Girls in Charge (11 page)

“Let's play H-O-R-S-E,” Tyler Lima told a couch full of basketball players.

“This doesn't look like a very good spot,” I said.

“It's amazing, actually,” Forrest said.

“Not for getting work done.”

“No, but in general,” Forrest said.

“We have to find someplace quiet or we're doomed,” I said.

“I know a place,” Forrest said, and led me back to the elevators.

“Not again. Now where to?”

He pressed the up button and again plunged his hands in his pockets. Was he really that nervous to tell me about his latest girlfriend? The elevator doors closed but the car hadn't moved.

“I can handle it, you know. Just get it out and let's get it over with,” I said.

He started to say something but the elevator stopped and the doors opened to reveal Ms. Russo and Mr. Ford. Their New Year's Eve wedding had been so romantic and I still thought of them as newlyweds.

“Good evening, kids. Having fun?”

“Yeah,” I said unconvincingly.

“We're going out for a late-night stroll,” they said as the doors closed.

“Then why are you going up?” Forrest said.

“We're not,” Mr. Ford said. “You must have gotten on the wrong elevator.”

As we went down twenty floors, I felt myself losing what little grip I had.

“Oh, great,” I said.

“Don't panic. I know a quiet place. For real,” Forrest said.

He led me to a bank of elevators I hadn't seen before. We entered the skyward car and took it to the very top of the hotel, the thirty-second floor. The doors opened and we were much more alone than before. We walked through glass doors and found ourselves outside. The view of the city took my breath away. It wasn't like I hadn't been to big cities before this trip. I had, but this was different. My brain just couldn't quite absorb all those buildings and all those people and all those lives going on in every window and taxicab. As I got hold of myself, there was more to bombard my senses. On the deck, candles illuminated umbrella tables and chaise lounges around a rooftop pool.

“Zubin's looking for the pool, but you can't get up here unless you know where the special elevator is,” Forrest said.

“I don't know how anyone gets anything done in this city,” I said.

“I guess you get used to it. Like anyplace,” Forrest said.

I thought about confronting him again to tell me whatever had to be said. But I felt like I needed to reserve my energy. We sat at a table set apart from the handful of other couples, and I opened my laptop.

“So, I forgot my index cards, but I can tell you what I was going to say.”

I nodded.

“I'm supposed to talk about the Blue Locker Society as a pilot program. And I can say that it was good.”

“What happened?”

“We had meetings. On the school roof, which was not nearly so cool as this one.”

“Did you answer questions?”

“Um, yeah. Sort of. I mean, guys don't have questions like girls do.”

“A long time ago, you told me they did.”

Stupid, stupid. Why do I always reveal to Forrest that I remember every word we'd ever exchanged?

“Okay. That's not what I meant,” Forrest said. “Guys don't want to talk about stuff. They keep things to themselves, you know?”

I knew a little too well.

“So you took no questions and you answered no questions. What did you do on the roof?” I asked.

“Played trash-can basketball, mostly.”

It was tempting to just flip out, but I had to laugh. The Pink Locker Society had answered more than two hundred questions and the Blue Locker Society had answered exactly zero. Maybe it was the exhaustion but I did start to laugh.

“What?” Forrest said.

“That,” I said between laughing, “is going to make for an impressive presentation tomorrow.”

He laughed a little, too, and said, “Well, it's your show for the most part, right?”

“I guess it will have to be. You just stand there and look good,” I said.

And then, again, I had massive regret for how my mouth gets ahead of my brain sometimes. Did I really just suggest to Forrest that I think he looks good? Perhaps I should dive into the pool, clothes and all, just to change the subject.

“I do have something to tell you, Jem. Nothing related to this thing tomorrow.”

OK. Go. Go. Just say it already.

“I'm—I'm sorry…”

Bad news, just as I expected.

“Sorry for what?”

“Sorry that I … put you in that spot. Asked you to, you know, be my fake girlfriend.”

Oh, that. Why was he apologizing now? I had broken up with him. That moment had been impossible to forget.

“Okay,” I said. “I'm not mad at you.”

“I know. I just see now that—that it wasn't fair. It wasn't a fair thing to ask.”

“It all worked out, right?” I said. “We're friends.”

“Yeah,” Forrest said. “And you ended up going out with Jake, who's liked you since fourth grade or whatever.”

Oh, Jake. Now I felt even worse. Fourth grade!

It wasn't as bad as me liking Forrest since preschool, but still. I thought about correcting him, telling him Jake and I broke up. But I wanted to let him keep going, see where this was headed.

“So that's what I wanted to say,” Forrest said.

I was happy to switch topics to the presentation and my PowerPoint slides. I quickly threw together some basics ones, explaining how the PLS started, how many questions we had answered, and how many girls we had helped. Forrest seemed interested and made a few suggestions. Thirty minutes later, I felt prepared enough and told Forrest we'd better go.

“Really? I don't want to go,” he said. “Zubin's going to find this pool and then it's going to be all cannonballs and squirt guns.”

“Fine, let's stay a few more minutes, but I'm about to fall asleep right here in this spot.”

We turned our chairs to face the twinkling skyline. Once we stopped talking, we could listen to the other small parties chatter. Then we watched a family with two toddlers go for a late swim. I thought of my mom when I saw the little ones, and all that awaited me at home. But mostly I thought about how New York was so very full of surprises. Just forty-eight hours ago, I thought I wouldn't be taking this trip at all. And somehow, I was in New York sitting atop a glamorous hotel with none other than Forrest McCann.

 

Thirty-one

The hotel's wake-up call came over the telephone and sounded like someone playing the xylophone.
Zing-zong-zing-zing.
It was soft and unalarming, yet it was such an unusual sound that it woke me instantly. Lying in a heap of luxurious sheets and blankets, I had that moment where you don't remember where you are or what you're supposed to be doing. Then it all came rushing back at once and I started checking things off the to-do list in my head. Shower, personal grooming, find the laptop, wake Bet and Kate. Piper said I could wake her, too, but she was a bear without sleep so I just let her and her mom keep right on snoozing. Bet could show them the video later.

I put on my presentation outfit, carefully assembled back at home with help from my mom and Bet. Bet, I figured, had onstage experience and could tell me a thing or two. I slipped on my cream skirt, a lightweight navy sweater, and pearls. It looked professional without making me look too old, or like a sailor. I briefly considered wearing something pink, but it seemed way too cute. I slipped my feet into my navy flats and we were off.

Ms. Russo was already down at the cab stand, but we had to wait for Forrest. I imagined him deeply asleep after last night's hotel-wide adventures that included swimming, elevator races, and eating leftover Chinese food on the roof. I held an orange juice in one hand and my laptop in the other while Bet put the finishing touches on my makeup. I didn't wear much makeup usually, but for the occasion, I decided to use some shimmery eye shadow for the first time. I closed my eyes to be a better makeover candidate.

“You're done,” she said.

When I opened my eyes, there he was. His hair was a little bit everywhere and he wore rumpled khakis, an equally rumpled blue button-down, and a tie that was … pink. It felt like a sort of tribute, as if he had brought me a pink rose.

“Nice tie, Forrest,” Ms. Russo said.

The convention center registration area was filled with other eighth-graders, all waiting to receive their name tags and fat folders of information about the day's events. Some were lugging what looked like science experiments. Others were tapping away on laptops. Immediately, I felt like the person who had not studied enough for the test.

“Ten minutes until you're on,” Ms. Russo said, leading us through a winding series of crowded hallways and ballrooms. Finally, we found the
SPEAKERS ONLY
door and walked together down a long, sloping corridor. We were at stage level and a woman with a
STAFF
T-shirt was waiting for us like the hostess at the entrance of a restaurant.

“Colwin and McCann?” she asked.

Forrest and I looked at each other, reacting to the odd sound of our names mashed together like that.

“Yes,” Ms. Russo answered for us.

The hostess passed us on to another staff person who led us up to the stage, but just close enough so we could see the seats filling up and no one could see us yet. The room looked large enough to host a royal wedding.

“You'll be introduced. Then walk to the podium and turn on the microphone. Little red button,” the stagehand told us. “Here's your clicker for the PowerPoint.”

Now, with no way to escape, my heart was beating fast.

“Why did I agree to this?” I asked Ms. Russo, some panic in my voice.

“Because you'll do a great job telling the world about the Pink Locker Society,” she said.

“But I don't even like oral report day in English—and that's in front of only twenty-five people.”

I saw Bet's smile behind her video camera. Then the stagehand shooed away Bet, Kate, and Ms. Russo to their seats. He attached a tiny microphone to Forrest's jacket lapel and told me I could use the one attached to the podium. Forrest and I stood alone, waiting for the call. The audience hushed. We could hear the emcee giving instructions about how people should move all the way over in their rows.

“We have people standing in back,” he said. “This is a sold-out show.”

“Great,” I said, gripping my note cards tightly.

Standing in the dark, Forrest leaned down and whispered in my ear. “Don't worry. You'll be great.”

Before I could react to his soft words in my ear, we heard, “Let's welcome Jemma Colwin and Forrest McCann.”

We walked together across the stage. I kept my eyes focused on the podium, our destination and where I would find the all-important red button for the microphone. Only once I located it and clicked it on did I lift my head to take in the full audience, from east to west and north to south. It was an ocean of people.

“Hello and thank you so much for having us,” I said, my voice trembling like an instrument I was just learning to play.

I wondered how I'd ever be able to get through a dozen slides. I should have set my alarm extra early and gone for a run to calm my nerves. Then an idea hit me. The Pink Locker Society is about being honest and asking for help. I could, right at this moment, do exactly that.

“Has anyone here ever been really nervous?”

A big show of hands, including Forrest, who was not expecting this audience participation segment.

“Well, the truth is, I'm really nervous right now. And it helps me to know that you have had times like that, too. The Pink Locker Society is an advice-giving Web site for girls, a safe place where people can admit stuff about themselves and get help. So I'm standing here thinking: What would we say to someone like me if she wrote in to say she was nervous about making a big presentation?”

I set down my note cards and my PowerPoint clicker.

“I think we'd say, number one, be prepared, which I am. Sort of. I prepared by spending this entire school year reading hundreds of questions sent in by girls, and boys, at my school.”

There were some giggles when I said boys had written in, too.

“Yes, boys do write in to the PLS. Forrest will talk about boys in a minute. But I can tell you that they wanted to know some of the same stuff girls want to know: How do I know if my crush likes me? And am I normal?”

The room was quiet and I no longer felt as fidgety. I moved back to the podium and stepped through my note cards and slides. I saw people taking notes as I explained the process we went through to train ourselves, set up the Web site, and begin taking questions from the girls at Margaret Simon Middle School.

“We specialize in the PBBs—periods, bras, and boys,” I said, and clicked on a slide that explained it in bold type.

The audience laughed and nudged each other.

“It's okay to laugh. I'm used to it. But these body changes—and let me just say it's not just girls who are going through body changes in middle school—are one hundred percent normal. It happens to all of us, so should everyone be worried and frightened about it?”

“She's right,” I heard Forrest say.

He had turned on his microphone and I accepted that as my cue to let him talk about the very early steps of the Blue Locker Society.

“Okay, so we tried a Blue Locker Society and it wasn't perfect,” Forrest said. “Boys—well, speaking for myself—I don't want to talk this whole thing to death. I also felt weird asking guys to be in the Blue Locker Society, to be honest. But guys like to play trash-can basketball, so I created a trash-can basketball league.”

I had been enjoying not speaking, but suddenly my heart rate sped up and I felt sweat on my palms. Forrest hadn't told me it was an actual league.
Was he really going to talk to Tomorrow's Leaders Today about trash-can basketball?