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| "You know," my grandmother continues, talking to my mother as if I'm not even in the room. "If this speech business doens't clear up soon, I'm afraid Mary won't start dating with the other girls her age. Then what are you going to do?" Clear up soon? Like, what? I've got the flu? I wait for my mother to come to my rescue, but she just adds more sugar to her tea. I stand up and push my chair into the table-- hard-- making their tea slosh. "Don't you think I try? Why do you think I go to a speech therapist twice a week?" My mother darts a look of horror at me, and shakes her head. Instantly I feel childish and guilty with nowhere to put my anger. "Well," says my grandmother while changing positions in her chair and selecting another cookie. "All I can say is that you never seem to have any problems talking back to me!" I glare at her as I sling my backpack over my shoulder. I shoot upstair to my room, slamming the door as hard as I can behind me. I need to find some lighthearted dental inspiration. I haven't been in my room for very long when I hear the phone ring, then my mom calling me. I pick up the extension, expecting to hear Angie's voice. But it's not her. "Mary? It's Andrew," he says. "Le dentiste n'est pas mon ami." "Nice title," I laugh nervously. "And you really went out on a limb with that verb structure." "Hey, come on," he replies, acting a bit hurt. "Is your dentist a big buddy?" "Not exactly," I reply, being careful to speak slowly and precisely. We talk for a few minutes, and I'm surprised at how easy it is to chat with him when I'm not staring into those big brown eyes. We both agree to work on what we've got, then put the final touches on it in class the next day. "Read mine and see what you think," I tell Andrew as I hand him my notebook. "This is good," he says when he's done. "Really good. If we just take out this middle part of mine, we can sort of insert your whole thing. Let's run through it really quick, OK?" My throat locks. But as we start, it's not so bad. By the end of the conversation, I'm pretty confident that that my secret is still safe. But with teh relief comes pressure-- major pressure. It's almost like trying to pretend you haven't hurt your arm even though you're wearing a cast. You figure if no one actually says, "Hey, what happened to your arm?" they haven't noticed. And you just keep on trying to keep it covered up. TO BE CONTINUED (when I have more time) |