it, and holds it out to me. The smell of the tuna makes my stomach turn and I breathe through my mouth. “No, thank you.”
“You haven’t eaten anything all day.”
“How do you know?”
“I know things.”
I cross my arms, demanding a better explanation.
“You never eat when you’re nervous.”
“Who says I’m nervous?”
He doesn’t answer. Instead he tries to shove the sandwich into my face again. I turn away and gag.
“You have to eat something,” he says. “You can’t get up in front of the entire school on an empty stomach. What if you faint?”
“At least then I won’t have to give this speech.” I flash a smile and fan myself coyly with the index cards still clutched in my hands.
Owen reaches out and snatches them. “Let me see those.” He flips through a few cards and makes a horrified face. “Did you write this? It’s horrible!”
I pretend to be insulted. “What if I did?”
He hands the cards back to me. “You didn’t. You would never write anything this bland.”
I flip through the cards. “Is it really bland?”
“This speech makes vanilla look like the flavor of the month.”
“Rhiannon Marshall wrote it.”
“Ah, see, now that explains everything. Why didn’t you write your own speech?”
I shrug. “I dunno. She offered to write it and I agreed. Besides, she’s the one running for president. I’m only her VP. It’s kind of her platform.”
“Yeah, but it’s your face everyone has to look at while you give this awful speech. I mean, it reads like she copied it from the Most Overused School Election Speeches book.”
“That book doesn’t exist.”
He taps the cards in my hand. “It does now.”
I glance at the clock on the wall. Two minutes and counting. My heart races. “Did you know that the number-one fear in America is public speaking?”
“What’s number two?”
“Death.”
He bursts out laughing, eliciting a few glares from students trying to study. “Are you saying that the average American would rather drive off a cliff than give a speech?”
“That’s what I’m saying.”
The bell rings and I glance up at the speaker, like a convicted witch looking at the stake that’s about to burn her.
“Well, you’re not dying today,” Owen says, sliding off the table and standing in front of me. “Not on my watch. Let’s go.”
I slump forward, resting my head against his chest. His body tenses for a moment, as though I took him by surprise, but then he relaxes and pats me on the back. “You’ll be fine. You’ll give the world’s most clichéd speech, everyone will fall asleep, and then it’ll be over.”
I lift my head and look up at him. “Owen?”
He smiles. It’s not his usual goofy smile. It almost looks forced. “Yeah?”
“You’re absolutely horrible at pep talks.”
And then it’s back. The boyish grin I’ve come to love. He bows like a gentleman in a Jane Austen novel. “Glad I could be of service.”
Yummy Yummy Yummy
1:12 p.m.
Gurgloomph.
Owen stops walking halfway to the gym. “What was that?”
I play it off. “Nothing.”
“Was that your stomach?”
I walk past him. “Gross. No.”
Gurglooooeeeooomph.
“It was!” He says this like he’s freaking Sherlock Holmes solving the murder of the century.
“I’ll eat after the speech,” I promise him.
He grabs my elbow and steers me into the cafeteria. “No, you’ll eat now.”
“There’s no time!”
He points to a table in the corner where a group of scantily clad cheerleaders are counting money in a cashbox under a giant handmade banner that reads BAKE’N’CHEER!
“Grab something quick,” Owen commands. “Something with a lot of sugar in it. It’ll give you enough energy to get through the speech.”
“I don’t have any money,” I remind him. I had dropped my bag off at my locker after we left the library, opting to bring just my phone and my index cards with me.
“My treat.”
I eye the sign skeptically. “Bake’n’Cheer? Is that like Shake’n Bake? Or Bacon Bits?”
But Owen is not yielding. He practically drags me over to the table. “Hold up,” he says to one of the girls with her back turned to us. She’s packing up individually wrapped Rice Krispies Treats and putting them into a box. “You have one more customer.” He turns to me. “Pick something.”
The girl spins around, looking extremely inconvenienced, and I see now that it’s Daphne Gray. I didn’t recognize her from the back because, in their uniforms, all cheerleaders pretty much look alike.
She gives me a once-over, jabbing the inside of her cheek with her tongue. “We’re closed.”
Here we go again.
I really don’t have time for this right now. I tug at Owen’s sleeve. “See, they’re