mind. Brie knocked on the open door, even though Ms. Brophy could see anyone who approached it from where she sat at her cramped desk covered in art stuff. “Hello, girls,” Ms. Brophy greeted them. “Come on in.”
Brie and Parker stayed in the doorway.
“We were just wondering—”
“We?” Parker interrupted.
“Yes, both of us,” Brie said. “Anyway, spring-play sign-ups are supposed to be today, but we didn’t see a sign-up sheet anywhere.”
Ms. Brophy nearly leaped out of her seat. “Of course! I almost forgot! Great that you want to be involved—you’re certainly one of our spunkier students, Brie.”
Brie was certain that was meant to be a compliment.
“And Parker, well, theater will help you spread those wings, speak up a bit more.” Ms. Brophy ignored Parker’s protests as she opened her desk drawers filled with paper and art supplies. Brie was glad they’d waited in the doorway. There was even less space in the tiny office with all the commotion. “Here it is,” Ms. Brophy said and handed them a blank sheet of printer paper with SPRING PLAY typed neatly at the top.
Brie reached for a marker that was on top of Ms. Brophy’s desk.
“What’s the play?” Parker asked.
“Oh, you’re in for a treat! We’re doing Snow White. Lots of parts available, seven entire dwarfs!” Ms. Brophy responded. “But you’ll hear all about it Friday when you both come to auditions.”
“Auditions?” Parker practically screeched.
“You’ll both need to prepare a monologue. I have some here somewhere if you need help choosing.” Ms. Brophy began opening and closing drawers again.
Brie held out her hands to stop her. “That’s okay. We’ll figure it out.”
She held the sign-up sheet against the wall and wrote down her name.
5.
DAYS OF OUR LIVES, January 1991:
Carrie Brady is leaving town to be with her mom. She’s sad about leaving, and so is her dad. But he tells her that he would never ever stand in the way of anything that’s important to her.
Brie’s dad was quiet when he met her in the maintenance office later. He was still quiet as they got in the car and drove home. “Is something wrong?” Brie asked when he didn’t switch the radio station like he usually did once a commercial started.
He patted her knee. “Just tired,” he said.
But when he didn’t comment on his favorite what’s your beef? billboard, didn’t complain about the loud muffler in the car next to them when they were stopped at a red light, and kept wiping his face with his hands, Brie started to squirm in her seat. “Why’re you so tired?” she asked quietly after the second commercial break on the radio.