Maybe I Will Page 10

  I shook off the urge to take a cheap shot at Dad while his mouth was full. “That’s the thing,” I replied. “There’s no length requirement. It can be as long or as short as you want it to be. Longer is clearly not better, and anything that sounds ‘canned’ to Conaway is a total killer.”

  “I bet that set off a couple of your Type A classmates.” Dad laughed.

  I nodded. “Amy Taylor went berserk. Conaway suggested she choose the question ‘What is Fair?’”

  Mom smiled. “So where does one even begin with such an assignment?”

  I allowed myself a devilish grin. “Well, I’m glad you asked. All this taekwondo has me genuinely appreciating forms, so I asked myself what form Shakespeare would use if he were writing on character, and I decided to write a sonnet.” I squeezed my lemon wedge over my tuna steak.

  Dad beamed. “That’s a great idea! So how’s it coming?”

  I was almost ready to spout off my final couplet, when I suddenly realized I didn’t want my parents to read my sonnet. I didn’t want them to know my reputation is a sham. What was I thinking! Why did I go and tell them I’m writing a sonnet? My monster turned on me, and all I could do was shake my head. “Nothing yet. Maybe I’m not a poet after all.” I cut a huge slice of tuna and forced it into my mouth. The monster was squeezing my throat so I really had to struggle to chew and swallow.

  Dad didn’t seem to notice. “I’ve got a great book on writing sonnets. I’ll find it for you after lunch.”

  “Your father used to write me sonnets,” Mom said reaching across the table and taking his hand. “Back in the day.”

  “You’re still an inspiration,” Dad said kissing her hand. “Maybe it’s time I wrote you another sonnet. Get all of the creative juices in the household flowing.”

  Looks like they’re through fighting. Maybe if they spend the rest of the weekend making up, they’ll still leave me alone. I quickly scooped the rest of my California roll into my mouth. I soon as I could swallow, I asked to be excused.

  “Don’t you want some fresh fruit salad?” Mom asked.

  “Maybe later. Right now I just want to get back to work.”

  “What about the book on sonnets?” Dad asked.

  “I’ll let you know if I need it,” I replied.

  20

  If my slight Muse do please these curious days,

  The pain be mine, but thine shall be the praise.

  —Sonnet 38, Lines 13-14

  I SURVIVED THE weekend and emerged from my cave with two sonnets. I couldn’t decide which one I wanted to turn in, so I rewrote them both neatly in the back of my spiral notebook. I was leaning toward this one:

  What Is Character?

  Frustration seems to dominate my day.

  Depression is my battle every night.

  I choose to act like everything’s okay.

  I want the world to think that I’m alright.

  Will Shakespeare says that “All the world’s a stage.”

  But who creates the roles we choose to play?

  I feel like I’ve been living in a cage

  Designed to keep my demons all at bay.

  Can anyone rewrite the script in hand?

  My life’s become a senseless tragedy.

  But maybe I can choose to take a stand.

  Forget about what others think of me.

  My reputation’s nothing but a sham.

  My character is who I really am.

  This seemed the safer of the two sonnets. My monster liked the other one best, just because it had the word “hell” in it, I think. Conaway is still pretty new and cool enough that he probably wouldn’t make a big deal about that used in the proper context. And I had it in the proper context.

  Behind the Mask

  Behind the mask I choose to wear each day,

  I hide all my confusion and my pain.

  But hiding doesn’t make it go away.

  It only packs explosives in my brain.

  I feel like I have swallowed a black hole.

  The cold and empty darkness never ends.

  Emotions trample down my weary soul,

  No longer trusting any of my friends.

  Forget it! Just forget it! But I can’t . . .

  The more I push it down the more I feel

  I’m always walking slightly at a slant.

  I have to figure out what’s really real.

  Each day that I decide I will not tell

  Is one step farther down my road to hell.

  I definitely didn’t want my parents reading either of them. What about McMann? Erin TheRapist? Are you going to let her read them? The monster’s voice again. I could feel my monster’s predilection for danger—wanting to get me into trouble just for laughs. I’m going to have to keep a close watch on the beast.

  I told my parents I was no Shakespeare when it came to writing sonnets and that I had to settle for a regular poem. I let them read the first My Character poem I wrote last weekend. That sounded more like the general teenage angst they expected me to have to deal with. Dad seemed a little disappointed, but Mom pulled him back. She told me that it was really lovely, and she was very proud of me. The monster was having a heyday taunting me with that, and it was all I could do to keep the tears in check without lashing out.

  Dad drove me to school. I think he really wanted to help me turn my poem into a sonnet, and it was all he could do to leave it be. He talked a little about the musical, but mostly we rode in silence. I was trying to think of a way to get out of my appointment with Dr. McMann. I could hear the monster’s sinister laugh in my mind. Only two days until your date with Erin TheRapist. Better let me handle that.

  By the time I walked into the school, I was as tight as an over-stretched violin string—sensitive to every vibration and ready to snap. I coasted through my morning classes and sat by myself at lunch. There was an empty chair between Cassie and Troy, but they never even looked at me. Not like they’re saving it for you. They’re just growing apart, too.

  I was picking at my food when a hand on my shoulder startled me. “Hey, Sandy.” It was Hector. “Mind if I sit down?”

  “Go right ahead.” I motioned to the seat next to me. “Congratulations on earning your yellow belt.”

  Hector turned the chair around and straddled it so he could lean over the back of the chair and still face me.

  “Thanks,” he said. “Your white form looked good, too.”

  We talked about Shanika and taekwondo and how it was too bad that seniors and sophomores had different lunch periods.

  “So will I see you at the do-jahng tonight?” Hector asked me.

  “Probably not,” I replied. “I’ve got play practice.”

  “Oh, yeah. I heard you’re Peter Pan.”

  I nodded. “I doubt I’ll be there regularly until after the musical. Maybe Saturday morning, though.”

  “Shanika is in that, too, isn’t she?” Hector asked.

  I nodded. “She’s Tiger Lily. You should see her dance.”

  Hector laughed. “I plan to. I want to get me a ticket right up front.” Then he leaned closer to me and said in a sly whisper, “Don’t tell Shanika I said so, but when she’s not wearing those taekwondo pajamas, she is one hot mamacita.” He exhaled heavily with a low whistle under his breath.

  Figures! Hector’s hot for Shanika. I tried to remember the expression on Shanika’s face when she was telling me about what happened to Hector, but I don’t think it was anything at all like the expression on Hector’s face. I wonder if he knows she knows all about the wrestling thing. Probably not. And he definitely doesn’t know I know. I felt a little guilty about how glad I was that I knew more about Hector than he knew about me.

  Just then the bell rang. Hector was up and off in a single motion. “Hasta luego, Sandy.”

  I gave him a feeble wave. “See ya.”

  In World History, Conaway collected our assignments first thing. I was all ready to hand in just my What Is Character? sonnet, but at the v
ery last second pulled out my notebook, ripped out my Behind the Mask sonnet and went up to Conaway’s desk to staple them both together. It was a pretty lively class discussion with most people talking more about how much or how little they wrote and doing everything possible to avoid telling what they actually wrote.

  Hamilton gave me a pass out of study hall last period to work on the musical. Shanika was there, too, so we went through all of our lines and songs together. Neither of us said anything about my parents calling her until after rehearsal was completely over. “Do you want a ride home?” she asked.

  “Sure,” I said. “Thanks. Just let me call my dad so he knows where I am.” I started following her out to her car.

  “That’s a good idea,” she said. “They seemed pretty worried about that Friday night.” We both climbed in and buckled up.

  “Yeah, I’m sorry about that—their giving you a call and everything,” I said as I started dialing.

  “Dad said he found you sleeping on the table behind the studio.”

  I winced. Fortunately, my dad picked up. “Hey, Dad. Shanika’s taking me home, okay? Right now . . . No problem.” I hung up.

  “Everything cool?” Shanika asked, starting the engine.

  “Yeah, he just wants to make sure I go right home and stay there.” I was tempted to look out the window, but gathered my courage and turned to face Shanika instead.

  “I’ll take your butt right home all right, but are you gonna stay there?”

  I nodded. “I’m on a new mission to stay OUT of trouble.”

  Shanika laughed. “All right, then. What was that chickenfeed story about you and Hector going to the library all about, anyway?”

  “I just wanted to walk, and I thought my parents wouldn’t worry if they thought I was at the library with Hector.”

  “Well, your mom sure sounded worried to me.” Shanika rolled down her window. “We gotta let some of that fresh April air in here. Roll down your window, Sandy. A little breeze’ll do you good.”

  We rode for a few minutes in silence. “So what’s the deal with you and Hector now?”

  I chuckled. “No deal. We’re just friends because we both spent last week at camp.” I studied Shanika’s face. She was smiling. “So what’s the deal with you and Hector? You know he’s got a thing for you.”

  Shanika let out a shrill screech. “For me? You think something’s going on between me and Hector?”

  “I’m just sayin’,” I nodded. “He thinks you’re one hot mamacita.”

  “Shut up!” Shanika howled. “Did he actually say that?”

  “He did.” We were pulling up to my house now, so I pulled my backpack up from between my feet onto my lap. “Only don’t tell him I told you, or he’ll never talk to me again.”

  “Oh, I won’t tell. I promise!” Shanika pulled into my drive and put the car in park. “Cross my heart I won’t tell. What else did he say?”

  “Nothing,” I replied. “Just that he’s planning to come and see you in the musical.”

  Shanika just sat there for a moment, smiling and bobbing her head. “That’s cool,” she said. “Maybe we can fill a whole section with taekwondo ninjas!”

  “You’re probably the first Tiger Lily with a black belt in martial arts,” I said getting out of the car.

  “Not just a blackbelt, Sandy,” Shanika called to me through the window. “Third degree blackbelt! Don’t forget the third degree part!”

  21

  Let it suffice thee that I trust thee not.

  —As You Like It, Act I, Scene iii, Line 57

  IT WASN’T UNTIL I started unpacking my backpack at home that evening that I realized my spiral notebook was missing. I took it to school. I know I took it to school because I had both of my sonnets in it for World History. At first I thought someone had stolen it, but then as I retraced my steps in my mind, I realized I must have left it on Conaway’s desk when I stapled my two sonnets together.

  I collapsed on my bed in a full-blown panic attack. My heart pounded as I gasped for breath. This cannot be happening. I tried to calm myself down and think about what this really meant. Conaway had the two sonnets I turned in for my assignments. He might not even open the notebook. He might not read anything. He might just give it back to me tomorrow. No problem. No problem—except I knew he would have to open the notebook to see whose it was. And the only way he’d know who it belonged to would be by finding the rough drafts of my sonnets inside.

  Screwed. I am so totally screwed. But I wasn’t sure what Conaway would do. I went into my closet and pulled out the vodka. I hadn’t had a drink in days. I was a little afraid that Dr. McMann might test me for alcohol, and I wanted to be totally clean. I put the bottle on the dresser in front of me and started doing my white belt form. Step and high-block. Focus. Punch. By the time I finished I was ready to hide the vodka back in my closet. And I did it without taking a drink.

  I sat back down on the bed and started reading through all of my Peter Pan lines. I’d been a little rusty in spots at rehearsal. Mom had a dinner meeting, so it was just Dad and me for dinner. I talked him into eating in the living room and watching Hamlet with me. Cassie and Troy had given it to me on my birthday, but it was still wrapped in the original cellophane. We were still watching it when Mom got home. It felt good to lose myself so totally for several hours.

  The moment I went to bed all of my worries returned. I didn’t feel so panicky, though. I just lay awake most of the night wondering what Conaway would do and whether there was any way to get through all of this without having everything explode in my face. My parents still didn’t know about the grocery store incident. With each passing day, it seemed less likely that the store would call my parents. Maybe if you just stay away like they told you, the whole thing will blow over. It’s either going to blow over or blow up.

  And then there was Shanika’s wanting me to tell somebody about Aaron. How about Erin TheRapist? Do you want to tell Erin TheRapist about Aaron the rapist? Why? Why should I tell? What good would it do now?

  I woke up the next morning thinking maybe Conaway hadn’t even noticed the notebook on his desk, or at least hadn’t done anything with it. So I got to school a little early and went directly to his classroom. He was sitting behind his desk grading papers.

  “Mr. Conaway?” My voice quavered as I said it.

  He looked up. “Good morning, Sandy.”

  I walked toward the desk. “Good morning.”

  “I was hoping I might have a chance to talk with you today. Have a seat. I’m glad you stopped by.”

  I sat down at the desk closest to his. My eyes searched his desktop, but there was no sign of my notebook. “I was wondering if I left my notebook in your classroom yesterday,” I stammered.

  Mr. Conaway opened the drawer on his right and pulled out my notebook. “Here it is,” he said handing it to me. He waited to see if I was going to say anything more, but I was too busy stuffing the notebook as deep as possible down into my backpack.

  “Sandy, I read the poems you turned in on character. They’re very good.”

  “So I get an ‘A’?” I asked bitterly. I could feel the monster wanting to come out to play with Conaway.

  “As a matter of fact, you do,” he replied slowly. “But I’m really worried about you and want to make sure you’re okay.”

  “I’m fine,” I said smoothly. “Just a little bit of creative writing. Isn’t that what you wanted?”

  “Your poetry has a ‘raw truth’ feeling to it.” He waited, but I didn’t respond. “And then there’s the notebook. I had to see what was in it to know whose it was.”

  “So now you know.” I stood up to leave. “Thanks.”

  Mr. Conaway stood up, too. “Sandy, wait. I want you to know that I talked to the guidance counselor about your poems . . . and the notebook.”

  My heart dropped to the pit of my stomach. I shook my head and turned to walk away. Mr. Conaway came around his desk to where I was and placed himself strategically
between me and the doorway. “I think maybe it would be a good idea for you to talk to the counselor, too.”

  “Yeah, well, I really appreciate your concern and all, but I already have an appointment with a Dr. McMann tomorrow evening, so I think I’d just as soon save it for her.”

  As soon as the words “Dr. McMann” passed my lips, Conaway looked relieved. There you go. Not your problem anymore. You can wash your hands of the whole mess.

  Conaway’s face brightened. “Dr. McMann,” he repeated nodding. “That’s good. I’m really glad to hear that.”

  “So is it okay if I go now? I don’t want to be late to my first period class.”

  Conaway moved to the side to let me pass. “Oh, sure,” he said motioning me on by with his hands. “I’ll just see you this afternoon in class.”

  And so the crisis passed. The rest of the day was completely uneventful. At least, it was until I got home. Shanika drove me home after rehearsal. As we approached my house, we saw a police car sitting in the driveway.

  22

  Truth is truth.

  To the end of reckoning.

  —Measure for Measure, Act V, Scene i, Lines 45-46

  I PANICKED AT the thought of the police already talking to my parents. Shanika drove past without slowing down. She drove several more blocks and found a safe place to pull over. I jumped out of the car and started pacing.

  Shanika turned the car off, stepped out and slammed the car door behind her. “What do you want to do, Sandy?” Shanika finally asked me.

  “What should I do?” I asked.

  “Well, you’re going to have to go home eventually.” She walked around to the back of the car and propped herself up against the trunk.

  “Maybe I can just wait until after the police leave,” I suggested.

  Shanika nodded. “Check your phone,” she instructed. “See if you have a message from your parents.