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| I shake my head no, without saying a word. "Well, maybe we can work on it tonight?" he asks. I try my best to stay calm. "D... D... Do you want m... my number?" He is nodding, half listening now to Madame Cartier in the background. Maybe he really has missed my stuttering. "Sure. Write it on my notebook." He pushes the spiral over to me with an exaggerated wink that sens a shiver of happiness shooting down my spine. I try to hold the pen steady in my shaky hand, already thinking that I'll have to work doubly hard on my speech exercises tonight. When Angie and I walk home after school, it's all she can talk about. "Andrew Norris is your French partner!" she says for about the tenth time. "I mean... " She opens her eyes wider to indicate how cute she thinks he is. "You guys were talking the whole class. What was he saying to you? I want to hear everything, so don't leave out a word." I laugh. "All we talked about was French. And he seems really serious about this assignment, so he probably won't want me for a partner after tomorrow." Angie rolls her eyes. "Not 'The Problem' again?" she asks. Angie and I affectionately call my stutter "The Problem." "I can't help it,"I say. "I could not have gotten a worse dialogue. All those Ds." "Why? What's the topic?" "A visit to the d... d..."I smile and close my eyes with the effort. "Den-tist." Ugh, I can be completely okay with nearly all my words til I hit "d" or "m." Angie gives my arm a little squeeze. She is so pretty with great clouds of curly blonde hair and bright blue eyes. She is also a clown and usually makes me laugh when I am just about to cry hysterically. Like now. "I'll help you-- we'll work on your speech lessons tonight on the phone," she volunteers. "And look on the bright side. Atleast his name isn't Dave or Derek." We both giggle, but then get serious again. "If I have "The Problem" tomorrow, I will die," I tell Angie as we near my house. "Don't this about it-- you know that only makes it worse," she says. "And wear your black skirt tomorrow. He'll be too distracted to even talk properly himself." When I walk into the kitchen, my mother and grandmother are having tea and cookies at the table. "Hi hon," says my mother, looking extremely grateful at the sight of a third person. "Cookies?" I settle down beside them. Usually Mom's cookies are great, but this one tastes like dust because my throat is parched with anxiety. "We're doing conversational French at school."I start telling them. "And guess what? The topic I got is full of da... da..." "Ds?" my mother interrupts sympathetically, although I hate when she finishes my sentences to 'help' me. "I'm sorry, hon." My mom is supernice, always, but she avoids talking about "The Problem"-- even when I want to. My grandmother sips her tea noisily. There is a lecture hanging in the air just waiting to be delivered-- I can feel it. "Well, you know my opinion on the business," she says finally. Yes, we certainly do, I scream in my head, know she's going to enlighten us anyway. "As I may have told you, King George VI had a stammer," she says, looking down her nose more at my mother than me. "HE overcame it by sheer determination, that's all. He just had ot try." I clench my teeth and feel the roots of my hair tingling with rage. |