up, though. It’s terribly vague. It really needs to include more specific ideas about how we’re going to improve the school, instead of just a lackluster promise to do it.
I take a bite from my sandwich and keep reading. I have to admit, I’m slightly less sick at the thought of standing up in front of the entire school today. Having already done this twice and having failed both times, I find it considerably less intimidating. Maybe public speaking really does get easier with practice.
I’ve just finished reading the entire stack of cards twice when the door to the tiny cubicle swings open and Owen ducks inside.
“Whatcha doin’?” he asks, sidling up to me and glancing over my shoulder.
“Practicing the most boring speech of all time.”
He takes the cards from my hand and flips through them. “Whoa, this speech makes vanilla look like the flavor of the month.”
I smile. That’s exactly what he said the last time he read these cards.
“Rhiannon Marshall wrote it. I’m just doing her bidding like the good little puppet that I am.” I jerk my thumb over my shoulder. “Did you win?”
He glances questioningly behind me. “Huh?”
“Your epic debate about the movie versus the book? Did those pinheads see the error of their ways?”
He grins impishly. “Always.” But then the smile slides from his face. “Wait, how did you know that’s what we were debating? Was I that loud? I thought these rooms were supposed to be soundproof.”
For a moment I consider telling him again. I was able to convince him to believe me last night, I’d certainly be able to convince him now. But I’m not sure what difference it would make. Operation Boyfriend Recovery is headed for success. I’ve already managed to completely turn this day around. Owen doesn’t need to be dragged into my inexplicable cosmic drama.
I shrug. “I just know you. That’s totally something you would debate. And you would be wrong. The real reason Death isn’t as powerful a narrator in the movie is because in the book, his voice was our own. Every reader was able to hear it as they believed it should be heard. The movie spoils that by literally giving Death a voice.”
He cocks his head and looks at me, a lopsided half smile making its way onto his face. I suddenly become aware of how small this room is and how incredibly crowded it is with both of us in it. It’s not really meant for two people. It’s only meant for one person and a recording device.
His eyes flash with sudden comprehension. “You cheeky monkey, you.”
“What?” I ask.
“You read it.”
“Read what?”
“The Book Thief.”
“No, I didn’t,” I tell him. “Why would I read that?”
“Because you secretly want to join the book club but it would get in the way of your little lunch dates with Mr. Rock Star.”
I make an awkward, overly drawn-out noise with my tongue that sounds something like puh-sush-uh-shush. “Uh. Objection. Relevance.”
“Objection. Totally relevant.”
“Objection. Badgering the witness.”
“Objection. Failure to answer the question.”
“You never asked a question!”
He leans back against the wall and crosses his arms. “Fine. Have you or have you not read The Book Thief?”
I punctuate my one-syllable answer with a distinct head shake. “No.”
“Objection. Lying.”
“That’s not a real objection.”
“We’re not in a real courtroom.”
I huff. “Okay, whatever. I read it over the summer.”
His eyes narrow at me. It’s his pressure-cooker look. It makes you feel like you’re locked in a vacuum-sealed container with no air and no escape, and if you don’t give him the answer he wants you’ll eventually explode.
“Fine!” I say, exasperated. “I read it last week.”
“What other book club books have you read and not told me?”
I stuff my index cards into my pocket, crumple up my sandwich wrapper, and squeeze past Owen toward the door. I shove it open with my shoulder. “I don’t have time for this. I have a speech to give in, like, seven minutes.”
He follows close behind. “Why don’t you just join the book club? I don’t understand.”
“Because I don’t have time. And if Rhiannon and I win today”—I pause, correcting myself—“when. When Rhiannon and I win today, I’ll have even less time.”
He tries to give me the pressure-cooker look again but I refuse to meet his gaze.
“That’s total codswallop and you know it. Now tell me the real reason you won’t join book club. It’s because of him, isn’t it?”
“What?” I squawk as we exit the library and take a left toward the gym. “No. Don’t be ridiculous. Tristan wouldn’t care