The most impressive ones were a few years old at least; the legacy of students long graduated. What had once been a championship team had become a nerdy hangout destination, with its participants seeking fun rather than glory. I couldn’t imagine such a thing ever happening to our school’s tennis team—or any sports team, really. You’ll have fun if you’re winning, my dad used to say, as though it was possible to control such things.
“Any of these recent?” I asked Phoebe, nodding toward the case.
“A couple. The hilariously little one is Toby’s. And the plaque is Sam and Luke’s, they’re actually decent team debaters when Sam doesn’t get carried away with his Republican agenda.” She laughed slightly. “You’re surprisingly good at public speaking, you know.”
“Yeah, well, you may have a decent delivery, but your flow’s a mess,” Cassidy said, climbing down from Ms. Weng’s desk and passing back our notes. Mine looked like her pen had hemorrhaged all over it, while Phoebe’s only had a few marks.
“And you’re the opposite,” Cassidy continued, frowning at Phoebe. “The outline’s solid, but your delivery is unconvincing. Come on, let’s see how you two do with a different topic.”
We practiced until four thirty, when Austin had SAT prep and I had to get out of there for PT, only I said it was the dentist. I know physical therapy’s nothing to be embarrassed about, but it still sounded bad: “therapy,” as though I needed professional help to function.
At least it was just PT, not one of those trauma counseling sessions the hospital had insisted upon after the accident. Those I couldn’t stand, but thankfully I was down to like once a month with Dr. Cohen, the world’s biggest douchenoodle of a clinical psychologist. Seriously, his teeth were so white that they probably glowed in the dark.
So I sheepishly drove over to the medical center, where I spent an hour on the stationary bike and treadmill, listening to the sample debates Toby had given me on audio file and trying not to wonder about Cassidy. She acted as though she’d never gotten upset over my signing her up for the debate team, and I couldn’t understand if she’d just overreacted, or was hiding her anger.
Maybe it was like Toby had said, and she was just unpredictable. But I doubted it. Because, every night around eleven, from the other side of Meadowbridge Park, Cassidy’s bedroom window would darken, and her flashlight would blink the same greeting at me in Morse code. Always HI. HI HI. Nothing more. A beginning of an unfinished conversation that I didn’t have the guts to take control of.
I went to sleep every night that week waiting for whatever it was between the two of us to start traveling at the speed of flashlights, but it never did. As always, she left me wanting more, and dreaming of what it would be like if I ever got it.
15
THE TOURNAMENT WAS being held at SDAPA, the San Diego Academy for the Performing Arts. It was one of those Mission-style campuses, all white adobe arches with mosaic tiles. I half expected to be able to hear the crash of the surf from the parking lot.
We were running late, on account of the traffic, and barely had time to change. Cassidy, Phoebe, and I had to grab our garment bags and change in the bathrooms while the rest of the team, who had worn their suits to school, rushed to make check-in.
All around us, the campus had become a frantic hub of students in business suits and private-school uniforms. We passed two guys wheeling file boxes stacked three high and bungee-corded together, and a girl who was reciting a monologue at a brick wall. The whole place had a desperate, last-minute air of preparation that reminded me of the morning I’d sat the SATs.
I changed into my suit, which, I had to admit, did fit a lot better than the ones I’d rented for formal dances. The girls took longer, and I spent a few minutes standing awkwardly outside the bathroom like some sort of bodyguard, waiting for them.
“Awww,” Phoebe said when they finally emerged, “someone looks adorable in his suit.”
“Lies. I look like a senator,” I complained, tugging at my collar.
“A liberal senator,” Cassidy assured me. “The kind who has a sex scandal with a high-class prostitute.”
And that was when I saw what Cassidy had done to herself: the gold and red ribbing on her sweater-vest, the matching stripes on her tie, the gray uniform skirt, and the navy blazer draped over her arm . . .
“Is that a Gryffindor tie?” I asked.
“And an official Harry Potter Merchandise sweater-vest,” she confirmed smugly.
“Ms. Weng’ll make you change,” Phoebe said.
“She can’t.” Cassidy grinned. “I’m not out of dress code. Technically. Now come along Cedric, Cho.”
We headed toward the indoor cafeteria where all of the teams were making camp, and I realized that I was nervous. Deeply, horribly nervous. Not about doing well at the tournament, because I knew I was pretty hopeless in that regard. I was nervous that I’d fail to see what was so wonderful about putting on a suit and talking about government. Nervous that I didn’t really belong with this group of friends after all. That I was destined to forever be someone whose defining characteristic was lost forever at seventeen, rather than found.
The cafeteria was crowded, and Cassidy reached over and grabbed my hand as we walked in. I glanced over at her; she seemed so different from the girl who had placed a crown of flowers in my hair by the creek and told me to make a wish on a paper star. For the first time, Cassidy seemed on edge.